Refuge in Dickens

Refuge in Dickens
by Dave Wright

A cool sun hung low in the March sky. It attempted, unsuccessfully, to warm Tom Blankley as he trudged home from the Twisted Taco, his place of dull and uninspiring employment for the past three years. Tom kicked a stone off the sidewalk. He wanted to become a writer, but he was stuck spending hours in a restaurant that smelled of beans and hot sauce. Maybe someday, he could afford a place of his own. He imagined a leisurely life of waking up late, sitting down at a solid-oak desk, cranking out a few pages of mesmerizing prose, and counting his royalties each night before bed.

But for now, he was reasonably content. The apartment he shared with Camille was a little over a mile away. Camille was a redhead—an unusual departure from Tom’s standard fare of blondes and brunettes. He appreciated her caring attitude, but it came with a fiery disposition.

Tom anticipated arriving home to the apartment’s tinkling heat register and Camille’s warm embrace. They had fallen into a routine—he and Camille. He would kiss her on the cheek, pad across the worn woven rug in stocking feet and kick back in her worn recliner. He would ask Camille to bring him a Manhattan. She would laugh from the kitchen and say, “Get your own Manhattan!” A moment later he would hear the ice cubes clink in the glass. She would deliver it with a smile and sit on his lap, her long legs hanging over the arm rest. He would inhale a scent of lilacs. Sometimes she would place his free hand on her thigh and say, “I’ve got an hour before I have to leave for work.”  Sometimes.

Tom hurried along the cobblestone walkway next to Dickens Lake. The sight of his car reminded of why he was walking. His vintage Corvette sat mournfully out of commission next to the curb. He had parked it there under a streetlight when it had started to overheat in hopes that it wouldn’t be vandalized before he could get it repaired. It was a cherry red 1971 C3 convertible with a white retractable top. It had been stranded on the street for the past two weeks—a victim of leaky vacuum hoses and other issues too expensive for Tom’s paltry income. He noticed an envelope stuck under the windshield wiper. Probably a parking ticket, thought Tom as he stuffed it in the pocket of his leather coat. Snow emergency violation, I suppose.

Tom walked to the corner and turned left. Camille’s doorway was the fourth, and final entrance at the end of the old brownstone. All of the black-trimmed windows were shuttered against the evening dusk. A decorative facade hugged the roofline. It could have been an elegant building but for the chips in the brick, the peeling paint on the wrought-iron railings, and the cracks in the steps. The owner had threatened renovation, but Camille had welcomed his procrastination. “It keeps the rent affordable,” she had told him.

Tom walked the length of the building and squinted in the fading light. A battered suitcase lay splayed open below the steps that led to Camille’s—his apartment. His suitcase. A pair of colorful micro-briefs hung from a sprung latch. Two pairs of designer blue jeans clung to its edge. His favorite shirt and his writing journal—one with a keyed clasp—lay huddled in the suitcase having failed to be ejected by the fall. A Twisted Taco uniform sprawled nearby.

Tom instinctively reached for his necklace. A key to his journal and a jump drive hung beneath his shirt. “What now?” he moaned.

He hiked gingerly up the stairs and approached the heavy dark doors that led to the foyer. The window on the second floor flew open. A flash of red hair appeared. “Don’t bother coming up!” shouted Camille. Her freckled face had turned crimson. “Your key is obsolete.”

Tom looked up in confusion. “Why? What’s going on?”

****

Camille had met Tom six months earlier at the Hefty Horseman, a sports bar and grill that blared a continuous stream of football, basketball or baseball depending upon the season. She had taken a job as a waitress. Most of her customers were men wearing suspenders and unkempt beards, so the well-groomed young man who walked into the bar caught her eye. She straightened her black miniskirt, adjusted the clinging blouse she was required to wear, and approached the young man’s table.

“What’ll you have?” she asked after wiping a few crumbs from his booth.

“A Bud Light and the Hefty Burger special,” said the young man. He swept a lock of black hair from his forehead. “You new here?”

“Started about a week ago,” said Camille. “Just finding my way around.”

The young man extended a hand. “I’m Tom Blankley—lived here all my life.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Camille.

Tom leaned back in his booth. “Maybe I could show you around sometime.” He flashed a smile of perfect teeth.  

“Maybe another time,” said Camille.

Camille was used to this kind of attention and was wary of the blatant come-ons that she encountered as a waitress. As she returned to the kitchen, she muttered to herself, “Nice looking, but too forward. They’re all alike.”

Camille served Tom another beer as the Vikings struggled in the fourth quarter. When they missed a field goal to lose the game, Tom asked Camille for his check. “See ya’ around?” It sounded like an invitation.

“Sure. Maybe.”

Camille did not want to make the same mistake that she had made with Reggie, her former boyfriend. She checked Tom’s Facebook page—nonexistent; she asked her manager about him—employed, managed a Twisted Taco restaurant; she talked to a couple waitresses who worked with her—Tom had had a number of girlfriends around town, owned a nice car, otherwise harmless.

After a month of living in Dickens by herself, Camille began to question her decision to move there. She had grown up on the West Coast where a winter day meant cloudy and fifty degrees. Spring was slow to arrive in Dickens, and she had heard horror stories of minus fifty a few months earlier. She was used to big city living with friends who used the word, ‘like’ in every sentence. In Dickens, every conversation was peppered with ‘ya’ know.’

Dickens had a population of ten thousand—big enough for its own police department, a bank, a hospital, and its own school district, but still small enough that whenever a new customer arrived at the Hefty Horseman, all heads turned. Camille had trouble finding like-minded friends.

Tom Blankley dined regularly at the Hefty Horseman and always sat at the same table. He carried a West Coast appeal that reminded Camille of home. She admired his perpetual day-old shadow and his cleft chin that softened his otherwise angular features. Tom wore designer jeans and zip-up Amiris. Every other man in the bar wore work jeans and Redwings.

It was about a month after Camille had first met Tom when she approached his table to take his order. “You’re later than usual tonight, Tom,” said Camille.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Had to close tonight. One of my staff called in sick.”

“That’s the way it goes in this business,” said Camille. Then she added, “We’re lucky to be fully staffed tonight.”

“I’m still available for that tour of Dickens, if you’re interested,” said Tom. “My tour bus is a ’71 Corvette. The ride itself will be worth your while, even if the tour is boring.”

Camille gave him a dimpled smile. “I’d like to learn a little more about the town. I’m off in an hour,” she said. “I could use a ride home, too. It could be a cold walk.”

Camille cleared her last table, collected her tips for the evening and told Tom she’d meet him in the parking lot.

“Nice wheels,” said Camille as she slipped into the passenger seat. “You must do all right.”

Tom smiled and shrugged. “I’ll be doin’ a lot better soon.”

“Oh? How’s that?”

“I’m in line for an inheritance,” said Tom. “The car is just a down payment.”

“Sweet,” said Camille. She brushed her red curls from her eyes and looked at him attentively. “How long have you had the ’vette?”

“It was a high school graduation gift from my father,” said Tom. He turned the key and the engine roared to life. “It was my father’s pride and joy. The car rolled off the assembly line the same year he was born.  He thought I should keep it as an investment.”

Tom put the car in gear and grinned. “Investment! Ha! Why would a beauty like this waste away in a six-stall garage? As a kid, the only time I saw it was at car shows or parades.”

