Page 3 of Penny for Your Saints

Lowry drops her chin and gives me an almost plaintive look to let me know how pathetic my attempts at denial are.

“What?” I bristle, squirming under the suddenly crushing weight of her arm; pale and delicate. Even in my ambitious spiked pumps, I’m still a few inches shorter than her—and I feel like a child about to be whisked away to time-out for my fresh mouth.

“Oh, come on Louie!” she hushes in a horse whisper. “You can’t think that I’m getting senile or something, do you? I have seen the notes scattered on the desk at your place near Quantico.” She mouths the word ‘Covartis’ and purses her lips in challenge.

It’s pointless to argue. Even though Walt Compton and the other boys from the bureau have never been to my home—if I’ve gotten sloppy enough for her to take notice of my off-hours investigation into my parents murder so close to her retirement… I really do need to clean up my act.

Of course, my pride and my temper get the best of me—just like always.

“Ok, fine—why not just call Walt Compton over here and bust me right now?” I hiss, sudden heat in my voice, blackest hatred racing through my veins as I feel my best chance at vengeance begin to slip through my fingers.

Lowry, a seasoned professional, gives a single laconic blink.

“Let’s get it over with—I’ve got my badge and duty piece in my car. Just don’t you dare have goddamn McBride bring me the box of shit from my office.” I push past any semblance of gallows humor into outright hostility.

“Put a muzzle on it, Louie.” Lowry snorts dismissively. “Don’t try to out-bitchtheebitch—I’m simply giving you the warning of one friend—one woman to another.” Her brows set low and angry. “Everyone’s going to be looking for any excuse to install some man in Compton’s place when he goes. Right now, I’ve convinced Walter that you’re the only natural choice, but you can bet Donny Krendler and those dipshits in the DOJ are going to be pulling for Kent or even ‘goddamn McBride’,” she warns icily. “Don’t undo all the fucking work that we’ve both done to get you here.”

It’s not a threat but the plea of a woman who is desperate to pull me along behind her through the shattered glass ceiling she’s left in her wake—praying that I won’t get shredded to ribbons by the glittering shards that crowd my path.

I feel something inside me go slack—the rippling flames of my rage momentarily quenched by shame.

“I’m sorry, Susan—Chief.” I bow my head contritely.

“Cut that out, too.” She gives me a gentle nudge with her elbow, her expression soft and smiling when I look back up at her. “I could have waited to tell you more delicately at a more appropriate time, but I just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Lizard brain just makes me paranoid. I had to say something.” She shakes her head ruefully.

“No, I understand—it pays to be paranoid. Otherwise, how would we have ever gotten here?” I agree, offering her my arm once more.

“I for one, am happy to have arrived at the age where I can now continue my paranoia at the retirement level. I’m ready for my mountainside cabin with my rocking chair, my quiet, and a shotgun to keep my lap warm.” Lowry hooks her arm through mine, easing back into our comfortable rapport—the pair of us giving vacant glittering smiles to nearby onlookers as we make our way slowly back toward Susan’s husband and the other officials chatting with him.

“I just won’t be able to protect you from these idiots from the peace of my front porch,” she grits out through her perfect white teeth.

“Understood, loud and clear.” I bend my elbow slightly—giving her arm an affectionate squeeze. “Sorry again for biting your head off back there.”

Lowry’s nostrils flare and she lifts a brow at me.

“I get especially prickly close to my heat, too,” she says knowingly.

“I’m not—I mean, I just haven’t been able to go for my injection since I got back into town late last night. Before the holiday I had thought there was the possibility of—” I blurt out, immediately defensive, but Susan cuts me off with a deliberate laying of her hand over my bare shoulder.

“It was a self report as much as anything else, Louise—take a deep breath. Remember, I’m not out to get you here.” The skin around her eyes crinkles gently, her crows feet only making her somehow more lovely. I’m once more undone by the maternal affection of her gaze, my shame like an icy spike rising in my gut.

“I’m sorry, I really am all out of sorts tonight—I keep snapping at you and it’s your goddamn party.” I wince.

“It’s fine, really. I cornered an animal, and she bit me back good.” Lowry beams at me like a proud mama, her pale eyes wet with something like love. “It’s one of the ways I know I made the right choice, kid. You’re going to need to keep that bite sharp and that fire burning to make it to Section Chief. Always trust that righteous anger, follow what I’ve taught you—it may take a lot to be top dog, but you’ve got something special, Penny.” She uses my last name without the prefix of ‘agent’, one of the most clear cut signs of respect and peerage you can be given by a superior—allowing the appellation to sink in before finishing her thought: “You’ve got what it takes to be top bitch.”

After saying my hellos to Phil Lowry and doing the standard dog and pony show small talk and glad handing with Compton, Krendler, and the better part of the leadership of the ATF—I manage to slip away from the larger conversation in favor of one of the open bars at the far end of the ballroom.

Even though I technically quit two years ago, stuffy social events like this make me crave the socially acceptable escape of a cigarette. I look longingly out of the glass sliding doors to the terrace; guests huddled beneath the canopy of large outdoor propane heaters, flicking ash into the winter wind, and contemplate grabbing my stole from the coat check and trying to bum a Dunhill or Nat Sherman off of one of the fools.

I’ve begun to drift closer to the end of the bar nearest the cloakroom, when I catch sight of a curious young man standing twenty feet away from me.

He’s wearing the same cheap black polyester slacks, white button down, and likely rented black rayon vest and bowtie as the rest of the catering staff, but the telltale wisps of black and multicolored tattoo ink creep up over the top of his collar, nearly to his ears—which may or may not be pierced—hard to tell beneath the absolutely embarrassing halloween-special, dark brown wig he’s wearing.

What the hell is that plastic mop supposed to be giving? ‘Smokey and the Bandit’? ‘Aging 80s pop star’? Whatever it is—kid isn’t selling it.

At first, I mentally scold myself. What if he’s in cancer treatment? Or maybe he’s got alopecia—and I’m being a complete and total asshole here expecting the twenty something to be able to afford a decent lace front on a catering gig paycheck. Then his eyes catch mine, focused and startlingly blue. That’s when I notice his eyebrows—so blonde they’re nearly white, completely at odds with his unkempt, dark wig.

He doesn’t break eye contact, just keeps his gaze locked to mine as I drift slowly toward him. Only after I traverse half the distance between us does he casually turn on the heel of his Walmart-special dress shoes and set off at a brisk pace in the opposite direction.

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