Marta's mother became the breadwinner then, tugging the ten-year-old to the roadside. Hey, mister! Sir! The cars would whiz by. Stop! Please! Hey! As soon as a car stopped and its passenger door cracked open, the scam would begin. Marta begged not to do it but it made no difference. Nothing changed, not until the blue station wagon. That ended it, at least for Marta.
By the time she turned thirteen, she was behind the wheel of their battered Valiant, driving into town for milk, cigarettes, and another fifth. The cops in their small town didn't stop her because they knew her mother and it was safer to let a child drive than a drunk, especially when the child was Marta Richter. Four foot eleven and on her own. Not that Marta blamed her parents or felt sorry for herself. On the contrary, it made her what she was today.
HONK! She hit the horn. Because she couldn't not.
She needed to get to Steere's town house in Society Hill. Marta was playing a hunch, betting she'd find something in his house that would lead to a clue, or something she could use for leverage. Besides, there was something Marta just had to know. Because now that she realized Steere wasn't interested in her, there was a key question that remained unanswered. Who was he interested in?
Marta stared at the foggy windshield and told herself her interest was only partly jealousy. If she could find out who Steere was sleeping with, she could get to him. Marta didn't know exactly how yet, but she'd been around long enough to know just how valuable that piece of information was. Especially since Steere was evidently keeping it a secret, even from her. Especially from her. His lawyer, whom he had betrayed.
HONK! Marta punched the car horn. She'd tear his fucking house apart if she had to. Break in and search every drawer. Read every address book, charge account slip, and travel record. Steere had said he was going to St. Bart's. How had he managed to arrange that? Where were the tickets? Who was the travel agent? Who was he going with?
Marta would find out. The answers would be in the house. Something would be in the house. It had to be.
HONNNKK! The traffic had stopped dead. It was maddening. Marta craned her head to see what was holding it up, but couldn't see anything over the line of traffic. She twisted around to see if she could reverse out, but there was another car behind her. She was blocked in. She thought of abandoning the Taurus, but that would only put her back at square one. 5:45. Marta had to get moving. The jury would be deliberating right now, even before dinner. Fuck!
HONNK! HHHOOONNKK!
* * *
Three cars ahead of Marta, Bobby Bogosian sat slouched in the driver's seat of his black Corvette. He checked the rearview to see if the bitch was still there. He couldn't see because she was so far back and snow kept falling on the back window, but he could hear her honking every five minutes.
Bobby laughed. It wasn't his fault he was blocking traffic. He'd been driving down Locust when the car died on him. Of all the luck. He'd called the Triple-A like a citizen, and they told him to wait, maybe he just needed a jump. So he waited and waited. He couldn't help it if he blocked the bitch's car. He was a motorist in distress.
HONK!
Bobby read a magazine while he waited, the new issue of Dog World. He read magazines like they were going out of style, but he never bought them at the newsstand, he only subscribed. It skeeved Bobby to think somebody touched his magazine before him. He liked the subscriptions that came in a plastic bag, but not many did. The new Dog World had come today in the mail, and Bobby had taken it with him. He loved dogs.
HONK! HONK!
Bobby thumbed to the puppy ads in the back. He'd buy himself a dog, a pedigreed dog, as soon as he could move out of his shithole apartment and get his own house. He wanted a place in Delaware County that he could make into a kennel. He could become whatever you called it when you had a dog kennel. A breeder.
Bobby knew all about dogs. He knew the names of all the breeds, even hard ones like vizsla, and he could draw a pretty good picture of a rottweiler. Bobby went to the dog show every year when he wasn't in the joint and he would spend all day there, drinking strawberry smoothies, eating soft pretzels, and petting the pooches. It was a good show because you could hang with the breeders. They always had big spreads of food in the aisles of cages, and they were like a group.
HONK!
Bobby knew he would make a good dog breeder. It would be hard to sell the puppies, but he'd have to be professional, not get too attached. He turned the page. There was a picture of a little brown and white dog sitting on a plaid dog bed. It looked like the dog from Frasier. Bobby was pretty sure the Frasier dog was a Jack Russell terrier and bet the dog in the photo was one, too. To test himself, he covered the caption with his thumb. "A Jack Russell terrier," he said aloud, to lock in his guess.
HONK! HONK!
Bobby lifted up his thumb and squinted at the caption. He was nearsighted, but he didn't care if he went blind as a bat, he wasn't wearing glasses. Bobby held the magazine closer and the little letters came into focus. Jack Russell terrier!
HONK!
7
Judy Carrier stood outside the office building that housed Rosato & Associates on Locust Street, shaking her head in disgust. Erect was such a pill. She knew Judy would never leave Mary in the lurch. What kind of rock climber would leave a friend dangling by a rope? Judy sighed. Score another one for the forces of evil. It probably took that level of ruthlessness to be successful, but Judy wasn't willing to pay the price.
She pulled her ski cap down to her eyebrows against the blowing snow. The sky was an opaque gray that poured snowflakes. The weather report said the snow was falling at ten inches an hour. Judy loved it. Winter was one of the things she liked best about the East, especially a snowstorm this huge. It was Nature after assertiveness training. Reminding everybody that the natural hierarchy was greater than partners, associates, and secretaries.
But Judy had to get somewhere, and fast. She scanned the street. A caterpillar of traffic inched past her. How would she get there? Her car was parked on the street near her apartment and undoubtedly a snowcap by now. It would take too long to dig it out, much less drive it anywhere. Judy didn't have time to wait for a bus and a cab was an impossibility. Erect had taken the rental car, and it was too far to walk. The city was emptying out; soon the cars would be gone. Only the snow would be left, piling up on the street. Light, dry, flaky.
Perfect.
* * *
Judy planted her right pole until she hit asphalt, then skied forward on her left leg, gliding into powder so deep it buried her ski. She torqued her trunk easily and skied forward with her right leg, slipping into the natural swinging rhythm of cross-country skiing. Side to side, skating forward, in a yellow Patagonia parka and snow pants. It was less than an hour later and Judy was on her way, skiing through the inner city. It was fun. Just like Valley Forge, except for the crack vials.
She exhaled in deep lungfuls that puffed in front of her like a toy locomotive. Judy was sweating in no time despite the wind chill and blizzard conditions. It was growing dark and snow muffled the last of the workaday noises. Judy heard only her own panting, the sssshhing of her skis, and the cruel whip of the wind as her skis flew under the snow. She skied southwest, taking as many side streets as possible. Only a few cars braved the streets, their headlights piercing the flurries. Traffic got scarcer the farther out Judy skied and soon she was the only sign of life on the snow-covered street.