Authors: Charlie Price
“No.”
The woman sat back to her reading. “Main Street across from the hardware store. Human Services. See Mackler.”
Dismissed.
* * *
Mackler’s office was more plush than Grace expected. Maroon carpet. Polished wood trim and accessories, velour couches. Attractive woman at a desk in the center of the room looked Grace over. Frowned. Said, “What?”
“Work and a place to stay,” Grace said. Hated feeling needy.
“Name?”
“Grace Herick, one ‘r.’” It got easier all the time.
* * *
Mackler escorted her into a large office with a flat screen TV on one side, two recliners on the other. Went to a short refrigerator beside his desk, took out bottles of water and gave her one without asking. Began with “What can I do you for?”
Grace answered the same she’d told the woman earlier, but her mind was running. Two-bit town, one main street, middle of nowhere. Sleazy guy playing at his job. This couldn’t really be Social Services. More like the talent agency she’d seen for models back in California. But lame.
Mackler wrote a couple of words on his desk pad, picked up the phone, turned his back to her.
Grace couldn’t hear the conversation.
Finished, Mackler asked her if she needed to use the restroom.
The tone of his question made Grace’s neck sweat. She shook her head.
He told her to have a seat on the couch. Left her in the office.
A few minutes later another man walked in. Introduced himself as Sam Hammond. Expensive haircut, pressed slacks, tassels on his loafers. He asked Grace questions about herself.
She was polite but vague. “I’m from Washington. Lost my home. Lost my job. I need a place to stay and I need work. Do I have to say more than that?”
Hammond looked her over: hands, hair, clothing, shoes. “Smile for me?”
Why?
Grace shot him a look, thought the request was ridiculous. Then got it—her teeth—did the family she was raised in have money for braces.
“Education?”
“High school,” Grace told him. “I got good grades.”
Hammond continued to study her, picked up Mackler’s phone.
* * *
Twenty minutes later another man came in. Said, “Hi. Gary Stovall. Hammond gone?”
Grace nodded.
“Mackler?”
Grace shrugged. Had no idea where that man went.
“Got a bag?”
Grace showed him the pack.
“You can stay with us,” he said. “Like a foster child, until you’re eighteen. Tina and I have a girl your age, JJ. You’ll probably like her. Hammond’ll give you a job in a few weeks when you get settled.”
Grace hadn’t told anyone her age. Just turned sixteen. She wouldn’t have gone anywhere with the other men. This guy was different. Gary. Maybe forty. Long and slender. Brown ponytail. Red plaid cotton shirt, rolled-up sleeves, old jeans. Logger boots. Had a soft smile to match his voice. Kind eyes. She’d go with him and pay attention. Learn how to play the game in this town.
She knew something sly was going on here. Portage. Nothing was official. No paperwork. Seemed like Hammond was the man, Mackler his flunky. This was a place she could figure out. Way less horrid than home. And she might be able to make some money in this town. Grow up.
Grace Herick. Businesswoman. She could play that. She just had to stay tough.
3
G
RACE EXPECTED
G
ARY TO HAVE A CAR
. He didn’t. At least not one he was driving. They walked about six blocks to an alley off Main that quickly became gravel on its way toward a bank of willows and the Clark Fork River. About a hundred feet in, the alley widened into a big dirt parking lot bordered by two trailers. The one to her left, freshly painted, cedar deck that overlooked the river. The one on her right, downstream, rusty and dilapidated. She couldn’t believe that was the one he headed for.
Past a junker car, they walked up weathered two-by-six steps that led to the small plywood porch and front door. When Gary opened it, Grace made an effort not to wince at the smell: old garbage, unwashed clothes, maybe even a whiff of urine. A slack-faced woman sat on the couch facing the door, a drink in her hand.
“That’s my wife, Tina,” Gary said, “and JJ’s around here somewhere.”
The woman turned from the small TV she’d been watching.
“This is Grace,” Gary said. “She’ll be living with us for a few months.”
Tina nodded. Lifted part of her mouth in a smile. Went back to the TV.
Grace heard a noise to her left. Sitting on the floor, ankle cuffed to the kitchen table, was a boy nine or ten years old.
“That’s Jon,” Gary said. “He’s on a time-out.”
The boy stared at Grace, unfocused, uninterested.
