Second Chance, Chaper Five

Well, I'm up to 20 pages, now, and I reckon I'm pretty much done with the character introductions.  All of the main characters, at least, have been introduced or mentioned, although some are still names only (notably Phil and Mathieu).  As always, I welcome your comments.  Please leave some…

Chapter Five

Lisette stubbed out her cigarette and watched as the wispy tendrils of smoke rose from the ashtray.  She had tried to give up the habit many times over the years, but somehow moments of stress always sent her right back.  There were, she supposed, worse habits, although she would be hard pressed to think of any indulged in by women her age.  When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly strong-not youthful, certainly, but a far cry from the reed-thin elderly voice that you would expect her to have-and there was steel behind it.
“Treasa, get ahold of yourself.  I warned you this would happen.”  There was still a very slight trace of her native French accent in her voice, although she had lived in the US for nearly ninety years, now.  It was the one part of her origin that she had been unable to utterly eradicate over the years.  But Treasa was gabbling on, and Lisette had to work to pay attention.  It was not as easy as it once had been.
“But she is your first-born, isn’t she?  I know about your son, yes, but he was cut from you.”  Certainly modern medicine wouldn’t recognize any difference, but it was apparent that the rules that governed the ancient mysteries had little care for the opinions of science.  For such an intelligent woman, Treasa could be remarkably dim.  It probably comes from all that science she stuffs her head with, Lisette thought nastily.
She kept up her part of the conversation, only half-listening.  She would have to get that grimoire, again.  If only the original hadn’t been lost in a fire some fifty years ago.  Hopefully Philémon would be able to track it down for her.  He was a good boy, if a little green, and helpful to his elders.  She liked that.  Something Treasa said got her attention.
“No!  You tell Mathieu nothing, do you hear?  He still has his role to play, as do you.
“I have to go now.  It’s time,” she spat, “for my walkies.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.  Do I know you?”  Dicey stared at the well-dressed young woman standing on the other side of her apartment door.
“No.  I am Taliba Koudinya.  I got your name from Detective Francisco?”  Taliba spoke with a mild Arabic accent, although Dicey certainly couldn’t guess from which country specifically.  She was of middling height, slender without being particularly athletic- Dicey associated the build with women who lost weight due to stress rather than exercise- and had lustrous black hair and eyes.  She wore a loose bandana, and Dicey suspected this was indicative of some religious conviction, although she wasn’t positive.
“I see.  Ms. Koudinya, then.  What can I do for you?”
“Actually, it’s doctor.  I understand that neither you nor your sister had any sort of physical exam after the incident Saturday night?”
“Not that I recall, no.”
“I would like to examine the both of you, then.  I am concerned because the reports I saw indicated that your sister may have received a severe blow to the head.”
“In that case, why don’t you come in?  I’m expecting Detective Francisco, shortly, though, so I hope that won’t pose a problem.”
“It shouldn’t,” Taliba smiled.  “Detective Francisco researches crime.  My field is medicine.  They overlap, but are hardly the same.”
Doctor Koudinya peered curiously around the apartment as Dicey led her inside.  It was not particularly spacious, consisting of a small living room that was directly off the entrance, a kitchenette area that barely qualified for the name although, to be fair, it didn’t look as if it saw much use in any case, and a small hallway that led to three closed doors, one of which must’ve been the bathroom.  Dasia was seated on a small couch, watching television-apparently a movie, because it didn’t appear to be the usual afternoon drivel.
Dicey made the introductions, then busied herself in the kitchenette making coffee.  Taliba set her bag on the floor and turned to Dasia.  It was immediately apparent to Doctor Koudinya that the nose was broken- Dasia’s pretty face peered at her through raccoon-like eyes, and there was fairly significant swelling.  Taliba winced slightly.  “Oh, ouch!  I’ll bet that hurts.”
“It’s not too bad, really, except if I touch it.  Dicey’s been making me ice it pretty regularly, and she gave me an extra pillow.”
“Uh huh.  That’s good.  I’m going to suggest you take some acetaminophen, too.  You’re pretty small, so I don’t want you taking more than one tablet every four hours, but that should help with both the pain and the swelling.
“Now,” she said rummaging in her bag, “I want to have a look at your eyes.”
Taliba checked Dasia for signs of concussion and wrote some notes, then turned to Dicey.  “The bad news is that your sister’s nose is broken.  What you’ve been doing is good home care, but if the swelling hasn’t gone down by tomorrow, I want you to take her in to a hospital immediately.
“I don’t see any signs of concussion, at this point, but sometimes symptoms can remain undiscovered for a few days.  Keep an eye on your sister.  If she starts vomiting or seems unusually tired or confused, take her to the emergency room, then call me.  I’m going to give you my pager number, and I want you to keep it with you at all times.  Are we clear?”
“Yes, doctor.”  Dicey felt somewhat cowed by this woman’s sudden tone of command.
“Good.  Now, I want to examine you, as well.  The reports indicated that you had somehow escaped without injury, but I want to be certain.  Is that alright with you?”
“Um, okay…”  There was another knock at the door.  “Just a minute, doctor.  That’s going to be Detective Francisco.”
After showing Detective Francisco in, Dicey had to admit that it was starting to get a bit cramped in her living room.  Part of that was simply that the room wasn’t meant to accommodate four adults comfortably, but part of it was that the detective was an imposing woman in her own right, with a presence that commanded respect well beyond the physical confines of her body.  She was wearing a tailored black suit, Dicey noticed, cut generously to disguise her rather larger than average torso and legs.  Dicey wondered if she was wearing a gun, and then decided she almost certainly was.
After introducing the detective, Dicey turned back to the doctor.  “Okay.  I guess we ought to get this over with, huh?”
“Yes.  This shouldn’t take long.  I just have a few general questions, and I want you to tell me about anything that you may have noticed since your fight that maybe you didn’t notice at the time.”  The entire exam was over in minutes, during which time Dasia spoke with Detective Francisco.  Dicey didn’t mention the bruise on her right shoulder and the doctor didn’t mention how she seemed to be favoring it.
Afterwards, Doctor Koudinya thanked both Dicey and Dasia for their time, packed her bag, and left.  Dicey offered Detective Francisco some coffee.
“Thanks, that sounds great,” she smiled, “and call me Jodi, since I’m not here in an official capacity.”  They sat down in the living room and began to go over the story yet again.
“Just a second, Ms. Boudreaux-” Jodi began.
“Dicey.”
“Fine.  Dicey- before you say anything about the case, I want to remind you that I am not your lawyer, and I may be called on to testify to anything you say to me.”
“Okay…”
“You understand what I’m telling you?  What you tell me cannot be held in confidence.”
“Fair enough.”  Dicey took a sip of her coffee.
“Say,” Jodi commented, “I didn’t know you were left handed.”
“Me?  I’m not,” Dicey chuckled.  “I just pulled a muscled in my shoulder yesterday at the gym, so I guess I’m favoring it a bit.”  She tried hard to ignore the sharp look Dasia gave her.
From there, the topic returned to the events of Saturday night, beginning with the concert.  Jodi was a skilled interrogator, and asked good questions to help both Dasia and Dicey focus in on the events as they had unfolded.  After awhile, having exhausted their memories, the conversation shifted and, Dicey was relieved to notice, relaxed.
As it was starting to get on into evening, Jodi offered to buy a pizza for dinner and Dicey was more than happy to accept.  Dasia returned to her movie while Jodi and Dicey talked.  Dicey was a little surprised to discover that Jodi was only a few years older than she was- the air of authority that she projected was so powerful that Dicey had her pegged for early thirties- but not at all surprised to learn that Jodi was something of a gym rat.  For her part, Jodi was amused to learn that Dicey was related to Phil Boudreaux, a karateka she’d met several years earlier in a competition in Pennsylvania.  Jodi studied judo and boxing, herself, so they had met tangentially, while both of them were waiting for their events to start, but Jodi had liked the quiet, shy boy and had been impressed when he not only took first in his forms division, but also decimated his sparring matches.  She was a bit surprised to learn that Dicey had not taken up martial arts along the way as well, but, as Dicey explained, she had never really felt the desire or the calling- at least, not until recently.  Jodi laughed at that and invited Dicey to stop by her dojo.

