Chapter Six -- Standing Outside A Broken Phone Booth… (from the song by the Primitive Radio Gods)
It turned out that Callie didn't want to go directly to a bar and start drinking. She wanted to visit Annie.
It was late in the day – the sun was starting to set. Visiting hours would be ending soon, but the staff was familiar with Callie. She led Bill – her brother had promised to catch up with them as soon as he got off shift, at the bar – down the winding hallways and found Annie's room.
Annie's monitors showed that her condition was stable. It would take some time, the doctors said, for her to come out of her coma. It might take months. And it was also possible that she might never come out of it at all. When she did come out, she would need physical therapy to relearn how to walk, and speech therapy to relearn how to talk.
Vincent may as well have killed her, Callie thought bitterly. But she put it in the very farthest back part of her brain as she reached the room. She picked up the book that sat on the bedstand – the nurses were kind enough to leave it there for her – and started her usual conversation.
"Hi, Annie," she said, "this is my friend Bill. He's watching out for me a bit."
Bill waved at the unconscious form and said, "Hi, Annie! Nice to meet you." On the drive over, Callie had learned that his father had been in a similar coma when Bill was a teenager, and he had learned all the ways of communicating with comatose people. It didn't bother him, but he considerately offered to wait in the hallway.
Callie got three quarters of the way through the next chapter when she heard someone come to the door. She looked up and saw…
"Max," Callie said, almost dropping her book. She stood up, stunned. "Max, what are you—"
Max walked in. He looked pale, and slightly shaken. "My mother…she's at this hospital. Callie, you haven't been at work in two weeks—"
"I quit," Callie said softly. Two weeks…that was all it had been? It felt like a lifetime ago.
"I don't blame you," Max said softly, and looked to Annie. He looked utterly heartbroken. "I saw in the papers…I recognized her name. I just didn't connect it to…"
"Yeah," Callie said, suddenly very uncomfortable. She already felt responsible enough for Annie, and having Max here…that night, Annie had gotten out of his cab, right in front of her. Vincent had nearly gotten into Max's cab instead of hers. But Max had been distracted. Thinking about Annie? Callie believed so.
Max raised his hand and she saw he was holding a business card. "So," Max said, looking at her through his gold-rimmed glasses, "you were there?"
She nodded, mute.
"God Callie…I'm so sorry." He looked down, at Annie again. It was gut-wrenching, the tension in the room.
"You're sorry?" she burst out breathily. "Max, I never realized…I mean, you knew her?"
"Just a little," Max admitted. "I was thinking of asking her out, but…well, she gave me her card." He gave a little, self-depreciating laugh. "She gave me her card, you know? I thought, wow, this is the woman of my dreams, and she's making the first move on me! I could hardly believe it."
Callie nodded. She thought she was going to cry. "Well, I was going to head out. You know, if you want, you should stay and talk to her for a while. Talk about what you talked about in the cab."
Max looked at her, confused. "In the cab?"
"I was behind you," Callie admitted. "I saw her get out of your cab. That's how I knew where she was."
Max shook his head. "You're going to have to explain all of this. I mean, what happened? The papers were so vague. They said she was shot on the MTA by an unidentified shooter, but…" he shook his head again, baffled. "You were there? How?"
Callie took a deep breath. She shouldn't tell Max this, but she felt that she owed him something. "I was there. The man who shot her had me as a hostage. I tried to stop him, but…he was a professional. I didn't stand much of a chance."
"So you were a witness? Shouldn't you be in protective custody?"
"They're working on it," Callie said, inching toward the door. "Look, don't tell anyone what I told you, all right? It's a big confusing mess right now. But stay and talk to her, Max. She'll appreciate it, a lot."
By then, she had made it to the doorway. She turned her head and looked at Bill, and amazingly enough, the man read her perfectly.
"Callie," he said, standing up and coming around into the doorway with her – hospital doorways were always wide enough for two or three people – "You ready to go?"
"Yeah," she said, and tossed Max a smile. "It was good to see you, Max. Keep in touch."
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"You need to go easy on that bourbon," Bill said a few hours later, as they sat at the bar. It was a very nice place, with a large, rectangular bar that floated like an island in the middle of the room. There were large LCD televisions in every corner of the room, and one of them just inside one of the corners of the bar itself – two of them were on a hockey game, and the other three were on basketball.
Callie looked at him. It was a mistake, ordering bourbon. She hadn't had any since that night, and she shouldn't have had any now – she needed to change her drink preference. The taste of it in her mouth, and sitting here with Bill – who had a habit of looking around him every so often, just the way Vincent had done – was not helping her mental state at all.
"Fine," she said. "Let's go with Jack Daniels. Or Jim Beam. Or fuck it, let's do tequila shots."
