Chapter 7: Protect and Serve

Jason would not be so lucky.

Interlude: 25^th Anniversary

Cindy: "There are so many stories about that week. Everyone seems to have one, but none of them agree. Mom says she crossed some lines, and learned some humility. Justin, that's the Justin Immons, claims Mom is a genius, and that he had no chance of pulling it off without her. Uncle Jason says he learned his profession that week, but he was hurt and convalescing most of the time. Back before Miss Helen died, she would only shake her head and hold me tight.

Dad, on the other hand, had his famous fling with Aunt Francine.

Sean:

Sheila justified her hiring within the first five minutes. Justin had already agreed to work for her, based on what he had seen at the diner. Her portfolio had him drooling. It was a bit embarrassing, til he noticed and pulled out a handkerchief. Peter would have been easy in any case, since he was Justin's guy, and Justin was now hers. She won him over anyway. I had never had any worries about Jason. Sheila could wrap him around her pinkie.

All that was important, but the next thing was critical. She supplied what I had never offered: a theme. It was sort of Versailles meets Night Gallery. Suddenly, everyone knew what he had to do. Justin disappeared into his work area, with every appearance of an all-nighter coming. Peter went to their image files and started pulling out samples. Once he had a dozen or so, he started a browser and was searching images of frames. He no longer noticed that anyone else was in the room. Soon Sheila left with Richard, Paul and Jason.

Now it was my turn to wait. I called Helen and asked her to send over food at the proper times. I talked to Security and told them to expect a late night. It was not their job to be messengers, but I asked them to carry up the food when it came, and make sure someone ate it. At that point I realized I was spinning wheels, so I headed back to the main office.

What I did not do was call or text Sheila. I had only a vague idea of what she had in mind, but I could tell it scared her badly. Asking for status updates was not going to improve matters. She would tell me when she told me.

Fortunately, there was a stack of work to do when I reached my office. I told Helen I was still out, except for Justin, Peter or Sheila's group. Then I tried to bury myself in paperwork. I tried hard. Sixty minutes later, an hour had passed. It was that kind of day.

Finally I received a text from Richard, saying that they had finished and that Jason was pretty strung out. I had them take Jason back to the motel and put him to bed. This is not the sort of thing security people are normally willing to do, especially for punk teenagers. Richard did not give any sort of protest, so I figured strung out was not just an expression.

Shortly after, I had a call from Sheila, saying it had gone well. They had, she said, all they needed to finish the job. Before I could say anything, she told me she had a client coming and signed off. While on that call, Paul text me to say that they had a disk of the imagery, and would bring it back after dropping off Jason.

All that took a moment to sink in. The nature of the news was an enormous relief, but clearly there was fallout. I called Helen into the office and put George on the speaker. I asked them what they had heard. George went first, and he used an acronym Marines hate with passion: PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). When Helen did not so much as raise an eyebrow, I groaned inwardly. That made three confirmations.

Jason was going to need some careful handling. I told George to get someone on it, and sign the bill. In our company, that means get it done, get it done now and let the boss, meaning me, worry about the cost. Helen nodded approval. I asked George to have Sheila's building watched, so that we received notice that she was leaving the building. Then I let him go.

I turned to Helen. We looked each other in the eye, then she shook her head. I raised an eyebrow, and she nodded. I hunched my head, and she looked pointedly at my In box. I sighed and nodded, then Helen went back to her desk. Roughly translated, I asked if I should go comfort Sheila. She said no. I asked if she, Helen, would go see how she was doing. That she emphatically agreed to do. I asked what I should do. She said to stop whining and get to work. There are reasons I like my battle ax of a secretary. That last comment is not one of them.

Getting back to work, I started with my voice mail. The first ten were nothing much, then I got this one:

Phone: Ricky, this is Francine Martel. We are doing a run about thirty miles up the road, and some of the troupe will be in town tonight. I am the odd man out, so be my date. Meet me at 6:30 in front of Albert's. Ciao.

It was a voice I had not heard, except on stage, for over a decade. I had followed her career for years. In fact, I knew of the show she was doing, though not that she had a part. Helen had arranged for tickets Saturday night.