“Six-car garage and a Corvette for a graduation gift,” marveled Camille. “I got a whole life policy and a Schwinn bike for my graduation.” She sat back in the seat. “I cashed in the whole life policy, sold the bike, and moved out. Couldn’t wait to leave home.”

“Where did you move from?” asked Tom.

“L.A.,” chuckled Camille. “Bad choice. I thought I wanted to be an actress. Turns out every other person has the same plan—but I found I could make plenty of money as a waitress.”

“What could possibly have made you leave L.A. and come to live in Dickens?” said Tom.

“Good question. My ex-boyfriend. I doubt Reggie would follow me here. Why would anyone leave balmy southern California for the mosquitos and snowstorms of Minnesota?”

“Love?” suggested Tom.

“What we had was definitely not love,” said Camille.

“I’m relieved,” said Tom.

Camille smiled. “So, who needs to die so that you can get your inheritance?”

“My old man," said Tom as he looked over his shoulder and pulled away from the curb. “He’s already dead. He croaked the night of my high school graduation.”

“Oh!” said Camille, startled at Tom’s abrupt announcement. “Sorry…I think.” She paused. “You don’t sound very sad.”

“No need to pity me,” he said. “That was three years ago. I took the car out for a spin right after graduation. When I returned home, it was pretty late. The house was empty. I hadn’t bothered to check my phone. A text from my mother said, ‘We are at Reagent’s Hospital. Your father had a heart attack.’”

Tom cruised Main Street pointing out the bank, the pharmacy, and the Corner Coffee, then turned toward the lake. “I didn’t know him that well. He was always busy with his work. He left me this car and a measly allowance—that is, until I turn twenty-one—just a few more months and half the trust will be mine—assuming my mother hasn’t spent it all.”

“So, how did your family make their money?”

“My father owned a chain of Twisted Taco restaurants. When he died, my mother sold all but one of the restaurants and put the proceeds into the trust. She still owns the restaurant in town.” Tom shifted gears. “She got an income, and I got a job—I’ve been manager the last couple years.”

Camille’s blue eyes glittered in the streetlights. “Sounds fair enough,” she said.

“I don’t know,” said Tom. “Mother went on a buying spree after my father died—remodeled the house, new furniture, new wardrobe. Then a year later, a new husband. I moved out and he moved in.”

Camille said, “I take it you don’t like your mother’s new husband.”

“She married my father’s best friend,” replied Tom bitterly. “Guess he’s a hedge fund manager or something like that. Claims to work with big money. That’s about all I know.”

“Do you stay in touch with them?” asked Camille.

“Didn’t even attend the wedding,” said Tom. “Didn’t get an invitation.”

“That’s too bad,” said Camille, “but you’ve still got your manager’s job.”

“It barely pays minimum wage.”

“Why don’t you find another job?” asked Camille. “You could work at the Hefty Horseman and earn twice that much with the tips.”

“Part of the deal,” said Tom. “Mother insists that I stay on as manager until I can collect from the trust—but I’d rather be a writer. Tom brightened. “I’m sure I’ll be published any day now. I’ve already submitted a few stories.”  

“What do you write?”

“Still mostly gathering material,” Tom said as he downshifted to second. “You’ve probably heard, ‘Write what you know?’”

“Yes,” said Camille. “I think it’s called a cliché.”

“Don’t be a smart ass.” Tom turned the corner. “Anyway, I’m writing about what I know.”

He pointed to a compact white building with a drive-through window. “The Twisted Taco is there on the left.” A yellow sign boasted, “Take on a Twisted Taco!”

“Catchy phrase,” said Camille.

“Mother’s idea,” said Tom. “She doesn’t believe in wasting money on an ad agency.”

Camille laughed. “It’s getting late,” she said. ‘Why don’t we finish the tour tomorrow? For now, let’s have a nightcap at my apartment. It’s only about a mile from here.”

Camille invited Tom to move in the next week. Six months later she was railing at him from her second-floor window. “You didn’t tell me you have a pregnant girlfriend!”

****

“What do you mean, pregnant girlfriend?” said Tom from the sidewalk below.

“You know…Sophia—that Mexican chic from the restaurant,” shouted Camille from her open window. “What an asshole.”

“She’s Honduran,” muttered Tom, “and she’s not my girlfriend. Who told you that she was?”

“She did. She stopped by this morning. It was pretty obvious that she’s pregnant. Looked to me like she was about ready to pop. She left this for you.” Camille waved a scrap of paper out the window.

“What the hell?” shouted Tom. “What does she want?”

“Sophia told me the baby’s yours.” Camille dropped the paper and watched it float to the ground.

“I can explain, Camille,” shouted Tom. “Let me in.”

“No need to explain,” said Camille as she put her hands above her head to close the window. “By the way, you owe me a month’s rent.”

The window slammed shut. Tom picked up the note, gathered the scattered bits of clothing, and stuffed them into the suitcase. Then he closed the lid and walked slowly back to his stalled Corvette. He threw the suitcase in the trunk and tried to get comfortable behind the wheel. He turned on the interior light and unfolded the note from Sophia.

Tom groaned, “I thought we had an arrangement.”

****

Sophia Alfrenzo, like Camille, met Tom in a restaurant. Three years earlier she had just finished her training at the Twisted Taco in Coldstone, a small town a few miles from Dickens. Her first customer was a handsome young man with dark, wavy hair.

“Hola…I mean hello,” said Sophia.

Sophia had been trained to look her customers in the eye, but the young man’s smile was disarming. “Can I help you?” she said as she lowered her eyes.

“Don’t believe we’ve met,” said the young man. “I’m Tom Blankley. How long have you worked here?”

“I am Sophia,” she said shyly. “I am here since two weeks.”

 Tom smiled at her English. “I’m here to pick up a box of tacos that were delivered to the wrong address.”

Sophia noticed that Tom wore the same red and white striped shirt that she was wearing. “You work here too?” she asked.

Tom laughed. “I’m from the Twisted Taco in Dickens.”

That evening Sophia began her correspondence with her father, Pedro, who still lived in her home village of Wampusirpi, Honduras. She had learned English from missionary teachers, but she was more comfortable writing in Spanish.

Dear Papa,                                                                            June 2013
           I arrived in America safely and have started working at a small taco restaurant in Coldstone, Minnesota. The tacos are nothing like the ones I make for you at home, but I am learning to like them.
           I met a young man at the restaurant today. He is very handsome and drives a nice car. He works at the Twisted Taco restaurant in Dickens. He is machismo like the boys back home. I like him. I hope I can work with him in his restaurant sometime.                                                                                     Love, Sophia

My Dearest Sophia,                                                                September 2013
           I miss you so much, but it is good that you are in America. The Honduran government still comes to Wampu to demand taxes. They give us nothing but fear in return. They get so little from us, maybe they will soon get tired of coming here.
                                                                                                Your loving father, Pedro         

Dear Papa,                                                                            March 2014
           Winters here are so cold. The boarded houses without insulation that we live in at home would not work here. The wind would whistle through the floors and freeze us solid. The house that Mr. Martinez found for us is nice, but we wear our winter coats most of the time—even when we are inside.
           I found out that the handsome young man I met at the restaurant is Tom Blankley. He is Hal Blankley’s son. Hal and his mother owned the restaurants, but Hal died soon after I arrived in America. Tom told me that his mother sold all of the Twisted Taco restaurants except the one in Dickens. I told Tom that I was afraid of losing my job, but he said he will try to get me transferred to Dickens.
                                                                                                Love, Sophia

