never told her where he was going. He pulls off the freeway and into a Shell gas station to call home. He’s relieved to hear Bernie’s voice. She actually sounds chipper this afternoon, telling Jay she’s going to roast a chicken for dinner and wanting to know would he pick up a bag of white rice.
“B, listen,” Jay starts. “I want you to hang up the phone now and go make sure the doors are locked, the windows too. And I don’t want you to answer the door for anybody but me.”
“We went over all this, Jay.”
“Just do it, okay?” he says firmly. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. If you have any problems, somebody tries to mess with you or get in the apartment, I want you to call Rolly Snow. He can get there faster than I can.”
“Why in the world would I call
“Then call the police, B.”
Bernie’s voice comes back soft, frightened. “Jay?”
“Don’t argue with me, B. Just do it.”
“Jay . . . there’s a police officer here right now, sitting in the living room,” his wife says. “He said you called the station, want ing somebody to come out and check on me. He just got here. I mean, not two minutes before you called.”
Jay feels his knees give. “Bernie, I never called any cop.”
“But he’s sitting right—”
Her words stop short.
Jay can picture his wife in the apartment, on the kitchen phone, turning her pregnant body to take a second look at the white man in her living room, realizing that something is indeed off about his appearance. The suit that’s just a little too nice for city work, the gold on his finger, and the scotch on his breath. Over the phone, Jay hears his wife whisper, “Oh, God.” “Are you on the kitchen phone?”
“Yes.”
“His back to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then get out of there, B.”
“Should I call—”
“There isn’t enough time.”
“What is this, Jay? What’s happening?”
“Just hang up the phone and walk out the door and don’t look back.”
He tries hard not to picture his life without her. As he pulls into the alley behind his apartment building, Jay tries to convince himself that there’s still a life before him that’s worth living, a life with Bernie in it. A few feet from his building, he jumps from the car with his .38, leaving the engine running. He ducks under the carport and races for the stairs. The back door is open. It’s the first hint that maybe, just maybe, his wife got out okay. The sun has set by now, and the apartment is dark. Jay steps inside, hardly able to see more t han a few inches in f ront of him. He moves blindly through his apartment, feeling along the walls, calling his wife’s name. The silence is unsettling. The stillness in here is all wrong. Jay feels a terrible ache, down to his bones, a painful pre monition that behind the cloak of darkness that surrounds him, something awful awaits. It’s then that he hears his wife, her voice a soft, gurgling whimper, a sound choked with tears. Jay turns and flips on a switch in the hallway. A path of light falls into the living room, where Bernie is curled up on the floor, her back against the wall. He flies to her side.
“Bernie!”
She is staring blankly across the room.
Jay reaches over her, turning on a lamp by the couch. The barrel of the .45 catches the light first.
Jay sees the gun, is able to comprehend it, before he sees the
man’s face. He quickly raises the .38 in his hand. But the man from the black Ford shoots first, taking out a chunk of plaster just a few inches from Bernie’s head before aiming the weapon at Jay.
“Drop the gun,” he orders.
Jay refuses. The two armed men stand face-to-face. “Don’t be stupid, Porter,” the man says. He aims the gun at
Bernie again, daring to take a step closer. On the floor, Ber nie stuffs her hands over her mouth, stifling a scream, tears streaming down her face. The man from the black Ford looks at Jay. “You really think I’d miss twice? Drop the fucking gun!”
“Let her go,” Jay demands.
“You’re fucking this up, Porter,” the man says, his words clipped, as if he’s out of patience, and Jay is out of time. “I like to keep things neat, understand? That’s my job. Now you’re mak ing two more problems for me to clean up.”
“You got me. . . . let her go.”
“Drop the gun.”
“Let my wife go, and I’ll do whatever you want.”
The .45 is still aimed at Bernie’s head.
The man from the black Ford looks between her and Jay and Jay’s .38.
Then, deciding something, he looks at Bernie and barks, “Get up.”
Bernie looks at her husband. “Jay?”
Jay steels himself when he thinks of what he’s about to do, the script he’s already written in his head. He looks into his wife’s eyes. He wants her to understand what he’s asking of her, that he needs her to trust him completely. He wants her to see the way out. “Go on, B, get up.”
