Spree (9 page)

“Have you been faithful to me?” she asked.

Yes he had.

“What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” he said, and kissed her forehead.

“You don’t have to marry me,” she said.

“You’re not pregnant, then?” He blew air out, as if relieved.

“You’re a riot, Nolan. I just mean, I’ll stay here, whatever the case. Till . . .”

“Till I boot you out. Right. Well, we’ll think about this marriage thing. There’s things to consider, you know.”

“Such as?”

“Our respective ages. I’m better than twice yours.”

“I don’t care.”

“What if we had children?”

“What if we did?”

“I don’t like the idea of going to my kid’s graduation in a wheelchair.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Not silly; realistic. In ten years you’ll be in your thirties and I’ll be in my sixties.”

“I don’t care.”

“In about fifteen years, you’ll come through that doorway in a Frederick’s nightie and nothing will happen under these covers.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’d be like raising the dead.”

She slipped her hand down between his legs. “I’ve been known to perform miracles.”

She was in the process of performing one when the doorbell rang. Her head jerked out of his lap and she said, “Damn.”

“Maybe they’ll go away,” he said, and guided her head back down.

But the mood was broken, and the bell was ringing.

“Goddamn,” she said, getting out of bed.

“I’ll get it,” Nolan said. “You get back in bed.”

He put his brown silk dressing robe on, ten percent discount from Mosenfelder’s, and walked down the hallway. He stopped halfway, and went back into the bedroom, where Sherry was standing cinching the belt on a white knee-length terry-cloth robe.

“What?” she said.

The doorbell was still ringing.

“Sunday night,” he said. “It’s almost twelve-thirty.”

“So?”

“Who comes calling Sunday night at twelve-thirty?” He pulled open a drawer on the nightstand by the bed and got out his long-barreled .38.

“Nolan . . .”

“It’s probably nothing,” he said, and, gun in hand, walked back down the hall.

The doorbell rang again, and this time Nolan cracked the door and looked out, .38 tight in his hand, flat against the door, out of sight from whoever was standing out there.

Whoever was standing out there turned out to be a short, curly-headed mustached kid in a long navy woolen coat with a wide turned-up collar.

Jon.

Jon with a mustache
, Nolan thought, stroking his;
I’ll be damned
.

He was standing there with two suitcases on the cement next to him, looking very tired, very bleary-eyed, looking like a truck driver who had just pulled an all-night run and forgot his No-Doz. Even the wispy excuse for a mustache seemed droopy.

Nolan unlatched the door and swung it open.

“What the fuck,” he said.

“Hello to you, too, Nolan,” Jon said, smiling a little. “Is that a gun, or are you just glad to see me?”

“Just a second,” he said. Nolan leaned over to the nearby doorless doorway to the kitchen and laid the .38 gently on the counter, next to a toaster.

Back in the front doorway, he said to the kid, “What are you doing here?”

“Freezing my nuts off on your front landing. Can I come in?”

“Why not.”

He helped the kid with his bags.

“My drawing board and some other stuff’s in the van,” Jon said, as Nolan shut the door behind him. “It can wait till tomorrow.”

“What is this, kid?”

“I got kicked out of my apartment. I didn’t have anyplace to go. I was hoping I could chill out here for a few days.”

“What does ‘chill out’ mean?”

Jon was all but asleep on his feet. “I want to stay here, awhile, Nolan. Get my act together.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“That depends on your definition. Is somebody trying to kill me? Not that I know of; the Comforts are dead, remember? And the cops never got a make on us, that I know of. I have a normal life now. The kind of life where people don’t shoot at you, but your girlfriend walks out and your landlord evicts you and you don’t even have a band to play in anymore and . . .”

Nolan guided him by the arm to a soft modular chair in the nearby, big, open living room. “You’re dead, aren’t you, kid?”

“More or less. It’s a pretty long drive, and I had a pretty long day before I started it. Hey, uh, I tried to call; no answer. I figured you were working.”

Nolan, standing near the chair the kid sat in, shrugged. “I took Sherry to a movie this afternoon,” he said. “I don’t put the answer machine on, on Sundays. It’s my day off.”

Jon yawned, grinned. “Christ, you’re leading a normal life, too, aren’t you? Your day off. You went to a movie. I can’t picture that. What did you see?”

“Something with a woman named Street.”

“Street?”

“I think that was it. She had a big nose.”

“Oh,
Streep
. Was it good?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I slept.”

“Now that restores my faith in you.”