My Dearest Sophia,                                                                August 2014
           It is lucky you got your education and learned English when you did. The school in Wampu is now closed, and the missionaries have moved away. We are worse off than ever. Even though it was very expensive, I am thankful that Mr. Martinez arranged for you to get a job in America.
                                                                                                Your loving father, Pedro         

Dear Papa,                                                                            November 2014
           Tom has arranged for me to work with him at the Twisted Taco in Dickens! I can walk to work and do not have to ride with the girls who still drive to Coldstone every day.
           Mr. Martinez has also been very helpful. He has been taking a hundred dollars a week from our paycheck, but he is keeping it for us so that we will have the money we need when we want to become American residents.
                                                                                                Love, Sophia

My Dearest Sophia,                                                                 April 2015
           The Honduran officials keep asking about you. They say, “Where is that little girls of yours? You should have sent her to a government orphanage.”
           I have heard about those orphanages. The girls are separated from their families. They are molested by those in charge, and many ended up as prostitutes. I cannot stand the thought of losing you to this fate. I tell them that you left for the city to find work.
           You are better off in America.
                                                                                                Your loving father, Pedro         

Dear Papa,                                                                            June 2015
           I think I am in love with Tom Blankley. He is manager at the restaurant and makes the schedule so that we always work together. He broke up with his latest girlfriend and needed a place to stay, so I invited him to move in. He will share the rent with me and the other girls from Honduras. He drives me home in his Corvette. It is a bright red convertible. I feel like I am flying in the wind when I ride with him.
           I only have a year left on my work visa. Some of us are behind in our payments to Mr. Martinez because we have not gotten a raise since we arrived, and food is very expensive. Mr. Martinez becomes quite angry if we do not have money when he stops to collect his payment.
           I know of some girls who have found another way to stay in America. They have found husbands. Maybe I will be one of them.
                                                                                                Love, Sophia

My Dearest Sophia,                                                                August 2015
           A stranger came to my house early today and told me that you have not been keeping your end of the bargain while you are in America. He said that he works for Rodriguez Martinez. He said that if you do not make your payments, he will return and collect the money from me—or else.
           I am frightened for both of us.
                                                                                                Your loving father, Pedro         

Dear Papa,                                                                            September 2015                        Tom has been living with me all summer. We have a surprise for you next spring. I will do everything I can to make my payments to Rodriguez. Try not to worry.
                                                                                                Love, Sophia

A month after Sophia had written this letter to her father, Tom left Sophia and moved in with Camille.

****

The dome light in Tom’s Corvette was beginning to dim. He squinted at the note that Camille had dropped from the window of the apartment:

I am without a job. I am due to deliver a baby, and I am about to be deported. I need a ring or more money. Sophia

A light rain had turned to sleet. Tom shivered and wrapped his arms around his black leather jacket. He felt the envelope in his pocket that had been under his windshield wiper. I wonder how much this ticket will cost me? he thought as he tore open the envelope. This is no parking ticket! It was a note signed by a man named Rodriguez.

Tom hunched against the rain and began his trek to the mill house where Sophia was living and where Tom had lived until he moved in with Camille.

He thought about all the women who had put him up since high school. There was his mother, of course. He had nursed that teat long after it had gone dry. She had brutally weaned him a year after graduation. “I’m sick and tired of picking up after you and all those girlfriends you drag home,” she had said. “I’ve got enough on my plate now that your father is gone—and you’ve been no help.” She had confronted him late one morning when he had arrived at the breakfast table, yawning and disheveled. She held up a couple of mementos she had found in his bedroom from a tryst earlier in the week. She squeezed them delicately between her thumb and forefinger. “I’ve thrown away your last used condom and the last pair of skimpy panties that litter your room,” she said with a revolting look. “It’s time you take responsibility for yourself. You’ve got a job and a car. Get out.”

Tom had never been good at making decisions, but he hadn’t needed to. An easy answer had always appeared. When his mother had kicked him out, Sandy eagerly invited him to stay with her. Six months later, when Sandy griped about him never being home in time for dinner, he left and moved in with Rachel. Rachel evicted him six months later after finding out about Sophia. Six months, thought Tom. The length of my relationships. After that they think they own me.

Tom arrived at the mill house dripping wet. His ankle-high leather boots squeaked with every step as he mounted the wooden steps. Chips of yellow paint littered the sidewalk. He pulled open the torn screen door, entered the porch and knocked on the door. Sophia answered with eyes as wet as Tom’s. “Hola.”

Tom stepped into the familiar chill of the house that had originally been built for loggers and mill workers. On his left was the living room. A faded couch slouched against the near wall. An old television stared at it from the far-left corner. Two doors led from the living room to bedrooms on either side of a bathroom. On his right, a red Formica-topped table surrounded by spindle chairs filled the cramped dining room. Beyond the dining room, fir cupboards with worn varnish hovered above a porcelain sink in a galley kitchen.

Tom brushed past Sophia and threw his jacket on one of the spindle chairs. “What’s this about demanding a wedding or more money?” he asked. “I thought this was all settled.”

“It is not settled,” said Sophia. “It is a terrible arrangement. You know it! Two thousand a month was a gold mine—until you fired me.” She winced and put her hand to her belly. “You made me leave when I could not fit in my uniform.”  

“I told you I’d pay for an abortion,” said Tom brusquely.

“I cannot have an abortion!” stormed Sophia. “My father would kill me.”

“I didn’t want you to become pregnant,” Tom said. “I wore protection.”

“Well, protection does not always work,” said Sophia. She would not tell him that she had made a pin cushion of all his preservativos.

“What more do you want?” said Tom, “and who is Rodriguez?” Tom gave Sophia the note he had signed. “This was attached to my car this afternoon.”

Sophia is four months past due on her payments. Pay up or her father is in trouble. Rodriguez

Sophia looked up from the note. “I think you knew,” said Sophia. “Rodriguez find workers for your father.”

“I knew my father had some type of business connection in Honduras,” said Tom, “but he never explained it to me.”

Sophia pressed her hands on her back and sat down on a chair next to Tom. “Rodriguez promised us visas, jobs, benefits, good house…and if we work hard, he tell us we can live here permanently. At the time my father and me—we cannot believe our luck. Rodriguez make it sound so good. My father pay Rodriguez thirty-five hundred dollars plus a thousand more for my travel.” Sophia shook her head sadly. “That was two years’ income in Honduras! He had to, how you say…mortgage our property and sell his motorbike—all for me.” Sophia put her head in her hands. “He thought this the only way.”

“What’s this about past due payments?’” asked Tom.  

“Rodriguez promised to pay rent, but after we here, he says, ‘I need a hundred dollars a week from each of you in case you leave your job.’ He says not to tell anyone. He said we get it back when we apply to live here permanently.” Sophia slumped in her chair. “My visa soon three-years old, so I ask him for my money. He laughs and says, ‘No deal. You no longer working. You miss your payments. The money no longer yours.’”

Tom looked away. “What’s going to happen to your father?”

“Honduras has highest murder rate in the world,” she sobbed. “You figure it out.”

“Has Rodriguez been harassing you the entire time you have been here?”

“He came about once a month,” said Sophia, “mostly after late-night shift, but never when you were here. The first couple years, he was nice—but he always want his money. When we cannot pay, he tells us we be deported. He come here again soon.”

