Issuu

BEAUTY WITH

A BOMB

other works by the author Writing as Grant McKenzie: Switch (Bantam UK, 2009) No Cry for Help (Bantam UK, 2010) K.A.R.M.A. (e-book, 2011) Writing as M. C. Grant: Underbelly, an e-book short story Angel with a Bullet Devil with a Gun

m. c. grant A Dixie Flynn Mystery

BEAUTY WITH

A BOMB Midnight Ink

woodbury, minnesota

Beauty with a Bomb: A Dixie Flynn Mystery © 2014 by M. C. Grant. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2014 Book design and format by Donna Burch-Brown Cover design by Ellen Lawson Cover Image: 83318617/© Mitchell Funk/Photographer’s Choice/Getty Images Editing by Nicole Nugent Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Grant, M. C., 1963– Beauty with a Bomb / by M.C. Grant. — First edition. pages cm. — (A Dixie Flynn mystery) ISBN 978-0-7387-3983-0 (alk. paper) 1. Women journalists—Fiction. 2. Human trafficking—Fiction. 3. San Francisco (Calif.)—Fiction. 4. Mystery fiction. I. Title. PS3607.R362953B43 2014 813'.6—dc23 2014015162 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America

dedication To Karen and Kailey, who fill my life with passion, kindness, and love.

on e

Heavily pregnant, the woman stands on the precipice of the parking garage. Her hands are raw from gripping the steel barrier, her legs nearly blue from the cold Pacific wind that lifts her woolen skirt and nips at her flesh. Six stories below, a crowd gathers. The audience is a quivering mass of gaping mouths and wide, excited eyes—none quite believing what they’re witnessing and yet none daring to look away. A shimmering halo appears above each head as the rising sun reflects off glossy smartphones—everyone racing their neighbor to be first to YouTube the moment, to share their shock with the world in exchange for a high hit-count and a slice of Google ad revenue. Uniformed police erect a barrier to keep the curious away from the splatter zone, just in case efforts to talk the woman off the ledge fail. And they will. Ania Zajak has had enough of words and false promises—especially those spoken by men. In all her nineteen years, she has never 1

met a decent one; never felt a touch that wasnâ€™t followed by a sting; never known passion, kindness, or love. She believed things would be different in Americaâ€”a new life, a fresh start. She had wanted to be young, to wear patterned stockings and a scandalously short skirt, meet a nice man with kind eyes, and discover what it meant to laugh. Ania had seen them laugh, the American women on TV. It was never the rich ones with their fake beauty and empty lives; all they managed to do was complain about unimportant things. The women who laughed the most were the ones who looked more like herâ€”plain and ordinary, easily overlooked in a crowd. And yet when those women laughed, a light burned so brightly in their eyes it was as though their very souls were dancing there. Ania had tried to copy them, but she never saw the light dance in her own eyes. She knew that was because imitation was not the same as the real thing. She had wanted to find someone who could show her what true laughter was, but the men she met wore cruel smiles that made their eyes darken and proved their souls had been replaced by poison and puss. Ania strokes her swollen belly, wishing she could rip open the skin and scoop her insides out. But what good would that do? If she survived, some brute would simply force it full again and send her on her way. There is no escape. Not for her. There never was. _____

“Miss?” Detective Sergeant Frank Fury moves cautiously toward the woman. She is wearing a heavy, patterned shawl around her shoulders that drapes down over her engorged stomach, but it’s still not enough to cut the wind and keep her warm. “You asked to talk with me?” Ania turns to face him, the small movement making her sway off balance, and she momentarily loses her footing before refastening her grip on the rail. The crowd below gasps in unison and more twinkles appear. He stops dead in his tracks and holds up his hands. “Please,” he says. “Be careful. We don’t want to lose you.” Ania smiles. It is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to her. We don’t want to lose you. Pity that she is already lost. “You are police detective named Frank?” Ania asks. She has a heavy accent, yet her pronunciation of each word is near perfect. At one time, she must have had a good teacher. Frank can’t quite pinpoint the origin, however. It’s not Russian, thank God. He’s had his fill of those vicious brutes lately—but somewhere close to that Baltic part of the world. “I am,” Frank answers. “You are older than I imagine you to be.” “Sorry to disappoint.” “No,” says Ania. “Not disappoint … only observation.” “Well, what do you say we observe somewhere warmer? If you move away from that ledge, we can grab a coffee and Danish downstairs. I know a—”

“That will not be happening, Frank,” Ania interrupts. “Sorry. I know you are doing job, but this is not happy day with happy end.” Frank swallows and tries to calculate the distance between him and the woman. He’s no longer built for speed, but if he can edge a little closer— “Please,” says Ania. “I like your eyes more when they are not this.” “Not this?” Frank asks. “Podejrzliwy. Like a cop. They turn to steel, and I have had too much of steel. I like it better before when you show worry about me. Were you sincere?” Frank uncoils and gazes at her. “I was. I am.” She smiles. “Do you have dzieci, Frank?” Frank’s brow furrows in puzzlement. “Apology,” says the woman. “Sometimes the proper word is stuck in my head, but my tongue is already moving, impatient to speak. Dzieci is children. Do you have children, Frank?” He moves his head in the negative. “Pity. Kind men should have many children to make up for every bastard who ruins a young life.” Frank clears his throat, uncomfortable with the personal nature of the conversation. “Why did you ask to see me?” “It’s not you I need.” “Oh? But—” “I read the newspapers. You are friends with the reporter, Dixie Flynn. Is true?” Frank bristles slightly and his lips tighten. “I know Dixie.” Ania reads his face. “You are not friends?”

