Quiver (6 page)

He heard something, looked out the window across the backyard, saw a car pull in and park, a Jag. Good-looking woman—twin of the one in the
picture with Marty—got out the car, went toward the house.

DeJuan stood at the door to the office with the sword pointed straight down, tip of the blade buried in the black wool carpeting, listening, heard her in the kitchen, sounded like the refrigerator door closing. Watched her cut through the living room and head down a hallway to the bedrooms.

Now he stood outside the bathroom door in Shelly’s pink bedroom, listening to the water running in the shower. Should he go in now, drown Shell-bell in the bathtub? Hit her over the head, make it look like she fall in the shower? DeJuan thinking, he could do that, sure, but he was curious about her and Marty. Sleeping in their own bedrooms, his down the hall, no mistake about it, shit everywhere. He’d’ve thought Marty’d be neater. Man was a pig.

He checked out Shelly’s dressing room, boxes of shoes stacked to the ceiling, name Manolo Blahnik on most of them and Jimmy Choo. Boxes of hats, too, and twenty feet of dresses and shit on hangers. He heard the shower turn off, went back in the bedroom.

He was sitting on the black-lacquered, four-post queen-size bed when Shelly opened the bathroom
door, came out in a white robe, hair wrapped turban-style in a white towel, letting out a cloud of steam.

She fixed her gaze on DeJuan as if she was expecting him to be there and said, “Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it.”

DeJuan wasn’t expecting that. “Why he want to get rid of you, good-looking woman like yourself?”

“I get in the way,” Shelly said.

DeJuan said, “Want me to reverse the contract, that what you’re saying?”

“What’s he paying you?”

“Twenty grand.” DeJuan thinking, she don’t know the going rate for assassinations currently, trying for the long dollar.

“He try to bargain with you?”

“Not that I recall,” DeJuan said.

“You’re lucky. Marty’s worth millions, he makes the maids reimburse him for phone calls.”

DeJuan said, “You don’t look like you’re doing too bad.”

“I can pay you thirty.”

“Seems fair, under the circumstances,” DeJuan said. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Jack stood against the railing—Somerset Collection, second level—looking down at all the glitzy storefronts and the parade of shoppers, everyone carrying a coffee cup or bottle of water. When did that start? He remembered his sister telling him to stay hydrated. Huh? He didn’t know what she was talking about but got it now. Everybody drinking water, carrying bottles with them so they wouldn’t die of thirst on the way to the mall.

He saw a blond come out of a store called Williams Sonoma with a shopping bag in her hand and move past Gucci, stopping to look in the window, either at herself or a leather jacket on display. He watched her go into Barnes & Noble and took the escalator down to the first floor. He went in and couldn’t believe how many people were in there buying books, Jesus. It was packed. He tried to remember the last book he’d read and thought it was
Catcher in the
Rye
by J. D. Salinger, that much he seemed to recall,
pausing now, trying to come up with the story line: A guy named Holden went to New York to find himself. Jack thinking the way he’d gone to Tucson. Only he couldn’t remember Holden Caulfield committing armed robbery and spending thirty-eight months in prison.

He looked around; it was the biggest bookstore he’d ever seen. Dozens of people buying books and drinking coffee. He saw her in the section called New Releases. Recognized a couple names like John Grisham and Stephen King but had never heard of most of the others: Mary Higgins Clark, Patricia Cornwell, or Sue Grafton.

He moved closer and studied her face. She looked older. Who didn’t? But she was still a knockout. Her hair different, cut shorter, and that’s what threw him at first. She’d had shoulder-length blond hair the last time he’d seen her and he couldn’t imagine her ever changing it. But that was sixteen years ago. He’d changed too. Thirty pounds heavier now, at least, and his hair was thinner on top at age thirty-eight.

Nothing to panic about yet: girls still checked him out when he walked into a room—even in a khaki janitor outfit—he discovered his first day out of prison at a grocery store in Tucson.

When he glanced over, she was gone. He scanned
the checkout line, the coffee bar. Ran out of the store, looked down the mall concourse, first one way, then the other. Saw her, just a brief glimpse, walking into a store.

He felt strange going into Victoria’s Secret, seeing all the negligees and female underthings. He saw her shuffling through a rack of pajamas and moved in close, holding up a skimpy negligee. “I think you’d look better in this.”

She turned and looked at him, did a double take and said, “Jack …?”

“It is you,” he said. “I wasn’t sure.”

They moved toward each other and hugged. It was awkward. He held her too long and she pulled away from him and seemed nervous.

They had lunch at P F Chang’s, sitting across the table from each other in a booth after sixteen years. It felt odd and confining. Kate glanced at the menu, then at Jack. “What’re you going to have?”

“Sweet-and-sour chicken. It’s the only thing on the menu I’ve ever heard of.”