Kamari Pakravan glanced through the notes his secretary brought him.  Most of the information was culled from tabloid reports and worth considerably less than the paper it was printed on, although it was useful to keep an eye on just to help predict markets.  One item caught his attention, however- a police report from some godforsaken Midwestern state (Kamari knew where Michigan was, but his business-computers-rarely carried him in that direction).  Apparently a girl had, in the process of defending herself, caused massive damage to four armed opponents.  The report said little beyond that, except to note that the girl had not been injured and that none of the men were, as yet, dead.  Kamari circled the report and made a note to give the secretary a bonus for sending it on to him.  He would have to look in to this.

Oh, bugger this, Berry thought.  Little miss in big trouble.  Bad man already got her in his sight and just scoping the distance.  He hoped he would be able to find her in time, but his spirit guides had been remarkably unhelpful on that score to date.  A little girl in the airport lounge tugged at his shoulder.
“Mister,” she began, “are you from Africa?”  Berry grinned at the girl, chuckled lightly before answering.
“No, young miss.”
“But you’re black,” she said, confused.
“That’s right.  I’m from Australia.  D’you know where that is?”
“Is it close to England?”
“Not very, no.”  Apparently satisfied, the little girl turned and disappeared back into the crowd, leaving Berry feeling slightly bemused.  I’m black?  He looked around the crowded airport.  He was hardly the only black man in sight.  He supposed he might look a bit exotic, though.  He was not unusually tall, he thought, although shorter than average for an American, and he was wiry and lean.  His skin was the deep, rich color of the sun shining through dark molasses, and he had the sort of broad, flat face that would look the same in twenty years as it did today.  He wore khaki trousers-Americans called them pants, he reminded himself-and a loose-fitting blousy white shirt.  He supposed the ensemble was what marked him as foreign- most of the travelers wore either business suits or t-shirts, and there was precious little in between.
Chuckling to himself, Berry picked up his bags and headed over to the Avis rentals sign.  I guess I’ll be needing a car.  Time to see where the roads lead me, eh?

“Penny for your thoughts, Nicole.”  Drifter dangled a shiny penny in front of her.
“They’re not worth that much, love,” Nicole sighed.  “I’d have to make change.”
“Seriously.  What’s eating you?  You’ve been all quiet since practice last night.”  Trust Drifter to notice, she thought.
“I don’t know.  I guess I’m a little” …confused… “worried about Dicey.”  That was an understatement.  Dicey had had a variety of boyfriends through college.  She was single, now, but in all the time she’d known her, Dicey had never poached another woman’s boyfriend.  She hadn’t thought Dicey would try to poach a man’s girlfriend, either- her family upbringing had been pretty conservative on that score.
Drifter patted her knee and handed her a beer.  “Is this ‘cause she was a little off last night?”
Nicole wondered how much she could tell him.  Dicey was her friend, but Drifter was her best friend.  “It starts earlier than that,” she began.