Not today, p.2
Not Today, page 2
“Babe!” she called without slowing down. She opened the fridge, took out a bottle of Sam Adams, and twisted off its top.
Something warm and furry brushed her leg.
“Not you, Felix; my other babe.” She reached down to stroke the cat, brushing back the thick fur around Felix’s neck. He was the king of their apartment and was treated like one. She scooped him into her arms and spoke to him in her doggy voice. “But I wuv you, too. Yes, I do.” She put him down again and watched him walk away as though he had not a care in the world.
“Where is she?” Dora whispered. “Where’s our girl?”
Felix circled back and rubbed against her thigh. Saying just about anything in this tone brought Felix running, knowing he could expect a massage or a snack.
The music stopped.
“Hello, babe!” came Franny’s reply. A moment later, Franny floated into the kitchen, a dark and slender vision in jean shorts and an orange and brown wool sweater.
Dora marveled that Franny didn’t seem to walk. Her years of dance lessons had given her the lovely ability to glide.
Dora put down the beer and held her arms wide. “Officer Hart!”
Franny giggled and allowed herself to be hugged and held. They kissed their ritual four times. “Mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah.”
Franny nodded toward the twin, silver Kiddish cups, the lighter and matching candlesticks, and the challah Dora had bought, all waiting on the counter.
“Ready for Shabbat?” Franny asked.
Dora nodded, took hold of the lighter, and lit a candle.
“Baruch, atah, Adonai …”
Dora loved that Franny not only accepted her religion, but joined in. Franny accepted just about everything about her. She didn’t go along with the supposedly politically correct term “sanitation engineer,” but was fine with “garbage man,” which Dora preferred, despite its incorrect gender reference. Franny also didn’t mind Dora’s weight. “You’re perfect as you are,” she would say. “Just enough of you to love.” Franny was fond of saying, and her actions bore that out. Franny’s blanket acceptance of her was evidence to Dora of Franny’s honest love.
“Movie tonight?” Franny asked later, as Dora was clearing, washing, and drying plates.
Dora shook her head. “Fight’s tonight … and my puzzle.” Dora often worked on a puzzle while she watched her beloved MMA.
“Uh-oh,” Franny said, smiling. “Nice knowing you.”
“Watch with me. I could use the company. Uh-oh.” She lifted a used, glass mayonnaise jar from the garbage. “What’s this?”
Franny feigned ignorance. “Never saw it before in my life.”
“It goes in recycled.”
“It certainly does.”
Dora looked at her with loving amusement. “You’re so cute when you pout.”
“So, I’m not cute when I’m not pouting?”
Dora shook her head, still smiling.
Fifteen minutes later, they were entwined on the couch, watching preliminary bouts or, more accurately, Dora was riveted to the fights, while Franny worked on a crossword on her iPad, her head nestled back against Dora’s pillowed chest.
Dora kept up a running commentary on the fights, while Franny nodded and continued her crossword.
“This guy was a Brazilian BJJ national runner up two years ago. It’ll be interesting to see what he does against a striker like this Czech.”
“BJJ?”
“Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.”
“National runner up? Mmm … Where?”
Dora looked at Franny, eyebrows raised. “Brazilian runner up in … um, Brazil? Look at him! He’s a beast. How can they be in the same weight class? There’s no way! And there’s no way he’s clean.”
A musical phrase issued from Franny’s iPad, signifying the successful completion of her crossword. She wriggled with the tune then looked up. “Probably bulked up after the weigh in.”
Dora looked at her, impressed. “You, my darling, are probably right.”
The match began.
“There you go, there you go! That’s what you do with an aggressive striker—front leg roundhouse to the lead leg. Oooh … that’s gonna hurt later. He’s gonna shoot … Gonna shoot … Nice sprawl! Don’t circle into his power, don’t—Whoa, way to swing for the fences! See, Fran? He swung, missed, went too far, and the BJJ guy is all over him, got him down, mounted—ground and pound. And … takes his back!”
When Dora leaned forward to focus on the TV, Franny sat up, watching Dora with a combination of fascination and curiosity. An idea occurred to her.
“And … there it is—the tap!” Dora sat back, winded.
A commercial for tacos had come on.
Franny paused. “You ever think of doing that?”
“Making tacos with hot sauce? Tomorrow?”
Franny shook her head. “No, babe. MMA.”
“MMA? I don’t understand.”
“Fighting.”
“Yeah, I know what it is, but you want me to—huh?”
“I think you should do it.” Franny sat up and leaned into Dora, her elbows on Dora’s knees. “You’re physically the strongest person I know—mentally, too. Male or female. And that includes everyone on the BCP. You know and really love this sport. You’d be great at it.”
Dora stared back at her, baffled. “That’s fucking nuts.”
Franny paused then gently added, “Not to mention, you have a level of rage that could use some channeling.”
Dora pushed her away. “Only toward the deserving few.”
Franny shook her head. “Look, on the BCP, they taught us to fight. I had to fight … guys. Big guys, with joint locks and wrist controls. You could whip most of them now. With a little training, all of them.”
Franny could see that Dora was entertaining the idea, if only for momentary amusement.
