Bill Williams

Young and Foolish

“So, why am I here?” Most of the requests I got were from people with a problem they couldn’t solve alone. When a movie star called and asked for a meeting, I had to work not to seem too eager.

“That’s a little abrupt.” Maria showed me a smile that could melt granite if she aimed it right.

“Sorry,” I said, carefully making eye contact. “I drove out under the impression you have some sort of problem that needs solving.”

“Oh, okay,” she said before taking a sip from the water bottle. “Where should I start?”

“How about with the Worst Case Scenario?”

“That’s easy. I never work in Hollywood again.”

I cracked the seal on a water bottle and tried not to stare directly into her eyes for fear that I’d start falling and never stop. “I thought a little scandal was a resume enhancer in your business.”

“Not when you’re America’s Next Sweetheart.”

Looking at her, the threat to her career seemed like a long shot but she knew her dance partners better than I did. Before I could work up another pithy comment, her phone buzzed and she raised a finger to me as she took the call. I watched the lake ripple as she talked with someone about changes to the latest draft of something. Maria lived in a different world from my usual clients.

A beholden senior partner in a local high-powered accounting firm had given my name and contact information to Maria Sessions. She’d used it to invite me to her temporary home in the Mount Bonnell neighborhood in a small compound that overlooked Lake Austin. According to an Internet movie database, Maria was a local girl who’d found overnight success in Hollywood after just five years. Now she was an “it girl” and her name had found its way into the local news. Like many of the young and the rich, she was looking for a house in Austin and that made the local reporters giddy. Austin is usually bright and sunny but this spring morning had a little something extra as I drove the convertible out to her place. I had swung through a brick gate and along the wide curved driveway imagining singing cartoon birds in my wake. The photo on her homepage had made an impression on me.

The house was a sprawling structure without too much pretense, but the size was my second concern. She had good security for a smaller house, with a camera here and a guy there. It felt like it had more than a few seams, but it was probably just enough for a woman moving her way up the first couple rungs on the Hollywood ladder. I had parked and made my way to the front door before checking my best watch. After taking a final look around but before ringing the bell, I had noticed the man on the radio by the gate and the one by the garage. On closer inspection the house was large enough for a small soccer team to live in comfortably and the yard was big enough to run a practice game.

The door had opened, and Maria Sessions had been standing there proving that the photo online did not do her justice. Maria was a walking ad for Texas beauty, her face framed by strands of long dark hair, the rest pulled back into a tight ponytail. I suspected that she’d just finished a workout and was misted with a fine layer of perspiration. Of course, the air conditioning might be broken. She was wearing dark three-quarter-length track pants and a loose oversized white T-shirt with a Chuy’s logo. On top of the looks and the movie career, Maria had good taste in Mexican food. It was almost too much to take. My head was fuzzy as her full lips parted and she spoke my name. “You must be Arthur Quinn.”

“Guilty,” I had said as I extended a hand. Given the amount of wealth I had inherited, I had met movie stars before. Some beautiful people are creations of a team of professionals, and some are naturals. The woman at the door was one of the latter.

“Maria Sessions,” she had said as she shook my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Ditto.” I stepped inside, and she closed the door. The house was almost silent as blood thundered in my ears. Laughter from two or three people on the second floor drifted down to the foyer. Normally I had a better grip on my emotions, but her phone call had been vague and I was not sure what she wanted from me. Apparently, she wanted to be alone with me.

“Would you like a drink?”

“I’ll join you if you’re having one,” I said, not quite sure if I should mix alcohol with whatever effect she was having on me.

“I think we can find something.” Maria had led me on a longish walk through the house to the patio, where she had a small table set up to overlook a stretch of Lake Austin. There were a couple of bottles of water on the table, along with a black string-tie folder. She had taken a chair overlooking the water and had motioned at one for me.

There was a boat pulling a pale, roly-poly man on a pitch-black inner tube over the smooth surface of the water. “Nice house,” I’d said, taking a chair that would enjoy the view of the water and not the woman. She was too pretty to look at until I collected my wits. I hoped she was patient.

