The Dead Key Part 13

"Better than you from the looks of it . . . What's the matter? Boy trouble?" Mrs. Capretta rocked in her chair in her moth-eaten housecoat.

"Sort of."

"You career girls got your heads all screwed up. In my day we knew how to keep a man. You want my advice?"

Not really.

"Learn to cook, and keep your legs shut! That's how you land a husband."

Iris rolled her eyes.

"You think you're too good for marriage? Sure, you say that now when you're twenty-three. Just wait till you're thirty-three, then forty-three. Come talk to me about how great your career is then. Ha!"

"Okay. Thanks." That was just the pep talk she needed, she thought wryly.

Mrs. Capretta squawked after her, "That's what happened to my Betsy, you know. Wasted all her good chances, and now she's alone . . ."

That settled it. Iris was moving. She clomped down the street to Calabria's, her favorite coffee shop. She grabbed copies of the Free Times and Around Town Magazine, along with her coffee, and found an air-conditioned corner. Her eyes skimmed the east-side rentals, until she compulsively began reading the listings for Tremont, where Nick lived. He had just bought a condo near Lincoln Park and had been flashing pictures around the office for weeks. It wouldn't exactly make her a stalker if she found a place nearby.

She rolled up the papers with a sigh. Maybe Mrs. Capretta was right. She should have kept her legs shut. As she munched her bagel, the cover of Around Town caught her eye. She unrolled the paper and read, "Dennis! And the Default of 1978 . . ." It was the year that made her stop and unfold the paper. First Bank of Cleveland closed around that time. Iris had seen the "Dennis!" yard signs all over town. There was an election coming up in the fall.

From the story lead-in, Congressman Kucinich was running against a Republican intent on dredging up the inc.u.mbent's sordid past. According to the article, Dennis Kucinich had been mayor of Cleveland at the ripe age of thirty-two, when the city defaulted on several bank loans. It was a low point in the history of the city, right up there with the burning of the Cuyahoga River. Cleveland was the laughingstock of the country and the poster child for Rust Belt decay. A once-great metropolis became "the mistake on the lake." She'd heard pieces of the story before, but she had never really understood the details. She kept reading.

The city had run up a huge debt as politicians promised "no new taxes" while increasing their budget spending. The city's debt was financed by loans from several local banks because its bond rating was so low. The article listed the financiers, and Iris's eyes widened when she read that First Bank of Cleveland was the largest local bondholder of the city's debt.

Kucinich's administration of young-gun advisers had alienated the old business establishment by refusing to let them privatize the electric utilities. On December 15, 1978, when the bonds came due, the local banks refused to work with the mayor's office to renegotiate the terms. First Bank of Cleveland was one of six banks to refuse to roll over the debt. The bank's board of directors were the most influential businessmen in Cleveland. The elite aristocracy included Theodore Halloran, Samuel Wackerly, Alistair Mercer, and many more, the story read.

Images of the portraits hanging in the library of the old bank loomed in Iris's mind. She'd seen at least twelve old white men glowering at the books. She scoured the article for more information on the bank and its board of directors and found none. The story went on to describe Kucinich's voting record in Congress. His opponent, James Stone, reportedly claimed that the ex-mayor's failure to the City of Cleveland spelled failure for the country if Dennis was to be reelected. Iris folded the paper and stuffed it into her purse.

She walked home in the heat of the day. There had to be more to the bank closure than business as usual. The abandoned files, the full desks, the dead plants-it all looked like evidence at a crime scene. Besides, why would a perfectly good fifteen-story building just sit frozen in time for twenty years? She'd seen abandoned buildings in downtown Cleveland before. She drove past them every day. They were shuttered and gutted, picked clean of anything valuable. Looking through their broken windows, she could see there was nothing left. Why was 1010 Euclid Avenue a perfectly preserved time capsule with an armed guard? Her thoughts kept returning to the vault.

