Who Do I Lean On? (32 page)

But at the moment, the retired cop was grinning as DaShawn held a jar lid under his nose. “Guess what this one is, Grandpa!”

“Uhh . . . cinnamon?”

“Aw, that was too easy. You'll never guess this one!” DaShawn picked another lid out of a box and waved it under his grandfather's nose.

Jodi sidled up to me, a big smile on her face. “Isn't that cute? DaShawn invented this smelling game since his grandpa can't see, spent all morning at our house putting it together.”

“What all does he have in those lids?” I whispered.

“Well, Harry did
not
guess Estelle's lilac perfume—he's in the doghouse over
that
one—but so far he guessed garlic and coffee grounds and bacon grease. And the cinnamon. Not sure what's left . . . oh, apple shampoo is another one. Can't remember the rest.”

“Okay, kids, that's all.” Estelle clapped her hands like a schoolteacher. “Mr. Harry's got another visitor, so why don't we go out to the kitchen and get a snack. Jodi girl, bring that baby with you. Harry's probably got pickled pigs' feet up in there somewhere . . . you like pickled pigs' feet, DaShawn?”

“Yuck!” the boy yelled as they disappeared out of the room.

“Don't let her pull your leg, DaShawn!” Harry hollered after them from the couch. Then, “Did she say I've got another visitor?”

“Right here, Mr. B.”

“That you, Firecracker? Come here.” The man reached out, feeling the air.

I pulled up a hassock next to the couch and put my hand in his. “I'm really sorry about all this eye stuff you're going through.

What did they—”

“Never mind that. I gotta ask what you know about your man Philip's association with Matty Fagan.”

I was taken aback. “I—I don't really know, Mr. B. Just that one time when he was on the phone, I heard him talking in the background to some guy named Fagan. That's it.”

“Humph,” he muttered. “It's never just ‘one time' with Fagan.” He suddenly swore under his breath and almost got up, then sagged back down on the couch. “Sorry, Gabby. I'm just so
frustrated
to be laid up with these stupid eye patches right now. If this Fagan is who I think he is, whatever's going down with Philip can't be good—and could be downright dangerous. The man's always got some racket going on.”

“But who is he, Mr. B?”

I couldn't believe it when Mr. Bentley told me Matty Fagan used to be his boss in the elite Anti-Drug and Gang Unit of the Chicago Police Department. Harry had blown the whistle on Fagan and his cronies a year or so ago for shaking down drug dealers and gangbangers, then reselling the drugs and weapons they'd confiscated back on the street. Internal Affairs had suggested Harry quietly retire early—he already had more than twenty years on the force—until they'd built a solid case and brought an indictment against Fagan. “Which they did several weeks ago,” Harry said, “but of course he posted bail and is out on bond until time for his trial. But knowing Fagan, that wouldn't stop him from finding some other marks to go after. You think your husband is using?”

“Using? You mean drugs? No!” Whatever Philip was, he wasn't a druggie. “Only vice I know about is his gambling, which I told you about, and now he's in debt up to his eyeballs. That's why he came to me, trying to borrow money to pay it off . . .”

I suddenly had an awful thought—and it must've occurred to Mr. Bentley at the same moment, because he grabbed for my wrist and said, “That's it.”

“Oh, Mr. Bentley, you don't think—!”

“That's exactly what I think. Fagan's got himself a new racket, loaning easy money to people like your husband—upstanding business types who've got themselves in trouble at the gaming tables.”

“But where would this Matty Fagan get that kind of money?”

Mr. Bentley snorted a mirthless laugh. “Ha. You'd be surprised how easy it is for someone like Fagan to get his hands on fifty grand, even a hundred or two hundred—mostly payoffs from the big drug dealers in exchange for his cops looking the other way. And you can be sure the ‘interest' he's charging will set your man back even more.”

“So why would Philip do that?”

“Quick money, no questions asked, no check into assets, all the stuff that banks do. But it's risky, because Fagan doesn't take kindly to people who cross him.”

I was dumbfounded. Should I warn Philip about this Fagan guy? Did he know the man was under indictment by a grand jury for fraud and illegal sale of weapons and stuff ?

My skin crawled, not wanting to think about what Philip had gotten himself into. If Mr. Bentley was right, no wonder he'd looked so stressed at the courthouse yesterday. “But if Philip pays it back . . .”

“I hope he does, Firecracker, I truly hope he does. Because Fagan isn't a patient man.”

chapter 31

For some reason, I felt all shook up after I left Harry's apartment. Not that I knew for sure what was really going down with Philip and this Fagan person, or even if it was the same Matty Fagan that used to be Harry's boss at the police department, but I had a feeling Harry's gut instincts were right on the money—pun intended.

I got back to the six-flat in time to do my share of sanding—
ugh
—but it was fun working with Precious and Tanya . . . until they got into an argument about what color to paint the living room, that is.

“I once saw an apartment painted all red an' black,” Tanya said, dreamily sitting on the floor in the middle of the empty room, her dark hair and skin covered with a fine coat of “Tinkerbell” dust, “an' I tol' myself, if I ever get my own place, I'm gonna paint it red an' black!”

Precious nearly fell off her step stool. “Girl, ain't no way I'm gonna live in an apartment that looks like one o' them serial killers been here.” She waved her hand at the walls. “We should do somethin' classy, like silver wallpaper—ya know, the kind with fuzzy designs on it. An' paint all the trim gold . . . they got gold paint, don't they, Gabby?”

I made a strangled noise.

“Well, red an' black for the kitchen, then.”

“Girl, you got red an' black for brains.”

“The bathroom?”

“Hold it,” I broke in. “Tell you what, since I'm the landlord—”

“Landlady,” Tanya broke in.

