Not today, p.21
Not Today, page 21
“He seems to like it.”
“You’re a garbage woman? He’s the original garbage man. A little dumpster with legs.”
“Except it comes out the other end.”
“That’s right. Sustainable.” Missy laughed. “So, you started to tell me last night about your family.”
“Well, my father, Freddy, was an alcoholic salesman. He sold medical equipment and made a lot of money, but he was an asshole. He beat my mother, Dorothy, who had bipolar and panic attacks, and couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do anything about it. In fact, she did worse … with words. Dorothy grew up kind of well off—my grandfather was some kind of door-to-door salesman. Anyway, she lost her fancy life when, upon learning she was pregnant, Freddy left her. Beat her up and walked out. Fucking coward. Disappeared. The courts could not find him.”
“You okay?” Missy asked.
Dora nodded. “Me? Oh, I’m good. Be better if I found him, but I’m good. Anyway, my mother struggled with poverty and raising her baby, Deborah —me. She babysat and cleaned homes, and we lived on that and food stamps. She was overwhelmed, and her mental illness made it worse. She sometimes took it out on me. She said later she regretted that, but I never forgot. Think of a puppy who loves you.”
Comfort had come over and nestled himself against her leg, making a little circle of himself, his head near his tail.
Dora stroked his back as she spoke. “You can yell at that dog, beat that dog, but at least for a while, that dog will keep coming back to you, expecting love. That’s what I did.” She looked at Missy. “I wet my bed till I was fourteen.” She peered at her glass. “How much did I have that I told you all that?”
Missy shrugged. “More?”
Dora shook her head. “I started having panic attacks in my late teens, along with these … episodes. Rage. Violence. I’d just … break things. If I tried to stifle that, I’d get more panic attacks. My job’s really physical, which helps.”
“What about seeing someone?”
“A therapist? I have. Four.”
“Someone who prescribes?”
“Done that, too. It helped. Still helps. But not with the rage. What helps with the rage is feeding it, and it’s one hungry rage.”
Missy looked confused. “Doesn’t that make it stronger?”
Dora smiled. “It does.”
“But wouldn’t you heal better if you found a way to forgive your parents?”
Dora didn’t answer. “I’m meeting with my lawyer tomorrow, so I’m going to crash. Thanks for everything and … sorry.”
Missy rose, smiling. “No worries. I think it was sweet.”
Once Missy was gone, Dora listened until she was sure Missy was in the bathroom, washing up. Comfort had remained pressed against her leg and was looking up at her with his enormous green-brown eyes. Dora rearranged herself so she was lying next to him on the couch. Then she pressed her face into his back, feeling his quick, easy breathing. As she drifted off to sleep, she felt Comfort turn toward her and begin to lick her face.
Chapter 28
As Missy was making a late lunch of blueberry pancakes while Dora napped on the couch, the doorbell rang, sending Comfort into a brief frenzy and waking Dora, who watched as Missy went to the door.
Missy turned. “All right if your lawyer comes in?”
Dora nodded then watched as Robert James Bishop, Esquire came in and stood facing her in the foyer, between the front door and the living room. He wore an N95 mask, the cream of the crop.
“Hello, Dora. Is now a good time?”
Dora nodded.
“Coffee?” Missy called.
“Too late in the day. Already past my limit,” Bishop said as he sat down on one of the beige armchairs and leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees.
They sat for a moment in silence.
“So …?” Dora said.
“How are you?”
Dora gave a quick exhale. “Living the dream.”
He nodded. “I’m also representing Agatha Raines. Now, I’m not at liberty to discuss her case in detail—”
“I know she was arrested for some kind of vandalism and libel, right?”
The lawyer looked down at his hands then up at Dora. “The reason I’m bringing it up is that your cases are connected, in my opinion, in a conspiracy of sorts. Not so different from what the city seems to be suggesting others, including both of you, are part of. Except you are the victims, not the perpetrators. The challenge will be proving it. First and foremost, however, is establishing your innocence.”
