Native Affairs Read online

  “Anybody with a big price tag attached,” Paula replied. “He’s the best at what he does, and the cops call him in on the toughest cases, the ones they can’t crack. He goes out of state a lot, sometimes even out of the country. He went down to Mexico a few months back, after some drug kingpin, finally tracked him to Guadalajara. Johnny told me about it. Fox must have picked up a nice piece of change for that one.”

  “He ought to buy himself a new truck,” Cindy commented, smiling. “The one he has looks like it’s about to disintegrate.”

  Paula shook her head. “He loves that old piece of junk, fixes it himself.” Paula craned her neck at an intersection and then gunned the motor. “Fox is hard to understand. Johnny says he has expensive equipment, a whole roomful of computers—some of them tied in to the government banks—to assist in his investigations. But he’ll drive that raggedy pickup until it collapses into a heap of rubble. He just doesn’t seem to care much about anything but his work.”

  “He sounds like an independent type,” Cindy said.

  “Oh, he is that, all right. He’s descended from a long line of renegade Seminoles who chose to stay in Florida and live as hunters and fishermen rather than accept reservation life in the West. His father and grandfather made their living from the land.”

  “What happened to his mother?” Cindy asked.

  Paula glanced at her quickly, then looked back at the road. “She left him with his father and went back North. His father’s family raised him.” She paused and added, “He’s illegitimate. The story goes that his mother viewed his father as a good time, a little distraction during her vacation. She discovered she was pregnant and had the child up North, returning just long enough to leave the baby here—deposit him on the Fox doorstep, so to speak. As far as I know they never saw her again.”

  “How horrible for him,” Cindy said softly, thinking of the green eyes, surely the stamp of his absent mother.

  “Yeah, I guess it must have been pretty rough, being a half breed in a Southern town, and a bastard to boot. He was pretty much of a hellraiser when he was a kid. My brother Johnny wasn’t supposed to play with him.”

  “Because of his background?” Cindy asked, dismayed at such prejudice toward an innocent child.

  “No. Because he was always in trouble. My grandmother used to call him ‘that desperado’ and told Johnny that she would box his ears if she saw him with Drew. Which only made Johnny anxious to tag after him at every opportunity.”

  “Desperado,” Cindy repeated, laughing. “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”

  “Well, she was Spanish, you know, given to colorful expressions in her native language. She also called my father ‘that gringo’ until the day she died, at which point my parents had been married for thirty years.”

  “Where is Johnny now?” Cindy inquired.

  “Up in Atlanta. My father got him a job when my parents moved there. It was during our junior year, remember?”

  “I remember. So you’re the only one of your family left in this area now.”

  “Yup,” Paula said, pulling into the driveway of an apartment complex. “I wanted to come back here when we graduated; this place will always be home to me. And Johnny looks Fox up every time he comes to visit me. They were great friends.”

  “Fox was raised by his father’s family, then?”

  “Until he was sixteen. He left home then, taking a number of lunatic jobs until he found his calling.”

  “Lunatic jobs?”

  “Jobs only a lunatic would take. He has a natural cunning and amazing agility, so he always wound up doing things nobody else would try. Johnny told me about some of his adventures.”

  “Such as?” Cindy asked curiously, as Paula pulled into a reserved parking space in front of an ultra-modern brick building.

  Paula sent her an arch glance. “He fascinates you, doesn’t he?”

  “Answer the question.”

  Paula chuckled, shutting off the motor. “Let’s see. He was a bonded courier for a while, those guys with briefcases handcuffed to their wrists and pistols in their shoes.”

  “Briefcases full of diamonds, you mean.”

  “Right. He got shot doing that, so he switched to something safer, high rise construction work, teetering on six inch girders five stories above the ground.”

  Cindy burst out laughing.

  “But that was too dull, I guess, because the next thing I heard, he was riding shotgun on armored trucks transporting government payrolls.”

  “Good lord,” Cindy said, shaking her head.