“Yeah, but it’s temporary” she’d said. “I’m having a place built a little upriver from here.”

Given the direction she was pointing, we might end up as neighbors. “I’ve got a place around the bend and on the other side of the water.”

“Really?”

“Would I lie to you?”

Maria tilted her head and her eyes sparked as the sunlight caught them. “Maybe.” She pulled at the stray locks of hair and fixed them in the ponytail. “Maybe you should tell me something about yourself.”

“Seeing that we’re almost neighbors.”

“Arthur,” she smiled at me and a floodgate opened.

“Call me Quinn. Now. What should I tell you about me? Well, a few years back I inherited a load of cash and now I do favors for friends as a way to keep busy. I can’t be bought and I’m hard to shake.”

“That makes you sound like a supporting character in Gatsby.”

“I’m just a problem solver with a bank roll. Why don’t you tell me why you called me?” The pasty tuber came back by, bouncing along the right side of the wake as the client stalled. “Maybe you should fill in the blanks and let me know how you got here.”

Maria took a long drink from the bottle of water. “When I was young and foolish, I did something young and foolish.” She put the bottle back on the table, and this time she was the one avoiding eye contact. “I dated a photographer for a while. He took some pictures that he said would be good for my career. I wasn’t wearing much.”

“How old were you?”

“I was eighteen and just out of high school.”

I nodded just to have something to do. “Did they show up anywhere?”

“No,” she said in a soft voice. “They stayed buried until I made my third movie.”

I wanted to pat her on the hand or the shoulder or somewhere, but I didn’t know her well enough to do that. “Then what?”

“He called me and said that he read I made eight million on that last movie and that he would like to sell a bit of memorabilia back to me.”

“So, he cut himself in for a share.” I put my hand on the table and drummed my fingers as I ran through possible scenarios. Maria would want the photos back, but what about the graymailer? My stomach clenched like a fist and I felt a chill across my shoulders. I’d done questionable things before, but usually in self-defense. I wondered what exactly she wanted from me?

Maria put her hand on mine. “I can’t let those pictures come out, Mister Quinn. I have a deal with a family-friendly studio in the works.” She looked me in the eye, and I could see why she got the big bucks. “I don’t want to be a has-been at thirty. Can you help me out here?”

“You need a lawyer,” I said, guessing where this part of the conversation would go. “Someone who can negotiate a deal and make sure it’s bulletproof.”

“Lawyers don’t have any loyalty. And an agent might let something slip.” Maria crossed her arms. “I need an outsider,” she said. “Someone who has a track record of careful judgment and thoughtfulness.”

“That’s me,” I grinned. What she meant was that she needed someone not connected to her. An expendable man that she would not see again if things went sideways.

Maria reached out and put her hand on my arm. “I think I need an Austin guy for an Austin problem.”

Until that moment, I had not thought we were sitting that close. “Are you sure that this isn’t the kind of thing that an agent or some sort of Hollywood fixer should handle?”

“I need someone outside the system, and I was told by Tina James that I could count on you.”

“Tina.” She was a rich girl who’d needed a stalker dealt with last year. There was a quick confrontation and now the stalker walks with a limp. Getting physical held no mystery or challenge for me, but an intimate moment like this one was squeezing me. “I understand.” Pulling my hand away, I got back to business. “What exactly do you want from me? I mean, I’ll find the guy and act as a go-between, but I draw the line at thumping people.”

Maria grinned. “Quinn, I just need you to work out the deal for the negatives and the prints.”

“Is that it?”

“No thumping required.” She put her hands on the table and pressed down. “He wants a hundred thousand dollars.”

“The smart thing is to pay him,” I said. “Just make sure you do it right.”

“That’s why I need you,” she said just beaming. “I need to be sure it is a one-time thing. I want all of the copies. Quinn, I want everything.”

“Everything’s a lot to ask for.”

“Why?”

“He’s going to want to bleed you.”

Maria finished her water. “Can you change his mind?”

“I said I don’t do that kind of work. Maria, I can find people and I can figure things out. But I don’t go much past that.” It was a lie, but I wanted her to think I had a little higher sense of right and wrong. I do have a code, it’s just set a little south of what some people think is right.