Sophia looked at the door. “Two guys from immigration—they came today.”

“What did they want?”

Sophia began to cry. “The ICE police—they arrested my roommates. They say I am next to be deported. I tell them my visa is still good. They ask to see my papers. I tell them my papers at the Twisted Taco. I get them tomorrow.”

“Well shit,” said Tom, running his hand through his hair. “We don’t have any of your papers at the Twisted Taco.”

“I know,” said Sophia. “Rodriguez has them. I am frightened.”

There was a knock at the door. “I bet that is him,” said Sophia.

“Go into the bedroom and lock the door,” said Tom as he got to his feet. 

Tom watched her slip into the bedroom, then he opened the front door. He was greeted by a short, muscular man with obsidian hair. Despite the March chill, the man wore only a tight-fitting T-shirt, black jeans, and cowboy boots. “Hola,” said the man as he showed off a gold incisor. “I am here to speak with Sophia.”

“Who are you?” said Tom. “I’m Tom Blankley. Sophia is not here.”

“I know who you are,” said the man. “Your father told me all about you. My name is Rodriguez Martinez. I worked for your father—bless his departed soul.” Rodriguez crossed himself and walked past Tom into the living room. “Nice car you’ve got.” He smiled again. “Did you get my note?”

“Yes. I got your note, but my father never mentioned you,” said Tom. “I just found out that you have been forcing my employees to pay you money.”

“Ah, the deposit,” said Rodriguez, “The money I collect from these poor girls is theirs as long as they remain employed and continue to make their payments to me. As you know, Sophia was sacked four months ago. She has missed every payment since.”

“What about the other girls who lived here? They were Twisted Taco employees too. ICE picked them up today.”

“That is too bad,” shrugged Rodriguez. “They must not have had their papers in order.”

“Sophia says you have her immigration papers,” said Tom. “She still has a month left on her visa.”

“Those papers are collateral,” my young friend. “You are a businessman like your father. No? You must understand ‘collateral.’ I keep their papers and the deposit so the girls keep their jobs. If they run away, they are no longer here legally.”

“I know what collateral is,” replied Tom, “but I am also familiar with blackmail.”

“This whole matter can be settled once I see Sophia,” said Rodriguez. His eyes darted around the room. “I think you are lying, my friend. She must be here.”

“I told you, Sophia is not…”

Rodriguez pulled a switch blade from his hip pocket and waved it menacingly. “God damn it. Get out of my way!”

He delivered a kick to the bedroom door. The lock splintered and Rodriguez barged into Sophia’s room. Tom followed. It was empty. A window that opened to the back of the house had been left ajar. Rodriguez pushed Tom aside and rushed out of the house.

A cold mist had replaced the rain. Tom pulled on his coat and circled the house. There was no sign of Sophia or Rodriguez. He walked several blocks in each direction. Still no sign. Tom returned to the house and dialed Camille’s cell phone.

“Camille, you have to help me,” he pleaded.

“She’s safe,” said Camille, and hung up.

****

As soon as Sophia had heard that it was Rodriguez, she threw on her coat, grabbed her purse, and squeezed through the bedroom window. It was only a few feet from the windowsill to the ground. As soon as she found her footing, she tried to pull the window shut, but the rain had made the wood frame sticky. She left it with a two-inch gap and raced into the alley.

Where can I go? she thought as she spun around. My closest friends are on the way to Honduras. Camille…Maybe she will let me stay the night.

Sophia was no stranger to running or hiding in the dark. Wampusirpi was a tiny village on the Miskito Coast of Honduras. Wampu, as the locals called it, had been ignored by the government. It received no government services—no public schools, no running water, and certainly no electric lights.

Sophia’s mother had died of malaria when Sophia was six years old, leaving her father, Pedro to care for her. Pedro was a carpenter and eked out a living for the two of them by making rough furniture and doing repairs for the neighboring fincas. As Sophia grew older, she helped her father. She held boards for him when he cut them to length. She hauled water from the Patuca River. She cooked their meals over an open fire. And she tidied their one-room home—a wooden shed that stood above the ground on stilts—necessary to keep the snakes and roosters where they belonged.

Despite these daily demands, Pedro insisted that Sophia attend the school that was run by a couple of missionaries. By the time she was twelve years old, Sophia had become reasonably fluent in English.

That was the year the Honduran government sent a posse of officials to Wampusirpi. They arrived in uniform carrying assault rifles and went house to house demanding that everyone pay taxes. Pedro, like most of his neighbors had little money, so the soldiers took Pedro’s tools, leaving him one hammer, one saw and a chisel. They also asked about Sophia. Where was her mother? How could Pedro, a single man, take care of a young, beautiful girl like Sophia? They told Pedro that a government orphanage would be better for her than living in the poverty of Wampusirpi.

After the first couple of government visits, the village posted sentries upriver. Whenever a boatload of uniformed men approached, a signal was sent to the village. Pedro hid his tools in a box buried in his garden; the villagers hid their food under their homes; and Sophia melted into the jungle. They managed this routine until Sophia turned eighteen when Rodriguez Martinez arrived in Wampusirpi to make his generous offer.

Sophia ran through the back alleys of Dickens to the brownstone apartment she had visited earlier that day. She pushed the button below Camille’s mailbox.

“Who is it?” came the voice over the intercom.

“I am sorry to bother you. It is Sophia.” She was breathing hard while she waited. “I am being chased by a man,” she pleaded. “Can you let me in?”

“Who’s chasing you? Is it Tom?”

“No!” said Sophia as she looked over her shoulder. “Please let me in. I can explain.”

“Oh, alright.”

Sophia ran up the flight of stairs and knocked lightly on Number 205 for the second time that day. Camille opened the door. “Who’s chasing you?”

“His name is Rodriguez,” said Sophia. She caught her breath. “He get me my visa and my job, but now he demands money that I do not have. He come to my house tonight. Tom was there.”

“I expected Tom may have paid you a visit,” said Camille with a wry smile. “You’ll be happy to know I delivered your note.”

“Yes. Tom told me.”

Camille offered Sophia the recliner and pulled up a chair next to her. “Now, tell me about Rodriguez and how you and Tom met,” said Camille.

Sophia told Camille how Rodriguez had arranged for her to come to America on a temporary work visa, how she had met Tom at the Twisted Taco, how she had invited him to share her rent—and her bed, and how he left her when she became pregnant.

“Tom didn’t tell me that he was living with another woman when he moved in with me,” said Camille. “I’m sorry.”

“The baby is due anytime now,” said Sophia. “ICE wants to deport me, and Rodriguez wants his money. Can I stay with you tonight? I do not think Rodriguez will find me here.”

“I’ll make up the bed in the other room,” said Camille.

When Camille returned from the bedroom, she sat down next to Sophia again. “I could have been in your position a short time ago,” she said.

“Are you running away from someone too?” asked Sophia.

“I guess you could say that. My parents refused to allow me to get birth control pills. Then I met Reggie—my former boyfriend—when I was seventeen. He assured me that he would take care of the birth control. He wore a rubber every time we had sex. Then he started to complain that it wasn’t good enough—claimed he couldn’t feel everything. Then one night he pulled the rubber off at the last moment. It’s called stealthing. He raved about how good it felt.” Camille shrugged. “It felt no different to me, but I agreed to let him go without it except when I thought I was most likely to get pregnant.”

