Chapter Seven
Dana
Sitting in front of the computer, staring at the blinking cursor on the screen, I tried to make myself focus. I was using one of the dozen computers set up in the computer room of the public library, working on a school project. Trying to work. I couldn’t concentrate to save my life. Everything had come crashing down around me. I couldn’t focus. Take your pick. The mental image of that sleazeball pervert, Slim Pete, kept popping into my head. Fifty thousand dollars.
Following on the heels of that disaster was my worry about Charlie. While the days of cement shoes, broken knee caps, and amputated fingers seemed like legends of the past, more associated with the Mafia than someone like Slim Pete, maybe I was just being naïve. It didn’t matter though. How could bookies convince their clients to pay up if they were dead?
The thought of Charlie getting beat up again, or worse, by Slim Pete or any of his business partners caused a surge of bile to rise in my throat. My stomach felt like it was tied up in literal knots, and I didn’t think my head had stopped pounding since I had rushed to the emergency room.
And then, of course, there was the issue of my schooling. I had lost my impetus and focus. Mid-terms right around the corner. What good would it do to take them when I was looking at losing my full scholarship and having to come up with another thirty thousand dollars to finish my education? It was asinine. I leaned back in my chair with a sigh, closed my eyes, and tried to think happy thoughts.
Nothing came to mind. Finally, there was my frustration and growing impatience with Charlie. I’d been trying to get hold of him since yesterday afternoon. Somehow, if I could urge him… convince him to leave town, go stay with Uncle Greg until this blew over, maybe he’d be safe. But if he did leave, I knew that he would never be able to return to Dallas. Not with Slim Pete around. I didn’t know how that would work, but I had a feeling that anywhere Charlie went, he would have to be careful. He couldn’t gamble. That was a risky proposition in itself.
Charlie was avoiding me and my calls. Last night, just before dark, I had gotten so annoyed that I stopped by his apartment. If possible, it was even crappier than mine. Eric opened the door, his hair mussed, shirt hanging open, scratching at the two or three hairs on his chest. He stared at me with bloodshot eyes for several moments. As if he didn’t recognize me. Stoned again?
“I need to speak to Charlie.”
“Not here,” he said, turning slowly, as if sleepwalking, the door closing.
I stuck my foot between the door and the jamb. “Where is he, Eric? It’s serious. I need to speak to him.”
“I have no idea where he is, Dana. If I knew, I’d tell you. He owes me half the rent.”
With that, he nudged my foot away from the door and closed it. I heard the deadbolt click, followed by a loose, hacking cough from behind it. I grimaced and left the apartment building and headed back home, my head spinning. My headache had not eased, and I had a bad feeling that if something positive didn’t happen soon, I’d end up with a migraine. Just what I needed. I didn’t get migraines often, but when I did, boy, they knocked me out. One time I had retreated to my bedroom closet with the door shut for hours.
I stared at the computer screen, trying to focus on my report on the lymphatic and immune system, but even trying to concentrate was a joke. Deciding that I might try to find some work, I accessed the browser search bar and typed in my search parameters. I got the usual, plus Craigslist listings. I usually stayed away from Craigslist, but I was feeling desperate enough to go ahead and click on it anyway.
I scanned through the local job openings, almost laughing at myself for doing so. There would be nothing listed here that would offer me the money I needed to pay off Slim Pete as well as my remaining tuition. Duh. No way in hell would I be able to find a job that paid fifty grand in a few days. Even high-class escorts didn’t make that much money. I cringed at the thought of having to whore myself out. Which immediately had me thinking about Slim Pete’s proposition, which promptly caused another surge of bile to rise in my throat.
Besides, I had read a number of stories online about people getting ripped off, even killed when responding to Craigslist ads. I wasn’t stupid. Of course, I knew that not all of them were scams. Click out of the website. Now! Or—
Wait a minute. My eyes focused on something interesting:
Successful businessman looking for personal assistant. Preferably young and attractive, intelligent, and self-motivated. Duration: one year. Live-in position. Salary: $200,000. No experience necessary.