The Colorado River drifted slowly on as a heavy silence hung over us, save for my fingers drumming on the tabletop. “But I can look into it and give you an honest opinion.”

“What will I owe you for the help?”

I stood and stretched, wondering if she would want more that what I was offering. There was a new tightness in my back. I’d been tense since I’d arrived and my back felt the stress. “Nothing. Where do I find him?”

“Nobody works for free.” She handed me the black and tan folder. It held two sheets of paper, but it must have weighed fifty pounds.

“I do. I’ve already got dough, remember?” Looking at the lake one last time, I said, “I’ll call you when I know something.” A woman as attractive as Maria could make a man do foolish things. Over the course of the conversation, I’d decided to run her fool’s errand and then see if there was any kind of spark between us.

Maria Sessions came a few steps toward me and the breeze drove the scent of the rosewater she had used as perfume under the new layer of perspiration. “Are you sure? Nobody works for free…”

“Then today, I’m nobody.”

“I just need someone I can trust.” She smiled and I tried not to over interpret the look.

“Call you when I have something.” Turning my back on her and the lake view, I made my way out of the house and to the car. Her people on the second floor watched me the whole way, and for a moment, I understood what she must feel every day. I tried not to leave rubber as I sped back onto the road, back to the heart of Austin. My head spun. Usually, I was harder to intimidate than that.

* * * * *

Herbert Jouvin lived in a smallish white house set on a huge city lot off of 51st Street on the good side of the interstate. The yard was well kept, and he was in his studio, which was a tall one-story prefab building behind his house on the large lot. It had one door and I could see him through the big picture windows on the street side. I wondered where he developed his pictures. The string-tie folder had his contact information on one inkjet-printed page. Another page was a print out from of his website. I had called him in a pretend panic, saying that my photographer had canceled and my wedding was this weekend. I felt like Jim Rockford when I promised a load of cash if he could help me out of the jam. People in the freelance life love new customers and hate bill collectors. Today, I was a collector but he did not know it yet.

Jouvin was waiting for me in the studio. I parked in front and walked around the house to the side gate and over to the studio door. A high fence shielded me from the street. After a deep breath to get into character, I knocked and stuck my head inside.

A thin man in his late forties with close-cropped gray hair and little wire-frame glasses walked to me with his hand extended. “Are you mister…?”

“Ludlow. Irving Ludlow.” I shook his hand. “You’re a real lifesaver, Mister Jouvin. Melanie would kill me if I didn’t take care of this one damn thing.”

“Nice to be able to help, if I can,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“This is my second marriage and I need it to go well. I really need you to take some wedding pictures this weekend. The ceremony is at six o’clock. My other guy bailed at the last minute and left me in a jam.”

Jouvin checked a schedule book. The studio was meticulously arranged with flat files and cubbyholes along the walls of the workspace. Samples of his work lined the walls above the chrome and black leather furniture. The landscape photos were black and white and high contrast and they were interesting in an asymmetrical way that betrayed the influence of Ansel Adams. Jouvin was pretty good, and like a lot of photographers, he was fascinated with New Orleans before and after the flood. The wedding photos on the near wall looked like every other batch of wedding photos. They meant nothing unless you knew the people involved.

“I had a cancellation this weekend. Maybe I could fit you in around some commercial work. Of course, there would be a late booking fee.”

“How much is that?” I looked out of the studio windows as he studied the schedule book. Between the house and the high fence, there was no real way to see what was going on in the studio from the street. “If it’s too much work, maybe you can send an assistant.”

“I don’t have an assistant,” he said as he worked a calculator.

The studio had no security system, and there were spots that would be blind to the street. Three of the walls had no windows but plenty of art. “Nice place.”

“All totaled, I can save your bacon for a mere two thousand dollars. That includes several sets of prints and access to digital files.” He was smiling.

“Sounds great,” I said, walking toward him slowly with a big smile. “Can I see another sample of your work?”

“Sure,” he said and pointed at some of the books on the cabinets.

I let a big unfriendly smile slip. “You have any naked pictures of Maria Sessions?”