Sophia listened quietly.

“When I asked Reggie what would happen if I got pregnant,” said Camille, “he just shrugged and said, ‘That’s a big ‘if.’ If that happens, we’ll deal with it later.’”

“Did you become pregnant?” asked Sophia.

“A couple of months later I missed a period and took a home test. I couldn’t tell my parents and I didn’t trust Reggie to help me out, so I drove to Mexico and had an abortion.”

Camille and Sophia sat in silence until Sophia asked, “Do you regret what you did?”

“I think about that decision every day of my life,” said Camille, “but I sure wasn’t ready to take care of a child for the next twenty years—and I know Reggie wasn’t responsible enough to help me.”

“Did Reggie find out?” said Sophia.

“I thought I might have been able to keep it a secret from him, but he demanded to know where I had been when I was gone for the abortion. When I told him I couldn’t have sex with him for a while, he figured it out and asked me straight out. I fessed up and tried to explain that we weren’t ready for children. He got red in the face and screamed, ‘How could you?’ the next thing I knew I was on the floor with my left eye swelling shut. As he was walking out the door, I heard him say, ‘I would have married you.’”

Camille turned to Sophia who had leaned back in the recliner. “After that,” said Camille, “I believe Reggie is the last person in the world I would marry.”

“Is that what brought you here?” asked Sophia.

“I had turned eighteen by then,” said Camille. “The next morning, I loaded my belongings into my Ford Fiesta and pulled out an atlas. Dickens, Minnesota seemed like the last place in the world he would look for me.”

“You are right,” said Sophia. “I cannot imagine that any of my friends from Honduras could find me here either.”

Sophia shifted in the chair trying to find a comfortable position.

“We both seem to be drawn to handsome, irresponsible men,” said Camille. “Why is that?”

Sophia laughed. “Is there any other kind?”

Camille smiled in return. “I suppose they could be ugly and irresponsible.”

“Is that Tom’s computer?” asked Sophia.

“Yes. That’s his,” said Camille. “I didn’t throw it out with his other things—didn’t think it would survive the fall.”

“What does he write?” asked Sophia. “He told me he wants to be a writer, but I never see his work.”

“I took a look,” said Camille. “You don’t want to know.”

Sophia felt a rush of warm water between her legs. She put her hands on her belly. “Oh no! I think it is time.”

****

After spending a fitful night in the house where Sophia had been living, Tom arrived at the Twisted Taco a half hour before opening. A black Suburban pulled into the parking lot. Two men stepped out to introduced themselves. They were wearing jackets with bold-faced lettering on the back: POLICE, and under that ICE.

“I’m Agent McDonald,” said one with a crew cut and a jaw like an anvil.

“And I’m Agent Vance,” said the other, a round-faced man who stood a head shorter than his partner and wore a handlebar mustache.

“Sophia Alfrenzo told us that her immigration papers are here. We need to see them,” said The Anvil.

“Sophia hasn’t worked here for four months,” said Tom. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.” The Anvil frowned. “That’s not what she told us.”

“Are you the manager?” asked The Mustache, looking up from his notebook. “Tom Blankley is it?”

“Yes. That’s me, but like I said…”

The Anvil interrupted him. “Your father is Hal Blankley. Is that correct?”

“Was. Yes. What’s this all about?”

“We think your father may have been extorting money from Honduran women,” said The Mustache. He pulled a sheaf of papers from a brief case that he had set on a table at a corner booth and showed them to Tom. “We have a search warrant for all Twisted Taco restaurants. We need to see all employment records.”

“My father died three years ago,” said Tom. “My mother sold the other restaurants, but she still owns this one. I think she keeps all the records at home.”

“Where does she live?” pressed The Mustache.

“I haven’t seen her for months,” said Tom. “She never comes in as long as I keep making the deposits.” Tom put his hands in his back pockets and shrugged. “Mother has remarried. Her new name is Marge Trimble, but she and her husband still live at our home on the west side of town.” The Mustache scribbled the address in his small notebook.

“Your father had a partner,” said The Anvil. “Do you know a Rodriguez Martinez?”

“A partner?” said Tom. “I can’t believe my father had a partner like him. I met him for the first time last night.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No. Like I said, I just met the man. Is Sophia in trouble? She said her visa is still good for another month.”

“If our records are correct,” said The Anvil, “she has less than a week before she will be deported. It appears she is pregnant too.”

“She’s probably hoping the baby will come soon,” said The Mustache. “It’s our job to save the taxpayers from another freeloader. Now where’s the office?”

Tom led the officials to a small room in the back of the Twisted Taco. “Help yourself.”

After Tom left the restaurant, he walked toward the downtown district of Dickens and called his mother.

****

Marge Trimble answered his phone on the second ring. “Why Tommy, how nice to hear from you,” she said with a tone of cynicism. “I suppose you are calling about your trust fund…or are you calling to apologize for missing my last three birthdays.”

“Sorry Mother. Yes. My twenty-first birthday is coming up, so I am interested in the trust fund, but I have some other things to discuss with you. Can we meet at the Corner Coffee?”

“That could be arranged,” said Marge. “When would you like to get together?”

“Can you be there in fifteen minutes?”

“Oh my. Aren’t you the greedy one. I’ll have to change my hair appointment, but I suppose it is kind of a special day.”

“Thank you, Mother. It’s important.”

“I’m sure it is. I’ll see you soon.”

Tom found a table next to the window overlooking Main Street and sat with his back to the wall. A gas fireplace to his left flickered against a pair of overstuffed chairs that faced it. A collection of landscapes from local artists filled the walls. The only other customer was a woman seated in an opposite corner of the shop hammering away on her computer.

When Marge Trimble walked through the door a few minutes later, the room chilled noticeably. She wore a beige car-coat with a fur collar. Below it was a matching skirt that fit more snugly than Tom had remembered. When she saw Tom, she flipped her perfectly quaffed hair with the air of an aristocrat and approached his table. It looked to Tom like she had no need for a hair appointment.

“Tommy! Have you ordered?” she asked him in greeting.

“No,” said Tom. “I thought I’d wait for you. Have a seat, Mother. What can I get you?”

“I’ll have a Grande Latte—skim milk only,” she said as she shrugged off her coat and hung it on the back of the chair. “No. Make that a double espresso. It sounds like I’d better be on my game for this visit.”

Tom returned with a coffee of the day for himself and set the espresso in front of his mother. “Thank you for meeting me on short notice,” he said. “I’ve discovered some disconcerting news.”

“What could be more disconcerting than getting a phone call from you after all this time? I suppose you’re worried that I drained the trust fund before you could get your greedy little hands on it.” She sipped her espresso and flashed a smug smile at her son before continuing. “Well, I admit that I tried, but your stepfather has done a remarkable job in managing the funds. We’re about back to where we started when I sold the restaurants.”

“That’s comforting,” said Tom, “but please don’t refer to Roy as my stepfather. I barely know the man, and don’t expect me to apologize for forgetting your birthdays. Let me remind you that I haven’t gotten a gift, a card, or a call from you on my birthdays either.”

“You move so often, Tommy,” she said. “How would I know where to send the card?”

“You could always send it to the Twisted Taco. I’m still there you know—just like you insisted.”

“Are you still trying to become a writer, Tommy? I thought maybe you called to tell me you have been published.”

