Long Lost - James Scott Bell Page 0,6
to see.”
The finality in her voice was like a hook, deep in fish guts, being ripped out. It almost took Steve’s breath away.
He saw a young woman emerge from the back of the office building. She appeared to be looking for someone. He turned his back on her.
“I’m sitting here with half my office out on the street!” Steve said. “I need to get a trailer, get this stuff moved, get some money so I can convince the guy to let me back in. I’m maxed out on the cards, nothing in the bank. Nothing. I haven’t even been paid by my client yet, and I’m almost through with the trial.”
“Steve—”
“I’m a mess, Ashley, and you’re the only one I ever had in my whole life who could put up with me. Can’t we just—”
“We’re a mess,” she said. “We’re not good for each other.”
“I’m just asking”—he looked behind and saw the woman staring at him. She was early twenties, wore her copper-colored hair tightly back. Her black glasses and gray suit gave off a definite professional air. So why was she looking at him?—“for a loan, basically. And one dinner together. Just to talk. No pressure—”
“I can’t do it, Steve. I can’t forget what it was like. I tried that once and it bit me.”
The time he stole a hundred dollars from her purse for a fix. He remembered that clearly. Bad, real bad. “Please—”
“Don’t call me again, Steve. We’ve managed to settle amicably and I want to keep it that way.”
“Ashley, don’t—”
She clicked off. Steve dropped his hands to his sides and bowed his head. Eyes closed, he tried to make his brain find a file marked It’ll Be Okay. But it was gone. Snatched and tossed into the fire pit of lost hopes.
The woman in the parking lot said, “You’re not Steve Conroy, are you?”
3
He whipped around and faced her. “Who are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Tell me what you want and why you know my name. And make it fast, because I’ve got—”
She held up a sheet of paper. “Sienna Ciccone.”
“Ciccone?” It sounded familiar. “Ciccone . . .”
“Like Madonna.”
“Madonna?”
“That was her original last name.”
“You a singer?”
“Law student.”
Steve shook his head.
“You requested a clerk through DeWitt,” she said. “We were supposed to meet?”
Steve held the bridge of his nose. Tried to form a place where all his thoughts could come to rest and keep his head from exploding. “I made a request through DeWitt?”
“It was on the computer. Could have been there from a long time ago.”
It very well could have been a long time, and he very well could have forgotten. His memory was Swiss cheese then.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a few things I’m dealing with here.”
She nodded and looked at the corner of the parking lot where his office stuff was.
“Yours?” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Tell you the truth, I was sort of hoping for a cubicle.”
“Look Ms. Ciccone, I—”
“Sienna. Call me Sienna.”
“Things have sort of changed since I put out that request.”
“I gathered that.”
“I’ve had a little misunderstanding with my landlord.”
“Then we better straighten it out.”
“We?”
“Did your landlord give you a three-day notice?”
“Uh, no, but I am behind—”
“Let’s get your stuff back inside. What’s your landlord’s number?’ She took a cell phone from her hip, flicked it open with her thumb. Steve didn’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed. Didn’t know if she was full of confidence or just attitude. All he knew for sure was he couldn’t pay her.
“I can’t hire anybody right now,” Steve said.
“I didn’t ask to be hired. I asked what your landlord’s number was.”
“But I—”
A car horn blared. Steve turned, saw he was blocking a Mercedes trying to get in.
“You move your car,” Sienna Ciccone said, “while I call the landlord. Number?”
Steve gave it to her, then moved his car. When he got back to Sienna, she was pacing the parking lot, negotiating with a former Serbian policeman, firmly explaining American law to him—“Have you not heard of unlawful detainer, sir?”—and how it would be worth his while to let Steve put his office back together rather than become a respondent—“It’s called forcible entry, sir.” She also pledged a deposit of rent before Steve could stop her. Not that he would have at that point.
He had no idea what to do. His stuff all over the lot and somebody advocating, actually arguing his case for him. When was the last time anybody had done that? He couldn’t recall.
A few minutes later, the building manager unlocked Steve’s office door, giving him the evil