Jouvin flinched, then he licked his lips and for a moment he looked like kid who was just offered cake. “Unless you brought my money, you need to leave.”

“What I need is an assurance that I will get all of the prints, the contact sheets and the negatives when you get your blackmail money. I want to make sure I get it all. Bundle it up for me.”

He backed up a step and bumped into the nearest cabinet. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“That’s great,” I said, taking a step toward him so that I was close enough to touch him. “I hate being cheated. And if I feel like you have been holding out on me, keeping a trophy, anything like that…” I gave a big smile and let his mind fill in the blank. “Are the photos here?”

“No,” he croaked.

“Too bad.”

“She can afford to pay me,” Jouvin said as he shrugged back a step. “She won’t miss a hundred grand.”

“That’s not the point, is it? Everything means everything.” I backed up a step. “When I come back with the cash, you’ll have what I want, right?”

“You didn’t bring the cash?”

“No.” I moved to the door. “I wanted to check you out before paying anything.”

“And…?”

“I think we can do a deal. Now get everything together. I’ll contact you tomorrow and arrange the delivery of the funds.” The door closed behind me and I started the long walk to the car. Herbert Jouvin should be easy enough to handle. But, I had the feeling that this was a first for him and amateurs can get a little unpredictable.

Once I was out of sight of the house, I called Maria and told her to get the cash together.

* * * * *

I had peeled ten grand off of the pile and put it into a wide letter-shaped manila envelope that I jammed into a coat pocket. The short pile was set aside in the hope that I could make a deal with Jouvin without delivering the full one hundred grand. The more I thought about him, the more I felt like Jouvin was getting squeezed for cash. Guys in a jam usually pad their numbers. Hell, if it came down to it, I could probably muscle the photos away from him. The rest of the cash was in the trunk in a box that I’d had gift-wrapped by a professional at Nordstroms. I had a pair of light leather gloves in the back pocket of my jeans in case I needed to leave a clean scene. Or in case I needed to hit someone.

When I knocked at the studio door, no one answered. Jouvin didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would be late to pick up a hundred grand. More than a little curious, I twisted enough to look in through the big front windows. Through the polished glass, I saw a pair of legs flat on the floor. I pulled on my gloves before trying the door and going inside.

Herbert Jouvin had been tuned up pretty well, but he was still alive. The area around his left eye was swelling and would turn purple if he was among the living tomorrow. If the destruction of the flat files and cubbyholes was any indication, the studio had been searched pretty thoroughly. As I was checking him, Jouvin swerved back to the edge of consciousness. “Whuuu…,” he said through thick bleeding lips.

“It’s the money man,” I said. There were a lot of reasons for not getting too deep into Jouvin’s current problem. “What happened?”

“He took the pictures,” he said with his voice sounding like it came from a great distance. “He took it all.” Jouvin moaned one long sound and blew a big spit bubble.

Frisking him, I found his cell phone and a few broken ribs. I lifted his shirt and found that whoever had worked him over had worn a ring. Forensic technicians and medical examiners could match a ring to the wounds and place a suspect at a scene. Sloppy. Except for the eye and the mouth, they’d left his face alone but gone to town on his body. The rings had left so many little nicks, they looked like weeping freckles across his torso. I picked the receiver up from the telephone console and dialed Emergency Services. When the operator asked me the nature of my call, I did my best impression of Jouvin, meaning I mumbled. “I need a’bl’ance.” I mumbled a bit and placed the receiver in Jouvin’s hand. I pulled his hand up to his face and poked him in the ribs to get him talking. With a quick check of the street, I left the studio with him babbling into the telephone. Double-checking his cell phone, I found it had just enough juice to pull off what I needed. A wailing police car passed me on 51st Street before I turned onto Airport Boulevard.

There were a few reasons to stay behind and take care of Jouvin’s injuries myself, and a truckload more to just get on the road. I realized that now was the time to sit and think. With the photos missing, I needed to find whoever had pounded Jouvin and stolen the evidence before the police got involved and made things worse.