“No, Mother. I’m still not published.”

“Well,” sniffed Marge, “then what is it you wanted to see me about?”

“I met Rodriguez Martinez last night,” said Tom, “and the circumstances were not particularly pleasant.”

“Martinez?” repeated Marge. “What did he want?”

“So, you know him,” said Tom. “He told me that he and Father were in business together.” Tom leaned forward so as not to be heard by the woman in the corner who had gotten up to refill her coffee. “And I just talked to a couple of brutes from immigration who said that Father might have been extorting money from Honduran immigrants.”

Marge’s face went pale. “I don’t know Rodriguez Martinez,” said Marge defensively. “I just know about him. Hal told me about Mr. Martinez just a week before he died.”  

“What did he tell you?” asked Tom.

“Hal only said that Martinez was a recruiter who helped him find employees from Honduras, and that they had been collecting a monthly fee from the girls as a deposit to help them gain permanent residency.”

 “I know about those fees too,” said Tom. “Martinez is still collecting them.”

“It sounded like a nice thing to do,” said Marge, “but on the way to the hospital—when your father was having chest pains—you know, the night of your graduation when you were too busy to return my text messages?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. “Yes. I remember, Mother.”

Tom stared at his mother. Marge stared at her espresso.

“What did Father say?”

“He told me that I should sell the entire chain of restaurants immediately—and to shred the employment records.”

She pulled her coat over her shoulders. “I was worried sick about him,” she said as she leaned toward Tom. “Your father was gasping for air and clutching at his chest. I was racing to the hospital wondering why he would want me to sell the restaurants. When I asked him, he told me that he and Rodriguez hired cheap labor from Honduras—and that he and Rodriguez split the profits they made.”

“Did you shred the records like he told you to?” asked Tom.

“No. I didn’t want to get in trouble with the IRS.”

“Did you look at the employment records?”

“No,” said Marge. "I glanced at the first few pages, but figured the less I knew, the better. I put them in a safety deposit box at the National Bank in Coldstone and have forgotten about them until last week.”

“You suspected that Father had been doing something illegal—and you did nothing?” hissed Tom.

Marge took a Kleenex from her purse and dabbed at her mascara. “Those poor girls,” she said. “I hope they are all right.”

“Of course, they are not all right, Mother. You could have gone to the immigration office or the Department of Labor.”

“And risk losing everything? Or getting fined? Or put in prison? Or having to deal with Rodriguez? I was beside myself after your father died—and you were no help. I put the Twisted Taco restaurants up for sale and broke all ties with Rodriguez. I had hoped that I would never hear his name again.”

Marge shifted in her seat and studied the painting on the wall behind him. “Then last week I had a visit from an FBI agent. He wanted to see those employment records. He told me that he was investigating Rodriguez Martinez for extortion.”

Tom sat up in his seat. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him that he should ask the new owner about those records. I told him that I sold the entire chain of restaurants soon after Hal died, and that the records went with the sale.” She paused. “That seemed to satisfy him. The agent gave me a business card and asked me to call him if I heard from Martinez.”

“May I have that number?” asked Tom. “I expect I’ll see Martinez before you do.”

Tom jotted down the number and sipped his coffee. “Didn’t the new owners want to see the employment records when you sold the restaurants?” he asked.

“They weren’t interested in the least,” said Marge. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Martinez is still working with them.”

“That might be true,” said Tom. He bit his lower lip. “Are those records still in the safety deposit box at the National Bank in Coldstone?”

“Yes,” said his mother.

She pulled a flat key from her purse. “You should take this.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the key to the safety deposit box. You and I are the only ones who have access to it.”

“Why do you want me to have it?” said Tom.

“Roy and I are moving to the Cities, Tom. Roy doesn’t know anything about this, and I don’t want anything more to do with the Twisted Taco.” She thought for a moment and said, “You have managed the restaurant for some time now. Maybe you would like to own it.”

“Thank you, Mother,” said Tom as he looked at the key in his hand. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“I have to go,” said Marge. “My hairdresser is waiting.”

Tom stuck the key in his pocket. “Can you drop me off at Rent-A-Wreck?” he asked.

“Rent-A-Wreck?” asked his mother. “You could damage your reputation.”

“I’m only driving to Coldstone,” he said. Then he called to have the Corvette towed and repaired.

****

Tom entered the Coldstone National Bank and waited impatiently for a clerk to open the walk-in safe. He presented his identification and found the safety deposit box. The clerk inserted the bank key and the one Tom had given him, then turned away to give Tom a private look at the contents. Tom pulled a sheaf of papers from the narrow metal box and set them on the granite table. He shuffled through a pile of innocuous W-2’s.

He was about to give up finding anything of value when he discovered a notarized confession signed by Hal. It explained how Rodriguez Martinez worked for Hal as a middleman to recruit young women from Honduras to work “temporarily” in the U.S. In the document Hal admitted that he had falsified the applications by claiming that he could not find enough local American workers to fill the jobs. That wasn’t true. There were all kinds of local kids willing to work, but Hal could hire these girls at half the regular wage and require them to pay monthly fees—giving them the false impression that the money would eventually assist them in becoming permanent residents.  On the last page Tom found a post-it note. It read, Marge, Call this number if Rodriguez gives you any problems. Ask for Lorenzo. I’m sorry. Hal.

Tom found the number on the back of the note. Area code 612. He thought, That’s in the Twin Cities.

Tom returned the documents to the safety deposit box, locked it, and thanked the clerk. He walked out of the bank and dialed the number.

“Hello, Temp America,” said a voice with a Spanish accent.

“Hello,” said Tom. “May I speak with Lorenzo.”

“Speaking,” said the voice. “How can I help you.”

“This is Tom Blankley—Hal Blankley’s son. I found a note from my father saying that we should call this number if Rodriguez Martinez gave us any problems.”

There was a delay on the phone. “What’s that small-time pimp been up to now?” said Lorenzo. “Has he been bothering your mother?”

“Not my mother,” said Tom, “but it seems he’s been squeezing payments from Sophia Alfrenzo and some other Honduran women who work at the Twisted Taco chain of restaurants. He claims that he is holding it as a deposit, but when the women ask for their money, he threatens them with deportation. What’s the deal?”

“Rodriguez used to work for us,” said Lorenzo with a sigh, “but we fired him three years ago when we found out that he had some sort of a prostitution scheme on the side.”

“A prostitution ring?” said Tom. He shook his head in disbelief. “Did my father have anything to do with that?”

“No. I don’t think so,” said Lorenzo. “That was only Rodriguez’s business. We threatened to turn him in to the FBI if he didn’t shape up. We’re trying to run a legitimate business here at Temp America.”

“Well, he may have given up prostitution, but he definitely has not shaped up,” said Tom. “He threatened Pedro Alfrenzo, Sophia’s father, when she could not come up with the monthly payments he has been demanding.”

“That sleazy sonofabitch,” said Lorenzo. “It’s people like Rodriguez that give us a bad name. I have a man in the area. I’ll have him pay Rodriguez a visit. We’ll remind him that we still have the prostitution evidence, and I’ll tell him you’ll be expecting a visit to make things right. After we’re done with him, I expect he’ll be ready to cooperate.”

Tom smiled. “Thank you, Mr.____?”

“Lorenzo. Just call me Lorenzo. I’ll take care of it in a way that Rodriguez will understand.”

