“We’re a mess,” she said. “We’re not good for each other.”
“I’m just asking”—he looked behind and saw the woman staring at him. She was early twenties, wore her copper-colored hair tightly back. Her black glasses and gray suit gave off a definite professional air. So why was she looking at him?—“for a loan, basically. And one dinner together. Just to talk. No pressure—”
“I can’t do it, Steve. I can’t forget what it was like. I tried that once and it bit me.”
The time he stole a hundred dollars from her purse for a fix. He remembered that clearly. Bad, real bad. “Please—”
“Don’t call me again, Steve. We’ve managed to settle amicably and I want to keep it that way.”
“Ashley, don’t—”
She clicked off. Steve dropped his hands to his sides and bowed his head. Eyes closed, he tried to make his brain find a file marked It’ll Be Okay. But it was gone. Snatched and tossed into the fire pit of lost hopes.
The woman in the parking lot said, “You’re not Steve Conroy, are you?”
3
He whipped around and faced her. “Who are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell me what you want and why you know my name. And make it fast, because I’ve got—”
She held up a sheet of paper. “Sienna Ciccone.”
“Ciccone?” It sounded familiar. “Ciccone . . .”
“Like Madonna.”
“Madonna?”
“That was her original last name.”
“You a singer?”
“Law student.”
Steve shook his head.
“You requested a clerk through DeWitt,” she said. “We were supposed to meet?”
Steve held the bridge of his nose. Tried to form a place where all his thoughts could come to rest and keep his head from exploding. “I made a request through DeWitt?”
“It was on the computer. Could have been there from a long time ago.”
It very well could have been a long time, and he very well could have forgotten. His memory was Swiss cheese then.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a few things I’m dealing with here.”
She nodded and looked at the corner of the parking lot where his office stuff was.
“Yours?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Tell you the truth, I was sort of hoping for a cubicle.”
“Look Ms. Ciccone, I—”
“Sienna. Call me Sienna.”
“Things have sort of changed since I put out that request.”
“I gathered that.”
“I’ve had a little misunderstanding with my landlord.”
“Then we better straighten it out.”
“We?”
“Did your landlord give you a three-day notice?”
“Uh, no, but I am behind—”
“Let’s get your stuff back inside. What’s your landlord’s number?’ She took a cell phone from her hip, flicked it open with her thumb. Steve didn’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed. Didn’t know if she was full of confidence or just attitude. All he knew for sure was he couldn’t pay her.
“I can’t hire anybody right now,” Steve said.
“I didn’t ask to be hired. I asked what your landlord’s number was.”
“But I—”
A car horn blared. Steve turned, saw he was blocking a Mercedes trying to get in.
“You move your car,” Sienna Ciccone said, “while I call the landlord. Number?”
Steve gave it to her, then moved his car. When he got back to Sienna, she was pacing the parking lot, negotiating with a former Serbian policeman, firmly explaining American law to him—“Have you not heard of unlawful detainer, sir?”—and how it would be worth his while to let Steve put his office back together rather than become a respondent—“It’s called forcible entry, sir.” She also pledged a deposit of rent before Steve could stop her. Not that he would have at that point.
He had no idea what to do. His stuff all over the lot and somebody advocating, actually arguing his case for him. When was the last time anybody had done that? He couldn’t recall.
A few minutes later, the building manager unlocked Steve’s office door, giving him the evil eye as he did. “We change locks,” he said. He was a hairy one. Steve thought he probably had a five o’clock shadow when he was born.
“No worries,” Sienna told the manager. “Just give us the key and the authorities won’t have to get involved.”
The manager handed Sienna the key. Then she helped Steve move the furniture back into his office. All under his admiring eye. She had some muscle on that small frame. Looked like she could pack a punch if she got behind it. There was a little dance in her hazel eyes, but a seriousness, too. Like she’d seen plenty of the hard side of life.
It took half an hour to get everything back inside. In the office, sitting with bottles of water—at least the Mad Serb had left Steve’s small refrigerator plugged in—he said to Sienna, “Why’d you do all this?”
“You looked like you needed some help,” she answered.
“I’ll pay you back for the deposit.”
“I know.”
“But . . .”
“Go ahead,” she said. “We know each other pretty well now.”
“I can’t pay you for legal work. I’m sorry. I’d like to be able to pay a clerk for some projects, but that’s just not possible right now. You’ve got pretty eyes.”
“Whoa. Random.”
“I meant it. I wasn’t hitting on you.” Then what was he doing? Slow down, he told himself. You’re reacting against Ashley. Don’t be a complete idiot. “So you’re at DeWitt?”
“Night program.”
“Good for you.”
“Nothing noble. I have to work.”
“Sorry it can’t be me.”
“Maybe it will be,” she said. “God works in mysterious ways.”
“God? I don’t think he works at all.”
She cocked her head.
Steve said with a smile, “If God existed, would he allow Deal or No Deal? I don’t think so.”
At which point his office phone rang. Steve made a move toward it, but Sienna picked up and said, “Mr. Conroy’s office.” He liked that, liked her attitude. A little aggressive but without giving offense. Steve watched her eyes as she processed whatever was on the other end. “And what is this regarding? Mr. Conroy is very busy . . . Oh? If you’ll hold please.”
She covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “I told you God works. You want a chance to make some serious money?”
4
An hour later, the woman was gone and Steve was still wondering what had happened.
He’d come back to an office he couldn’t get into, with prospects about as promising as a one-legged tap dancer, to find a mysterious but welcome young woman saving his sorry behind.
Not only that, but she’d fielded a call from a prisoner in Fenton named Johnny LaSalle, who had called him with an offer to pay ten thousand dollars.