I thought about what to do next and decided that I was hungry. I pulled into Quality Seafood and went inside with my tablet computer and the borrowed cell phone. It was too late for the lunch crowd and the place was almost empty, so I dropped my stuff at one of the crude wooden booths and ordered.

As I ate a piece of pan-fried Ruby Trout with wild rice, I loaded an application with recent numbers from Jouvin’s cell phone. The little program would ping cell towers and track the GPS chips in cell phones. It was meant to help friends and families stay in touch, but it was an amateur detective’s dream. Soon enough, I’d found Jouvin’s girlfriend, his mother, and a mysterious third party who was hard to pin down. The third number was constantly moving around the city, stopping for five to ten minutes at a series of homes and businesses. This third person was making stops, like a delivery man working his route.

Or, in the case of Jouvin, I suspected he had stopped long enough to deliver a beating.

I had a piece of pecan pie as I waited for him to stop somewhere. What to do when I found the delivery man was still a concern. I thought about Maria and the way she moved until the laptop delivered good news. With an address on a napkin, I left the restaurant as it filled up with the chattering dinner crowd.

The traffic on the way to the upscale neighborhood nicknamed the Arboretum was thin when I hit the road. Ten minutes from Quality Seafood, I was parked against a curb on Bluffside Trail with a clear view of an ultra-mod condo complex that seemed to be made entirely of concrete and glass. Living in something like that would have to be like living in a Lego townhouse. The mail in the box told me that Armando Hernandez lived there and that he loved his air conditioning. There was a two-car garage attached to the concrete castle and someone was moving around inside.

I passed the time by calling the local hospitals in search of Jouvin.

After the late evening news, a cherry red 1957 Chevy Bel-Air pulled out of the garage and eased to the street. The glass was dark and hid the driver from clear view as the cell phone moved back out into the night. There was only one name on the mailbox, but that was no guarantee that the house was empty. By the time I had loaded the cell phone tracking app to my iPhone and worked up the plan to get in there and look around, the polished car returned and rolled back into the garage. The smart play seemed to be more in research than in action at the moment, so I broke with tradition and did the smart thing, looking for Jouvin.

* * * * *

The next morning, I took flowers to Herbert Jouvin in his private room at Saint David’s Hospital. The room was a flat green of the same tone of the rest of the pale colors in the hospital. Maybe bland Easter egg colors could speed the healing process. Jouvin had pretty good insurance for an artist. He was sitting up with the help of one of those ergonomic crazy-straw beds. His hand was being held by a thin blonde who was either his daughter, his girlfriend, or a very old Girl Scout.

When Jouvin saw me, he flinched, and the girl tightened her grip on his hand. “At’s ‘im,” he said.

“You can get the fuck right out of this room,” she said as she leapt to her feet.

Mentally, I ruled out Girl Scout. I managed a smile as I crossed the room. “Morning sunshine.”

Jouvin mumbled something.

The blonde made tiny little fists at her sides. “Who are you?”

“Just a concerned citizen.”

She let go of him and stepped my way, getting between us. “I know all of his friends and you’re not one of them.”

I showed her both sides of my hands. “Look. No cuts. No bruises and no ring.” I pointed to the man in the bed. “I didn’t put him there, but I can guess who did.”

She put her hands on her hips, the picture of defiance.

I peeled off a twenty and handed it to her. “Why don’t you go get yourself a five dollar Coke while I talk to him about it?”

She stood her ground.

Looking around her at Jouvin, I spoke to the bedridden man. “You know we need to talk, right?”

“Yesh.” He spoke in an addled voice. “Veronika, can you ged me a Coke?”

The blonde looked at him and then back at me. She left without another word. I thought he would be paying for that later, whoever she was.

I moved to the edge of the bed. “You know I dialed 911 for you, right?” He nodded. “So you know that I’m on your side here, right?” He nodded again, this time with a little more vigor. “What can you tell me about the man in the ’57 Chevy?”

Jouvin blinked. “Who?”

“Armando Hernandez.” I showed Jouvin his cell phone and pointed at the guilty number. “Sometimes, he drives a Chevy.”

His eyes widened. If he could have moved a little, he would have run.