"Not without me," Ray said, sitting down beside her. He looked at his sister, her nose and cheeks already red, and then to Bill. "What's going on?"
Bill gave him a sidelong look. "You must be the brother. I can see the resemblance."
"Ray, this is Bill, my bodyguard," Callie slurred. "Bill, this is my brother the cop. A cop, a bodyguard, and a college student walk into a bar—"
"How many has she had?" Ray asked.
"About three," Bill replied. "Don't worry, I drove here. We went to go see Annie, and they had a visit from some guy named Max. I think that had something to do with it."
"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Callie grumbled. "And I'm not drunk, I'm just…buzzed."
"Buzzed like a chainsaw," Ray remarked. "You saw who? Who's Max?"
"Max is the guy driving the cab that Vincent almost got into before he got into mine," Callie said a bit too loudly. "It could have been Max's night of hell on earth instead of mine, and maybe he could have saved Annie. He liked her, you know. They were gonna date."
"Maybe we should go get some food," Ray suggested, although the veneer was thin. Bill chuckled.
"Me, I'm never gonna date. Never again. Not ever."
"Really," Ray said, leaning over and looking to Bill. "What's close? Denny's?"
"Olive Garden up the street," Bill said. "I'll go get the car."
"Okay." Ray slid the empty glasses away from Callie and got out his wallet as Bill left. "You owe me," he told her, putting a couple of twenties on the bar-top. "Come on, let's go eat. You can drink at Olive Garden, they got all kinds of pretty frou-frou drinks for girls."
"Shut up," she giggled, swiping at him. "I gotta pee. You can't follow me to the girl's room, and nothing awful is going to happen to me if you let me out of your site for five lousy minutes." She brushed back her hair. "Really, I'm not that drunk. I'm just pissed."
Ray sighed. "Fine." He stood up and walked over to where he could spot the hallway with the restroom. It was a very nice place that they were in. Clean, large walkways, well lit. He turned back to Callie, but she had her attention suddenly riveted on someone sitting at a table close by.
Ray followed her gaze. The woman was very pretty – Latino, curvy, and about his age. She was getting up, extending her arms to Callie.
"Lupe!" Callie greeted her, coming closer to accept the embrace. "What are you doing here?"
"Drinking, like you are, Cal," Lupe replied. "Drinking a bit less than you, really."
"Ha, ha, you and my brother would make a perfect couple." Callie turned to Ray. "This is Guadalupe Martinez," she told him, "the doctor that Laurie is having treat me for my trauma. See how great of a job she's doing?"
Lupe shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Nice to meet you…Ray, is it?"
"Yeah, Raymond Fanning," Ray introduced himself.
"Junior," Callie supplied.
"Shut up, Opie," Ray teased, swatting her hair. "Why didn't you tell me that your fellow shrinks were so pretty?" He flashed Lupe a smile.
Lupe cocked her head. "You don't look like a cop," she said.
"I get that a lot." Ray held his smile. Damn, this woman was hot. Would it be inappropriate for him to ask his sister's shrink out on a date? He somehow thought so.
"Oh, good, you two can banter while I go pee," Callie said, indicating over her shoulder with her thumb. Ray watched her go, and once she was safely inside, heard Lupe say;
"Oh, there he is."
Ray turned to her. "Where who is?"
"The cop," Lupe said. "It's the way you guys look at things. Now you look like a cop."
"Yeah, well…Callie's been through a lot."
"I know. And I can't really take credit for helping her. Dr. Gregg is doing a lot more for her than I am."
"How long have you worked for Laurie?" Ray asked.
"Pretty much since I got my doctorate. He claims he takes them in young and trains them, then ruins them for anyone else."
Ray laughed. "Yeah, I can see that."
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When Callie came out of the bathroom with a bit clearer of a head, Ray and Lupe were still talking. She paused at the threshold, and then made her way over to an empty seat by the bar. Ray looked over his shoulder at her, and she waved, making more of a sweeping motion away from her, indicating that he not stop his conversation.
To her surprise, Ray did not.
It was nice, seeing him with an attractive woman. Lupe had been more of a friend to her than a therapist. It wouldn't be a bad match, Callie realized.
Then, she also realized that someone had come over and was leaning over her. She glanced up and saw a waitress, holding a tray, containing a thick glass holding bourbon on the rocks.
"This is from the gentleman at the end table," the waitress said, and her eyes held hesitation. Obviously this was not a new thing, but there was also the chance that the recipient of the drink would reject it if the person offering it was considered undesirable. Callie let her set it down and looked over to where the man sat.
It was just not her day for men, Callie realized. This one was also smashingly attractive.