  “So you can see how his training and experience were perfectly suited to his current occupation. He can go his own way, work when he wants to, and slake his thirst for adventure at the same time.” Paula gestured expansively at the building before them. “El Rancho Desmond, the second floor of it anyway. Let me help you take your luggage out of the trunk.”

  Each of the women took a bag, and Cindy followed Paula up an exterior flight of stone steps. They passed the potted palms flanking the entrance and went through glass doors, which admitted them to the first floor landing. The air inside was blessedly cool. Paula led the way up an additional series of carpeted stairs to her apartment.

  “This is it,” she announced, unlocking the door and hefting Cindy’s suitcase over the threshold. “I was on a waiting list six months to get this place.”

  “It’s lovely,” Cindy said, looking around at the luxurious apartment. A living room with a cathedral ceiling and a balcony overlooking the street opened into a dining area with a mirrored wall facing them and a gleaming galley kitchen with all the latest appliances. A hall led away from the living room to the bedrooms at the back. The whole place was done in pleasant neutral tones: beige carpeting, furniture and draperies in cocoa, sand and taupe, with warm accents of orange and peach in the throw pillows and in the modern paintings on the walls. “How does a humble nurse afford a place like this?”

  “She doesn’t,” Paula replied. “I am also the assistant manager of the complex, for which I get a considerable break on the rent. I collect checks, take complaints, and serve as general dogsbody for the outfit that owns the buildings.”

  “I see.”

  Paula dropped what she was carrying and headed for the kitchen. “You should have seen this apartment before I took it. I was so anxious to get in here I agreed to take on the mess. I needed two weeks to clean it up before I could move in.”

  “It was dirty?” Cindy asked, fingering a china cat on an end table.

  “Not exactly. The person who lived here before me had some rather unusual decorating ideas. The walls in the living room were black. When you pulled the drapes closed it was like a full blackout during the London blitz. And as if to make up for that, the master bedroom was fluorescent green, and there were orange flowers all over the bathroom walls.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “I almost went blind when the real estate agent showed it to me. I had it all stripped and painted before I brought one stick of furniture through the door.” She pointed to the back of the apartment, at the same time poking around in the freezer for ice. “Just put your things in the guest room on the left.”

  Cindy picked up the bag Paula had dropped and lugged her things down the hall, her sandals noiseless on the thick carpeting. The spare bedroom had a single bed with a brass bedstead, covered with a multicolored quilt. It was on the same side of the building as the balcony, which ended about three feet from its window. Cindy dumped her bags on the bed and removed her shoes, wiggling her bare toes blissfully on the cool rug. She ambled back out to the kitchen, where Paula was mixing a pitcher of iced tea.

  “It’s instant,” she said to Cindy, when she saw her watching the process. “I can’t be bothered boiling the water for the real stuff. It’s probably full of additives which will kill us both but today I’m too hot to care.”

  “Has Andrew Fox always lived in this area?” Cindy asked, leaning on the counter which bordered the dining area.


  “Back to him, are we?” Paula said, grinning. “I can see that he made quite an impression. Well, he usually does.”

  Cindy merely stared at her until she shrugged and said, “He travels a lot, as I said, but his home base has always been Council Rock. He’s very close to his father’s family, but almost nobody else.” She smiled as she emptied a tray of ice into the plastic pitcher. “He used to live in a lean-to on his uncle’s property, if you can believe that. Then he had an apartment, and now he’s moved into one of those waterfront condominiums on the other side of town. They cost a fortune, and his change of lifestyle has occasioned quite a bit of comment around town. There’s a lot of speculation about his reasons for relocation. It’s rather out of character.”

  “Why should it seem unusual?” Cindy inquired. “After all, he must make a lot of money doing what he does. You said so yourself.”

  Paula took two tall glasses down from a cupboard and filled them, shaking her head. “That’s not the point. If you knew Fox better, you would know he’d never buy such a place for himself.”

  Cindy didn’t respond, mulling that over. She accepted her glass from Paula’s hand and drank deeply, pulling her blouse loose from the waistband of her skirt.

