A tour guide dressed as Paul Revere nodded to them as he passed.
"Why? Because I been on the losing end of things, and the one thing I promised myself when I was there was to make hay while the sun shines. Sun's shining bright here, Duggy."
"Too bright. That's not sunlight you're feeling, that's heat, that's the G, and I gotta know what we have here first."
"How you gonna do that? How you ever gonna know?"
"
And
we gotta keep our distance, starting now. Gotta stay separate, case they haven't made all of us yet. Even if they do. Avoid any criminal-conspiracy rap."
Jem shook his head like he was going to have to punch somebody.
"It was a fucking guy in a car!"
Gloansy said, "My wedding, Duggy. Joanie will go apeshit."
Doug said, "Wedding's fine. Big group thing. So long as we skip the photos, it's fine. I'm talking about the four of us getting together for some ice cream, going out gallivanting. No."
"Fucking
cunt,
" sang Jem under his breath.
Doug turned on him again. "You're making me fucking crazy with this."
"Why? What's it to you?"
Doug didn't know if what he said next was meant to put them at ease, or just to cover his own ass. "I'm going to do some looking into that."
"Looking into what? How? Tail her again?"
"Let me worry about it. I'll do my thing, you two go off and do yours. And quietlike. Be citizens. Assume they got eyes on you whenever you step out the door. Don't cross against the light and don't litter. Use the streets, use the neighborhood-- they can't hide there. None of us sees anything more in a week or two, we'll get back together, think about moving ahead again."
"A week or two?" said Jem. "Jesus
fuck
."
"It's a vacation, kid. Enjoy it."
"Vacation? I'm fucking
always
on vacation."
"Duggy's right," said Gloansy, probably still worried about cameras in his bedroom. "Maybe we should cool it a whi-- "
Jem flat-handed Gloansy in the chest. "That's for thinking, dumb shit. Fuck you, 'cool it.'
I
decide when to cool it."
"Fine, whatever," said Gloansy, rubbing his pec. "Jesus."
"Two fucking weeks, Duggy," pronounced Jem. "Then we'll see."
16
The Girl Who Got Robbed
H
E SAW HER WAITING for him in the lamplight of the five-street junction, wearing a shimmering black top that was either velvet or silk, a slim turquoise skirt ending in a ruffle at the knee-- her legs were as blond as her hair-- and low black heels, a black sweater in one hand, a small black handbag dangling on a string in the other. The taxi ahead of him slowed, trawling for an early evening fare, and she smiled and shook her head no, waving it along-- and already Doug felt his reserve melting away.
He eased the Corvette's prow in along the stone curb at her knees. He was wearing Girbaud jeans, the same toe-pinching black shoes, and a white shirt under a black jacket. He stood out of the car-- he always felt good rising out of the Vette-- and walked around to get her door.
Her eyes broadened at the sight of the emerald green machine. "Wa-
how,
" she said, her hand going to her chest. At first he thought she had expected a dusty pickup with tools rattling around in back and a pissing-Calvin sticker on the window. But as she sank into the low passenger seat, he recognized the look on her face as one of amusement. He felt a sting of foolishness then, that he wasn't prepared for. She swung her legs inside and he closed the wide door on a whiff of butterscotch, rounding the flat rear of the car, seeing himself and the city block reflected and elongated in the glassy green finish, not liking his hurt-little-boy feelings.
"So," he said, closing his door, trying to stay positive. "What do you think? Too much muscle?"
She turned to look in back. "I can't believe how clean it is."
"It's a collector's car, but not a fetish with me. Some guys, forget it. Working under the hood, that's what I like. Taking it apart and putting it back together again. I don't even drive it that much." She was exploring the upholstery with a light hand, the instrument panel with curious eyes. His plans for being so tough and crafty and inscrutable-- like a magic trick, one glance from her had turned all his face cards blank. "I had it painted custom. Most collectors, stripping down and painting the exterior an off-stock color, that's ruining a collector's item like this. Me, I kind of liked making it mine. A one-of-a-kind." She touched the soft trim, and he couldn't take her silence any longer. "So, what? Is it ridiculous?"
"Yes,"
she said-- but with a smile, not catching his meaning. "Do you race this?"
"I've taken it around a speedway in New Hampshire once or twice on my own, just to open her up."
"How fast?"
"One-sixty, sustained. I topped out at one-eighty."
"Gulp," she said. He shifted into first and pulled away from the curb, clutching into second, the engine lifting them toward City Square like a speedboat over calm water. "I feel like I'm lying down."
Doug eyed her legs extended into the deep foot well. "I think it looks good on you."
She rubbed the leather seat hips with her palms and shook out her hair a little, getting comfortable. "I think my car's going to be jealous."
"Yeah, well. Corvettes and Saturns, that's like dogs and cats."
He slowed into the traffic light onto Rutherford, feeling a little better. "Hey," she said, turning to him curiously after the stop, "how did you know I drove a Saturn?"
Doug kept his eyes hard on the red light. "Didn't you mention it? You must have mentioned it."
"Did I?" Green light, Doug gripped the wheel and gunned it out toward the bridge, and she looked ahead again. "I guess I probably did."
Shithead.
"Where we going?"
"I was thinking about the Chart House? It's nice but not too nice, you know? By the Aquarium on Long Wharf, overlooking the harbor? What do you think?"
"Let's do it."
"You thought I was going to pick some place on Newbury Street, right? Sonsie, or something."
"Yeah, maybe," he said. Newbury Street, he knew of only as an avenue of art galleries and shopping boutiques; Sonsie, he had no clue.
