* * *
The Quadrangle at U of D was jammed, a thousand-plus kids sharing tables, studying, batting the breeze, sipping Starbucks, or scarfing fast food from the booths that ringed the room. An incredible din. Teenybop voices and laughter from the tiled floors and walls, a Grand Canyon of noise.
Ax was a bit older than the average, but fitting in was no problem. Amid the sea of tattoos, dyed hair, and pierced faces, Axton's scars and leather jacket seemed almost ordinary. Ax didn't bother going through official channels to locate Roger Wilhite. Simply went from table to table asking for him until someone pointed him out.
Roger Wilhite was at a corner table with a much younger friend, sipping latte, discussing some class or other. Wilhite looked more like a grad student than a sophomore, a squared-off five-six or seven, two hundred pounds. Dark full beard that camouflaged a weak chin.
Ax pulled up a chair without asking. Up close and personal, his size and scarred face intimidated most people. Not young Roger.
“You're new,” Wilhite said calmly. “I assume you work for my father?”
“Not exactly. Can we talk? Alone?”
Roger dismissed his pal with a wave of his hand. “Before you even start, if you're hoping to get a message to my dad through me, save your breath. My father and I don't talk. I rarely see him these days.”
“Actually, you're the one I came to see, sonny. About some letters.”
“Ah. The famous billets-doux.”
“The what?”
“Love letters.” Roger sniffed. “So he finally confronted her about them. I was beginning to think he didn't have the guts.”
“Confronted her?”
“About the letters. Sharron only married him for his money and now he damned well knows it. He's just a meal ticket for her and that sickly brat.”
“But Sharron was just a kid when they wrote those letters, why would your dad think...?”
Roger eyed him with a bland smirk. Ax nearly slapped it off his face.
“Ah. Your dad never saw the originals, did he? You did a little creative editing, maybe changed a few dates, punched them up a little? Something like that?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Sure you do, sonny. I'd skip politics as a career choice. You don't lie worth a damn.”
“How it happened doesn't matter. The bottom line is, my father knows the truth now.”
“Your truth, maybe. But you don't know the half of it.” Ax rose, leaning over Roger.
“Give up on the letters, junior. And knock off the phone calls, too. Sharron and your dad have a plateful of problems already. If you make any more trouble for them, I'll be back. And you don't want to see me again. Ever. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?”
Roger tried to meet Ax's stare but couldn't hold it. He looked away, swallowing. Maybe he was smarter than he looked.
“I'll take that as a yes,” Ax said. “Glad we had this little talk. Take care.”
Ax was halfway across the Quadrangle when Roger called after him. “Hey! You're going to be sorry you came here.”
“I'm sorry already.”
“And I don't know about any phone calls.”
Ax didn't even look back.
But he thought about it as he walked through the U of D parking ramp to his car. Sharron said her midnight caller sounded like Bobby J. And it didn't matter how many letters Roger found or how clever he was at forging new ones. There was no way he could fake Bobby's voice. He simply couldn't have.
Because he'd never heard it.
Fishing his cell phone out of his jacket, Ax rang up Sharron Wilhite.
“Hey, it's your long-lost bouncer. We need to talk.”
* * *
Grosse Pointe, a posh Motown suburb named by French voyagers who'd be arrested for vagrancy if they set foot in the place today. Magnificent mini-mansions with multiplex garages and lawns long enough for polo, guarded by steel fences and a private army of rent-a-cops.
The Dodge auto heirs live here, a few of the Fords, Arab oil sheiks, a dozen dot-com millionaires, and even a televangelist or two.
Plus at least one anonymous union bookkeeper.
The Wilhite home was a gray Gothic Revival box, three stories with a full-width porch, a long brick driveway, and a gorgeous view of Lake St. Clair.
Parking in front, Ax trotted up the steps. The ornately carved front door opened before he could ring the bell. But it wasn't Sharron. A big guy, tan trench coat, bleached brush-cut, ice-blue eyes. And a polar smile. Roddy Rothstein. Rented muscle, the absolute top of the line. Damn.
“Hey, Ax, how you been?”
“Ducky. Until now. What are you doing here?”