He looked older, his face fuller and heavier, hair starting to go gray.

They ordered.

Jack looked at her and smiled and said, “It’s good to see you. You haven’t changed, it’s amazing.”

Kate looked down at the table. She was nervous, like it was their first date.

The waiter brought their drinks—tea for her and a Kirin for him—and left. Kate picked up the teapot and poured tea in her cup. She told him about Owen dying in a freak accident and about her son Luke.

Jack said, “How old is he?”

Kate said, “Sixteen.” She sipped her tea.

“You didn’t waste any time, did you?”

“You went out to get beer and cigarettes and never came back,” Kate said. “What did you expect? I thought you were dead or in the hospital.” She could feel herself getting angry again, reliving it.

“I called,” Jack said.

He picked up the beer bottle and took a sip.

“What—two weeks later.”

“You thought you were pregnant, I—”

“Uh-huh.”

“Still pissed at me?”

The waiter came and served their lunch, put a plate of seared ahi tuna in front of her and sweet-and-sour chicken in front of him.

When the waiter left, she said, “John Lennon did
the same thing to Yoko, although they got back together a year or so later.”

Jack said, “How do you know we won’t?”

He reached over and touched her hand, and she pulled it away.

Jack said, “What’s the matter?”

Kate sipped her green tea, staring at him over the edge of the cup.

“Believe it or not,” Jack said, “I always thought we’d hook up again. I read this article about couples who dated in high school and college, broke up and ended up together twenty, thirty years later. It’s called fate or kismet.”

“You’re not going to tell me your sign, are you?” He sounded like he was picking up where he left off.

Jack met her gaze.

She said, “What do you want?”

He sipped his beer, speared a piece of chicken with his fork and looked at her.

“Don’t tell me you happened to walk into Victoria’s Secret and saw me standing there after sixteen years, and call it fate or kismet.”

“I parked in front of your house and waited till you came down the driveway in your Land Rover.”

“How’d you find my house?” She looked down at the plate of seared tuna and wasn’t hungry now.

“The phone book,” Jack said.

“Come on.”

Jack grinned. “You’re right,” he said. “I saw the article about Owen in
USA Today
and I knew at that moment I had to come back here and see you. I wanted to do it right away, but I knew you’d need some time to sort things out.”

“You think because it’s been seven months,” Kate said, “everything’s okay now? I’m over him? That’s all the time I get?” She was angry and couldn’t stop herself.

“I didn’t mean that,” Jack said. “Take all the time you want.” He took a bite of chicken.

“You sure?” She said it with the same angry tone.

“I just wanted to see if I could help you,” Jack said.

“I don’t need help,” Kate said. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, you’re tough, aren’t you?”

She looked at him and he looked away. Moved the food on his plate around with his fork.

“You did well for yourself,” Jack said. “Better than if we’d have stayed together.”

“Still down on your luck, huh?”

“Is that the way you see me?”

“That’s all I remember,” she said, thinking about the night they walked out of the Pretzel Bell after dinner and saw an Ann Arbor cop car, lights flashing,
double-parked next to the BMW he’d picked her up in. Kate asked him what was going on and he told her he just got the car but hadn’t had time to register the license plate.

She said, “Well aren’t you going to tell the cop?”

He said, no, they could arrest him on a misdemeanor charge. He’d wait till they got the paperwork straightened out and then claim the car.

It sounded believable the way he said it at the time, but in retrospect, it was total bullshit. It was a year or so later that she found out he stole cars and sold them to a theft ring. That’s how he made his money. That, and selling weed.

She said at the time, “Were you going to tell me?”

He said, “What, that I steal cars? Are you kidding?”

Getting away from Jack was one of the big reasons she joined the Peace Corps. But he was also the person she called for help when she was in trouble in Guatemala. He didn’t hesitate—flew down and took charge. He got a black-market US passport for Marina, and he knew a pilot who made regular runs from South Florida to Bogotá and arranged to have them picked up in Guatemala City and flown to Miami.

They got back together again after that, Kate feeling a sense of loyalty that lasted till he left town six months later.

She’d always been attracted to him and still was, staring at him across the table, thinking he looked like a movie star, a cross between George Clooney and Matt Dillon. But he was trouble.

Jack said, “I still have dreams about you.”

“Stop it, will you?” she said, raising her voice.

A foursome of women at the next booth looked over at them.

“Take it easy,” Jack said. He drank his beer.

“You show up after sixteen years and think you can pick it right back up, huh? It doesn’t work that way.”

“Tell me how it works,” Jack said. “What’re the rules?”

“You sound like your old self,” Kate said. “The Jack Curran I remember.”

He sat there staring at her but didn’t say anything. Kate poured more tea in her cup from a ceramic pitcher with a wicker handle. She decided to change the subject. “Are you married?”

