The Presence of Grace

It was nearly four when I swung out the Sherwood's back parking lot and onto Genesee Street heading east. The village was bursting with people, lining the sidewalks, looking at the overpriced shops or just walking around and acting important. It was rather ironic how many of the locals cursed the presence of so many tourists when it was their bucks that pumped a hell of a lot of revenue into the place. Something like biting off more of the horses ass that feeds you and you can chew. Rachel lived in a fashionable sandblasted brownstone condo above a row of shops that overlooked the lake. Rent wasn't cheap, but the digs were impressive. She liked opulence and was willing to pay for it. I wondered where all of her money came from. Maybe she never ate. To get to the parking area for the condos, I turned right into a small alley that went under and behind the brownstone. The parking spaces were all individually assigned, and there was Rachel's '92 Black Saab 900S tucked neatly into her designated area. I pulled my Jeep into an empty space next to it, most likely reserved for some tight ass who'd throw a fit when he or she came home from the office after banging somebody on their desk. Fine. Let them try to have it moved. I pulled my Glock out of the glove box, pulled my shirt out from my pants and slid the gun in my holster, then lowered the shirt, untucked, over the piece. When I met Mick at the Sherwood, I didn't exactly feel a need to be packing. I was a hell of a lot more comfortable when a gun butt wasn't digging into my side. But now, who knows what I might encounter? No sense in taking chances. I could always point it at Mr. or Ms. Parking Space and make them jump into the lake if they started getting rough.

I locked up the Jeep and checked out Rachel's car. The doors were locked. Everything seemed fine. No congealed pools of blood on the seat. No messages scrawled on the windshield in crimson. No note that said, "I'm in the Caribbean with a handsome rich man named Spenser. Be back soon. Ciao for now. Rachel." Just a car, parked in its proper place staring out at the lake and the mansions and country club on the opposite shore.

By looking at the front of the connected brick buildings that housed the twenty-something shops that ran the stretch from the main traffic light where Jordan Street intersected with Genesee Street east for a few hundred yards until the green grass of Thayer Park put an end to the commercial real estate, one would never even recognize the backside. The whole scenario reminded me of a seaside Mediterranean village with the multi-leveled residences in multitudes of architectural styles and colors hovering right on a magnificent body of water. I kept my eyes scanning for some dark-haired, young Italian beauty wanting to fill me full of her pasta. No such luck. This was literally a one-eighty from the front facade, and I could imagine how certain individuals may have found the appearance on this side an eyesore, but something about it appealed to a sense of realism that defied the other side and the clean streets, the just-so shops and maybe the illusion that existed over there. The moment placed me in a print by a local artist of this view from quite a distance south, where the buildings all along Genesee Street make a statement of character. A signed copy of the very print hung in my house. The view was distant, yet spoke volumes. At least to anyone with a good imagination.

I used Rachel's keys to let myself in the back way of her building and headed up a flight of stairs two steps at a time. The upkeep was immaculate. It looked like dust bunny hunting season was in session year round. If Elmer Fudd could only have such luck. The richly carpeted floors were tasteful, the walls a clean looking eggshell with an occasional

painting hung with care and the lighting was good. Very important when returning from Lord & Taylor with an armful of packages. I found Rachel's apartment and thought how d*mn lucky she was that she could score a place like this as soon as she returned to town. Luck or fate? I thought I felt eyes on me as I let myself in.

Nice. Very nice. This was my first foray into Rachel's abode. In fact, I don't think she ever invited me. Upon looking at it, I figured she didn't want me to mess it up. Shiny hardwood floors. Cathedral ceilings. Contemporary furniture in warm earthtones carefully arranged. Artwork appropriately placed. No clutter. No useless knick knacks to collect dust. The apartment itself was large and open and a little warm. The AC certainly hadn't been run for awhile. I entered into an expansive living area. They don't call them living rooms anymore. Too common sounding, I suppose. They were either living areas or spaces or great rooms. This one had a balcony to the left and windows that let the southwestern sun stream in to mingle with the tiny particles of dust floating ceaselessly in the air. No matter how clean you kept a place, there was no escaping the dust. Rachel had a twenty-seven inch color television on an entertainment center that also held a VCR. A stereo rack system was against one wall along with contemporary looking CD holders. Pretty bare bones. A few scattered pictures of Rachel and her family, with old friends, at least I assumed, and I had even made my way into one or two. There was a stepper in one corner and an exercise bike in another.