Roddy didn't bother to answer. Didn't have to. They were in the same business, but Roddy worked a tougher side of the street. Ax opened his coat to show he was unarmed but Roddy didn't buy it. He frisked him anyway, found the hideaway Glock 9 Ax carried in the small of his back.
“Is that the whole show?”
“A blade in my boot.”
“I spotted it.” Roddy smiled. “Man, you're such a Neanderthal. I'd cap you five times before you could pull that pig sticker. Wanna try for it?”
“No bet.”
“Maybe another time. Let's go.”
Roddy led him up the carpeted staircase to a second-floor bedroom, pushed him in. A bear of a man lay in the bed, propped up by a wall of pillows, with an oxygen cannula attached to his nasal septum to help him breathe. Ashen, balding, he looked half dead. Until you met his eyes. Gray as granite and just as hard.
A second man was seated against the wall. Rangy, with dark hair, deep tan, turquoise sport coat, deck shoes, no socks. Looked streetwise, but Ax didn't recognize him.
Roddy ushered Ax to the bedside. “This is Axton, Mr. Wilhite. Ax. If he's got a first name, I never heard it.”
“R.B. Initials only,” Wilhite said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “A Southern quirk, initials. I'm not a well man, Mr. Axton. I don't have much time, and none at all to waste on you. I won't ask you anything twice. Do we understand each other?”
Ax nodded.
“When a man like you visits my son, I want to know why. Who are you working for?”
“Your wife. Sharron's been getting some crank calls, supposedly from an old boyfriend. She asked me to look into it.”
“And if you find the boyfriend? Are you supposed to run him off? Or fix them up?”
“You'll have to ask Sharron about that.”
“I'm asking you. Or would you rather have Roddy ask you? As many times as it takes?”
Ax considered trying to dummy up. Decided against it. Roddy could beat him half to death without breaking a sweat. And Wilhite's eyes said it all. The man in the bed had nothing to lose.
“The ex-boyfriend is supposed to be dead. Sharron wants the phone calls cleared up, one way or the other. That's it.”
“And what have you learned so far?”
“I think your son found some letters from Sharron to her old boyfriend in a costume trunk. He altered the dates to make them seem current, then passed them along to you. The letters don't mean a thing, Mr. Wilhite. They were written years ago.”
“I'm a C.P.A., Mr. Axton. I spot forgeries for a living. My son Roger is strictly amateur talent. On the other hand, I have no illusions about my relationship with Sharron. We've always been ... very businesslike. She's a realist. So am I. Perhaps it's the reason we get along so well. Still, the letters revealed a side of her I didn't know existed, a depth of passion that...” Wilhite broke off, closing his eyes, breathing deeply to conserve his strength.
“Sweet Jesus,” Ax said softly. “You tracked him down, didn't you? Bobby Jacks. Sharron's long-lost love.” Turquoise blazer stiffened in his chair. Ax turned to look him over. Noticed the surgical scars this time, faint traces along the hairline. “So you're the famous Bobby J?”
He didn't answer. It didn't matter.
“The army's been looking for this guy for years, Mr. Wilhite. How did you find him?”
“Mr. Wilhite has contacts the government never dreamed of,” Roddy offered. “Union muscle, mobsters, Teamsters, he knows everybody that...” Roddy's voice trailed off as Sharron stepped quietly into the room. She eyed Bobby Jacks for what seemed a very long moment. An unreadable look. Then she crossed to her husband's bedside.
“If you're going to discuss my life with strangers, Arnie, at least have the courtesy to turn off your damned room monitor.” She snatched up the device, clenching it as tightly as her temper.
“It's been a long time, babe,” Bobby J said, moving up beside her, bussing her lightly on the cheek.
“A couple of lifetimes,” she agreed, facing him, taking stock. “You look even better than I remembered, Bobby. Almost too good. If we passed on the street I don't think I'd know you. Plastic surgery?”
“A little touch-up,” he admitted. “Just a precaution. Business, not pleasure. I thought I looked pretty good before. You, on the other hand, look as fine as ever.”