Frank glances over his shoulder at the cops who are standing farther back before answering. “Yeah, we’re friends,” he admits. “Just had a bit of a disagreement recently.” He can almost hear the on-call counselor who’s eavesdropping on their conversation cursing his not-in-the-official-handbook honesty. Plus, the Beagle-faced civilian was already upset that Frank, a Homicide detective with a reputation for kicking down doors rather than negotiation, was brought in to replace him at the bequest of the suicidal woman. “You should forgive her, Frank,” says Ania. “I read her stories and imagine she is, how you say, impulsive … Like a race horse without a rider, yet still with blinders, no? She needs her friends. You both do.” Frank’s mouth twitches. “Interesting observation.” “Does she laugh?” “Loud and often and usually when it’s most inappropriate.” Ania smiles wider. “That gladdens my heart.” “Why all the questions about Dixie?” “I need to see her.” “If you climb back over that barrier, we can—” “No!” Ania interrupts. “The barrier protects us both. I told you this would not be happy day. I want to see her here, in person, before I go. I know you can make this happen.” “If I don’t?” “Then I fall now.” Ania releases one hand from the railing and her body twists against the unforgiving wind and the cruel pull of gravity. Her knees and thighs tremble from fatigue, and her dark chestnut eyes speak volumes. This is not a bluff.

“Please,” says Frank. “I’ll get her.” “Be quick, Frank. I grow tired.” “Just hold on. We can make this better.” Ania returns her free hand to the rail. That is the second-nicest thing anyone has ever said to her. Pity it has to be today, her final one. _____ Twenty minutes later, Frank meets Dixie at the top of the stairs leading to the roof of the multistory parking garage in the heart of downtown San Francisco. Dixie looks as if she has just rolled out of bed and redressed in the same clothes from the night before that were discarded in a heap on the floor. Her jeans have rips above each knee that were more likely earned through some careless act of mischief than purchased off a designer’s rack, while her overwashed purple T-shirt is sprinkled with orange cat hair and a splotch of melted chocolate that appears to have been partially licked. Her green leather trench coat with the awkward zipper down the back has lost more of its luster as a wet cloth has recently attempted to remove a multitude of stains from mud to blood and who knows what else. And in true, ladylike fashion, she’s wearing her battleworn biker boots. Frank doesn’t ask, but he assumes she’s also slipped her pearlhandled switchblade into the moleskin pocket of her right boot. Of course, this is also how she normally looks—not just when she’s awakened pre-breakfast by the police. Not one for makeup or

spending time in front of a mirror, Dixie is a take-it-as-you-see-it kinda gal. At the top of the stairs, Dixie greets him with large, emerald eyes. She tries for a butter-wouldn’t-melt coolness to her expression, but her whites are webbed with red veins either from lack of sleep, too much booze, or (more likely) a combination of both. “It’s been awhile, Frank,” she says. Frank exhales heavily. “We’ll talk later, but I have a pregnant woman standing on the edge of this building with every intention of jumping. The only thing stopping her is you. She wants to talk.” “Why me?” Dixie asks. “Ask her,” says Frank. “But tread carefully. She’s not bluffing.” _____ Ania watches Dixie approach. Like the detective, she is older than expected. Not by much, but a few extra lines show upon the freckled map of her heart-shaped face. Still, Ania thinks she is an understated beauty with eyes hot enough to melt iron. Her ginger hair is an unkempt flame, while her clothes are a mess of contradictions. She is the writer, focused too internally to notice what her exterior is saying. “That is close enough,” says Ania. Dixie stops moving, but she looks uncomfortable out in the open, as though unsure if she should smile or show concern. In what must be unusual for her, she is having trouble finding the right thing to say. “My name is Ania Zajak,” says Ania, breaking the ice. “What’s the accent?” 7

