A Bad Day for Sorry

She dabbed at the phone and slipped it back in her purse. “Well,” she said breathlessly, “there is a Darla over in Harrisonville, Darla Merton.”

“That’s right,” Lola said, snapping her fingers. All the ladies leaned in, and Stella found herself following suit. “That’s the one. Kind of a loose one, if I recall.”

“A regular tramp is what Linda said,” Shirlette agreed. “She might as well install a revolving door on her bedroom. She’s out on Dixon Road past the Mobil station. You take a soft right and go over a dip and there’ll be a dirt bike track on the left. She don’t know the house number, but it’s the yellow-brick ranch on the right—it’s a duplex and she’s on the right side.”

“I know where that Mobil is,” Chrissy said, gathering up her purse.

“Please thank Linda when you see her,” Stella said. “I wish we could stay and catch up.”

“But you have important work to do,” Gracie said, winking. “You don’t have to tell us. Well, God bless y’all. And Stella, get to healin’, you hear?”

After quick good-byes, they hurried back to the Jeep, Stella moving as fast as she could.

Chrissy hurtled out of the parking lot. “It’s twelve minutes to noon,” she said. “We got to haul ass!”

It was pretty much a straight shot to Harrisonville down County Road 9, and Stella gripped the dashboard most of the way as Chrissy pushed the little Jeep hard. At the Mobil she barely slowed down, and Stella was surprised the wheels didn’t lift up as Chrissy took the corner. The yellow-brick duplex came up fast on the right, and as she screeched to a stop the dash clock read 12:09.

“Now hold one second,” Stella said, slapping a hand down on Chrissy’s arm to prevent her from bolting out of the car. “You know she’s expecting Roy Dean.”

“I don’t care if she’s expecting Tim McGraw—”

“What I’m sayin’ is, we can make this easier if we start out reasonable, just stay calm and cool and help her see we’re offering a win-win all around here.”

“And then I call the bitch out, if she gives me any shit.”

“Well… okay.”

Chrissy wrenched her arm away and got out of the Jeep, and Stella had to hustle to keep up across the burned-out lawn and onto a cracked concrete porch.

Chrissy laid into the door, pounding with a clenched fist. When it suddenly burst open, a large man popped into view and Chrissy went flying inexplicably floor-wards. Only when she was laid out on the carpet with the large man sitting on her chest did Stella see the second man, more of a kid, really, who had taken Chrissy down by throwing himself at her legs and yanking them out from under her.

“Ow,” Chrissy said. “Git off me.”

“Shit, Dad, that’s a girl,” the younger man said, scuttling away crab-style before jumping to his feet.

The first attacker had apparently come to pretty much the same conclusion because he lumbered off Chrissy. “Hell,” he said, sounding more annoyed than sorry.

Stella offered Chrissy a hand and hauled her up, the effort ratcheting up the ache through her ribs. “You okay?” she asked.

Chrissy glared at the two men who, now that they were standing sheepishly side by side, could be seen to be clearly related, with the same blockish heads and thin lips and fleshy eyelids. She rubbed at the small of her back and cricked her head one way and then the other. “I’ll live,” she said sourly, before turning on her attackers. “Where’s my baby? Where you got Tucker?”

The men looked at each other.

“Huh?” asked the younger one.

“Look here,” the older one said. “You kind of got in the way of a operation in progress. There’s someone coming along any minute now that needs a major attitude adjustment, so if you don’t mind, we need to get ready for him.”

“I think that’s my ex you’re talkin’ about,” Chrissy said. “Roy Dean. He ain’t comin’.”

“He sent you in his place?” the young one said, clearly agitated at the notion. He looked like a man who had his heart set on delivering a beating.

“No, he did not. He’s done disappeared. Look, all’s I want is my boy, and then I’ll go. Where’s Darla?”

“That ain’t any of your business,” the older one said, stepping forward angrily.

“I think it is.” Stella kept her voice calm, but she drew up to her full height and glared at him. “Are you her father?”

He hesitated only for a second before saying, “Yes I am. Bill Merton.”

He turned to Chrissy and added, “Your ex has been treatin’ my girl pretty poor—he needs his ass kicked.”

Chrissy sighed. “I don’t doubt it, and I don’t much care what you do to him. But way I heard it is he mighta dropped off my little boy here and left him.”

The men glanced at each other, clearly mystified. “I don’t know anything about no baby,” Junior said.

“Call your sister,” the elder Merton demanded.

Junior pulled a phone out of his pocket and dialed.

“I’m going to go look around,” Chrissy muttered, her disappointment clear from the slumping of her shoulders.

Merton started to object.

“Let her go,” Stella snapped. “She won’t hurt nothing.”

As Chrissy made her way down the darkened, cat-smelling hall of the house, Stella listened impatiently to half a phone call for the second time in an hour.

“Darla,” the boy barked into the phone. “Roy Dean leave some kinda baby with you?… No, he ain’t been by yet. There’s these two women—I said he ain’t come by, you deaf or something? What’s her name?”

He directed the latter at Stella, jerking a thumb down the hall where Chrissy could be heard opening and closing doors.

“That’s Chrissy Shaw, Roy Dean’s ex,” Stella said.

“Chrissy Shaw, Roy Dean’s ex,” the boy repeated into the phone. “Her little boy’s gone missing, and she thinks Roy Dean had ’im.… You’re sure?… Hell, I don’t know, I’m just askin’. Well, don’t get mad at me, I didn’t do nothing!… Darla… Darla, I’m giving Dad the phone.”

He handed the phone to his father. “You talk to her. She’s goin’ all PMS on me.”

“Darla Jane,” Merton said in a voice that didn’t invite argument. “You settle down now, girl. Roy Dean apparently ain’t comin’.… No, I don’t believe they found him to tell him the message. Now you come on home, and we’ll figure out what to do. Mmm-hmmm. That’s right… love you.”

He handed the phone back to his son as Chrissy came shuffling back into the room looking like she wanted to hit somebody herself. “Tucker ain’t here.”

“Look,” Merton said. “I’m sorry we took you down like that. Just, we were expecting that no-good Roy Dean. He’s been beatin’ up on my daughter. Which I don’t take kindly to.”

“I don’t guess I blame you,” Chrissy said. “Though you could have looked out the front window or something and seen I wasn’t him.”

“We did look,” Junior protested. “We saw your car pull in. But then we had to get in ready position.”

Amateurs, Stella thought. She’d lain in wait dozens of times, in alleys, behind bushes, in cars, outside office buildings—even in a men’s room once or twice—and never had she taken down the wrong guy.

But that’s what made her the professional that she was. Fastidious planning, careful preparation, flawless execution—when you made a career out of delivering justice, there was no room for error.

She knew there were lots of folks who’d figure that, working outside the law, Stella might have flexible standards. And it was true, in some ways—but not when it came to getting the job done. She didn’t tolerate near misses or botched reconnaissance or loose ends. It made the job harder—a lot harder—but no one ever changed the world by taking the easy way out.

“So this thing that Roy Dean was supposed to have left here,” she said. “Was that