Bad Break: A Novel

Chapter Forty-Five

As a general rule, elderly women don't anger me. How could they? We all have grandmothers, and most are not "Mommy Dearest."

But I speed away from Prudence in a rage, fumbling with my phone, weaving in and out of crawling traffic and speed-dial Freeman.

"You know seven forty-five North Langston Drive," I ask his voicemail. "If so, you better meet me there, because I might need you to accompany me from that address to Puller Plaza to bail me out or bring me a decent defense attorney, in about an hour!"

I try his number three more times, followed by similar calls to Allah and Sgt. Backstrom and still only get voicemail for all three men.

Rev. Willis sees me coming but doesn't expect my next steps. He rises from behind his massive polished oak desk to greet me – hand extended for a shake, perfect white teeth in a curved-up, ear-to-ear half-moon.

I ignore his hand and swing hard and fast, first knocking him to the floor, then grabbing him by the collar to hoist and punch him again.

Flashes catch my eye as Willis rises and falls with each punch, and I realize his jewelry, from that Rolex Navigator watch he never leaves home without, to the diamond-encrusted cross he wears around his neck, have broken, and bits and pieces of watch band and stones are flying across the room.

Willis manages to escape me momentarily and runs behind his desk. I assume it's to either retrieve a weapon or push a silent alarm button, which is why, without much forethought, I dive across the desk and tackle him. Until that moment, I hadn't worried about the trouble I was sure to be in because I knew that his secretary couldn't hear us in the outer room. Willis had bragged to me the afternoon we'd first met that his office was one hundred percent soundproofed.

"Because when you meet or get on the phone with VIPs as often as I do, you need to be able to assure them complete privacy," he'd explained with a Cheshire cat grin.

Still, his shrieking has me feeling vulnerable, even as I rear back to hit him again.

"Mutha fucka, you tore my handmade suit! You tore my suit!"

I pause, curious that that's what he's most concerned about – his super three hundreds pinstripes. No questions about why I'm pummeling him, no plea for me to stop, just concern for his six thousand dollar Brioni being torn.

I shake my head in disgust and lift him again by his collar.

"Call her," I snarl.

"Who?" He sounded genuinely bewildered, so I elaborate.

"You get on the intercom and tell your secretary-mistress in your most practiced calm voice that an urgent matter came up, that we're discussing it, and that we might be a while, so she should cancel your afternoon appointments. And then, to put her at ease, you're going to tell her to bring us two cups of coffee and a pot of hot water and tea. And when your security monitor shows her about to enter, you're going to step into that fancy restroom you have hidden behind that wall of books, so she can't see you. And you're going to call out to her that we're all set and won't be needing anything else – that she can head home a little early if she likes."

Willis's face suggests he'll comply, even as his body stiffens in defiance, and I know it is time to tell him why.