“I am Polish.” Dixie makes an unguarded face. “I never did understand borscht. Beet soup, really? It looks as bad as it tastes.” Ania feels a pleasant bubble form in her stomach that rises to her lips and breaks upon a smile. “You should have tasted matka’s. I never knew a meal was supposed to have flavor until I came to America. I like your Big Mac.” Dixie smirks. “If you want to try a real burger, I’ll take you to Pink Bicycle. Best in the city.” Ania’s smile fades as she releases the railing with one hand, shakes the cramps out of her fingers, and then touches her belly. “How old are you?” Dixie asks. “Nineteen.” “I remember that age. And if I were you, I’d get off that ledge right now because life gets so much better once you’re out of your teens.” “Not for me.” “You’d be surprised. But let me guess: stupid prick of a boyfriend, stupider prick of a dad, and a mom who doesn’t know when it’s time to stand up for her daughter. How’d I do?” Ania shakes her head and opens the shawl to expose a red plaid shirt with fake pearl snaps. The shirt is unflattering; not something a woman chooses to wear, but Ania does so only because it’s large enough to fit. Grabbing a lapel with one hand, Ania snaps open her shirt to expose an ill-fitting beige bra and her bloated stomach. The stretched skin looks near translucent and ready to pop, while a vivid red cesarean scar runs a few inches below her belly button like a

madman’s grin. The fresh wound is being held together by thick, black thread. “You have other children?” Dixie asks, clearly confused. Ania shakes her head. “But the scar?” “Is one of many.” Dixie’s eyes lift from the woman’s stomach to meet her focused gaze. Her verbal defenses lowered, her voice has lost its protective edge. “What can I do?” “I need you to tell my story.” “I will. Let’s get down from here. Go for breakfast and you can tell me everything.” “I would like that.” Dixie holds out her hand and takes a tentative step forward. “All you have to do is take my hand.” “It is too late.” “No, Ania, it’s not. How can I tell your story unless you talk to me?” “You will find a way.” “I can’t. Not without you.” “No.” Ania smiles. “You are smarter than that. A cookie, right? Tell my story.” “I will, but—” With a simple, almost imperceptible slide of her feet, Ania’s heels drop over the edge. In the same instant, her hands release their grip on the rail. Ania’s body falls backward as Dixie screams.

t wo

Diving for the railing, my outstretched hands skim a flutter of fabric, but there is nothing substantial to grab on to. I feel Frank’s strong hands clutch my shoulders as we both watch the woman fall. Her eyes are closed, her lips mumbling a prayer—and then, before she hits the ground, she explodes. I hear my own screams again as the woman’s body evaporates in a bloody mist and fleshy chunks rain down on the mortified crowd of onlookers. The heat and energy of the blast sends me and Frank spilling backward onto the ground, ears ringing from the noise, mouths agape. I try to put the horror into words, but the only sound that escapes my throat is a wail of despair. Frank reaches for my hand and squeezes. “I have no idea,” he says in response to the unspoken question. “But I’ll find out.” “You won’t be the only one.”

_____ I pull myself into a sitting position and stare over at Frank in complete disbelief. His face is reflecting the same confused agony of mine—except, let’s face it, he’s far uglier. Dixie’s Tips #19: In times of stress, always go for humor over tears. A grim joke cuts through the shock before paralysis can lock your muscles into whimpering rigidity. And, if nothing else, it lets you know you’re still alive. The dead are a humorless lot. The uniformed officers sweep past us to lean over the edge and gape at the carnage below. The slack-jowled counselor rushes to join them but takes the time to slow down for a moment and flash me an angry and disapproving scowl—just enough to make me feel even worse. He wouldn’t be so damn cocky if he knew that instead of tears, my usual response to emotional distress is to kick someone in the balls. The moment he reaches the edge and looks over, the counselor turns back, his face suddenly green. Instead of veering off to one side where there is an entire rooftop of empty space, he bends double and vomits where he stands. Frank growls at the sight before furrowing his brow and taking charge. “Is anyone on the street injured?” He has to yell, as a hundred car alarms in the parking levels below us are blowing their electronic rape whistles at full, ear-damaging volume. The uniformed officers, wide-eyed and dumb with shock, stare back at the burly detective sergeant, who is still sitting on the ground yet radiates a commanding presence that towers above them. 11

“Use your radios,” barks Frank. “Get me a report. We’ll need the bomb squad, forensics, paramedics, fire department, and the coroner.” He stabs a finger at each officer in turn and instructs him or her exactly what duty to perform. “And somebody shut off these bloody alarms.” With his officers occupied, Frank slowly rises to his feet. His face contorts in pain and he grits his teeth to muffle a series of moans, groans, creaks, and pops. When he’s erect, he holds out a hand to pull me up beside him. “You OK?” I ask. “Old bones,” he grumbles. We both absently brush dust off our clothes, taking a moment to gather our thoughts and slip into our professional armor: Frank has his gun, badge, and a mug that says he’s a bastard with a short fuse; I have a notepad, daring haircut, and a razor-sharp tongue that can cut anyone’s masculinity down to an embarrassing size. I reach over and use my thumb to wipe a splash of blood from his cheek. He digs out an old-fashioned, white cotton handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to me. “You need more than a thumb.” I wince. “Thanks.” “In all my years …” Frank pauses and I watch him struggle to control the emotion in his voice, not wanting to display any drop of weakness in front of the younger patrolmen. “Her name is Ania Zajak,” I tell him, taking control, yelling to be heard over the alarms. “She was nineteen and Polish.” Frank swallows and hardens his eyes. “We’ll run a check. See if she has any next of kin in the country.”

