My Brilliant Best Friend of a Muse to the Rescue

I’d like to use this last blog before “Amateurs Play Elsewhere” is officially published (on Friday) to thank one of my favorite muses ever, Ashleigh.

She’s more than a little awesome and completely deserves this shout-out.

You see, one beautiful, almost-Spring morning, I was lounging on a reclining chair up on one of her apartment complex’s top floors, wracking my brain on where to take my story after I’d prematurely reached the plot’s planned climax.

Oops.

Ashleigh, meanwhile, was grading papers for the class she was teaching. Yet she very nicely let me interrupt her multiple times with my whining about how I didn’t know what to do. Moreover, she went above and beyond not telling me to shut up and let her work… She also offered some inspiring suggestions.

To be honest, I don’t think that “Amateurs Play Elsewhere” would have been half so much fun to write or read if not for her input.

You see, my brilliant best friend helped me come up with a new character: one with long, curly red hair and a Texas drawl and an endearing attitude to match those characteristics. I fell in love with her right off the bat.

So it’s no wonder when someone else did too. In fact, I defy anyone to NOT think she’s fabulous. At the risk of sounding biased, if you don’t like her, then you’re crazy.

That’s true of both the character and her inspiration.

3 – Necessary evils

L

ike most sane human beings, alarm clocks were not Rod’s friend. It was actually rather safe to say that he hated them, particularly when he’d gotten an inadequate amount of sleep first. However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t respect their authority. So when the wretched machine started blaring at zero dark thirty, he flipped it off and got right up, even though he would have much rather stayed under the covers for a while longer.

Taking a minute to peer into the still-dark morning, the first thing he took notice of was that Lacey wasn’t there anymore. In her place was what he took to be a Honda Civic, its basic shape utterly predictable and not worth a second glance. The porch lights below him and the ones from the houses across the street cast enough of a glow into the dusk that he could see the car wasn’t an old model or a new one. The vehicle was bland through and through, right down to its light grey color.

Rod supposed he was looking at his new ride, courtesy of Piccarello. He turned away from the window, feeling like he needed a hat on his head just so he could take it off in mournful respect for wherever Lacey had been taken. Hopefully, it was just a temporary separation.

As far as he could tell when he opened his door and peered out, his grandparents on the second floor were still asleep. At least they weren’t out of their room yet. He couldn’t detect a single sound from downstairs.

There was also no indication that anyone else was up either. But just in case, he threw on one of the t-shirts he’d tossed into his bag the night before. It seemed a waste of time to get dressed when he was just going across the hall to shower, though it also didn’t seem worth the risk of running into anyone and offending their delicate sensibilities. Which was why he performed the needless task, grousing in his head while he did.

The crankiest thoughts, he reserved for Cory.

Yet it was him who ended up feeling uncomfortable when he fully acknowledged that the only bathroom on the floor was right next to where the girls were sleeping. They were even connected by a second door. When that realization, along with its uncomfortable implications and possibilities hit him, Rod stood in the hallway in his shirt and boxers, contemplating his options.

The first floor had a bathroom that didn’t feature a shower or tub, and the single way to access the one on the second floor was through his grandparents’ room, which ruled it out.

He supposed he could skip the shower altogether, just brushing his teeth instead, running a razor over his face and putting on half a stick of deodorant. Tempting as that thought was though, he ultimately discarded it. He was going to a lawyer’s office after all, and a swanky one at that. Still, when he locked the door into Kayla’s room, he checked it three times to make sure it was secure.

Rod tried to be as quiet as he possibly could. Rushing through everything the way he did, however, he failed several times over, dropping a bottle of shampoo on the bathtub floor and somehow managing to knock his head against the tiled wall when he stooped to pick the thing up.

It didn’t help that he hit the exact spot on his forehead where the puckered scar stood out.

The one bright spot was how he managed to swallow back the swear words. Steadying himself against the side of the shower, he attempted to listen past the pounding of his head for any noises from the other room. But since the running water made it hard to hear much of anything, he could only hope for the best.