“Before I hang up,” said Tom. “Is there any way that Sophia can get an extension on her work visa? She has been here three years and she is due to be exported. She is expecting a baby soon, and she’s afraid to return to Honduras.”

“Let me give it some thought,” said Lorenzo. “Maybe she would qualify for a humanitarian visa.”

“And her father?” asked Tom. “I’m taking over more management responsibilities at the Twisted Taco in Dickens. I’m looking for a handy man.”

“Tell you what,” said Lorenzo. “After we get this shit sorted out with Rodriguez, I’ll send a new representative from Temp America. Maybe he can get Pedro a temporary work visa.”

“Thank you, Lorenzo,” said Tom. “I look forward to working with you in the future.”

Tom felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket. It was a text message from Camille:

You’re a father. It’s a boy.

****

Tom ran to his rental car—a tan Voyageur Van with a thin layer of rust clinging to each wheel well. Anything but a minivan, he thought as he put the van in gear. He kept his head low as he returned to Dickens and drove past the Twisted Taco. The black Suburban with the ICE agents was no longer lurking outside. The hospital lot was full, so he cruised past and parked about three blocks away next to the lake walkway. Then he ran to the hospital. Out of breath, he pushed through the revolving doors of the hospital. “Where is the maternity ward?” he gasped to the receptionist.

“Are you a relative?” she asked.

Tom paused to consider the question. “Yes. I guess I am.”

“Third floor. Elevator is in the hallway over there, next to the drinking fountain.”

Tom stepped into the elevator and pushed the button. The elevator door opened. Camille sat on the far side of the waiting room staring through the window overlooking the lake. She turned to him, “Nice of you to come,” she said. “Are you here to see your son?”

“I guess,” stammered Tom.

The nurse at the desk overheard the conversation. “Are you the father?” she asked.

“Yes. I am,” said Tom with more confidence than he felt. “Where are they?”

Camille mouthed a whispered, “Way to man up, Tom.”

“Room 310,” said the receptionist. “It’s a few doors down on the right.”

Sophia was nursing a light brown, dark-haired infant. His pink palms eagerly clung to her breast. Sophia looked up and smiled. “This is Lucas Thomas Alfrenzo, an American citizen!” she said triumphantly. “Lucas is my father’s middle name. I hope you do not mind me using yours. Do you want to hold him?”

“I…I don’t know,” said Tom. “I’ve never held a baby before.”

Lucas had fallen asleep with a ring of milk around his lips. Sophia held him next to her shoulder and tapped his back until she heard a burp. She wrapped the blanket around the baby and presented him to Tom.

“Well, he is yours,” said Sophia. “You might want to get used to it.”

Tom gingerly accepted the warm bundle. He felt its light fragility and its heavy responsibility. He recognized the bundle’s hazel eyes and dimpled cleft chin.

Tom held Lucas close to his face. “You’re a handsome little fella,” he whispered, “but you’re not the birthday gift I was hoping for.”

“You have twenty-one years tomorrow,” said Sophia. “You will come into some money. No? That should give us a good start.”

“The kind of us you are thinking about is impossible, Sophia,” said Tom. “Surely you know me better than that.”

Tom gently handed Lucas back to Sophia. “I know I can’t be a proper father—at least not now, but I’ll try to do what’s best for you and the baby.”

Camille had appeared at the door to Sophia’s room and was listening to the conversation.

“What kind of man are you?” demanded Sophia as she snatched the baby from Tom and cradled him in the crook of her arm. “What about Rodriguez, and my father, and those nasty men from ICE? They will deport me in a week, and I must leave the hospital tomorrow. I have no money and no insurance.”

“Is there a place where you can hide for a few days?” said Tom. “I’ll try to help but I need a little more time.”

Camille reached over to Sophia and asked to hold the baby. “We’ll figure something out,” she said as she lifted Lucas from Sophia’s arms.

Camille cooed at Baby Lucas and looked up at Tom. “I’ve been reviewing your writing, Tom. Very descriptive,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

“Did…did you get into my computer?” stammered Tom. “That’s private.”

“As a writer, I would have expected you to be more creative in your password,” said Camille. “Tommy? Come now. I’m sure you could do better than that.”

Tom’s face reddened but most of his documents were kept on the jump drive around his neck. Only his most recent work was on the computer. He turned to leave. “See you tomorrow.”

Lucas’s tiny hand had popped out of his blanket. Camille picked it up and waved with it. “Say bye bye to Daddy.”

Tom shook his head and waved back.

“Before you go,” said Camille. “Here is a letter that was addressed to you. It came yesterday.” Tom stuffed the letter in his jacket pocket and hurried out.

****

After Tom left the hospital, he stopped by the Twisted Taco for a take-out order, dropped off the Voyageur van at Rent-A-Wreck, and returned to the mill house for the night. He slipped off his clothes and climbed into Sophia’s twin bed. He shivered and pulled the blanket up to his neck. He fell asleep staring at peeling wallpaper and inhaling a rose-scented pillow.

Tom woke early on his birthday. He dressed and went into the kitchen. A stained Mr. Coffee machine sat on a counter covered with the same yellow linoleum that was on the floor. Tom filled the coffee maker and listened to it gurgle through the filter. He had poured himself a cup of Folgers when heavy footsteps approached on the porch. Three short knocks followed.

“Who is it?” shouted Tom from the kitchen.

“It’s Rodriguez,” he said through the door. “I need to talk to Sophia.”

Tom went to the dining room where the table was strewn with Twisted Taco wrappers from his evening meal. Tom sat down at the far side of the table before answering Rodriguez. “Sophia’s not here, but the door’s open. Come in.”

Rodriguez stepped into the house with his right arm in a sling. “Where’s Sophia?” he said.

“She is…indisposed at the moment,” said Tom calmly. “Looks like you’ve run into some trouble, Rodriguez.”

“Yes—one of Lorenzo’s men. The sonofabitch threatened to open an old prostitution case if I didn’t cooperate. When I told him I haven’t been into prostitution for years, the bastard yanked my arm ‘til it popped.” Rodriguez grimaced as he held up his bandaged arm. “He said I needed a reminder that Lorenzo was serious.”

Rodriguez rubbed his shoulder. “What is it that you want?” he said, as he stared at Tom.

“Your dabbling in prostitution is not your only problem,” said Tom. “You owe Sophia some money. I had a visit with my mother, and it has come to my attention that we have some interesting documents in our possession.” Tom paused to look for a reaction in Rodriguez’s face. “The FBI is also interested in these documents. They could put you in jail.” The muscles on Rodriguez’s neck tensed.

Tom smiled. “The documents are quite damning—for you, anyway—and my father is no longer in a position to worry.”

“Everything I have done is legal,” shouted Rodriguez.

“That’s not what I hear from the FBI,” said Tom. “They are calling it extortion.”

“Extortion, my ass,” fumed Rodriguez. “That’s a bunch of…”

“What about Sophia’s roommates?” interrupted Tom. “Where were you when they could have used your help? ICE sent them packing to Honduras.”

“They were late in their payments,” said Rodriguez. “I can’t help them if they don’t keep their part of the bargain.” A frown crossed his face. “I think you’re just jacking me around with the bit about the FBI.”

“I have the agent’s number keyed into my phone,” said Tom as he pulled his cell phone from beneath the table and showed it to Rodriguez. “I also have a notarized confession from my father. You’re screwed if you don’t cooperate.”