A uniformed officer approaches, his eyes shifting from Frank to me as though unsure if he should speak in front of a reporter. “Spit it out,” snaps Frank. “We’re getting reports of minor injuries from the street,” says the officer. “Mostly cuts and bruises from people being knocked over. Several store windows shattered and injured people inside. Lacerations mostly, but nothing critical. A lot of people are suffering shock from being sprayed in blood and worse. The blast radius must have covered half the block. All departments are responding as ordered, so we should have the area locked down shortly.” “Get the fire department to block off both ends of the street,” orders Frank. “I want officers taking statements and gathering contact info from everyone. Get the geek squad down here to collect video footage from cellphones and surveillance cameras, and then move the uninjured out before it becomes a bigger zoo. And get to work on those alarms. Call a locksmith and disconnect every car battery if you have to.” After dismissing the officer, Frank returns to the edge of the building and peers down. I follow and do the same. We study the blood spatter, but its reach is immeasurable. Finding any part of Ania that’s large enough for the coroner to examine is going to be problematic. “She was always going to jump,” says Frank as though reading my thoughts. “I saw it in her eyes.” “I felt I was getting through to her. She was so young. I just needed more time.”

Frank squeezes my shoulder. His hand is like a baseball mitt, heavy yet reassuring. “There’s nothing you could have done, Dix. She had already committed to this action.” “But why?” Frank doesn’t answer as he stares deeper into the chaos, his gaze taking in every inch “What are you thinking?” I ask as his eyes narrow in concentration. “Bottom line? My hands are tied. Homeland Security and the FBI will be all over this before the blood dries. This is the Boston Marathon all over again. It screams terrorist.” “But?” I press. Frank’s mouth is a crooked twist of lips on a mug only his friends can love. “No shrapnel.” I raise an eyebrow. “Go on.” “Typically,” Frank explains, “suicide terrorists wear a vest that’s laced with steel ball bearings or nails to create maximum carnage. It’s not the blast that kills most of their targets, but the shrapnel.” He points toward the shattered store and office windows. “Each shard of glass becomes a knife, so imagine what a few hundred ball bearings would do.” “She wasn’t wearing a vest. I think the explosives were”—I find it difficult to say the words—“inside her.” Frank grimaces. “That’s a warped kind of evil.” “Except, I don’t think she was. Evil, I mean.” Frank studies me with hard eyes.

“She didn’t want to hurt anyone,” I continue. “That’s why she came up here. That’s why she detonated before she hit the ground. She wanted to avoid killing people.” “No.” Frank shakes off my suggestion. “She wanted us to witness this. It’s a warning of more shit to come. She wanted us afraid. She wanted the entire city afraid.” “If that was her goal,” I argue, “she would have asked for a TV reporter, not print.” Frank stabs his trigger finger down at the crowd and all the twinkling lights. “Who needs TV?” he says. “Video of this is already screaming around the entire planet. If one person missed it, ten others didn’t. By the time the media gets it on the air, it’s already old news.” “Then why ask for me?” Frank shrugs. “That’s your puzzle; I’m waist-deep in my own.” With a heavy sigh, he turns his back on the bloody scene and yells, “Is somebody working on these goddamn car alarms?” _____ When I walk into the newsroom of San Francisco NOW, the alternative newsweekly that is smart enough to employ me, six pairs of eyes widen and one junior reporter gasps. I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’ve not accidentally allowed a horde of flesh-eating zombies to follow me up the two flights of stairs before asking, “What?” “Your face,” says one of the reporters. “Ha ha,” I mock dryly. “At least mine doesn’t match my ass.”

“No, really,” continues the reporter, blushing slightly at the jab. “Your face is covered in blood.” “Oh.” I remember Frank’s handkerchief, but I had failed to use it. No wonder the taxi driver gave me the silent treatment. “It’s OK. It’s not mine.” I detour into the staff washroom and begin filling one of the sinks with warm water. Stripping off my coat, I study my T-shirt and decide it could use a spot treatment, too. After pulling it off, I look in the mirror and nearly gasp. Above a sun-shy chest so pale that I often wonder if my skin contains any pigment at all, a thousand crimson freckles spatter my face and neck. Jesus. I think of Ania’s tortured face: youth, beauty, and a lifetime of sadness in those chestnut eyes. Who had done that to her? Who had stolen every last ounce of hope? The door creaks open behind me. “Dix. You OK?” It’s Lulu, the librarian in charge of the paper’s morgue, where we keep all our dead stories and photos, and one of the few people who isn’t afraid to challenge me when I’m being a moody bitch. “Fine,” I answer. “The blood’s not mine.” I splash warm water over my face and scrub. “You know,” Lulu chuckles as she enters and closes the door behind her, “that doesn’t exactly make me feel any better. Did you bludgeon somebody on the way to work? A construction worker whistle at your ass and you decided to deflate his pucker?” “Not exactly.” I look in the mirror again, catch where I’ve missed a few spots and dunk my face back into the water to scrub harder.