He smiled at her, extending his arm in a toast, and then as the waitress walked away, he approached. He was dark haired, with his hair nicely styled and gelled, longish on top but trimmed at the nape of his neck. He had a smart little goatee, and his suit – deep blue with a widely spaced white pinstripe, and a white silk shirt underneath -- screamed Armani. She instantly wondered if he was Euro-trash, but when he spoke, his accent was all American.
"I hope I'm not intruding," he said.
She just blinked at him, and gave him a bit of a smile.
"May I?" he asked, reaching for the empty chair next to her. He seated himself at a respectful distance, but close enough for them to be in an intimate conversation. "I asked the bartender what you were drinking, I hope you don't mind."
Callie looked at the bourbon. She really had no desire to drink it. After her encounter with Jackson today, all her alarms were going off, but this guy…something about him. It made her hesitate to blow him off.
"Callie, is it?" the man asked. "I'm Rochester." He extended his hand. "Most people call me Chess."
"Chess?" she echoed, shaking his hand lightly. "Not Chester?"
"Oh, no," he said. "Nobody who wants to keep all their teeth."
She nodded. "And are you like Chess? Strategically plotting your every move?"
He gave a shrug with one shoulder. "It never hurts in life to have a plan."
She arched an eyebrow. She suddenly did not feel like humoring him anymore. She looked toward Ray, and he glanced back at her again. Always the cop – still guarding her even while he was flirting. Ray noticed the stranger and gave a slight frown.
"Well," Callie said, rising, empty-handed, "I'm afraid that this is one Queen who just refuses to play." She gave him a tight little grin. "Thanks for the drink." And she walked toward her brother.
Ray saw the exchange, and extended his arm out to Callie as she approached. "You okay," he said once he had her encircled.
"Fine. We need to leave," she said. She glanced at Lupe. "Wanna come? We're going to get something to eat."
"That sounds good," Lupe said. She was looking at Ray, and Callie, if she had been in a better mood at that moment, would have been happy to see that the doctor was also clearly interested. "Where are we going?"
"To the Olive Garden." Ray started to move them toward the door. He was the only one who noticed that the guy was still watching Callie, and he did not look happy.
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Vincent approached the pay phone, reached into his wallet for his credit card – the one with the false name on it – and slid it along the space. The phone gave him a dialtone, and he started to dial the international number.
Trent had not been there. Trent was supposed to be there. Trent never missed a drop. The man's timing was uncanny. And the hackles on the back of Vincent's neck were high up. Something was wrong.
It felt like it took forever to get the connection, but when Peter answered, Vincent knew things were much worse than he thought.
"Where are you?" Peter asked by way of greeting.
"At LAX, on a payphone. I used the credit card."
"All right, that's fine. Has anyone approached you?"
"No…and I have to admit, I'm a bit disappointed. I was hoping to get cash." It was code. An easy code, but a code nonetheless.
"Well, I'm afraid I had to yank him back. Quite frankly I'm impressed you weren't picked up at customs."
"Picked up? For what?"
Peter sighed, and Vincent realized that the other man was very carefully holding back a strong fistful of anger. "You've been identified," he said tightly. "The woman, Callie, her brother is a police detective. He searched the airport after you left and somehow came up with your discarded bag. And he managed to get a set of your prints off the bag. So now they have a record on you from your time in Gary. The unfortunate business with your father. And since Callie provided them with a description, they now have a very actuate likeness of you and your face is on the front page of the international newspapers."
Vincent felt a very uncharacteristic surge of panic. He shut his eyes and drew deep breaths. Bad things were going to happen to him and he had to stop them. But there was no direct target at this point at which to launch his defense. He was at a momentary impasse.
Before he could respond, Peter said, "This is very bad. I didn't realize how bad. I'm afraid that Rochester is now under orders to terminate you with extreme prejudice. I hope you'll understand that I didn't have any choice. I knew it was bad when you left that Calliope woman alive, but I didn't realize you'd been careless with your bag. Were you trying to get caught?"
"I'm coming back," Vincent said, ignoring the question. "And I'm bringing her with me. I'll need transportation from Bangkok. Something that will keep us under the radar."
"Fine," Peter sighed. "I don't understand why I'm helping you."
"Why not? What else are you going to do?"
"Good point. You'd better move quickly."
"So…no bag drop?"
"No. You're going to have to visit Jackson. You'll have to make it look like I didn't help you. Will that be a problem?"
"No. Just tell me where he is."
"At a place called Arcadian Estates, it's a townhouse community. Just don't kill him, V. He's very valuable to me."
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(Vincent pops his head out of the closet)
Vincent: Sorry, the writer can't come out and talk to you today. As you can see from reading this chapter, she still hasn't learned her lesson yet.
Me: (background, distant, faint) help!
Vincent: Better review quickly. If you ever want another chapter again.
Me: (still background, distant, faint) Hey, you be nice to my readers, dammit!
(Vincent pulls the closet shut, cutting her off.)