Rodriguez glared at Tom. “That’s a lie,” he seethed. “I suppose she squealed.”

“No,” said Tom. “She has said nothing to the FBI—yet. We are both quite content to keep those records to ourselves as long as you meet our demands.”

“What demands?” said Rodriguez.

“First,” said Tom, “I need Sophia’s immigration documents. Second, I need you to refund Sophia’s recruitment fee. I’m sure you know that was illegal. Third, return the money that you have collected from her the last several years—you know, the fees that were supposed to be used to help her get her legal residency?”

“That will be difficult,” said Rodriguez. “I don’t have that much money lying around.”

“Not my problem,” said Tom. “Empty your pillowcase. Call in a loan. Rob a bank. I don’t care. Figure it out.”

Rodriguez turned to leave when Tom said, “There’s more. I need you to call off the dogs that have been hounding Pedro Alfrenzo in Honduras. You know where he lives. I know that you and your thugs have already threatened him.”

Tom stood up from behind the table. “And remember—if anything happens to Pedro, I will call this number and show him the documents in my mother’s safe.” Tom smiled. “Consider it collateral. You are a businessman, right? You understand collateral?”

“I understand collateral,” Rodriguez sneered.

“Have the money to me by this afternoon,” said Tom.

Rodriguez nodded grudgingly.

Tom’s phone rang. It was his mother.

****

“Hello, Tommy,” she said. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks for remembering,” said Tom.

“I was wondering if we could meet for coffee again,” said Marge. “Roy and I need to know what you want to do with your trust fund.”

“We continue to surprise each other,” said Tom. “Will 11:30 work for you?”

“See you there.”

Marge arrived at the Corner Coffee before Tom and was waiting at the same table they had shared the day before. A Grande Latte sat in front of her, and a coffee of the day steamed next to Tom’s seat.

“Thanks for the coffee, Mother,” said Tom as he slipped into the chair. “I found some interesting reading at the bank yesterday.”

“I don’t care,” Tom,” said Marge. “Roy and I are leaving town soon, and I don’t want to be bothered by anything from that safety deposit box.”

“Okay,” said Tom. “As you wish. Regarding the trust, I’d like a quarter of it transferred to my checking account. The remainder needs to be put into a new trust—under the name of Sophia Alfrenzo.”

Marge raised her recently plucked eyebrows. “Is that the girl who worked at the restaurant in town?”

“That’s the one,” said Tom. “You became a grandmother yesterday.”

“A grandmother!” Marge’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to be a grandmother,” she said. “I’m not the grandmotherly type.”

“And I’m not the fatherly type,” said Tom. “None-the-less, I feel I need to provide for Sophia and Lucas—financially anyway. As a father, it’s the least I can do.”

Marge sighed. “I don’t suppose it’s much different than what Hal did for you—giving you more money than time.” She thought for a moment and added, “Will a fourth of the trust fund be enough for you?”

“I’ll be fine,” said Tom. “I’ve got lots to write about. I’ve still got my job at the Twisted Taco. I have a chance to own it someday—and to be honest, I rather like my current lifestyle.” Tom wrapped his hands around his coffee cup. “One more thing. Do you suppose Roy would be willing to manage the trust for Sophia?”

“As a grandmother, I suppose it is the least I can do,” said Marge as she got up to leave. “I’ll have Roy make the financial arrangements.”

When Tom returned to the mill house, he was greeted with an envelope that was lying on the porch floor. He opened it to find Sophia’s immigration papers and a cashier’s check for $20,100. Rodriguez must have an accurate bookkeeper, thought Tom.

Late that afternoon, Tom buzzed the door of Camille’s brownstone.

“Yes?” inquired Camille’s voice on the intercom.

“It’s Tom. May I come up?”

“You have to be quiet. Lucas is sleeping.”

The confusing smell of spring lilacs and late-summer roses met Tom at the door. Camille invited Tom into the living room. Sophia was resting on the recliner.

“Hello, Sophia,” said Tom. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired and sore.”

“I think I can make you feel a little better,” said Tom as he walked over to his desk. He closed his computer and moved the chair so that he could sit next to Sophia.

Camille pulled a chair from the dining room and sat on the other side of Sophia. “How are you going to make us feel better?” said Camille. “Let’s hear it.”

Tom handed the cashier’s check and immigration papers to Sophia. “Compliments of our friend, Rodriguez.”

“How did you do this?” she asked.

“Let’s just say I know something about him that he does not want others to know.”

A soft whimper emerged from a paper box with a baby blanket hanging over its side. “It’s not much of a cradle,” said Camille, “but it’s the best we could do on short notice.”

Sophia began to get up, but Camille said, “I’ll get him.” Lucas quit crying as soon as she picked him up.

Sophia held the cashier’s check between her finger and thumb. “This is more money than I have ever had in the world,” she said. She placed it carefully on the end table beside the recliner. “This might be enough to pay the hospital bill!”

Camille passed Lucas to Sophia. “As I told you before,” said Tom, “I know I would not be much of a father to Lucas, but I have made some financial arrangements for both of you.” Tom leaned toward Sophia and the baby. “I have transferred most of the proceeds from my trust to another trust in your name.”

Sophia’s brown eyes opened in surprise. “That is very generous,” she said. “Thank you, Tom.” She settled Lucas next to her and lifted her blouse so he could nurse. “I only wish my father could see him. I am still worried about what Rodriguez will do to him.”

“I think Rodriguez is more worried about himself,” said Tom. “I found a new recruiter—one to replace Rodriguez. His name is Lorenzo. I asked him to arrange for Pedro to work at the Twisted Taco.”

“But what would he do there?” asked Sophia. “He knows very little English.”

“I think we could use a good handyman,” said Tom. “I’ll prepare the documents and hand the paperwork over to Lorenzo tomorrow—and while I’m at it, he said we might be able to apply for a humanitarian visa for you.”

Camille shook her head. “What has come over you, Tom?”

Tom grinned. “A lapse of judgement, perhaps?”

“Speaking of a lapse of judgement,” said Camille looking at the desk. “I hope you’re not planning to publish that garbage I found on your computer.” She gave Tom a hard stare. “I’m not interested in having the intimate details of our former love life spread all over the internet.”

Tom smiled with the innocence of a schoolboy. “You know I would never share that on the internet,” he said. “Fond memories though, huh?”

“Maybe so, but just in case you have second thoughts about publishing it, I deleted the folder with all that rubbish.”

Tom’s cheeks colored as his hands moved to his necklace.

Camille continued, “Sophia will be staying with me until we get this all sorted out.”

“I expect that means there is no room for me,” said Tom.

“Afraid not, Tom. We’re through for good.”

Tom’s phone buzzed with a text message. Your car is ready.

Tom looked up from his phone and kissed each woman on the cheek. “In that case, I’d better be going.”

He collected his computer and took the stairs to the foyer. As he stepped out into the brisk spring air, he pulled the envelope that Camille had given him in the hospital from his jacket pocket. He tore the end of the envelope and removed the letter. Your story has been accepted by Hustler magazine.

Tom took a deep breath and smiled. Published!

He skipped down the steps and headed toward the mechanic’s shop. As he walked, he thought, I need a place to stay tonight that’s warmer than the mill house.

He began paging through the contacts in his phone. Sally. I wonder if Sally would like a ride in my Corvette. That might make for a good story.

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