I checked the time, then rechecked. I was only 2:47 PM. I had snubbed Chuck Blanding, learned a gyro joint, hired Sheila to play Cynthia, turned her loose in the middle of my biggest headache, waited an hour for any word and sent the doctors out to triage the wounded. All that ought to have taken longer than three hours, but apparently not. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, forgive us our sins. Somehow viewing zoning proposals as penance made things easier.

Eventually, Helen commented that she was leaving for the day. I told her to pick up a coffee for George's stakeout. She sniffed, as if she had thought of that long since, which she probably had. There are reasons I like my battle ax of a secretary. Then I became serious.

I said, "Helen, I had a call from Francine Martel." Helen nodded to indicate she understood the relationship. "She demanded that I escort her tonight. This cannot be coincidence." Helen nodded again. She understood that I was being deliberately removed from the situation and promised to get Sheila safely home. I went on, "She will want to work tonight. I cannot stop her. If she does, text me and I will go by the warehouse." Helen just looked sad and tired. I concluded, "I know. I love her too." Helen looked up at my phrasing, then looked at me closely. Then, she made a decision with a jerk of her head. I looked a question, but she shook me off. Sometimes our non-verbal communication breaks down.

Once Helen had gone, I forced myself to do another hour of work. At 6:00 PM, I closed the office and drove over to Albert's. My suit had been through a hard day, but I was not given an option to being here, so Frankie had no apologies coming. She saw me first.

I heard her call. "Is that you Ricky?" No one has called me that since Bush was President.

"OK Frankie, where are you?"

I heard her laughter. My guess is that no one called her Frankie anymore either. Most Broadway divas seem to like French sounding names. Francine happened to come equipped with one. She certainly was a Broadway Diva, at least when she was in New York.

"All right, I won't call you Ricky if you don't call me Frankie. I didn't want to call you Clarence."

"Thank you for that. I go by Sean – it's my middle name in case you didn't know – or by Richards. You may choose either."

"Well C Sean Richards, we have a reservation for 8 and only 7 taken. Would you like to join us? Please. I'm the odd man out."

I did not try to pick up the names. They had not tried to pick up mine. Francine was right; the others were paired off. By the time the desert cart came by, we were alone. So I walked her home, she invited me in. If I had not expected Sheila to be fully up to speed with this, I would have declined. Instead, I

decided to stay for a few minutes, which turned into two hours. At one point she went to get something from the kitchen and I wandered around looking at pictures of her with famous people.

Then I stopped dead. There was a picture of her with Sheila, at maybe 15 years of age, but still Sheila. She noticed me looking at the picture.

She said, "What a waste: prodigy at 14, tragedy at 16."

"What happened?"

"Dancers cannot have D-cup breasts. It doesn't work. She got too big and that was that."

Francine was 5'1" in shoes and 95 pounds only because of the muscle in her legs.

"I met her. I think we hit it off. We certainly seemed to communicate without saying much."

We talked some more. A lot about dance and her youth training in the studio across town. Some I knew, a lot more I did not. The subject of pain came up. Dancers, it seemed, were a lot like runners. To get good you have to deal with pain, even make friends with it. It was the slow, controlled movements that really could get you.

"That was what Sheila was so good at. The impossible holds and the unreachable stretches."

"I know her as Cynthia."

"Stage name. Francine Martel works fine on a billing, Sheila Schwartz doesn't. What's she doing now?"

This I knew for pure misdirection, but that was what she wanted to do. I deflected, "I see your point about the name. I always noticed yours whenever I saw it. She's teaching. Not dance, but a lot of the "control" that you've been talking about. Executive training, that kind of thing."

"So she has been training you?"

"Not exactly."

"You train her?"

"Closer, but not exactly."

Without appearing to move, Francine had managed to work her way next to me, not that I objected.

She said, "Maybe you could train me." Francine gave me an exaggerated pout coupled with a pleading impression. I reached out and gave her fanny a swat.

She jumped away and taunted me, "Aren't you supposed to spank a bare bottom."

"Very well, take off your pants and undies and come lay over my knee, so I can spank you properly—little girl." I could play too.

I wondered how far Francine would take the role she had just dropped into. You can never tell about actors. Sometimes it will be them and sometimes it will be the role. Sometimes they only pretend to play the role.