When I emerge, Lulu hands me several sheets of paper towel. “Were you at the bombing?” I dry my face. “She was only nineteen,” I say. “Who? The bomber?” I nod. “How do you know?” “I talked to her … before …” “Before she blew herself up?” I nod again. “Jesus, Dixie. You were that close?” “She asked to talk to me before she jumped.” “Why?” “To write her story, but before we even … she just stepped off the ledge. One minute she was there, talking … normal, you know? The next … gone.” Lulu clucks in sympathetic understanding. “If I was ever going to do something that crazy, you’d be the one I wanted to write my story, too.” “Why?” I ask, digging to make sense of it all. “Because you don’t take things at face value. Every media outlet will be branding this girl a terrorist, but I can see it in your face already: you need to know more, you need to know why. Those other guys are satisfied with the headline and pictures. That’s enough to instill fear and make people buy the next day’s issue. But you’re never satisfied with anything but the full story.” “She was Polish,” I say quietly. “And?” Lulu presses.

“When was the last time you heard of a Polish terrorist?” Lulu grins. “See.” I drop the used paper towels into the trash and reach for my Tshirt. I pause at the sight of my reflection again: pale, freckled skin and white cotton bra. It’s not my favorite article of clothing, and something I often prefer to go without. There’s nothing fancy about it, no lace or silk, it simply does the job—not that my bosom gives it much of a workout. Ania’s ill-fitting bra, however, looked like it had been handed down from someone who knew absolutely nothing about the garment. The cups were at least one size too small and the band was so tight it was practically crushing her ribs. It would have been achingly uncomfortable. I turn my T-shirt inside out and slip it over my head. The stains will need more than a sponge bath with hand soap and paper towel. Ready to face the world again, I turn to my friend. A big-boned woman with big hair, big boobs, and big hands, Lulu is still new to being a complete woman and as such dresses as flamboyantly as she did as a drag queen. Fortunately, she has the saucy attitude—and the legs—to get away with it. “Can you dig up whatever stories we’ve run in the last six months on Polish immigrants or any recent violence or anomalies within the Polish community?” Lulu grins again. “My pleasure.” ––––– In the newsroom, Stoogan is sitting at my desk—waiting. A grossly obese man with skin that is incredulously paler than my own, Ed-

ward Stoogan has the mind of a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist trapped inside the body of a beached beluga whale. An albino with shock-white hair, Stoogan’s eyesight is so bad that his computer monitor is set up to display every story in headlinesized type, yet somehow he can spot my ginger hair anywhere in the newsroom. “The answer is yes,” I say as I approach. “And what’s the question?” he asks warily. “Does this chair make my ass look big?” Not even a snicker, but I can see by the glint in his rabbit-pink eyes that he’s actually delighted to see me. Then again, I do have an overly active imagination. “You were at the bombing,” he says in a high-pitched squeak that makes him far too easy to impersonate. I nod. “I need a firsthand account ASAP to go on the web. We can link it to the public’s YouTube videos. This thing is going viral and we need to be on top of it.” “Is that what we do now?” I ask. “Chase the dailies?” Stoogan sighs. “Publisher wants us to be more proactive with the website. Get the stories up fast—” “And check the facts later?” I interrupt. Stoogan’s cheeks go even whiter. “No, we still do our jobs.” “Except we’re an alt-weekly for a reason. We make sure we do it right, ask the questions nobody else does, and give our readers the full story. We don’t shoot from the hip and see what trash flies out.” Stoogan stands up and wipes a bead of perspiration from his upper lip. He’s clearly in no mood to argue, which is odd.

Dixie’s Tips #20: Journalists are a cantankerous lot who will argue the color of snow if they’ve run out of politicians to bash. When they’re holding their tongues or being overly nice, that’s when you have to worry. “New mandate, straight from the top. You can still go in-depth for the print edition, you know I’ll back you on that, but I need your online story on my desk in twenty minutes. Is that clear?” “Yes, boss.” As Stoogan shuffles away, I resist the urge to make a snarky comment. As far as editors go, Stoogan is one of the best I’ve ever had. Pity the new publisher is pushing him too hard to generate revenue rather than good journalism. Do that long enough and eventually all you’ll do is break your best people in half. I toss my coat on the desk, switch on the computer, and pull the keyboard onto my lap. I don’t have a lot of facts, but what I do have is likely more than anybody else. I write what I know but leave one important detail out. Like an ace up my sleeve, I don’t like to show the competition all my cards.