She pushed through the door of her sweltering apartment and saw the light on her answering machine blinking. She threw her purse in the corner and ran to the little black box of hope. Maybe Nick had decided she was worth a phone call. But it was her mother. Again.

"Iris? Iris, I'm starting to get worried. You need to call home."

"Okay, okay." It had been a few days longer than she intended. She picked up the phone and dialed home without even looking at the keypad. The phone number hadn't changed in twenty-three years. "Hi, Mom."

"Iris! Well, it's about time you called. I've been worried! Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry, Mom." She hadn't meant to worry the poor woman. "I've just been really busy with work."

"Well, you could have called to let me know. I am still your mother even if you are all grown up now." Her mother sighed on the other end of the line. "So. How's the new a.s.signment going? Are you liking it?"

"Yeah! I'm working in the field now on this old building. It's fascinating! The head of the company, Mr. Wheeler, chose me out of everyone to take the lead on the survey." Iris found herself bragging even though she suspected Mr. Wheeler had only picked her because she was the cheapest employee.

"Oh, honey! That's wonderful! I'm so glad you're having a good time."

Iris smiled. "How's Dad?"

"Hmm? Oh, he's fine." She paused. "I think he's making the adjustment just fine."

"Adjustment?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? His company just went through a downsizing. You know they're doing it everywhere. He'll be just fine, don't you worry. He's really enjoying having more time to work out in the shed."

Her dad had been fired. Her mother straining to be sunny and bright about it just made it seem worse. "Mom! When did this happen?"

"Last week."

"Is he all right?" Iris asked, even though she knew she wouldn't get a straight answer.

"He's doing great! He was really tired of the job, you know. He'd gone as far as he could. Now it's on to the next thing." Her enthusiasm was grating Iris's nerves.

"Can I talk to him?"

"Not now, honey, he's sleeping. Do you want me to have him call you?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Mom." She knew her father would never call her. He hated talking on the phone, or at least that's what he said the one time Iris had risked complaining about it. She tried not to take it personally, and to take the rejection like a man or someone her father might respect. "Well, I've got to go."

"Whatcha gonna do today?" Every phone call had to end on a positive note.

"I have to go find a new apartment."

"Oh, that's exciting! I can't wait to see it. Let me know if you want me to come down and help you move in."

"Sounds good. Thanks, Mom."

"I love you!"

"I love you too . . . Mom?"

"Yes, honey?"

Iris paused as a foreign emotion overwhelmed her-she was feeling protective of her parents. She didn't know if they had any savings. She didn't know if her father had a severance package. As a rule, her parents never discussed money. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Oh, don't worry about us, honey. We'll be fine."

CHAPTER 26.

Iris's dad had spent the last twenty-five years of his life working more than fifty hours a week as a floor manager for the automotive supply company that had just laid him off. He was a good worker. He showed up early and stayed late. He'd missed every one of her soccer games working overtime shifts. And for what? He had lectured her for hours on the virtues of engineering and how it would lead to a secure and steady career. Now he was unemployed, and Iris couldn't find her G.o.dd.a.m.ned lighter. She eventually just lit a smoke off the stove.

They'd chewed him up and spit him out, just like Ellie said. Five cigarettes later, she was tired of pacing. The apartment was a hotbox. She hated it. She'd lived there for three straight years with the curry smell, stray c.o.c.kroaches, and Mrs. Capretta's insanity. Iris stomped down the driveway with the apartment listings under her arm. Mrs. Capretta's sink was running as Iris ducked under her window.

The streets of Tremont were lined with run-down houses next to recent renovations. She did her best to sort through them, making a point of not wandering too close to Nick's condo while she tracked down apartment listings. Every thirty minutes or so she rang a buzzer and got a tour.

By 4:00 p.m. she had seen all of the ant traps and caked-on counter crud she could stomach in one day. There was one more place on her list, and that would be it. She turned down a one-way street and pulled up to a small house. It was newly renovated. The appliances were cheap but had never been used. Wall-to-wall Berber carpet had just been installed, and there wasn't an ant trap in sight. Done. She signed the papers that afternoon.