Too much time later, Rod wrapped a towel around his waist and stood in front of the fogged-up bathroom mirror. With the morning he was already experiencing, he fully expected to cut himself shaving at least once. That would have added a nice touch to his criminal aura, what with the scar and bruise and all. Thinking about it, he had to wonder how Kayla had covered up the bruises Greyble had given her before. With makeup, he would assume; there was no way she could have healed so fast. Just like there was no way he was going to wear any himself, no matter how much he wanted to come across as an upstanding citizen.

Yet it appeared that he couldn’t pull off an intelligent look any more than a law-abiding one. After he finished with the razor, brushed his teeth and slapped some aftershave on, he realized he hadn’t brought a change of clothing with him into the bathroom. Hence making the shirt he’d grabbed before even more pointless.

His reflection in the mirror rolled its eyes back at him.

Safely back in his room, Rod went digging through the closet, which was stocked with three dress pants, ten dress shirts, a row of ties and even a black jacket. It was all courtesy of his grandmother, who insisted he go to mass whenever he stayed over. He grabbed the basics, a pair of black slacks and a bright blue shirt, hoping they would make him look professional instead of like someone a few shades away from an orange jumpsuit.

Breakfast down in the kitchen was leftover baked ziti and two glasses of orange juice. Then he headed outside to the front porch while he waited for his grandfather, who he figured would be along soon enough.

It was a cold morning. Nothing out of the ordinary for that time of year, but he watched his breath hit the air over and over again while he took in the scene in front of him.

The porch was situated up on a small hill that sloped steeply from most angles. Like a house at the shore, it was set up on stilts that were covered up by a white picket enclosure to keep larger rodents and stray animals out. Overall, it took obvious wealth to maintain the property just so, but it never looked snotty to him. No matter what view of the neat and orderly grounds he took, it was always home.

His grandfather joined him out there while Rod was still reminiscing. Dressed in pressed pants, wingtip shoes and a heavy winter coat, he nodding in greeting, his expression largely unreadable.

“You ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

“Then let’s take care of this.” The confidence he spoke with was that of a man used to getting his own way, maybe not instantly, but through one means or another. Once he set his mind to something, it was rare he didn’t achieve that goal, whatever it was.

His grandfather cast him a sideways glance. “What happened to your head?”

Rod grimaced. He’d almost forgotten about his little shower mishap in the chill air and warmer memories. “Just me being clumsy is all.”

The older Andiluigi clicked his fob to the shiny car out on the street, a spotless, burgundy Audi. His grandfather, usually a Mercedes man, had taken a shine to it only a few months ago. He knew that because his grandmother had told him about it when he called for her birthday. She’d been annoyed about the purchase at the time, reasoning that it was “too fancy” for a senior citizen. And did Rod think he was “going through a mid-life crisis?”

Since Rod couldn’t imagine his grandfather having any kind of crisis, he’d assured his nonna that everything was fine. Lamborghinis and Jaguars: Those were what aging people purchased when they started getting antsy about their looming mortality. Not Audis.

Now, looking at the car and then taking a seat in it, he understood the attraction. It wasn’t his type of vehicle per se, but it was still a thing of beauty.

His grandfather turned on the radio, which was already set to some XM station that featured crooners like Frank Sinatra and classy dames like Ella Fitzgerald. It wasn’t Rod’s first choice of music styles, but he didn’t mind it either. If anything, the old-school tunes reminded him of growing up. Which in turn got him contemplating the particular family he’d grown up in.

Sinatra wasn’t the only one with possible illegal connections.

Sitting in the passenger’s seat, with the heat on and his fingers tapping out beats on the door, he pondered actually asking the question he already knew the answer to. It wasn’t a matter of yes or no, but how far in he was.

Even so, it seemed disrespectful to bring up, somehow, so he chose a different approach altogether. “How much trouble have I gotten you into, Nonno. Be honest.”

“No trouble at all,” he insisted. “This is what family is for. Helping each other out.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t seem right to make you clean up my mess.”

“Everyone gets into a mess at some point or another. It’s practically inevitable.”

Rod followed that up by making a joke that wasn’t entirely a joke. “Even you?”

His grandfather let out a wry chuckle of amusement. “Nah. Not me.” Then, “Come on. What do you think I keep Laurence around for? His taste in cigars? I mean, don’t get me wrong: The man has excellent taste in cigars. But he brings a hell of a lot more to the table than that. He’d better for what I’m paying him.”

