What do you wear to walk off with a half million bucks? Go casual, with running shoes, or dress up? Max gave it some thought and put on his tan poplin suit with a blue shirt and navy tie. His instructions were to hang around the Anne Klein display on Macy’s second level, women’s clothes, and watch for Jackie to walk out of the fitting room at approximately four thirty. Give whatever surveillance they had on her time to clear out. Then approach a salesclerk and tell her his wife thinks she left a shopping bag in one of the dressing rooms. With beach towels in it.
He had read that a prompt man was a lonely man, and it seemed to be true: now a few minutes past four standing outside Gallery Renee, a newspaper under his arm, looking in at green paintings, no sign of Renee—until he heard her voice.
“Max?”
Sad, or maybe uncertain. She was behind him, standing in the middle of the concourse, Renee holding one of the busboy’s paintings upright on the floor.
“It came this morning,” Renee said. “A process server delivered it, like a court summons.”
“That’s what it is,” Max said.
She seemed so small holding on to that big canvas, unaware of shoppers walking around her. It was a trait of hers, being unaware: stopping to talk in the middle of traffic, in doorways of public places, in a parking lot, a car waiting to take the space where she stood.
“I was sadly disappointed,” Renee said. “I thought you might show more class than have a stranger inform me. After twenty-seven years, Max, do you think that’s fair?”
He said, “Why don’t you come over here out of the way?” Shoppers were looking at Renee, then turning as they went by to glance at him. “Here, let me help you.”
She walked into her gallery, Renee wearing a baggy, Arab-looking outfit, layers of material in tan and white, black stripes running through it. Max followed, stopping to catch the glass door swinging at him. He got the painting inside and leaned it against the table in the center, ready for more of Renee, her tiny head with its cap of dark hair sticking out of the Arab outfit, eyes brightly made up. Renee looking at the canvas now.
“I was positive Ralph Lauren would buy one, after I schlepped it all the way over there. I said, ‘Hang something that has some life in it, energy, instead of those stupid English horse prints.’ ”
“What do they know,” Max said, for some reason sympathizing with her. She was looking at him now, her expression telling him she was still sadly disappointed.
“You could have come to me, Max, told me what you planned to do.”
“I did come to you. You were busy with your cheese and crackers.”
“I sold three of David’s paintings at the reception. Another one yesterday.”
“You’re doing all right.”
“Twenty-seven years,” Renee said, “as if they never happened.”
He was thinking, No, they happened, they must have. But didn’t say anything. Why start? Get her to accept the fact and leave. It was ten after.
Renee was looking at the painting again, the cane field, with kind of a lost expression, or vacant. She said, “We’ve had our differences. We’ve grown apart, there’s no getting around that. I have my art. You have . . . I suppose your business.” She looked at him now. “But we had some good times too, didn’t we, Max?”
Was that from a song?
Good times too, didn’t we?
He tried to think of one in particular. There was that period in the beginning when he could-n’t keep his hands off of her and he thought she would get to like it, way back, before he had given up trying to think of things to talk about. Maybe there weren’t any, at least not memorable ones, the entire twenty-seven years but not counting the periods of separation. Those weren’t bad. The times with Cricket singing country to him, Cricket in what passed for moonlight . . . It was funny, he liked waitresses. Jackie was different. Intelligent but horny, in a quiet, unhurried way—reaching into his pants on the balcony and dropping her glass over the side, taking hold of him. He would never get tired of being with her. . . . He said to Renee, “Yeah, there were times,” and saw her chin quiver.
She could do that, make it quiver anytime she wanted, and it seemed to always work; he’d feel guilty or sorry for her without knowing why.
She looked at the cane field again saying, “What’s the use talking about it, you’ve made up your mind.” Renee sighed. “If this is what you want . . .”
“Don’t you think it makes sense?”
“I suppose.” She raised her head to look at him again, the chin no longer quivering. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t going to cost you.”
Max said, “Renee, you never came cheap.”
Frieda, the saleswoman in the fitting room with Jackie, stood in a fashion-model slouch, hand on her kidney with fingers pointing to her spine. She said, “The Isani’s absolutely darling on you.”
Jackie looked over her shoulder at the mirror. “I’m used to a narrower skirt.”
“Your figure,” Frieda said, “you can go straight or fluid and swingy. You’re traveling abroad?”
“I thought I’d start out in Paris, drive through the wine country.”
“Oh, you’re going by yourself?”
“I may,” Jackie said. “I’m not sure.”
“Mix and match with separates, that silk jersey I showed you? It travels beautifully.” Frieda picked up several dresses from the back of a chair. “You like a narrow skirt, why don’t you try on that Zang Toi, with the off-center slit?”
Jackie glanced at her watch. “Okay. I know I want the suit. In fact I think I’ll wear it—get out of this uniform.”
“The black silk, it’s a knockout on you,” Frieda said, and walked out.
Louis and Melanie were by the Donna Karan New York display, Louis watching the opening in the paneled wall that said FITTING ROOM over it, down at the far end of the designer section. Jackie had said at the meeting to wait here and not come in before twenty-five after. It was getting onto that now. He was pretty sure he’d have a better view of the fitting room over by the Dana Buchman display. Once Melanie went in, he wanted to be sure he saw her when she came out. Women shoppers would creep by and he’d feel them looking at him. Like what was he doing here? Melanie kept busy. She’d hold up a blouse to look it over and then throw it back on the shelf. She never folded anything up again. She was all butt in her white tube skirt and denim jacket, but didn’t look too bad. He was surprised she was interested in clothes, because she didn’t seem to have many, always wearing those cutoffs. Louis was holding the Macy’s shopping bag they’d exchange for the one Jackie had. He was afraid if Melanie carried it she’d be shoplifting, stuffing things in the bag. They didn’t need mall security on them, guys in green sport coats and peach-colored ties. At least they didn’t pack. Louis had on his new light-blue sport coat. He wished this was over. Melanie made him nervous.
He said, “Come on,” motioning to her, and crossed the aisle to the Dana Buchman display. He looked back, motioning to her again, and bumped into a woman as he turned to look toward the fitting room. Louis said, “I beg your pardon,” saw the woman’s lifeless eyes, and realized, Christ, it was a mannequin. Melanie came up to him saying, “You talking to yourself, Louis?”
He thought this would give them a straight-on view of the fitting room, but there was another display between it and them, mannequins standing around in poses. They did look real. Louis nudged Melanie and said, “Come on.”
She said, “What’re we waiting for? Why don’t I just do it?”
“She said four twenty-five.”
“It’s almost that now.”
Louis motioned to her and she followed him to a section that said MICHI MOON on a display board. Melanie, looking at the clothes, said, “Far out.”
“Get ready,” Louis said, handing her the Macy’s bag, beach towels in it Jackie had told him to buy. Now he saw a woman with dresses over her arm come out of the fitting room and start hanging the dresses on different racks. There were a few women in the area prowling through the racks, only one guy; he was sitting in a chair over by Ellen Tracy reading a newspaper. He looked up, toward the rear area, and Louis said, “Jesus Christ, it’s Max.”
Melanie turned from Michi Moon saying, “Who?”