“This guy has my pictures, right?”

Jouvin nodded.

“Does he have everything?”

He nodded again.

“Are you sure?”

“Is in a Brioridy Bail boksh.”

“What was supposed to happen next?”

“I wash subbosed to call ‘im when I saw you again.”

“I’ll take care of him.” I put his cell phone back in my pocket. “Why’d you get the beating?”

“March Madnesh,” he mumbled. “I losht a bundle an’ I wash trying t’get back to ev’n.”

“How much?”

“Fiddy two gran’.”

“Next time, you ought to just go to Vegas.” Then it was my turn to nod and speculate, filling in the blanks. “When he came to collect, you let him know that you had a line on a big payday. So after a heated discussion, he took the photos and left you on the floor.”

Jouvin nodded.

“And that was why you waited until now to put the touch on Maria over the naughty pictures.”

He sighed— well, as much as he could, given the situation.

“You interested in testifying against Armando?”

Jouvin sighed and gave a little shrug.

“If any of this gets to the cops, you leave Maria out of it, you understand?” Wondering where the blonde was, I looked back at the door. “I’m going to go get the photos now. I may see you again when it’s done.”

Jouvin closed his eyes and he seemed to drift off on a cloud of painkillers.

* * * * *

I studied the marquee at the Galaxy Theatre while I was waiting for Armando to make his move. His cell phone had been parked at his house all day and now it was moving into the late evening. I needed him out of his place so that I could have a look around. As the day had dragged on, I’d come up with a backup plan and bought a clean cell phone with cash. That cell number had gone out to one person. When the call came in, I was still picking a cover story. “Jouvin. You have my merchandise?”

“This is not Jouvin.” The voice was calm with a hint of a Latino accent.

“Who is this?”

“I’m the man with your product,” he said. “The picture-taker gave it to me for safekeeping.”

I gave a pause to make him think I was stunned and regrouping. “What do you want?”

“I want a friendly talk.”

“Thanks but I got plenty of friends. If you’re his agent, how about I pay you the twenty grand and we call it a deal.”

“He said you’d pay fifty.”

“That’s a lot of cash.” The call was coming from Armando’s cell phone and it was still parked at home. “Did you open the box?”

“I have a ten thousand dollar fee for not opening Jouvin’s box. Payable now.”

“I live in San Marcos,” I said.

“I don’t want to drive that far. You meet me at a place on South Lamar called High-Ball in one hour. Bring the cash in an HEB sack.”

As quietly as possible, I got out into the heat and started to the box office to get a ticket. “Okay. Just bring the box with you.” Then I paused again like I was thinking. “How will I find you?”

“I’ll find you,” he said with a thick side of menace before hanging up.

Once I had a ticket stub for a Paul Giamatti movie, I stashed my iPhone on a lip under the sink in the men’s room. If anyone had a reason to check my location for the next hour by checking my cell records, it would show that I was at the movies.

Back in the car I checked the laptop and found Armando’s cell phone headed south on the interstate. In minutes, I was parked a few doors down from Armando’s house.

The house was situated on a high ridge that gave a view of the hill country around Austin. I slipped over the back wall and glided to a small building on the back of the lot that had a few solar panels on top. Something mechanical was humming inside. A new unfastened padlock held the wooden door closed. I flipped it in gloved hands and opened the door, confident that no one was inside. He had thirty marijuana plants under grow lights lined up in the small building. The solar panels on the roof were wired in to provide the power for the growing operation. Leave it to Austin to breed eco-friendly criminals. I put the padlocked door back like I found it and made my way to the main house.

Just then it occurred to me that if the photos were not in the house and if I missed the meeting, there would be trouble. It would be worse for the client than if Jouvin had gotten his payoff instead of the beating.