“Landlady, then.” Which sounded ridiculous, but I wasn't going to argue the point. “Since I'm the land
lady
, and since I have to pay for the paint, how about if we go with some nice muted colors in the common rooms, and you can do whatever you want for your personal bedrooms. Deal?”

Precious looked dubious. “Whatchu mean, ‘muted'?”

I opened my mouth to suggest “sea-foam green” or “morning mist blue” when I glanced out the window and saw Philip's black Lexus pull up. Was it six o'clock already? “Excuse me,” I said and ran outside.

P.J. climbed out of the SUV still in his green-and-gold running clothes, his sport duffel bag slung over one shoulder. I gave him a hug. “How'd it go, buddy? Did Dad just pick you up?”

“Yeah. Went okay . . . We got any orange Coke?” He took the outside steps two at a time and disappeared inside. I smiled at his back. All soft drinks were “Coke” to a Southerner. My inability to remember that back in Virginia always gave me away as an outsider. How many funny looks would it take for my boys to learn most Chicagoans called it “pop”?

Paul slid out of the backseat, squinting at the open windows on the first and third floors. “Hi, Mom! People still working? I'm gonna go see what they got done.”

“Don't forget your duffel bag!” his father called through the open windows. Paul turned and grabbed a bag from the rear seat. “Not that one . . . Paul! Watch what you're doing.”

Paul grabbed his own bag, slammed the car door, and ran up the walk. I started to follow, but Philip called me back. “Gabrielle? You got a minute?”

I hesitated. Wasn't sure I wanted to talk to Philip. The last time we had a “talk,” I'd ended up throwing things. But I screwed up my courage and stepped to the passenger side window. “Maybe a minute. I'm in the middle of something.”

Philip's eye twitched. “Just wanted to say I was, uh, out of line . . . you know, how I reacted when you turned down my request for a loan. I was just frustrated.”

I hardly knew how to respond. Was Philip Fairbanks actually apologizing for saying “you owe me”? Finally I said, “Yeah, that was pretty ugly.”

He looked away and the moment hung there awkwardly, like a clothesline of bras and undies flapping in the breeze. Then he cleared his throat. “Something else we need to talk about. My time with the boys. I barely saw P.J. this weekend. Had to have him at the high school at six thirty this morning, and he didn't get back until an hour ago! I didn't realize this cross-country business would be all day on Saturdays.”

A flicker of irritation started at the base of my skull. My legal custody was barely twenty-four hours old, and already he wanted to change the visitation plan? But he had a point. And he'd just apologized, hadn't he? “Well . . . okay. You want to talk now?”

Philip reached for his aviator sunglasses sitting on the dash and slid them on, hiding his eyes behind the dark, curved lenses once more. “Can't right now. I'm headed somewhere. But think about it. I'll call you, maybe Monday.”

I glanced into the back. Philip's overnight bag sat on the seat. My gut tightened. “Another weekend at the casino?”

His mouth got tight, but he said nothing, just put the car in gear and started to pull away from the curb.

I don't know what got into me—my talk with Harry, anxiety, fear—but I ran alongside. “Philip! Please don't go. You're in over your head and it's only going to get worse!”

But the Lexus sped up and disappeared around the far corner, leaving me standing in the middle of the street.

Philip's request to change his time with the boys nettled me all weekend. I talked to my sisters that evening and got an earful of
their
opinions. When I took the boys to SouledOut Community Church the next morning, I realized if we moved their time with their dad—say, from Saturday evening until Sunday evening instead—they wouldn't be able to go to church with me anymore. Unless Philip would bring them . . . and that was as likely as the Cubs winning the pennant, Harry Bentley would probably say.

Speaking of Harry, I didn't see him or Estelle at church again, though I did see his grandson sitting with Jodi and Denny Baxter. Which meant Harry was probably still at home with his eyes bandaged, and Estelle was still on his case like a Secret Service Mother Hen.

They should just get married
. I chuckled silently. We all knew it was inevitable. The two of them just hadn't figured it out yet.

I corralled my thoughts and focused on the worship, letting the song the music group was singing wash over me. “The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases . . .”

Ah, a familiar song! Used to sing this one growing up in North Dakota. But the worship leader just said the song was based on a passage in the third chapter of Lamentations. Really? I grabbed my Bible, looked in the index, found Lamentations, and ran my finger down the verses . . .

Seeing the words in Scripture as the music group sang made the words seem fresh and new:
“The faithful love of the Lord never ends . .
.” It was true! God had slowly and steadily been putting my feet back on solid ground, in spite of my spiritual neglect for most of my marriage, in spite of my husband's love growing cold.

“ . . .
His mercies never cease . . .
”

Yes, oh yes!
I had received a great deal of mercy in recent days. A new home, custody of my sons, a dream coming true in the House of Hope . . .

“ . . .
His mercies begin afresh every morning . .
.”

Which meant I could count on His mercy for all the loose ends still in my life! As the congregation sang, I found myself praying for something to work out about the boys' visits with their dad. I even prayed for Philip, that God would somehow untangle the mess he'd gotten himself into, gambling himself into debt and now getting mixed up with this Fagan person . . .

“ . . .
Great is His faithfulness . .
.”

The song came to an end and the music group moved right into another. But the song and the Scripture still played in my heart. I'd come a long way back to faith since I'd stumbled over Lucy Tucker in the park and we'd both ended up sheltered at Manna House. But I couldn't take any credit for it. It was all God's faithfulness, never giving up on me.

My eyes got misty. Something in me wanted to kneel down and renew my vows to the Lord, like I'd done at camp one summer as a kid, giving my heart to Jesus. And suddenly it occurred to me there was something I could do—I could join this church, become a member, as a way of marking my return to faith, taking my stand publicly with the people of God in this place.