Not One Clue_ A Mystery - Lois Greiman [73]
To my surprise there was a little woman waiting in one of the chairs. She was small and quiet and as wizened as a raisin. I had seen her face once before. “You’re Micky’s grandmother, aren’t you?”
She nodded. “I’d like to have a word with you, Ms. McMullen.” Her voice seemed to scratch against my eardrums.
Dread filled my head. “Is something wrong?”
“Could we talk in private?” Her hands were dark and wrinkled, but looked firm and strong on the ivory curve of her cane. “I can wait if you have other obligations.”
“No. This is fine,” I said, and ushered her into my office while giving Shirley the “What the hell?” eye over my shoulder. She shrugged in return, but I noticed that she looked a little skittish. There aren’t many things short of a full-scale air raid that can make a woman of Shirley’s caliber skittish.
So I closed my office door gently behind me and followed the dwarfed little figure into the room. She stood in the exact center, turned, and faced me. “Why haven’t you told my grandson to get custody of his boy?”
I managed not to stumble back a pace.
“Won’t you have a seat?” I asked.
She thumped her cane on the floor. My carpet, though berber and overpriced, did little to muffle the noise. It dawned on me that there probably was very little that would muffle this woman.
“Did you hear me?” she asked.
I thought it was safe to assume that a turnip would have heard her, but I didn’t voice that opinion. Back in Schaumburg I had eaten soap for less.
“Please,” I said. “Sit so we can discuss it.”
“There isn’t a thing to discuss. I want you to tell Michael to do right by his son. It’s as simple as that.”
“Well …” I took a seat myself, hoping I would make it look so appealing that she would feel it necessary to follow suit. No go. Instead, I felt as tense as a fiddle string and she had the advantage of height. Not a simple task when you stand five foot naught in your Easy Spirits and weigh in at eighty-two pounds soaked in olive oil. “I’m afraid that’s not quite how I do business,” I said.
“Business!” She was scowling at me. I had always been of the opinion that Rivera had the corner on the scowling market but this little lady made him look as chipper as a beribboned flower girl. “Is that what you call this?”
“I’m a licensed psychologist, Mrs. Goldenstone. Here to listen to your grandson’s problems. To help him work through any—”
“He raped that girl. He tell you that?”
I felt like I had been blindsided. According to Micky, no one knew about the heinous actions of his youth. No one besides himself and his victim.
“My sessions with Micky are confidential.”
She stared at me a second, then nodded stiffly. “He tell you about that gal on the subway, too?”
I felt every fiber tighten. “Listen, Mrs. Goldenstone, I’d be happy to schedule an appointment for you and Micky to come in together so that we can have adequate time to discuss—”
“I didn’t think so,” she said, and jabbed her cane at me. It was the first time since an octogenarian had tried to kill me that I realized what an effective weapon a cane could make. “They were on the midnight train. There was a gal riding alone when three young men come up to her. They were members of the Crips. Michael knew that. He’s not naïve. Not with his upbringing. But he protected the girl. She wasn’t hurt.”
We stared at each other.
“He didn’t tell me that,” I said.
“He didn’t tell anyone. Just told the doctors in the emergency room that he’d gotten in a fight with an old friend. I talked to the girl herself.”
“He ended up in