A celebration was in order. She walked a half block from her new front door and into the Lava Lounge at the corner. Glossy portraits of martinis hung on the purple walls. Green olives danced in the gla.s.ses, swinging from toothpick poles like little round strippers. Iris plopped herself down at the empty bar and ordered her first vodka martini. Here's to new beginnings, she thought, holding up the delicate gla.s.s. The drink scorched her throat on the way down, and she resisted a shudder.

"Drink okay?" The bartender was easily in his forties and gave Iris the creepy once-over.

She pulled the newspaper out of her bag to send the guy packing to the other end of the bar. The cla.s.sifieds were covered with her scribbling from the day of house hunting. She flipped back to the front page and reread the headline: "Dennis! And the Default of 1978." She sipped the vodka and read the story again. The city defaulted on December 15, 1978. She stared at the date. It was just two weeks before the First Bank of Cleveland closed.

Before she knew it, her vodka was gone and her head felt too loose on her neck. She had to get out of there or she wouldn't be able to drive home. Stepping back out into the oppressive heat reminded her that her new apartment had central air-conditioning. Iris had never lived in the complete luxury of climate control. She was moving up in the world. The liquor buzz was still building as she sauntered over to her car. The urge to celebrate her good news with somebody besides her mother became overwhelming, and she couldn't help but think of Nick. She had just leased an apartment three blocks away from his townhouse. They were practically neighbors. Even if they did just have casual s.e.x in an abandoned building, they were still friends. Right?

That settled it. The key found the ignition on the second try, and her car navigated itself through the narrow streets until she'd found the front door she'd seen in a framed photo on Nick's desk. At least she was pretty sure it was the right one. She waltzed up the front steps ready to shout, "Hi, neighbor!" and throw her arms around him. That was the vodka-fueled plan.

She was just about to knock when she heard peals of laughter coming from inside. It was a woman's voice. Not just any woman; it was Miss Staff Liaison Amanda's voice.

"So, show me how this s.p.a.ckling stuff works. I've only read about these things, you know."

Iris could hear Nick saying something back, but she couldn't quite hear what.

"That son of a b.i.t.c.h!" she hissed under her breath as she stumbled back down the stairs to her car. Nick, the office Casanova with all of his easy smiles and arms around her shoulder, had moved on to the next girl. She smacked herself hard in the forehead. He didn't care about her. She ripped the door open to her car. He just plucked some low-hanging fruit. He plucked the h.e.l.l out of it. She slammed the door shut.

Iris careened her way across town and back into her second-floor sauna. What had she expected? She slammed through the front door. He was a twenty-eight-year-old man who had no use for a dumb girl like her-at least not anymore.

Iris lit a cigarette and flopped on the couch. The answering machine was blinking. It wasn't Nick. She no longer harbored any hope it was Nick. It blinked at her for a solid minute before she stomped over and hit the b.u.t.ton.

"h.e.l.lo? This is Suzanne Peplinski. You asked me to call if I could remember anything else. Well"-the hushed voice on the recording dropped down to almost a whisper-"maybe you should come by and see me."

Iris played the message again. She pulled the key to Box 547 out of her change purse and looked at it. Someone had left it in the secretary's desk. Some girl named Beatrice had called Suzanne in the middle of the night to ask about a safe deposit box twenty years ago.

"Who f.u.c.king cares? Enough already!" Iris muttered, and grabbed a beer from the fridge. That little old lady or whoever it was who lost Key 547 should have gone looking for it herself.

Iris took a long shower and climbed into bed half-drunk. Echoes of Nick's and Amanda's laughter made her put a pillow over her head. They were perfect for each other, with their perfect bodies, perfect clothes, and perfect lives.

All Iris had was her s.h.i.tty job surveying a creepy building by herself. She wasn't even that good at it, missing bays on the plans and getting sidetracked. Mr. Wheeler had only picked her for the field a.s.signment because she was just dumb enough to do what she was told and not ask questions.