t h re e

After filing the story, I head home to shower and change. In the lobby of the three-story Painted Lady that has been converted into six cozy one-bedroom apartments, I notice my mailbox appears unusually full. Inside, the box is stuffed with at least two days’ worth of unsolicited junk mail, a few unwanted bills, and two small packages wrapped in dark paper the color of blood. The first package is slightly smaller than a paperback book, while the second is tall and relatively skinny, like a box for a fancy pen or a pair of custom chopsticks. My name and address is scrawled on the front of both in barely legible handwriting; the postal stamp is marked San Francisco, but there’s no return address. The last time I received a surprise gift, it turned out to be a kickass handgun—a Smith & Wesson Governor—from Frank. I wonder if these mystery parcels might be an apology from Pinch, a former

hit man who recently strained our friendship when he unexpectedly came out of retirement. Presents, however, especially if they’re handguns or chocolate, are always a good way to speed up the healing process. I carry the packages upstairs to the second floor and as I unlock the door to my apartment, I notice a small red ball resting on the ground. I bend to pick it up. It’s soft and spongy and roughly the same color as the two packages. Inside, I immediately roll the ball across the hardwood floor and watch Prince Marmalade, my guard kitten and only boyfriend at present, spring awake to give chase. With Prince busy tormenting the round intruder, I drop the mail on the kitchen counter, throw my soiled clothes in the sadly overflowing laundry hamper and head for the shower. I make the temperature extra hot as I scrub every last trace of Ania’s blood from my hair and body. By the time I turn off the nozzle, the bathroom is clogged with steam and my skin is a vibrant pink. I wipe the excess moisture from my face and pull back the shower curtain just as a human shape emerges through the translucent cloud. I scream. And so does the shape. It’s high and girly. “What are you doing, Dix?” Kristy yells. “I just about peed myself.” “I’m in my shower!” I yell back. “What are you doing?” “I saw you come home.” Through the fading mist, Kristy holds out a cup of coffee. “Thought you could use this.” Kristy lives directly across the hall with her girlfriend Sam, but there are times when I wonder why we even have separate doors as

she’ll find any excuse to barge through mine—especially when I forget to use the new deadbolts I had installed recently. I accept the coffee and take a long sip. It’s dark and strong—just the way I like it. “My beans?” I ask. Kristy grins. “I made it here. We’re all out.” It’s impossible to stay angry at Kristy, her heart is just too big. “Thanks, but next time, wait until I’m out of the shower.” Kristy giggles and skips out of the room, giving me a few moments of privacy to towel off. After dressing in fresh clothes with nary a bloodstain in sight, I join Kristy in the kitchen. “You’ve got presents,” she says, studying the red packages. “Who are they from?” “I don’t know.” “A secret admirer?” “Or a clever bill collector.” “Open them. Biggest one first.” I unwrap the first package. Inside is a rectangular block of wood, painted bright red, with the letter D inserted into one of five slots in the front. “That’s weird,” says Kristy. “Is there a note?” I turn the paper inside out and examine the underside of the block of wood, but there’s nothing. “Try the next one,” Kristy urges. I open the second package. It contains a small red pole and the letter I. I insert the letter into the slot beside the D, leaving three

blank slots still to be filled. The pole fits into a notch closer to the rear of the block. “You know what that reminds me of ?” Kristy says, wrinkling her nose. “Hangman,” I say. “That’s creepy, especially with DI on it. Who sent it?” I check the packages again, but there are no notes. The bloodlike color, however, fills me with unease. Pinch’s return to freelance murder was part of a bargain he struck with local Bratva chief Krasnyi Lebed, aka the Red Swan, to leave me alone. But who’s to say a Russian gangster will keep his word? A visible shudder runs down my spine. “You OK, Dix?” Kristy asks. “Yeah, I just need to get back to work. We’ll talk later, OK?” Kristy nods and skips to the door, but just before leaving, she turns. “Oh, by the way, we’ve got a new neighbor.” She points to the ceiling above my head at the apartment once occupied by Derek and Shahnaz until they became uncomfortable living directly above me. The bullet hole in my ceiling (their floor) was the final straw. They moved across the hall and now live in the apartment above Kristy and Sam, which in my mind is a far more perilous situation. “I think he might be single, but he’s got a lot of suitcases.” “Did you meet him?” “Just a glance. Cute butt for a guy, though.” I grin. That’s Kristy. –––––

Before leaving the apartment, I call Lulu at the paper’s morgue. “Anything odd pop up about the Polish community?” I ask. “Nothing yet. They’re a relatively quiet bunch and, like you said, not exactly a community you connect with terrorism. There was a spree of vandalism about six months back that seemed to target Polish businesses, but nothing since.” “Were the vandals caught?” “No record of any arrests. If they were caught, they weren’t charged.” “Leave what you have on my desk and I’ll take a look. Thanks.” My next call is to Mo, who runs my favorite independent cab company. “Hey, Dix,” he says before I even speak. “I hope you’re not going down to the bomb site. It’s a zoo. My guys are having to avoid the whole area, makes it a real bitch to get people around.” “Already been there.” “Yeah, what’s the scoop?” “Young Polish girl got caught up in something bad. You heard any rumblings?” Mo sucks in a deep breath. “Ah, shit, a young girl? That makes me sound like a jackass for complaining. I thought it was a gas leak or something. Cops are keeping their yaps shut.” “You heard anything coming out of the Polish community lately?” I press. “Anyone new in town who might be recruiting girls?” “No, nothing like that. All quiet as far as I know, but I can ask around.” “I’d appreciate it. I also need a cab.”