Wait a second. Two hundred grand? Paying someone two hundred thousand dollars a year—no experience necessary? I snorted. Nevertheless, I read it several more times even as the warning signals played pinball in my brain. Got to be a scam. What prompted me to call the number listed at the bottom of the ad I’ll never know, but desperate people did desperate things, didn’t they?
I jotted the phone number from the ad into my small wire-bound notebook, logged off the computer, and headed out of the library. Stupid! You’re being stupid!
I walked around the corner toward the parking lot. Quieter there. What do you think you’re doing? Don’t do it!
I paused under the shade of an elm tree and pulled the cell phone from my back pocket. You’re really doing this? Seriously?
I tapped out the number, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes. I wasn’t promising anything, wasn’t even really that serious. But the ad was intriguing. I’m sure I’d be able to tell if it was a scam—
“‘llo?”
My scam radar went into hyper drive. That wasn’t the way any professional businessman would answer the phone. I abruptly disconnected the call. Paced several moments, chewing on a fingernail, debating with myself. The job was for a live-in personal assistant for a successful businessman. It didn’t mean that the businessman worked out of a high-rise office building, surrounded by board members or secretaries. Maybe he worked from home?
What the hell. It was just a phone call. I re-dialed the number. My foot impatiently tapped the sidewalk as the phone rang once, twice—
“Hello?”
Well, that was better. “Hello, I’m calling about the ad that was posted on Craigslist.”
“Yes.”
The man’s voice sounded nice enough. I was blunt, my tone doubtful. “Is this for real?”
“It is,” the voice said. “My boss… well, let’s just say that he’s unconventional. I’d really like to talk to you more about the job, its… responsibilities, but I’m on my way to a meeting with him at the moment.”
“Oh,” I said, somewhat disappointed. “Has the job been filled already?”
“No, we’re still interviewing. Let me check my calendar.” A short pause. “Can we meet for lunch tomorrow at one o’clock? The Four Seasons? At Los Colinas on North MacArthur Blvd. You know it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Thank you, sorry, gotta go. See you tomorrow.”
The call abruptly disconnected. I lowered the phone and stared at it, not sure what to think. It wasn’t like I’d been asked to go to someone’s house or meet in a back alley somewhere. The Four Seasons hotel, golf club, and restaurant resort was one of the nicest in town. At one o’clock in the afternoon, it would be busy with diners. The fact that the man had opted for such a public and populated place boded well, didn’t it?
I pondered over the “young and attractive” part, but I guess when it came to business, it was to be expected. Always had been, always would be. How old was the guy? Did it matter? Maybe it would. Maybe if the guy was old enough to be my father or even my grandfather, I would probably feel more comfortable, but there were a lot of young entrepreneurs in Dallas these days.
I suppose I could ask questions of my own at the interview. If I didn’t like anything about the job, the potential employer, or if it sounded even slightly underhanded, I’d turn and walk away. I wouldn’t be involved in anything illegal.
My heart thudded with renewed anxiety—another thing on my mind for the day. I stood for several moments under the shade of the elm, contemplating my own sense of desperation and how it had triggered such stupidity. I kept going around and around. I hadn’t promised anything. I hadn’t agreed. I was just looking into it. It was a public place. A public place… anybody bent on violence or underhanded business dealings certainly wouldn’t have chosen the busiest time of day during the workweek at Four Seasons for crying out loud.
I slowly walked home, still so worried I wasn’t able to appreciate the warm sunshine on my skin, the somewhat fresh air, carrying with it a hint of dust. Two hundred thousand dollars. For one year. Even as a registered nurse it would take me years to make that kind of money. And I needed money now. A lot of it.
Though filled with trepidation and uncertainty, and despite the fact that I honestly knew better, it was tempting. After all, what other options did I have? I kept trying to convince myself I was the one in control. The meeting was set in a public place. If I didn’t like or get a good vibe from the person I had talked to on the phone offering the job, I could turn around and leave. No harm, no foul. It was just an interview.
What did I have to lose?