“Agreed,” Dora said as Missy came into the room with two mugs of coffee, sat down next to Dora, and placed a mug before each of them.
Dora took a sip of her coffee and closed her eyes. “Mmm …” She sipped again. “Okay. Now I can focus.”
“It’s okay to …?” Bishop looked at Missy.
“Yes,” Dora answered.
“So, we have two witnesses,” Bishop said. “One who overheard you and Officer Hart fighting in your home, just prior to … to what happened, and the other who says she saw you in the car that hit her.”
“Both are bullshit,” Dora said.
“Well, we have to prove that.”
“Do we?” Missy asked. “But isn’t the burden of proof on the prosecution? Isn’t Dora presumed innocent?”
Bishop nodded. “Yes, and the lawyer for the city, whose name is Hagen, is attempting to prove his case. Our job is to prove them wrong, thereby invalidating their efforts.”
Dora put down her coffee and sat back. “Well, for one thing, we didn’t have an argument just prior to the event. We never argued. This thing happened late in the day. We weren’t even together. We weren’t together all day, so how could we have had an argument just prior? Define just prior.”
Bishop nodded. “As far as I know, just prior means just that—minutes, not hours—and that’s good.”
“I was home at the time, and for quite a while before. I wasn’t in my car. I did get a call from her. Maybe we can prove that with phone records.” She and Missy looked at one another, brightening.
“Hmm …” Bishop said. “Is there any possibility that what their witness heard was a fight over the phone?”
“No, it is not,” Dora insisted. “How ’bout we pick up on this later? I’ve got somewhere to be.”
Missy looked at her.
“I’m going to wash up and change before going. Is that okay, Mr. Bishop? I do appreciate your help. Can I give you some money? A check? I really have to be somewhere.”
Bishop shook his head. “No need.” He rose to leave. “And everything else we need to discuss can wait. Thank you for your time. I’ll let you know once I have more information.”
• • •
When Dora walked through the door, she heard that intense, familiar rustling, followed by someone yelling, “Tap, tap, tap!”
Dora stepped into the gym and bowed.
“You didn’t feel my tap?” Shay was asking Wire.
“I guess I was so psyched to get an arm bar on you that I kinda—”
“You gotta acknowledge the tap,” Shay said, as she shook her head. “If you don’t—”
“Hey, kids!” Dora was grinning.
The two turned then lit up. “Hey, kid!” Shay rushed to Dora and hugged her. Wire was right behind her.
“How ya been? What’s this shit I read?”
Dora shrugged. “Ain’t nothing. I’ll deal. But I need to train. Been too long. Gonna stretch, then how ’bout we go?” She turned to Wire. “That okay?”
“Hell, yeah,” Wire said. “Already kicked her ass.”
“Heard the tap,” Dora said, and Shay laughed.
Ten minutes later, Shay had put on her gloves and headgear and was in the ring.
As Dora stepped through the ropes, she waved a glove at Shay. “Don’t go easy on me now just ’cause I’ve been—”
In two quick, leaping strides, Shay had crossed the ring and hurled a front leg roundhouse kick at the side of Dora’s head, which Dora managed to partially block with her opposing forearm. Still, the force of the blow rocked her.
Dora grinned as she advanced toward Shay. Her mind was clear and focused. She was ready for controlled violence.
She was home.
• • •
The air was saturated with fear, driving everyone to talk at once—yelling, arguing, talking over one another, with barely restrained intensity. Violence was in the air.
Jonathan Hagen sat at the head of the table and watched for a few moments before he rose slowly, leaning forward on his palms, which rested on the table. A position of power.
“These issues, the controversy, your concerns are going to go away soon. And we’ll all go back to our lives, and everything will return to normal. Now, I’ll hear what each of you has to say, but one at a time.”
He nodded to Tom Volkov.
Volkov looked at each of the people at the table. His tone was pleading. “I run a newspaper. The public perception of the news is all I have so, arguably, I have more to lose than anyone here.”