“Your girlfriend walked out. Who, Toni?”

Toni and Nolan had met, briefly, a year ago or so.

“Yeah,” Jon said. He explained about the big break Toni had gotten, with Prince’s people.

“That shorty faggy black guy?” Nolan asked.

“That’s him.”

“You can sell people anything,” Nolan said, struck by the wonder of it.

Jon was blinking, trying to stay awake. “You mentioned Sherry. You’re still with Sherry.”

“Still with Sherry.”

“I never met her,” Jon said.

“You have now,” Sherry said; she was standing at the end of the hallway in her short terry robe.

“Pleased to meet you,” Jon said, eyes momentarily a little wide. Even with her hair messed up, as it was now from their lovemaking, Sherry was a handsome woman.

Sherry walked over and offered Jon her hand; Jon stood, shook the hand, smiled at her, apologized for barging in.

“I’m beat,” he said. “I just need to crash somewhere.”

“There’s a bedroom downstairs,” she said.

“I know,” Jon said. “Two of them, actually.” He’d roomed there awhile, when Nolan first moved in, before Sherry was called on the scene.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Sherry said, arms folded.

“I find that hard to believe,” Jon said. “What did Nolan tell you about me? No. Never mind. I need a good night’s sleep before I can deal with that.”

“I’ll get your bags,” Nolan said.

“No, no,” Jon said.

“I’ll get your bags,” he repeated; he had them in his hands, now.

“No use arguing with Nolan,” Jon told Sherry.

Jon followed Nolan down the open stairs off the living room into the big open rec room, where a competition-size pool table and a wet bar dominated, and down the hall to the right, to the guest bedroom.

“I appreciate this, Nolan,” Jon said, flopping on the bed. The sparsely furnished room had three light blue plaster walls and one wall that was strictly closet with wood sliding doors.

“No problem,” Nolan said.

“I, uh . . . may need to stay a week.”

“No problem.”

“You really are a good friend, Nolan, underneath it all.”

Nolan said nothing. Then he turned to go.

Jon said, “Thanks, Nolan. G’night.”

“Night, kid.”

Nolan stepped out into the hall; then he peeked his head back in and said, “Kid?”

“Yeah?”

“Lose the mustache.”

7

TWO WEEKS LATER
, on a colder Sunday night, snow on the ground, Sherry was feeling pissed.

She had been invaded. It was as simple as that. This Jon person shows up, out of the blue, and simply moves in. Just like that. Like he fucking owned the place.

The screwy thing was, he and Nolan weren’t even particularly nice to each other. They rarely spoke. They went their own way. On no occasion in the two weeks since he’d been there had Jon ever eaten a meal with them—with the exception of Thanksgiving, last week. She’d made a turkey and all the fixings, a rarity, since she seldom cooked; she and Nolan ate at restaurants, sometimes their own, on weeknights, after the dining room closed; but more often one of the many other restaurants in the Cities: Nolan’s accountant had confirmed that if he ate his meals at rival restaurants, he could deduct the meals, on a basis of “checking out the competition.” So when Sherry made the grand gesture of actually cooking a meal at home—particularly something as elaborate as a turkey dinner—she would like to have the sullen son of a bitch all to herself, at least.

But, nooooooo—this “kid” (as Nolan called him—though he seemed to be in his mid-twenties) had to join them. Jon was polite enough, and praised the meal, more overtly than Nolan (but that was no big deal—her man was as stingy with his praise as he was with his money) but what little table talk there was was confined to the football game the two of them had just watched, that and the football game they would watch next, into the evening! Men. It was hard enough living with one—now she was living with two!

She and Jon had barely spoken as the days turned into weeks; he seemed to be avoiding her—and when he couldn’t avoid her, when he came face-to-face with her, he’d give her a twitch of a smile and avoid her eyes, avoid looking at her, as if he couldn’t bear to, as if she were something horrible to look upon.

It was early Sunday evening, and she was driving back to the house after a long afternoon of solitary shopping, at Brady Eighty’s chief rival, North Park. She had shopped there primarily to figuratively thumb her nose at Nolan. It drove him crazy when she shopped anywhere but Brady Eighty, because of the discounts she could get at their “home” mall. Normally, she lived and let live where his tight streak was concerned; after all, he provided a good home for her, and paid her a salary, a generous one, for her hostessing at Nolan’s. So she had her own money.

But she relished the pained look that would register on that Lee Van Cleef mug of his, when he saw the sacks from North Park stores.