“You think I’d be here if I was married?” He sipped his beer. “After you, I never met the right person.”

“Be patient. You will.” She looked down at her untouched piece of tuna. “Want some of this? I’m not hungry.”

He shook his head.

Kate sipped her tea and said, “What do you do?”

“You mean do I have a real job? Yeah. I sell real estate,” Jack said. “Looking for an investment opportunity?”

He was angry, giving it back to her.

“I’ve got a manufactured home development—Eldorado Estates. The pro forma offers a guaranteed six percent per year, with an opportunity to realize nine or ten percent. You buy into the LLC and split the profits with investors and the holding company. With the stock market sputtering, real estate is a viable alternative.”

He sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

“Ever heard of Sun Communities?”

Kate shook her head.

“Or Equity Lifestyle Properties? That’s what we do.”

Kate sipped her tea, eyes on him. Maybe she was wrong about him; maybe he’d cleaned up his act.

“I’d take a look at it if I were you,” Jack said. “The upside is stratospheric.”

Kate said, “I’ll put you in touch with Marty Smith when he gets back in town.” If it made sense to Marty, she might do it.

Jack said, “Who’s Marty Smith?”

Kate said, “Owen’s financial guy.”

“When’s he coming back?’ Cause this deal isn’t going to be around for long.”

“Next week,” Kate said. “He has a place in Bermuda.”

“Too bad,” Jack said. “It closes Friday.”

Kate said, “How much are we talking?”

“Minimum investment—fifty grand.”

He sounded convincing, but hadn’t he always? “Let me think about it,” Kate said.

The bill came and Jack picked it up and studied it.

Kate said, “Do you want to split it?”

“I’ve got it,” Jack said. “I think I can afford thirty-three bucks.”

He left money on the table and they walked back into the mall.

Kate said, “It was good to see you. I’m glad things are going so well.”

Jack said, “Can I take you out to dinner?”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Kate said. “There’s too much going on.”

He kissed her on the cheek and said, “Think about it, will you?”

She left him standing there and headed down the mall concourse toward Saks.

He was thinking about what lunch cost. Thirty-three dollars for a plate of chink food, a beer, tea and a piece of raw fish she didn’t even touch. He was getting low on cash now, down to about forty dollars, and he had to fill up his sister’s car with gas that cost almost three bucks a gallon.

He heard a voice with a twangy southern accent say, “Dude, you never call, never write.”

Jack turned and saw Teddy sitting on a bench outside the entrance to J. Crew: a tradesman in Levi’s, construction boots and a flannel shirt with food stains on it. Teddy Hicks, an ice cream cone in his hand—looked like strawberry—checking out the teen shoppers. His sister’d said a redneck with a mullet stopped by the house looking for him, and he only knew one guy that fit that description.

Teddy said, “Still got a way with the ladies, don’t you? Who’s that little number you was having lunch with? I wouldn’t mind some of that, I’ll tell you.” Teddy flicked his tongue out like a lizard with a mullet, licking the ice cream, keeping his eyes on Jack. “No possibility of parole, and surprise, you’re out twenty-two months early. Just missed you in Tucson.”

“That’s too bad,” Jack said. “We could’ve had dinner, talked about old times.”

“What’s too bad is how long we’ve been waiting for our money.” Teddy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I don’t have it.” Jack moved past him now, heading down the concourse.

“What do you mean, you don’t have it?”

Teddy was right behind him.

“I hid it in the motel room ceiling,” Jack said. “Adobe Flats, it was called.”

“And you’re telling me you didn’t go back and get it?”

Strawberry ice cream was running down the side of the cone into a napkin that was wrapped around the base.

Jack said, “It’s gone.”

“Maybe you got the streets wrong.”

“Campbell and Hacienda,” Jack said. “It’s a strip mall now. Got a Starbucks, a Carl’s Jr., and a few new restaurants that cater to upscale professionals like yourself.”

“Huh?”

“Stop by next time you’re out there.”

They were walking by Johnston & Murphy, Jack checking out the expensive executive shoes on display, fancy ones with laces, in shades of brown and shiny black, and loafers with thin soles that
looked like slippers. Teddy finished the cone, licked his fingers and dropped the napkin on the tile floor.

“I know you’re a stand-up guy,” Teddy said. “Didn’t rat out your buds, didn’t complain, did your time like a man. But it doesn’t change nothing, you still owe us our money. Now you don’t have it, we’ve got a problem.”

“I just did thirty-eight months trying to stay alive and keep my butt from getting augured while you’re out fucking around, having a good time, and you think I owe you, huh? What parallel fucking universe did you just step out of?”

Teddy grinned. “That’s pretty good. You make that up yourself?”

Jack pushed through the door, Teddy following and now they were outside. Wind whipped across the parking lot, blowing Jack’s hair back.