“Don't try to snow me, Bobby, I look like crap. Feel like it, too. Haven't slept in weeks. My husband's dying, you see. And at a time when we should be sharing every moment we can get, he's been running this incredible scam behind my back. I knew you were a genius with numbers, Arnie. I had no idea you could actually raise the dead.”
“I can't, Sharron. Nobody can. That's the problem.”
“What problem?”
“Marrying you was a mistake.”
“In what way?”
“I thought I could provide for you after I'm gone. The doctors promised I had at least a year. But they were ... mistaken. The latest tests ... We don't have a year, Sharron. We might have a few months. Maybe less.”
“What? My God, Arnie—”
“I'm sorry, I know I should have told you, but please don't come unglued on me now. Please.” He paused, taking rapid, shallow breaths. Pulling himself together by sheer force of will.
“The point is that any arrangements we make now are going to look suspicious. People will think I was losing it at the end and you tricked me, coerced me, whatever. My son and my ex-wife will sue to have any new will thrown out. And I'm afraid your ... past makes you an easy target.”
“I don't care what they think. And I'm not afraid of a fight.”
“But you should be,” Ax said quietly. “What Arnie's trying to tell you is that the people he works for—the unions, the mob—won't risk any court fight that might draw attention to their business. They'll solve the problem by making you disappear. Permanently. They're good at it.”
“And where does Bobby J come in to all this?”
“When Roger gave me the letters, I had Bobby checked out,” Wilhite whispered. “We found out he was on the run. And I realized finding him could solve both problems.”
“How?”
“You cared for him once, a lot. The letters proved that. And he's the father of your child. He's also clever, smart enough to disappear and stay gone. With enough money, the two of you could go away, start over—”
“—and live happily ever after?” Sharron said acidly. “Is that what you think? Well, maybe it's not such a far-fetched idea. Bobby was the first boy I seriously fell for, and he looks better now than he did then. But I've got a news flash for you, Arnie. When you're gone, I don't expect to be happy again for a long, long time. Maybe never. So if you think marrying me was a mistake, I'm sorry. It meant a lot to me. But not because of your will. We've always been straight with each other, Arnie, let's not stop now. Because I was a whore when you met me, way down deep you probably still wonder if I'm only with you for the money. Well, maybe that was true. Once. It's not anymore. Thank you for finding my long-lost love. He's one hell of a valentine. But I'm not going off with him, now or ever. You're the one, Arnie. You're stuck with me for as much time as we have. Get used to it. As for the money, don't worry about it. I'll be all right.”
“But afterward, you'll have nothing.”
“Wrong, I'll have Heather and she'll have me. The rest I'll manage on my own.”
“How?” Bobby sneered. “On your back?”
“Watch your mouth,” Ax snapped.
“Screw that,” Bobby J said. “Look, if this bimbo wants to walk away broke, that's her lookout, but what about me? When your people found me they promised me money, Mr. Wilhite, serious money and a new life.”
“And your long-lost family,” Sharron added dryly. “Or have you forgotten that part already?”
“Of course not, but—”
“I'll make things right with you, Mr. Jacks,” Arnie whispered. “You'll be no worse off than before.”
“Dammit, that's not good enough!” Bobby snarled, grabbing Sharron's arm, yanking her into a choke hold. “I took a big risk by coming here, pal! Too many people know about me now. I want a helluva lot more than airfare and a brush-off!”
Roddy and Ax moved together like a machine, starting toward Bobby from opposite sides.
“Stop right there! I'll snap her damned neck!”
“No you won't,” Roddy said grimly, coming on. “You're smart. Think what'll happen to you one second after.”
Bobby didn't get the chance. Ax was already on him, hooking a body shot below his rib cage, doubling him over. As Roddy pulled Sharron to safety, Ax hammered Jacks down with a pile-driver cross, catching him flush on the jaw, dropping him like a rock. Jacks didn't move. Didn't even twitch.
Jerking an automatic from his shoulder holster, Roddy jammed the muzzle against Bobby's temple. Ax grabbed his wrist.
“Whoa. He's down. No need for that.”
“It's not up to you, sport. Mr. Wilhite?”