Whatever that retainer was, it had to be a sizable chunk judging by the law offices of Ronkard, Whittaker & Louis. It was a stately building five stories high and significantly wider, made out of white brick and tall panes of glass. The business’ name was stretched out above the jutted entranceway in thick, imposing letters that heralded a few very important facts.

Number one: The firm had money and knew how to use it.

Number two: It was there to win.

Number three: It would make you pay through the nose for that determination.

Combined, it made him wonder whether he should have worn that suit jacket after all. It was too late for that though, so when he followed his grandfather through a smudge-free set of doublewide doors, he made sure to look less than impressed. Not unimpressed either, just like he interacted with high-priced intellectuals all the time.

Men and women hurried by him with their tailored outfits and important airs, some of them harried, some of them not. Most barely spared him a glance as he crossed the spacious expanse of polished lobby to the security desk.

The guard recognized his grandfather right away. “Mr. Andiluigi. You can go right up.”

“Thanks, Al.”

The significance of the exchange didn’t escape Rod’s notice, and he also noted the casual ease his grandfather exuded in the building. Like the lawyers milling around, he seemed to know his way around like it was second nature.

They took the elevators up to the top floor, the doors opening to a pristine hallway done up in light-browns and golden shades. Up on the wall right in front of him were a series of chunky letters once again spelling out the firm’s moniker. That was by far the most attention-grabbing aspect of the immediate scene he stepped out to. Whether it was supposed to be meant as an assurance or a scare tactic doubtlessly depended on a visitor’s purpose there.

For his part, Rod found it a bit intimidating, though not necessarily in a bad way. He was, after all, on their good side thanks to all of those billable hours his family necessitated. So he even felt a bit of pride when they made their way past the prominent logo and around the corner to another desk, where another person knew his grandfather on sight.

“Mr. Andiluigi.” The slender brunette with the mocha skin nodded behind her paneled receptionist area. “Mr. Whittaker is expecting you. You can go right back to his office if you’d like.”

Again a thanks and again they were moving onward, this time past the expensive décor of the waiting area, down another hall to a corner office marked with a name plaque: Laurence A. Whittaker, Esq.

The door was open, and they walked in like they had a right to.

“Anthony.” The lawyer in question stood up from the full-length leather couch he’d been sitting on, setting down a manila folder and smiling warmly. “It’s good to see you, even if just for business.”

His client took the proffered hand, and then Rod did the same.

The attorney had an expert grip that matched the rest of his persona. With his jacket slung across the back of his desk chair close to the window, he wore a dark purple button-down, a lilac tie and tan slacks pristinely pressed. The softer colors didn’t detract at all from his sharp brown eyes.

Whittaker’s grey hair was receding up his forehead and balding in the middle. But combined with his well-trimmed beard and mustache, which grew all around his mouth, it lent him a scholarly air, like a brilliant but congenial college professor. The same went for the thin-frame glasses he wore on his nose.

Despite working for the Mafia, he looked trustworthy. And if Rod had learned anything during his employment in D.C., it was that looks mattered. A lot.

He could only hope that Greyble would find himself outfoxed in that department.

“Sit. Sit.” Whittaker gestured at the sectional, waiting to take his own seat until his clients did. “Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Water?”

Some skinny assistant brought them their beverages, then closed the door behind her, leaving them to move past the pleasantries and get to the dirt.

Whittaker didn’t waste time after that. With a pen in one hand and the legal pad balanced on his knee, he looked from one client to the next. “Alright, gentlemen. Let’s hear it.”

“How much of the story do you want?” Rod began cautiously after his grandfather waved at him to speak.

He understood enough about the law to get the whole attorney-client privilege thing, but it still made him uneasy. Telling everything felt like it would be the equivalent of self-incrimination, regardless of whether it was or wasn’t.

Whittaker was quick to assure him that his professional discretion was a legally binding agreement though, the exact opposite of the Miranda Rights. Anything Rod said or did while the clock was running could not be held accountable in a court of law, with one exception. Any mention of crimes still to be committed were admissible.  But if he’d already committed a crime, no matter how bad, he could admit it without fear of reprisal.