  “Do you mind if I take a shower?” she said to Paula. “I’m a little grimy from the trip.”

  “Be my guest. There are towels in the bathroom closet and a robe on the back of the door.”

  Cindy went into the bathroom and started to strip. As she removed her blouse she noticed that there was a crusted scab just below the short sleeve. The blood had congealed into an irregular mass on the inside of her arm.

  She had felt no pain at all. She must have been cut when the window broke.

  Shrugging her shoulders philosophically, she took off the rest of her clothes and got into the shower, turning on the taps and adjusting the flow of water. As she washed the cut it began to bleed again and to sting. Annoyed, she finished her ablutions hurriedly and belted the terry robe around her, wadding up some tissue paper and holding it to the cut. Barefoot and dripping, she padded out to find Paula, who was pressing a white uniform on a portable ironing board set up in the living room.

  “Look at this,” Cindy said, extending her arm. “I didn’t even know the darn thing was there, and now it’s bleeding all over the place.”

  Paula unplugged the iron and moved to take a closer look. “Son of a gun,” she marveled. “That must have happened this afternoon. You mean to tell me you didn’t even feel it?”

  “Nope. I didn’t see it until I took off my blouse.”

  Paula winked. “Too dazzled by Mr. Andrew Fox, no doubt.”

  Cindy sighed. “Do you have a Band-Aid or something?”

  “What, are you kidding? You’re talking to Nurse Nancy here. I’ve got the works on hand at all times for just such emergencies. Have a seat and I’ll be right there. I’ll only charge my evening rates. That’s a reduced fee.”

  “Very comforting,” Cindy said, settling on the edge of the couch and watching warily as Paula produced a zippered bag from the hall closet.

  “First, antiseptic,” Paula announced, kneeling in front of her on the floor. “I love to show off for my friends,” she confided in a lower tone, as she daubed the wound with something from a bottle that looked evil and smelled worse.

  “Ouch,” Cindy exclaimed, pulling her arm back.

  “Still a sissy, I see,” Paula remarked, taping a patch of gauze in place over the cut. “Remember that time in college when you fell from the ledge outside the boys’ dorm? You moaned about your sprained ankle for the rest of the semester.”

  “You’re lucky it wasn’t broken,” Cindy responded sourly. “That’s what I get for going to rescue you when you got stuck up there. I wanted no part of that escapade, if you remember.”

  “Pick, pick, pick,” Paula said cheerfully, recapping the bottle and straightening up. “You have to admit that if not for me your college years would have been far less colorful.”

  “Far more productive, you mean,” Cindy countered, standing and admiring Paula’s neat, professional handiwork.

  “You’re the one who made the dean’s list every marking period,” Paula called from the hall. “I couldn’t have done that much damage.” She walked back into the living room, glancing at her watch. “My turn in the bathroom,” she added. “I’ve got the night shift at the hospital tonight, 7:00 pm to 3:00 am, and I’m running late.” She waved her hand, encompassing the apartment. “Make yourself at home. The refrigerator is full of food; the tv and stereo are self-explanatory. Just make sure you answer the phone because I have to take tenant messages. There’s a pad next to the phone; write down the name and apartment number of anybody who calls and the complaint. The messages are usually complaints.” She grinned, and then vanished down the hall. Seconds later Cindy heard the rushing water of the shower.

  She wandered back into her room and fished out some old clothes to wear, things in which she would be comfortable while studying. She planned on spending the evening profitably, organizing her notes. When Paula emerged fifteen minutes later, dressed for work, Cindy was already unpacking her briefcase on the dining room table.

  “Look at you,” Cindy said, smiling at Paula’s transformation. In her white nylon pantsuit and sensible shoes, she was a model of decorum. “Even your hair looks starched.”

  “It is,” Paula replied. “It wilts like lettuce in this humidity unless I use a can of hairspray on it.” She picked up her purse and car keys from the counter. “Are you sure you’ll be all right here?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Paula, what can happen? Go to work.”