The thought made her sit up in bed. The old building was filled to the rafters with questions that begged to be asked. Beatrice Baker's personnel file was full of weird notes. The bank shut down fourteen days after the city of Cleveland went bankrupt. People didn't even get a chance to clean out their desks. Keys were lost. Safe deposit boxes were abandoned, and the building had been kept under lock and key for twenty years. Maybe there was a reason Mr. Wheeler had chosen the youngest staff member to survey the building by herself. He didn't want anyone asking questions.

She shook her head, and the room sloshed back and forth from all the beer and vodka she'd drunk. It was a ridiculous notion. Mr. Wheeler was just trying to save a buck by sending her into the building alone. Still, the flashlight up on the fifteenth floor wandered back into her spinning head. Someone had been up there looking for something.

The clock read 11:30 p.m. It was too late to call Suzanne back.

CHAPTER 27.

Sunday morning Iris woke up on the couch with a vodka headache.

"Ouch!" she groaned. Her hands wrapped around her skull in a futile effort to keep the invisible hammer from pounding it to bits. She lay there until the second wave of nausea pa.s.sed.

Suzanne's key was missing. She'd pa.s.sed out holding it. She could tell from the red mark on her hand. Iris forced herself up. It wasn't on the coffee table or the couch. She searched under the couch, the rug, and the cushions.

"d.a.m.n it." Iris lit a cigarette and slumped back. A key doesn't just disappear. She crossed her arms angrily and felt something poking at her chest. Darned underwire, she thought, and unhooked her slept-in bra. Something fell out and hit the floor. It was the key.

"There you are." Iris picked it up and looked hard at the number 547 etched into its face. "Who do you belong to?"

The key didn't answer, but she wished it could. She lay back down.

When Iris had managed to keep an entire cup of coffee in her hungover stomach, she picked up the phone and dialed Suzanne's number.

"h.e.l.lo," a raspy voice answered.

"Suzanne?"

"Yes."

"This is Iris. You called me last night."

"Of course. Iris. You should come and see me this morning. My niece is at church until noon."

"Can you tell me what this is about?"

"If you want to talk, come to 13321 Juniper Drive in Lakewood. I'll be waiting." The woman coughed, then hung up.

"Okay, crazy lady. I'll be right there," Iris said into the dead line, and set the phone down. It was nuts, she told herself, but she had taken the key to find its rightful owner. Regardless of whatever drunken theories she'd conjured up the night before, it was her responsibility now. Iris rehooked her bra and slipped the key into her back pocket.

Juniper Drive was a long, crowded street in Lakewood one hundred blocks west of Tremont. Iris navigated her way through the tight grid of bungalows until she found the right one. It was a small brick box with aluminum awnings and a screened-in front porch. An old woman was sitting in a rocker behind the rusted screen.

Iris squinted into the porch. "Are you Suzanne?"

"You must be Iris. Come in. Come in. We don't have much time before my niece gets back from Ma.s.s." Suzanne waved her through the splintered side door. The tiny porch was wall-to-wall green plastic carpeting, a wicker sofa, and Suzanne's rocker.

"Hi." Iris eased herself down onto the creaky couch. "Um, thanks for inviting me over."

Suzanne's face was so brown and shriveled she must have spent the last twenty years smoking in a tanning bed. The only thing that vaguely resembled her personnel portrait was her teeth.

"Well, after you called I started thinking . . ." She pulled an extralong menthol out of a red leather cigarette purse and lit it with a shiny, gold fashion lighter. "About the bank. I didn't mention it before on the phone, but you know there were investigations. Police investigations before the bank closed."

"Really? Why?"

"I'm not sure. The police questioned all of us. They asked me all sorts of strange questions about the files. I didn't know a d.a.m.n thing of course. But I talked to one of my friends, Jean-you know, in private-to find out what the heck was going on. She said that strange things had been happening."