“Already on its way. You know me, one foot in the grave, but keeping two steps ahead of the devil.” I laugh. “Always the poet.” “Nah, just an old cabbie.” Mo chuckles, but it turns into a nasty cough as he hangs up the phone. ––––– The taxi drops me at Mario’s Deli, a hole in the wall that makes the best bagels in town. If you’re not hungry, which is impossible once you smell the bagels, it also offers a discreet place where gamblers can take a flutter on anything with or without a pulse. So far, by my admittedly unreliable math skills, I’m breaking even. Mario beams from behind the counter when I enter. “Ms. Dixie,” he calls. “Where you been hiding? We miss you so much.” He glances over at his partner, Eddie the Wolf, sitting in the red vinyl booth farthest from the front door. “Eddie was saying you might be in the hospital.” “No, just keeping a low profile.” “Well, it is lovely to see you. I have something special today. Fried blood sausage on a white cheddar and cracked black pepper bagel with medium poached, free-range egg under a blanket of melted Gruyère.” “Blood sausage?” I wrinkle my nose in uncertainty. “You ever try?” I shake my head. “Sit with Eddie. You don’t like, it’s on me. Coffee?” I nod and move to the back booth where Eddie has barely looked up from beneath the brim of his misshapen plaid woolen cap. Be26

hind him is a partially ajar door that leads to a back room. Directly behind the door, out of sight but never out of mind, stands Eddie’s bodyguard. Having never actually seen the bodyguard, however, it could just be a story, but I’ve yet to pluck up the nerve to peek. “You’re alive then?” says Eddie when I sit down. “Appears that way.” “When I heard Red Swan had withdrawn the contract, I assumed the job was done.” “We came to an understanding.” “That’s unusual for Lebed.” I shrug. “I can be charming when I need to.” Eddie’s eyes twitch, but I wouldn’t exactly call it a smile. “It takes more than charm. Who died in your place?” I wince. “Does it matter?” Now it’s Eddie’s turn to shrug. “No.” Mario delivers my breakfast. The blood sausage is perfectly round, half an inch thick, and black as coal—like a burnt hamburger patty. “Is it supposed to be black?” I ask. Mario grins. “Taste. A little spicy, but in a way that will make your taste buds dance.” I look over at Eddie, but his expression hasn’t changed. I close my eyes and bite into the bagel, feeling the yolk burst and flow over the sausage. I keep my eyes closed as I chew. The texture is … different, more granular than meaty. “Well?” asks Mario. “The texture is off-putting,” I say. “But it tastes delicious.” And it does—like a meaty, Cajun turkey dressing.

Mario beams. “See, I expand your world today.” I take another bite, this time with my eyes open, as Mario walks away. “He’s expanding my world,” I tell Eddie. Eddie’s eyes twitch again and his face softens ever so slightly. “He’s good at that.” In between bites, I slurp my coffee and feel my energy return. It’s amazing how having a young woman explode in front of your eyes can sap your strength. “You want to place a bet?” Eddie asks. “Greyhounds are racing this afternoon, and the Niners are at home.” “You got a list of the dogs?” Eddie digs into a folder beside his laptop and slides over the lineup for the dog track. I spot a hound named Marmalade Spice at 20 to 1 odds, and slide Eddie ten bucks to win. Eddie accepts the money before glancing at the sheet. “Twenty to one?” He shakes his head. “If I had a conscience, I’d feel bad about taking your money.” “Good job you don’t.” “Yeah.” “One other thing.” Eddie sighs but doesn’t try to stop me. “You heard any rumblings coming out of the Polish community? Any new people moving in? Explosives, drugs, women?” “That’s a heady combo. Not my turf.” “But you have ears on the ground. The bombing this morning, you won’t read about it in the papers, but the explosives were inside the girl. Who would do something like that?”

There’s a sudden movement of feet from behind the door at Eddie’s back, as though someone is growing impatient. Eddie glances over his shoulder with steely eyes. It’s as if he expects someone to emerge. “I got nothing,” he says brusquely. “You sure?” Eddie’s brow furrows. “Don’t push me, Dix. I like you better than most, but even that has its limits.” I flash him a sly grin. “You like me?” Eddie’s brow furrows deeper. “What’d I just say?” I smile wider. “You said you like me.” Eddie the Wolf practically growls. “Time for me to go?” I ask. Eddie remains silent as I get up, pay for my breakfast, and head into the street. ––––– A surprise visit by the sun has burned away the morning fog, making passersby stand a little taller rather than hunched against the season’s low ceiling. I allow the rays to heat my face for a moment, my skin sucking in its daily dose of vitamin D. I think of Ania, the heat and pain that must have washed over her in that final second, but instead of the explosion, my mind wanders to the raw scar that ran beneath her belly. It was a cesarean scar—and a butcher’s one at that—and yet she claimed not to have children. Could skin be stretched that much to place something inside or am I missing an important part of the puzzle? 29