“Public perception is not all you have,” Horace Cobb said. “You have advertising.”
“Covid’s been destroying my advertising revenue.”
“Well, I run a restaurant, and people are afraid to come in, and we have renewed state restrictions. I rely on physical, paying customers, not virtual. Without the good will of the public, I have nothing. Nothing!”
Volkov shook his head. “But your customers are not at risk. You’re not sticking your neck out!”
Mo’s face was rigid, as though injected with Botox. The actual ingredient, though, was terror. “My job is literally all I have. My future. My benefits. My 401k. My pension.”
“But your job’s safe,” Volkov countered. “Your job’s essential.”
“Enough!” George Cobb banged a fist on the table. “I have to maintain order and public safety, while keeping the chief’s eyes away from us. He’s not stupid; he has suspicions. The longer we wait, the more dangerous this is for us all. But, you know, the vendettas are not what’s hurting us. What’s hurting us is fear! Do you think the public will stop doing business with any of us—any of us—because of this controversy?”
“Listen to me!” Tom Volkov’s tone turned shrill. “We’ve got to back off. I deal with public reaction every day. I know how to read the public. Trust me; they’re tired of all the fighting and bitterness. It’s dividing the town!”
“With all due respect,” Hagen said, his voice low, his tone reasonable, “division isn’t the problem. It was our goal, and we’ve achieved it. People don’t know what to think, which is better than them thinking the wrong things. We are controlling what they think. In any case, it’s temporary. All of your concerns are being addressed.”
He turned to Tom Volkov, who recoiled at the empty depth of Hagen’s eyes. “Tom, you can say what you’ve always said, what journalists have said for, oh … a century or two—you’ve gotta protect your sources. And then, you do it.”
“Well, I don’t know how long I can hold them off,” Volkov countered.
“Do like they do in AA—hold them off a day at a time.” He smiled. “You don’t have to say much of anything. The information we wanted out there is out there. Relax. No more offense. Now, it’s all about defense. Just don’t respond. Or, say little. Or, use non sequiturs.”
The Cobb brothers exchanged concerned looks.
“I have RJ Bishop breathing down my back,” George Cobb said. “And Stalwell’s been asking me questions. He knows he’s in the deep end of the pool, though there’s no evidence linking anyone to anything.”
Hagen chuckled, a strange sound, devoid of any humor, like some unnamed creature might make in the woods at night. “All of them—Stalwell, Bishop—they’ll all tie themselves in knots trying to figure this out, to see the logic, when the logic—our intent—is to tie them in knots.” He looked them all in the face, one by one. “The poison’s working. Just let it work. All we’re doing is pouring gas on a rumor mill, which Tom, it is your duty to report, just as you have been. You don’t have to report any of this as fact. Report that people are talking, and what they’re saying. Nothing’s on you. The public’s obsession is news. And a lot of the news is speculation about what might happen, or some talking head’s perception of what might, or might not, happen.”
Tom Volkov thought a moment. “Maybe I can get a quote from the mayor about how these rumors have crossed his desk and how concerned he is for the welfare of the city, and that we’re all in this together. That sort of thing. Jon?”
Hagen smiled and pointed at Volkov. “Good. Do it.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, I know! Let’s put out a quote that there’s a list. A list of people—local people—who are working together to undermine the public good. We can say it comes from the mayor, so George”—he turned to George Cobb—“you won’t have to answer to Stalwell. I’ll make up a list, so we will, in fact, have one. Stalwell will read about it and go to the mayor, who will have deniability and will refer him to me. Mayor Mark knows that when there’s even a whiff of political dirt, and the dogs are at the door, I’m the answer. He comes to me every time. And I’ll say—” He laughed with sheer joy. “I’ll say, I’m so sorry, but I cannot talk about this, though I truly want to. Attorney/client privilege! Mmm …?” He looked at each of them for a long second.