“Besides,” the lawyer added, his eyes sympathetic and everything else about him all-around professional. “The more I know, the more I can protect you and your Mr. Evans down in D.C.

With that, Rod found himself explaining everything that had happened. Some parts were easier to detail than others, of course, and he had to work hard not to squirm like a fifteen-year old caught peeking up a classmate’s skirt.

If Whittaker judged him at any point, he didn’t show it. He didn’t even look particularly surprised, whether because he’d heard a lot worse before; because he’d trained himself to have an impressive poker face; or because he’d already been told there was a politician involved, and everyone knew that was a gateway drug to other horrible things.

Rod would have liked it to be the first or the third, as it took some of the moral pressure off of him. But he still didn’t think it’d be a good idea to ever play Texas Hold ‘Em with the guy. Not if any real money was at stake.

Nodding every so often, the lawyer took what looked like copious notes, not saying anything significant until after Rod concluded with “The four of us arrived up here last night, and none of us has heard anything from Evans since.”

Right after he said it, he had to wonder if maybe Evans had been in touch with anyone else in the group. He had never bothered to ask, assuming his team leader would contact him first. But perhaps he hadn’t for some reason.

The question was: If Evans had reached out to one of the others, would they have told him? Kayla, he thought, would since it was the intelligent thing to do and she did seem to be levelheaded overall. Though she was still female and he was still him, so she might not tell him to his face. She’d call or text, maintaining what distance she could while dealing with the unpleasant necessity.

Rachel he’d met just once at Kayla’s apartment during what turned out to be a pointless debugging sweep; and she hadn’t said anything at all to him, watching him the whole time he worked to make sure he didn’t do anything he wasn’t supposed to do. What exactly that was, he still wasn’t sure, only that it had been a thoroughly uncomfortable experience from start to finish. That general lack of contact meant he had no idea whether she would keep him in the loop or not.

Then there was Cory, who would leave him out to dry in a heartbeat if he could.

“Before we continue any further,” Whittaker broke into his erratic thoughts, “let me make sure I understand the role I’m assuming here. Correct me if I’m wrong, but Mr. Evans and Rodney here could be brought up on multiple counts of murder.”

That would be the thugs they’d killed in D.C. to protect Kayla.

He turned to Rod then. “And there’s at least aiding and abetting in aggravated kidnapping, extortion of a sitting U.S. senator, and a slew of breaking and entering, theft and assault charges over the course of your employment with Senator Aaron Greyble. Am I leaving anything out?”

“No. That sounds about right.” Though, come to think of it, the word, “right,” probably wasn’t the best choice.

“Separately, Mr. Evans could be charged with battery of Ms. –” He stopped to consult his notes. “– Jeateski, and aggravated assault against you, while you assaulted her with a deadly weapon as well.”

“Correct.”

Rod was relieved to hear that, from a legal standpoint, he hadn’t come close to a permanent placement on the sex-offenders list. That was because he hadn’t said or done anything lewd at the time in question, and intention was a hell of a lot more difficult to prove otherwise.

“But she’s not likely to pursue her legal options against either of you any more than you are against Mr. Evans.”

“Yes.”

“Because the three of you have formed some sort of unwritten pact?”

“Yes.” That was one way of describing it, Rod supposed.

Evans, he knew, had sat down one on one with Kayla to discuss her options the morning after she got back to Baltimore. And then the two of them, Cory and Rachel had all gotten together to talk over further details, including what they still needed to figure out in order to take Greyble on and win.

Rod hadn’t been invited to either meeting, though he had declared his own allegiance well before Kayla got back to her apartment. His own taxi ride from the shadier parts of N Street to Greyble’s office had been an opportunity to think about a lot of things. Including how he had just shot two people dead, something he’d never done before.

When he began his career in the Army, he’d known he might end up killing someone. But that was supposed to be terrorists’ lives he ended, not Americans’. And back during his one real gunfight in Afghanistan, he’d been picked off too fast to do any damage to the other side. So D.C. was his first experience cutting someone’s timeline short.

Kayla was worth it in the end. She wouldn’t have made it out alive if he hadn’t aimed and fired the way he had. The same went for himself and Evans, for that matter. Yet those very valid justifications only helped so much right after the fact, especially on top of actual crimes that remained unforgiven.