“You think?” She looked at Franny, eyes wide. “Really?”
Franny nodded and typed something into her iPad. “I saved something for you.” She found what she was looking for then held up the device. “Local league for women is up and running. Mostly made up of martial arts schools, but … open tryouts.”
Dora didn’t have to lean close or squint to read what was on the screen—her eyesight was 20/10. “Oh. My. God. I’m gonna do it!”
“Matches are with gyms in some surrounding towns, as well as intramural.”
“You sure they take women?”
Franny pointed at the screen. “They want women. Check it out!”
Dora had the wide-eyed innocence of a child at Christmas or, in her case, Hanukkah.
Franny looked at Dora for a long moment. “Babe, I have this thing going on at work. Well, not at work, but related to work … sort of.”
Dora waited, but Franny didn’t go on. “And …?”
“And … I can’t talk about it.”
“You lost me. A thing at work you can’t talk about? So, why are you bringing it up?”
“Because I want to talk about it.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake! This could go on all night. Darlin’, you want to talk about it, talk about it. You don’t want to talk about it, don’t!”
“I do want to, because it explains … some things.”
“Okay, let’s try this.” Dora patted Franny’s hand. “What does it explain?”
“Everything.”
“Oh, so you’re involved with string theory at work? No, Stephen Hawking, it doesn’t explain everything.” She shook her head. “Maybe we ought to get back to this when you’re really ready.”
Franny took a deep breath. “Someone reached out to me that I think has connections in town, like high up in town.”
Now Dora was listening. “You are a trustworthy person. One of the main reasons you’re my girl.”
“He—at least, I think it’s a he—says he has information about a local crime. A murder. And how that murder is connected to some kind of city-wide corruption.”
“So? You’re a cop—investigate!”
“Do you know how many BS tips we get?”
“So, don’t investigate. Your call.”
“Babe, I’m telling you because I trust you enough to be my sounding board.”
• • •
Cliff Jamison had been the Beach City Beach Patrol Director for seven years. The job was a far more active one during the busy beach season that began on Memorial Day and ran through Labor Day, during which a significant portion of Beach City’s revenues came from beach passes, both seasonal and daily, than it was during the off season. Cliff was tasked with overseeing issues related to beach safety, erosion, litter, and marine life, along with the wellbeing of beachgoers and conditions on the beach.
Today, however, Cliff was concerned about a text he had received. The text was similar to texts he received every few months, sometimes more frequently; texts where tasks that were expected of him were laid out, texts that were expected to be obeyed, destroyed, and disavowed.
That Mrs. Cavaletti, who’s been complaining about dogs leaving little presents all over her beach, is now banned from the beach. Her husband, Ralph, is also banned. Her sons, Philip and Greg, are banned, and that includes surfing. Let me be clear; they may not surf. I’m aware that she’s called your office, but now she’s gone to the Facebook groups and to The Chronicle and made accusations about the council and the mayor. She’s determined to make the city look bad, and we can’t have that. While dogs are not allowed on the beach, and we do want you to continue to enforce that, you might look the other way if a dog or two happens to want to do its business over on Monroe, where she lives.
The text was signed J.H.
It was an all but impossible text to enforce. How was Cliff to keep members of the Cavaletti family from using a public beach that they had every right to use? How was he to even know if they were on the beach? Beach passes had tiny squares corresponding to the days of summer, into which holes were punched by high school kids working summer jobs. There were no names on summer beach passes. It was a crazy request, but it had been made by J.H.—it had to not only be obeyed, but eagerly obeyed.
Cliff sighed. He would have to assign lifeguards to keep an eye out for the Cavalettis. Removing them from the beach would not be a problem, not if J.H. wanted them gone. Any complaints the Cavalettis made would be ignored.
Cliff shook his head. Beach City …
Chapter 3
“What do you think?” Charlie Bernelli Jr. pointed his coffee cup toward the cement and glass construction across the street. Several sections of its cement façade were festooned with colorful art deco panels, whose lines and shapes continued on other panels, separated by the negative shapes of the underlying material.
“Nice,” Charlie Sr. said. “Put it to good use.” He then turned toward his son. “So, how does it feel being back in Beach City?”
Charlie Jr. shook his head. “I don’t know. I love the beach and the boardwalk, and some of the old hangouts, but some of the memories … not so good.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Charlie Jr. didn’t answer. He was thinking about how the day he had dreamed of had finally arrived.
The Bernelli Group was back in business; same town, new location, new ownership—a younger Bernelli at the helm. He was proud and excited, and he was grateful that his father had paved the way for some of his long-time clients to return to the firm, while he did his best to add his own.
“Wonder what kind of reception you’ll get. You kind of tore up this town,” his father mused.
“Not worried about it.”
Charlie Sr. nodded then chuckled. “And the girls you went around with”—he shook his head—“some were as bad as you.”
“Not girls. Girl. Singular. And Christine was a good Catholic school girl.”
His father chuckled. “Well, when some of those Catholic school girls get to high school … watch out!”
Father and son stood together, looking at the façade of their ad agency.
“What about the boy?” Charlie Sr. asked quietly.