  Paula nodded, then peered at the cover of the book Cindy held. ‘‘What are you reading?”

  “Aboriginal Legends of the North American Indians,” Cindy recited, not looking up.

  “Um,” Paula said. “Sounds yummy. Save it for me, but don’t tell me the ending.”

  Cindy raised her eyes.

  “Okay, okay, I’m going. I’ll try not to wake you up when I come home.” She waved and then left, locking the door behind her.

  Cindy worked in silence for two hours, interrupted only once by a phone call. She left a note for Paula saying that Mr. Axelrod in 12-C wished to inform her that his bathtub was leaking, and would she please contact the plumber. She was thinking about making coffee and taking a break when the doorbell rang at about nine-thirty.

  Cindy got up to answer it, taking care to look through the peephole before she threw the bolt.

  Andrew Fox was standing in the hall.

  Her heart beating a little faster, Cindy opened the door.

  He leaned against the jamb and folded his arms.

  “Hi, Lucinda,” he said quietly. “Remember me?”

  Chapter 2

  Cindy was silent, painfully conscious that her hair was screwed into a straggling bun on the top of her head and that there was a badly chewed pencil stuck in it. She was also barefoot and wearing ancient, paper thin jeans faded to white at the seams. These were topped by a bleach spotted sweatshirt bearing the slogan: “Run for Life—The 1983 Juvenile Diabetes Marathon.” Why, just once, couldn’t she be wearing a black lace negligee when an attractive man appeared unexpectedly? Or at least a cocktail dress with high heels. But no. On such occasions she was invariably attired in the most ragged, ridiculous clothes she owned. It seemed to be a curse from which there was no escape.

  He shook his head. “No response,” he mourned. “How quickly they forget.”

  Cindy snapped out of it. “Of course I remember you,” she said, recovering.

  “Good.” They stared at each other. “Well,” he went on, “do I stand out here in the hall like a student selling magazines?”

  “I’m sorry, come in. Please excuse me. I just wasn’t expecting anyone.” She stepped aside and he walked past her into Paula’s apartment.

  “Paula’s not home,” she said, watching as he looked around.

  His light eyes
moved back to her face. “I know that. I came to see you.”

  Cindy’s pulse jumped. “Oh, yes?”

  “Nice place,” he commented. “Last time I saw this apartment it was a mess.”

  “When was that?”

  “A couple of days before Paula moved in. She was having it painted, and Johnny and I carried some stuff up for her. He was here for a visit.” He eyed her levelly. “Paula didn’t seem to know what to do with me. I think she was afraid I was going to set a signal fire on the balcony.”

  This so accurately described Paula’s attitude toward him that Cindy couldn’t suppress a giggle. He smiled at her response.

  The telephone rang, interrupting their shared moment. Cindy moved to get it, took the message for Paula and hung up. She glanced around for a pencil with which to write it down. Fox stepped in front of her and removed the mangled pencil from her hair.

  “Looking for this?” he asked mildly.

  “Thank you,” Cindy said briskly, as if she had placed it there for safekeeping. This attitude was a little difficult to maintain as her hair, loosened by his action, tumbled from its confinement and fell over her right eye, obscuring her vision. Coughing delicately, she shoved it behind her ear unceremoniously, bending to scribble quickly on the pad.

  “Lucinda, Lucinda, let down your hair,” Fox recited softly.

  “I didn’t let it down, it fell down. Besides, that line is supposed to be for Rapunzel.” She tossed pencil and pad onto the telephone table.

  “A princess by any other name...” he said, shrugging.

  “I’m not a princess.”

  He nodded wisely. “Oh, yes, you are. Take it from me. I can spot a princess a mile off, Lucinda.”

  “Please stop calling me that,” she said faintly. “It makes me feel like I’m back in fourth grade, being called on the carpet by one of the nuns.”

  “Okay. Cindy it is,” he replied, chuckling.

  Annoyed at her loss of composure, Cindy gathered her hair in her hands, planning to bind it up again. Standing there facing him with it falling about her face made her feel childish and awkward.