Riding out of the ghetto that night, with Evans sitting beside him, he tried to process all of that. Rod knew his team leader had taken lives before; it was almost a job requirement of being a SEAL. He was also certain that Evans had quoted a low kill count to Kayla when she asked. Which meant it made sense the man wasn’t shell-shocked by what had happened, only seething mad about what could have gone down.

What was supposed to go down according to their boss.

Unfortunately for Rod, that still left Evans in an altogether non-chatty mood, so he couldn’t ask for tips on how to handle the thoughts and feelings racing through his head. All he could do was follow behind him when the cab stopped at the Dirksen Senate Office Building. At the time, it felt like he didn’t have much choice. It was either that or dwell even more heavily on Kayla and the corpses he’d left behind.

It turned out he’d made the right choice, at least in the near-term. Thanks to Evans, Greyble and their shouting match, he got a twenty-three minute-long distraction. And when both men were finished venting at each other, Rod felt clear about two solid points. First off, his team leader wanted to exact some serious revenge on their boss. The other was that Rod himself was willing and ready to help him do just that. As he reasoned to Evans on their way out of the building, it “wouldn’t be the dumbest decision I made this week.”

Evans had given in and said yes.

That was the pact they had formed. He couldn’t say with all certainty what it meant to the other members of the agreement, but he knew he was willing to stand by it at all costs.

Across from him, Whittaker made one last note. “At this point, there are a number of cases we can make against your Senator Greyble if you want, though that would complicate any defense of you or your supervisor. Without further information, I see few plausible means of effectively prosecuting him without risking the same type of damage to yourselves. Not unless the FBI is in an extremely generous mood after hearing Mr. Evans out.”

Rod fought the urge to shift his gaze somewhere less intense.

“And even then, there would be a good chance we’d be able to strike a single plea deal, either for you or your friend. So I need to know right from the beginning what or who my first priority is.”

“Evans,” Rod replied without hesitation.

The lawyer nodded in understanding. “Since there are no warrants out for your arrest as of an hour ago, I’d advise that you wait here in town while I get as much sorted out as possible. Depending on how this goes, we might be able to resolve it sooner than later.”

There were no guarantees about how enjoyable the resolution would be, Rod noticed.

Whittaker coughed once into his fist. “I’m assuming your previous employer isn’t aware you have access to any significant legal representation?”

“Not that I know of.”

For all of his paranoia, paid sources, and willingness to hire mercenaries like Wisset, Greyble was still too confident by far. Like a sheltered brat, he had some understanding that something bad could happen to him but didn’t ever expect it to actually occur. Wisset would doubtlessly know, but why he’d share that information with the senator was beyond Rod. The guy was being paid to keep people in line, not operate Greyble’s entire criminal plot.

He took the last sip of his coffee, which was little better than lukewarm by that point.

The conversation didn’t last much longer than that, totaling less than forty-five minutes in all. So it was still early enough when they arrived back at the house. He figured his nonna would be awake, sitting at the kitchen table with her favorite cup of coffee and a crossword puzzle. She’d also have her Eggos, toasted on low and then covered in butter and syrup. It was anything but a stereotypical Italian breakfast for a stereotypical Italian grandmother, but it was her standard, go-to morning meal nonetheless.

His grandfather dropped him off and then left again, saying that he had “some business to attend to.” He didn’t offer details, and Rod didn’t ask for any. Though he did wonder if he could come along. Mafia dealings, or whatever his nonno was up to, would probably be preferable to being in an enclosed space with three antagonistic individuals.

It was a big house, however, he consoled himself. If worse came to worse, he could even go out to the back and see if his old tree fort was still intact.

His eyes drifted to the window of Cory’s room. But between the drawn curtains and the sun, he couldn’t tell if there were any lights on up there or not. There was no way to know in advance whether he’d be entering a peaceful zone or no-man’s land.

There was a saying in the Army: Suck it up and move on. Standing there, Rod knew he needed to put it into practice; to get over the many emotions involved and get back to work.

In other words, the question of who was up and how they’d react to his presence was irrelevant. He was simply going to have to find out the hard way.

“Hooah,” he muttered under his breath. And then he went for it.