Smiles broke out all around.
“That’ll work,” Horace Cobb said.
His brother nodded, as did Tom Volkov.
“We’ll all have plausible deniability,” he continued.
“What about me?” Mo wanted to know.
“No one’s connecting you to anything,” Hagen said, pausing and looking around. “Okay, then.”
Everyone rose to leave.
He looked at Mo. “Stick around. We need to talk.”
• • •
In the days that followed The Chronicle articles and postcard campaign, the Beach City Facebook groups were inundated with questions, theories, and accusations. Multiple new groups were formed around rumors and counter-rumors. There were Beach City Police Supporters, Beach City Cheerleaders, a Black Beach City group, Beach City or Bust, along with a BC Tourism Support Network that grew out of The Bernelli Group’s tourism ad campaign and the groundswell it generated.
The city responded with an online chat appearance by Chief Terry Stalwell and Captain George Cobb, ostensibly intended to quell the confusion and unrest but, arguably, the effect was the opposite, since their messages were more than a little contradictory and appeared not to have been coordinated. Chief Stalwell called for calm and expressed confidence that the articles were simply reporting rumors and beliefs held by a percentage of residents. Captain Cobb, on the other hand, referenced a list of citizens—a cabal was the word he used—who were working to upend the city’s decision-making apparatus and who opposed the “will of the people.” He vowed to uncover the truth and the identities of those on the list “by whatever means necessary.”
More than a few people expressed their concern over the lack of any public statement from the mayor.
Chapter 29
As Cobb’s broadcast was ending, Dora was putting on her denim jacket.
“Where’re you off to?” Missy asked.
“Taking a walk. I get so little cardio, you know—”
“Take a mask, please.”
Dora pulled a surgical mask out of her pants pocket and waved it in Missy’s direction. “Okay, but I won’t be near anyone.”
She went directly to the parking lot behind the building from which the broadcast had originated, which also housed The Chronicle offices. She parked at the rear of the lot then walked around for a few moments to identify the best vantage point, given that the light was coming from a spotlight mounted on the building. Once she was sure, she pressed the “video” button in her camera app and leaned the phone on the rubber beneath the window of an SUV in the first line of cars in the lot.
She waited just over ten minutes, ducking down when she saw George Cobb exit the building.
“Great broadcast, Captain.”
Cobb turned toward her, but Dora remained in the shadows of the parked cars. He shielded his eyes.
“Thanks … Who’s that?” He took a few steps toward the sound of her voice as Dora slipped silently behind two cars and stepped into the lit open space behind the police officer.
“George!” she yelled.
As Cobb spun, Dora leaped onto the back bumper of a nearby truck that was slightly off to one side. Using it as a springboard, she flew through the air and landed just to Cobb’s right. With her right thumb and forefinger, she unlatched Cobb’s service weapon, slid it out from its holster, and then tossed it to one side.
Cobb had already begun his reflex swing—his right arm clubbing straight down toward her back—but Dora slid to her left at a slight angle and blocked her right arm upward, catching his arm at the outermost point of his elbow with a force at least equal to his own. There was a crack, and Cobb screamed, his arm broken.
He fell to the ground, clutching his arm, then quickly scrambled to one knee, which Dora kicked out from under him. He fell again, writhing against the pain as he tried to rise. One of his hands gripped his broken elbow. Dora pounced on the other hand, sliding her grip along his wrist until she had a hold of his thumb.
“Tell me, Cap; who’s behind these postcards and the news articles?”
Cobb’s face was a mask of rage. “You crazy bitch. I’ll have you back in jail in ten minutes, without bail!”
“I don’t think so.” She nodded toward the camera. “I’ll post video showing everyone in town that you were whupped by a little girl, who made you whimper like a baby.”
Cobb’s eyes flicked toward her phone. “Fuck. You.”
“Aw, come on, Cap. I just want a name. Tell you what; give me the name, and no one has to see the video.”
“I said, fuck you.”