A large shadow falls over me, blocking every ray of sunshine. “I’m told you can be trusted,” says a deep voice. I turn toward the source and find myself having to crane my neck in order to look up into a face that has a lot in common with the rectangular blade of a garden shovel. From this angle, I can barely make out a set of dark eyes and a long, wide nose beneath the shadow of a protruding brow and eyebrows that have linked together to form a hairy barricade. Beneath the nose is a set of lips about the same size and shape as two sausage links, and a square chin. I gulp. “Do I know you?” “I work for Eddie.” “Doing what?” “This and that.” A light switches on in my brain. “You stand behind the door.” The large man shrugs. “Sometimes.” I grin and hold out my hand. “Pleased to finally meet you. I’m Dixie.” The giant swallows my hand in his and gives it a near bonecrushing squeeze. “Jakub, with a K.” “You want to go inside and chat, Jakub?” I ask, putting emphasis in the foreign pronunciation: YAH-koob. Jakub glances inside the restaurant and shakes his head. “I’m supposed to be behind the door.” He stabs his thumb in the direction of the alley that leads behind the building. “Can we talk back there? In private.” “I don’t normally go into back alleys with strangers.”

The giant man flashes a set of crooked teeth, each the size of my thumbnail. “It’s OK,” he says. “I’m no stranger, I’m Jakub.” “Ah, well then, good.” How can I argue with that logic? When Jakub turns to head down the alley, I check that Lily, my switchblade, is still tucked safely in my boot before joining him. ––––– Jakub sits on the edge of a short, grease-stained wall behind the deli. A copy of Racing Form has been placed on the stone to protect his trousers, and at least a hundred damp cigarette butts litter the ground at his feet. He places a fresh cigarette between his lips and lights up before folding his arms across a chest that reminds me of a rain barrel, the kind that needs to be held in check with iron bands. Although his tailored jacket is cut to fit, his biceps and shoulders strain the cloth; even sitting down, he’s an imposing slab of muscle. If he showed up at my door looking for unpaid gambling debts, I would give him every cent I had. “You been working for Eddie a long time?” I ask just to break the ice. Jakub shrugs. “We go back.” “You enjoy it?” I cringe inwardly at the lame question. Jakub shrugs again. “Sometimes.” Man of few words. “You wanted to talk?” I prod. “Eddie says you can be trusted.” “I do my best.” “You were asking about girls. Polish girls. One is hurt?” 31

“She’s dead,” I say bluntly. “Somebody filled her belly with explosives. For what purpose, I have no idea, but I don’t believe she wanted to hurt anyone.” Jakub scratches his nose with a callused knuckle while simultaneously exhaling smoke. It’s like watching somebody poke a small, tentacle-less octopus, which tells me somebody at sometime fought back hard enough to destroy all the cartilage. Whether that had been enough to slow Jakub down, only his opponent would know for sure. “Do you know her name?” he asks. “Ania Zajak. She was a kid. Nineteen. Does that mean anything to you?” Jakub ignores my question. “I can give you a name, but it’s not for a story.” “You want it kept anonymous?” “Yes. She’s a private woman. She will talk to you if I ask, but her name must stay between us. Can I trust you?” I stare into a pair of incredibly large eyes surrounded by the kind of generous lashes that women would kill for—so long as he didn’t kill them first. “Yes.” He cracks his knuckles and I have to resist the urge to flee. The neck-snapping noise alone nearly loosens my bladder. “Eddie doesn’t like people and makes few exceptions. You are one of the exceptions. I’m not sure why.” “Probably cause I’m so darn cute,” I quip. Jakub shakes his overly large head. It’s shaved and meaty, resting on a thick neck that ripples with tendons and muscle. All he needs is

a ring through his nose and a pair of horns, and I’ll need to whip out my red cape and yell “Ole!” “No,” says Jakub. “He responds to your fearlessness.” “I’m not that fearless.” A noise like a chuckle rumbles in Jakub’s throat. “But enough so that you walk down a deserted alley with a man like me, even though you suspect what I do.” “Yeah, I’m guessing you’re not the flower arranger.” Jakub shows his teeth again. I think it’s a smile; at least I hope it is. “My ciotka runs a private clinic that caters mostly to Polish women. She tells me things that are troubling. You two should meet.” I’m intrigued. “A private clinic?” “Very private, which must stay that way. Despite my protests, she also helps Russian immigrants when they are in trouble, and that is something that cannot be made public.” “The Red Swan?” I ask. Jakub nods. “I would not want him knowing. He is not a friend of the Poles.” “Well, Krasnyi Lebed and I are not exactly on speaking terms.” “That is what I understand. So we have bargain?” “One more question. What is ciotka?” Jakub thinks for a moment, the term so common to him that he’s likely never thought of the English translation. “Aunt,” he says finally. “My father’s sister. Not always a pleasant woman, but smart.” I hold out my hand and Jakub swallows it in his. I try not to grimace as he squeezes flesh to seal the deal.

Beauty with a Bomb, by M.C. Grant