After listening at the back door for a moment and getting a quick look at the rest of the glass house, I tried the closed door. Locked. I examined the lock, a shiny bronze mid-level Schlage dead bolt above the matching door handle. The muffled sounds of the city came to me on a hot wind as I slid the Schlage bump key into the lock. I twisted the specially designed key with my gloved left hand and popped the back of the key with my right palm. The key continued to turn after the second bump and the dead bolt slid back into the door. I opened the door a crack and stuck my head inside. The lights were on and the television was blasting out an eating competition where one guy was trying to drink fifteen milkshakes. It sounded like a fool’s errand to me, but he was getting paid to do it. Me, I was committing a crime for free. I swept the house looking for people and things of interest. Thankfully, I was alone.

The Priority Mail box was on the island in the kitchen. It was still sealed and I assumed it was mine because of the ‘MS’ on the end of the box. A quick search of the house seemed in order. A high-end wooden wine box in the pantry held stacks of rubber-banded cash. There were a few weapons around including an AK-47 under the bed upstairs. That one I brought downstairs. I placed it by the wall phone and dialed 911. When an officer picked up, I dropped the phone and moved back within earshot of the television. I quit the house with the Priority Mail box under one arm. As I was leaving the neighborhood a few minutes later, an APD patrol car rolled past me.

Back at the Galaxy, I stared at the cardboard box for a long moment. I could say that the box was tampered with. I could say a lot of things, but the windows are supposed to be the eyes to the soul. I didn’t want Maria Sessions to look into mine if I had a hint of guilt. So I retrieved my phone, dropped the burned cell phone into the trash can and watched the rest of the movie.

Back at home, I was writing a quick note to Maria when the local news network broke in with the story of a drug bust in the arboretum area. It seemed that the police had a few questions for the man in the Chevy Bel-Air when he got back from our no-show meeting. That Armando took an angry mug shot.

* * * * *

The next morning, I drove over to the temporary Sessions compound. I passed the brick gates and pulled into my usual parking space a few feet from the front door. In spite of its size, the enormous house felt cozy.

Maria answered the front door. “Mister Quinn.”

“I am he.” Something about a beautiful woman made me a walking vegetable. “And you can call me Arthur.”

“Sounds good.” She smiled and led me back to her patio office again. “You said you had good news for me.”

I had the original string-tie folder and a Priority Mail box under one arm. “The cash is with Jouvin, the copies I started with are in the folder and your other stuff is in the Priority Mail envelopes. I placed the items on the table and went to the rail to watch the lazy river drift by.

After a few minutes of checking, she spoke. “Did you look at the photos?”

“No. Jouvin sealed them into those freebies from the post office. He promised that you got everything back from him. He needed the cash for a one-time expense and he swears you’re in the clear.”

“This is such a load off of my mind, Arthur.”

I liked the way she said my name so much I risked looking directly into her eyes. “It goes without saying that in the digital age, anything might leak out. But I got back every physical thing I could and I got promises about the rest.”

“I guess that’s as good as I can get.”  Her smile made the deck a little warmer.

My knees lost a little bit of string, so I leaned back on the rail to compensate. “You’ll have to say hello to Tina for me.”

Maria walked toward me with a coy smile. “I’m going to a big thing in Los Angeles next month and I want some of my Austin friends to go. Can I send you an invitation?”

My game face held back a tide of emotion. I wanted to tell her that I broke into a house for her and I searched until I found what she needed. Then I ran back to her hoping for a pat on the head. “Send me something,” I said and I handed her a business card. “I’ll make it if I can.”

She looked over at the contents of the table and smiled. “Maybe I should build a fire with these.”

“I dunno.” I walked past the table toward the patio door. “It might not be terrible to keep one or two around just for your own sake.”

“Why?”

“Call it Proof of Hotness. Maybe when the big deals are done, you can look back on that young ingenue in the photos and still see some of that kid in yourself.”

“If I could talk to that girl in the pictures, I’d tell her to keep her damn clothes on.” We laughed and she walked me to the door and touched my arm as I left. I made a mental note to see her again, maybe in Los Angeles and maybe closer to home.

THE END

*****

Bill Williams is a member of the Heart of Texas chapter of the Sisters in Crime and was one of their Rising Stars in 2010. He recently contributed to the relaunch of Richie Rich by Ape Entertainment. A list of his exciting high crimes and much less interesting misdemeanors can be found at www.billwilliamsfreelance.com