“Not now,” Wilhite whispered. “We've trouble enough.”
“With a lot more on the way,” Ax said. “Especially for Sharron. You'd better tell her the rest of it.”
“The rest of what? What are you talking about?” Sharron asked.
“Finding Bobby wasn't just a romantic gesture, Shar. He was your last chance. Arnie's boy and his ex aren't the only ones who'll question his judgment. His bosses will too. They'll wonder how shaky his grip was at the end. And what he might have told you.”
“He's never told me anything!”
“They don't know that, and they hate loose ends. They won't harm you while he's alive. Can't afford to tick him off. But afterward, they may decide to close the books on you just to be sure. That's the real reason Arnie hoped you'd go away with Bobby, if not for love, then for money. Helluva plan. Only the lady wants to stand by you, Mr. Wilhite, no matter what. And if you truly care about her, you only have one way left to go now. And you already know what that is.”
“Whoa, wait a minute,” Roddy said, getting it. “I didn't sign on for this kinda heat.”
“What heat?” Sharron asked. “Arnie, what's going on?”
“If you stay, the only way your husband can keep you safe is to roll,” Roddy said. “Tell the Feds everything he knows and take his bosses down before they get to you. That's why he hired me instead of using mob goons. If they knew he was even thinking about rolling over, you'd both be dead already.”
“Arnie?” Sharron asked, taking his hand.
“He's right,” Wilhite whispered. “It's the only way now.”
“You mean ... Witness Protection or something? But you'll lose everything you have.”
“What happens to me doesn't make much difference now.”
“It does to me. But if this is what we have to do, count me in. I won't miss much about my old life. Definitely not my long-lost love.”
“What do you want us to do with him, Mr. Wilhite?” Roddy asked.
“Sharron?” Wilhite asked, reading her eyes.
“I don't want him hurt. But I don't want my daughter to know what he turned out to be, either.”
“The army has him listed as a hero, missing in action,” Ax offered. “They don't want publicity. If they can put Jacks in a stockade, where he belongs, I can cut a deal to leave his records alone. He can go back to being your long-lost love.”
“No,” Sharron said, easing down gently on the edge of Arnie's bed. “Not anymore. That slot's already taken.”
* * *
“I know a place,” Roddy said as he and Ax perp-walked Bobby J out to Roddy's Cadillac. “An abandoned warehouse in Ecorse. Tell the army they can pick lover-boy up there, but do it quick. I won't hang around to babysit him.”
“You gonna split?”
“Damn straight. When Wilhite talks to the Feds it's gonna land like a bomb on the six-o'clock news, Ax. I wanna be long gone when it does. You'd best do the same.”
“I can work down South awhile. How long do you think?”
“A few months. After that, the mob's gonna be way too busy to worry about us.”
“You hope,” Ax said.
“We'll be okay. We don't matter enough. We'll be like Sharron's long-lost lover here. We'll just fade out of the picture.”
* * *
Or not, Ax thought on the drive over to the Federal Building to cut a deal with the army. Bobby Jacks might disappear into Leavenworth or wherever, but Sharron would never forget him. Not completely.
Most of us have a long-lost love or two locked away in the dusty cupboards of our memories. Heartthrobs from high school or the dating game. Dream lovers.
Every once in a while we take them out, dust ‘em off, and wonder. What if? What might have been?
But in our hearts we already know the answer. There's a simple reason our long-losts are only memories. Because the love didn't last.
And the real thing does.
It's so rare it only comes once or twice in a lifetime. Ax had never met it at all. But he knew Sharron had, and not with any long-lost dreamboat.
For her, it was the man in the bed. Her dying bookkeeper. Despite all their baggage, or maybe because of it, they were a match. The real thing.
They didn't have much time; the clock was already running out for them. Soon, Arnie would unleash the whirlwind and their lives wouldn't be their own anymore.
And afterward, Sharron would have to find a way to go on alone. Without him. With only her sickly daughter and a few memories of a long-lost love. A real one.
In a way, it was almost funny. Despite the tidal wave of trouble Sharron had coming, Ax couldn't help envying her a little.
Hell, he envied both of them.
(the end)