"But-- before that." She turned to him again. "I was wondering if I could ask you a huge favor."
"Sure," he said, trying to read her as they crossed the rusted bridge into the city. "Anything, what?"
"I know it's not much of a way to start the night... but I have a friend who's having an operation tomorrow morning, and I promised him I'd stop by and visit."
Doug nodded, thinking,
Him.
"And you wanted some company?"
"I promise it won't take too long. Cross my heart."
"No problem at all."
Him.
"Just tell me where."
When she said, "Mass. Eye and Ear," Doug realized who the friend was.
* * *
SHE WAS SOMEWHERE OTHER than inside the elevator with him, and Doug realized that she was more anxious than he was. "You seem worried about something."
She stopped nibbling her lips and switched to pulling invisible thimbles off her fingers. "Just hospitals," she said. "Give me the creeps." She watched the numbers blink. "My brother died in a hospital."
"You had a brother?"
"He had a tumor in his bladder. It wrecked my parents." She shook it off, turning to him for distraction. "You cut your hair." She reached up and rubbed the stiff bristle over the nape of his neck. Her hand was gentle, cupping, cool. "What is it about a new haircut on a man?"
He thought that nothing had ever felt so good. "I might start purring here."
The floor dinged and the doors opened, her hand falling away. Signs pointed them to a circular hospital wing where they followed the numbers to the correct room.
Doug said, "I'll wait out here."
"No," she said, thinking he was jealous. "Meet him."
She took his hand, and before he knew it she was leading him into the room.
The patient was propped up against an avalanche of pillows. He turned toward them, head and shoulders moving as one. Gauze and bandaging masked half his face, bulging thick over his right eye, but Doug saw enough to recognize the assistant branch manager of the Kenmore Square BayBanks, Davis Bearns.
Claire released Doug and crossed to Bearns, Doug remaining just a few steps inside the private room.
Bearns held out his johnny-bare arms and Claire bent into them, a gentle kiss against his unbandaged cheek. "Hey there," said Bearns, his throat and lips doing most of the work, his fixed chin giving him a Harvard lockjaw. When she was slow to pull away, he said, "I'm getting some action here."
Claire straightened and smiled, whisking away a tear. She looked back at Doug and made introductions, and Doug nodded, giving Bearns a flat wave and a
Hey
.
"Are you comfortable?" she asked. "I wish you had let me bring you something."
"I just want to be done with it-- this operation, this place."
"You said they're hopeful."
"They better be. I am. If I recover fifty percent sight in this eye, it will be a roaring success. I just want to get on with it, get home, get back to work."
"Really?" she said. "Back to work?"
"Anything, God, yes. Something to focus on instead of large-print crossword puzzles. But it won't be for a while. They'll have me on this dim-light-only diet for a few weeks, at least."
She nodded, tugging on a sheet wrinkle. "I'm having trouble at work."
"Well, see, you have memories. The one inconvenience I was spared." He turned his face farther toward her for inspection. "Which would you rather?"
She shook her head at his halfhearted joke, looking away. "Someday I'll go through it all with you. I promise. But not now."
"Of course not now. Tell me your plans for tonight. Vicarious living is all I have."
Doug cut in, "I'm gonna step outside. Nice meeting you, good luck."
"I won't keep her long," said Bearns. "But we will talk about you."
"Fair enough," said Doug, turning away, remembering Jem standing over bloody Bearns with the open jug of bleach.
* * *
BEING AT THE CHART HOUSE with Claire felt nice and clean and free of deception-- until Doug remembered that, in fact, their entire relationship was founded on deception. But then the conversation would continue and he would again lose himself in the flickering candle of temporary innocence. What amazed him was his sincerity. Within the overarching lie-- maybe because of it-- he talked freely and was more honest and open with her than he had ever been with anyone else.
She ordered a single glass of white wine without comment. They worked out three Boston College football games they had separately attended. His steak arrived, her scallops. She talked about work at the bank and how unmotivated she was, killing two-hour lunches in her garden in the Fens and then suffering from pangs of guilt. "BayBanks does this community service thing, you know, masquerading as a small bank that cares? It's mostly bullshit, but they do pay you a couple of hours each week to volunteer somewhere. I started a year ago, at the Charlestown Boys and Girls Club?"
"Sure, yeah."
"Working with kids who were about the age my brother was. Whatever that means, right?" She smiled self-consciously, shrugged. "I just chaperone trips and stuff. They're delinquents, but they're good delinquents. Funny kids. Probably like you were, I'm guessing, right?"
"Nice that you do that."
"Thing is, it's supposed to be like three hours a week, and I'm spending more time there than I am at the bank."
"They're gonna catch up with you."
She nodded. "Part of me hopes they do."
The waiter wasn't used to being paid in cash. Outside, they followed low, black iron chains slung post-to-post along the waterfront, the night surf knocking boats into docks, groaning the piers, slapping wood. Doug was hit up by a skinny extortionist hand-selling roses out of a mop bucket, and Claire stripped away the cellophane and tissue down to the dethorned stem, raising the petals to her nose, then slipping her hand around the crook of his elbow.
In Columbus Park, at a sprawling, vacant play structure, they crossed the soft wood chips to still rubber swings. She sat and twisted in circles, letting the chains twirl apart and then twisting them again. She stuck her legs straight out as she spun, flexing her smooth calves, and Doug imagined that every flight of stairs she had ever climbed was mere training for that moment in that light, in his eyes.