“JJ!” Gary yelled at a back bedroom to the far right.
No response.
“Oh, right. She’s in school till three-thirty. You’ll meet her. Let me show you where you’re staying.” He headed toward the bedroom he’d yelled at.
* * *
At least this room smelled clean. Smelled like some kind of incense, actually. The double bed took most of the space. A small closet was surprisingly empty of clothes: a couple of pairs of jeans on hooks, T-shirts on a high shelf, a raincoat and a wool mackinaw on hangers. On the left side of the bed a makeshift dressing table with a brush and a hand mirror. The two-drawer bureau that doubled as an end table held a gooseneck lamp and a book. Grace picked it up.
Babe Didrikson Zaharias: The Making of a Champion.
Man or woman? She had no idea, never heard the name.
There was room on the right side of the bed for her pack. Looked like someone had either just built or just cleared a board-and-brick bookcase, two shelves, so Grace could lay out her clothes if she wished. She sat on the bed corner, stomach empty and growling. Should she run? What had she gotten herself into?
* * *
JJ woke her. Said hi. Smiled. Shook her head. “Welcome to the palace.”
Grace sat up. Didn’t know what to say.
“I’m JJ, right? I’ve been living here for years. How do you think I feel?” When Grace didn’t respond, JJ went on.
“It could be worse. Gary’s nice enough except the way he handles Jon. Tina’s a zombie, 24/7. Jon’s hell. Avoid him. Gary cooks okay. Cooks a lot. He tokes around the clock so he’s always hungry. You got to be careful not to put on weight like me. I’ll trim down when softball starts.”
Grace was trying to get up to speed with this girl. Younger, clearly. Almost Grace’s height. Built sturdy with big shoulders, big wrists, short spiky black hair. Dark eyes, full lips, olive skin a little like Tina’s. Reminded Grace of a tree cutter her dad had hired back in San Rafael last summer: strong, pretty without makeup, mannish figure. Grace checked her for a chain on her wallet or a wad of keys clipped to her belt loop. Checked for a nostril ring, tongue stud, tattoo. The girl looked butch but maybe she was … a jock?
“Yeah, I know,” JJ said. “Not much to look at, but I got a few brains and I got your back, so get to know me.”
4
I
N THE MONTHS THAT FOLLOWED
, Grace learned that Portage was a sewer, rotten with secrets and deals. She learned that Sam Hammond ran the town with partners: Mackler, the director of Human Services, for sure, probably a judge named Bolton and a banker named Greer. Maybe also a highway patrolman named Scott Cassel. She learned that Hammond had something going with Cassel’s older son, Larry. Twenty-five, no experience, and suddenly he was the town’s new building inspector. The day she met Larry, she learned something else. He fancied himself a Casanova.
Hammond hired runaway girls. He’d arranged for Human Services to make her Gary Stovall’s foster child. Until she turned eighteen, if she stayed, the Stovalls would make an extra six hundred dollars a month.
Like a beat-up single-wide full of dope and booze was a “suitable” placement!
Grace told JJ very little about herself; nothing that was true, including her real age. She did say that she’d appreciate JJ’s help learning how to fit in here.
From JJ, Grace learned Gary repaired electronics for a living out of the trailer. Had an arrangement with the hardware store, Hammond’s, to pick up and refurbish radios, TVs, surround-sound systems, but his real money came from selling the weed he grew hydroponically in an insulated shed a couple of blocks above Main. JJ told her she’d lived with the Stovalls since her mom, Tina’s sister, died several years ago. Told her that Tina’s drinking had made her a turnip by the time she’d had Jon, the Devil Boy, and that neither Gary nor Tina could deal with him. Something was wrong with Jon. He was wired and mad practically all the time. When he got real bad, Gary would keep him cuffed and medicated. JJ didn’t know what to do, afraid what would happen to all of them if she told the police. Grace already knew in her bones that Jon had no future. Psych ward, jail, or death.
From Grace’s real family, the only person she ever thought about, the only person she ever missed, was her sister. Caitlin had been a good athlete like JJ. Taller and leaner, a different body entirely, but she’d been blunt and funny and she lifted Grace’s spirits when they spent time together.