Charlie Jr. continued to look at the building across the street while folding his arms across his chest. “What about him?”
“How ’bout you keep in mind he’s a person.”
Now his son turned to face him. “How about—”
“I know you don’t want to hear it, but our children are human beings and deserve to be treated as such. C’s grandmother and I believed that from day one.”
Charlie Jr. didn’t answer right away. He let the silence between them grow and solidify before he said, “And the result of your approach has been three generations of alcoholics, gambling addicts, and serial philanderers.”
“You watch your mouth, son.”
“Or what? You’ll deck me? You don’t believe in corporal punishment.”
To his son’s surprise, the senior Bernelli laughed. “I’m not saying give the boy enough rope to hang himself. I’m saying being a dad means supporting him, as well as being strict.”
The son shrugged. “Sometimes support means letting him sit in his own shit. Anyway, financial support and a roof over his head won’t be an issue. He won’t be in my care, at a least for a bit. He’ll be in the state’s care, as he has been for two years—first, prison; now a halfway house.”
They stood another few moments together.
“Guess we’ll see.” Charlie Sr. sipped his coffee. “Look.” He nodded toward a garbage truck that was making its way noisily toward them. “How many female garbage men—or is it garbage women?—have you seen?”
They watched for a bit. Charlie Jr. said nothing.
“Look at how she sweeps the can up in the air with one hand then flips it over,” Charlie Sr. marveled. “That’s one strong girl!”
Charlie Jr. still said nothing.
“I piss you off?” Charlie Sr. looked at his son. “Can I count on you to stay out of trouble?”
“Pop, I’m forty-two. I can have a drink without driving or taking a swing at anyone. Besides, at this point, it’s not your business.”
Charlie Sr. nodded. “Fair point.” He clapped his son on the back. “I trust you, son.”
“Good.” Charlie Jr. smiled. “’Cause I was about to ask if I could taste your coffee; make sure that’s all it is.”
Charlie Sr. turned and stared at his son in mock anger. They both burst out laughing.
If someone would have told Charlie Jr. that he would be reopening The Bernelli Group in his old hometown, he never would have believed them. Yet, here he was, back in Beach City. The memories had been pushing into his consciousness, but he had pushed them away. That was then. He had little desire to relive such extremely wild oats.
He crossed the street, wandering his eyes over the exterior of the building, their building. He patted the base of one of the decorative panels. “The construction looks good. Best-looking building in Beach City.”
“Not saying much,” the elder Bernelli muttered. Then he sniffed the air. “You really can smell the sea around here, can’t you?” He sipped his coffee and caught up with his son, who nodded.
“Depends on the tides and the winds, I suppose,” came the son’s answer. “Kind of combines vacation and work.”
Charlie Jr. held the door for his father, who pointed with his coffee toward the garbage truck, which had passed their building and was receding in fits and starts. “Or, could be garbage day.”
His son shook his head as he followed his father through the door and up the short steel staircase. “Give the place a chance, Pop. Don’t be so cynical.”
Charlie Sr. didn’t bother turning around, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell as he said, “Wait till you’re my age.”
• • •
Charlie Jr. spent his morning sowing what he hoped would prove to be fertile ground at City Hall, a six-story brick edifice almost completely fronted by dark blue tinted, floor-to-ceiling windows. A row of black and white police vehicles was parked along one side of the building—squad cars, the newer SUVs and, toward the back, now that beach season was over, the off-road four wheelers used for beach patrol and rescues.
The only work on Charlie’s desk was social media and SEO for their four long-term clients, all attorneys, and, of course, the cold calls, lunches, and meetings with new prospects. He had plenty of time to go downtown, meet the local authorities, make sure his business was looked upon favorably, and schmooze a bit.
The city clerk’s office was a large, open room, bisected by a dark wood veneer half-wall, topped by a blue faux marble countertop that separated civil servants from the public. To one side was a row of five cubby office spaces, separated by chest-high portable dividers. The other side was filled, floor to ceiling, with filing cabinets, which were in the long process of being transferred to digital servers.
He had been hoping that the clerk, Christine Pearsall, with whom he had some history, would meet with him, but she was out.
Charlie’s current task was simple: offer a few polite words of introduction to the assistant clerk, along with assurances that all ordinances, rules, and suggestions would be happily adhered to, and The Bernelli Group would be off to a City-Hall-approved start.
That accomplished, as he left the building and was walking across the town square, between the two rows of water fountains, he thought he heard his name called.
“Mr. Bernelli?” the call came again. An authoritative yet friendly baritone that carried well over the sound of the cascading water and passing traffic.
He turned, seeing a tall, slightly stooped, bald man in grey sweatpants, striped with yellow, and a matching striped, yellow Polo shirt striding toward him, a palm outstretched.
“Mark Morganstern!” The man’s grip was loose, despite his size and obvious fitness.
Charlie smiled, making sure to keep his expression a bit shy and deferential. “Mr. Mayor, what a wonderful surprise!”
The mayor shrugged. “I keep it pretty informal. Most call me Mark, or Mayor Mark. Whatever works for you is fine. Say, how old would you say I am?”