Turned out JJ was fourteen, an eighth grader, but she’d been bumped up to a combo of freshman-sophomore so she could attend high school and play on the girls’ sports teams. Softball in particular. The Portage Trappers had a chance to take state for the next two years thanks to a remarkable junior pitcher. JJ was the only girl in town good enough to catch her sixty-mile-an-hour fastballs and risers.
* * *
Grace was polite to Gary, avoided Tina and Jon whenever possible, and steadily developed a low-key friendship with her younger roomie. At school, Grace was busy making grades. Told them when she enrolled that she’d been homeschooled and should be a junior. Standing with her, Gary nodded, and the guidance counselor accepted it. So leaping grades like JJ, she had a lot of work to cover. Of course she was the new girl, but socially she managed a quiet entry because she didn’t try to make friends. Aloof, disdainful, she seemed older, above it all. The girls bad-mouthed her among themselves and were happy to ignore her. The guys wanted a new conquest and her persistent lack of interest left them mostly bewildered.
5
G
ARY WAS RIGHT
. Hammond came through. Six or seven weeks later, post-Thanksgiving, he gave her a job waitressing after classes in his downtown café. Gary gave her the news, sent her over after school in early December. She walked through the door into a medium-sized dining area bordered by an L-shaped counter, four booths along the opposite wall, six tables in the middle. The place was well-lit, warm, and smelled like butter and burgers.
A guy came out through the service door, lots of gray in his wiry hair, stomach bulging against a stained apron, all business. Pointed to the two waitresses standing behind the counter, a pretty young Latina, Ramona, and a tall, stacked blonde, Evelyn. They nodded, kept their distance. He said his name, Cookie, and showed her the pantry/locker room. Handed her two cheap white tops that looked like they’d fit. “Wear black pants,” he said. “No jeans.”
Grace wasn’t sure what to say. Hadn’t had a job before. Thought he might ask her age.
“Five to closing. Don’t be late. It’s a good shift. Dinner. You’re hungry, you can eat something after. Pay every second Friday. Do good, move to full-time this summer.”
Should she ask how much she’d make? Didn’t seem like it.
“If this place is slow, you’ll go to the motel couple of blocks down to finish room cleaning. Start tomorrow. You need something, ask.” He left her and went to the wide stainless-steel grill and griddle, took a spatula and turned browning potatoes. Saw her watching him. “Breakfast all day,” he said. “You can leave that way.” He nodded to a back door. “You drive here, that’s the parking lot.”
It was dark when Grace got back to the street. Most businesses were lights-out. Old-fashioned streetlamps gave Main a coziness in spite of the wind chill. The cold clean air made Grace dread returning to the funk of the trailer.
* * *
Grace was a quick study, learned to keep the orders straight, smile, boost tips with subtle flirting. Such a different person from school! Made her feel like an actress. Better, she started to earn real money. Ramona moved to day shift, Evelyn stayed swing. She and Grace made a pretty good evening attraction. More truckers and ranch hands every night.
Turned out ideal. Café was gossip central and the motel provided some of the juiciest confirmations. Grace added another layer. Undercover intel, gathering news she could put to use when opportunity presented.
Within days, Mackler was waiting for her at the sidewalk when classes let out. She saw him, walked wide to avoid him, but he cut her off.
“How’s it goin’?” Though the temp was in the thirties, he’d loosened his tie, suit coat over his shoulder, chewing gum.
Grace faced him. “I’m working for Hammond.”
“I know. I got you the job.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.” He looked around casually like he was checking to see if anyone was paying attention. “Want to do something? Go for a drive?”
It was sunny, no wind, snowless patches on the southern hills were golden.
“I’m working for Hammond,” Grace repeated.
“Yeah,” Mackler said. Left it at that.
“I have to go.”
Mackler cut his eyes to a late-model Audi parked by the curb.
Grace shook her head, walked around him. Didn’t look back.
She hadn’t gone a block before she felt someone close behind her. She wheeled, thinking to slap the creepy bastard and get it over with.
Not Mackler. Two jocks in letter jackets. One handsome enough to be an actor. Probably six feet, medium build, curly reddish brown hair to his collar. The other, bigger, bulky, black crew cut.
“You one of Mackler’s?” This question from curly-hair, with a mean smile behind it.
Grace shook her head. Guy was hot but reminded her of her second brother.
“Going to the game tonight?” Bulky grinned at her. Even his teeth were big.