Dead and Gone

“That is where the secrets are,” she said. “When a woman undresses, men think she is revealed. But it is as a woman dresses herself that the truth of her is shown.”

“And you don’t want me to—”

“I do want you to. I have been … unfair.”

“Gem, I told you, it isn’t your—”

“Not about the … outfit. I mean … when you … retained me, you knew … what about me?”

“That you were fluent in Russian. That people who my people trusted vouched for you.”

“And …?” she asked, covering her face and neck with cold cream.

“That’s all,” I told her, truthfully.

“The woman you call Mother—”

“Mama.”

“Is that not the same—”

“No,” I said, crimping that wire before it sparked.

“She is well known. To the people from whom I get my … assignments. Very respected.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yes. And … I made some inquiries. You understand, it is good to know the people with whom you work,” she said. I didn’t say anything, not sure if she was insulting my own professionalism for not getting more info on her, or rolling out the carpet to a door she was about to open. I shifted my posture to tell her I heard what she said … and was waiting for the rest of it.

She started to remove the cream. Gently, patting it off with a washcloth. “There are many … rumors about you, Burke.”

“Sure.”

“They cannot all be false.”

“Is that some mathematical certainty? Some law of nature?”

“In a way, it is,” she said, seriously. “Some rumors must have a factual basis, if they are to stay alive long enough.”

“Or they have enough people continuing to come forward and say, ‘Yeah, I was abducted by aliens, too.’ ”

“You may have your jokes,” she said, calmly, doing something around her eyes with a makeup pencil.

“I’m not making fun of you. Just of people who take rumors to the bank.”

“You have been in prison.”

“That’s no secret.”

“Some say you have killed,” she said, no emotion in her voice, all her focus on the dark-red lipstick she was carefully applying.

“See? There’s the difference between facts and rumors.”

“And some say you are insane.”

“I’m sure.”

“A very selective insanity,” she said, eyes very wide in the mirror, working on her lashes. “It is said that when children are hurt you go blind with rage.”

“Is that right? Who says that?”

“Some of the same people who say you have killed.”

“Naturally.”

“No,” she said. “Many say you have killed. Some say you kill for money, a professional. Different people speak of your rage. A professional has no rage.”

“You’d know that,” I said, flat-voiced.

“Yes,” glancing at me in the mirror. Her eyes were heavily shadowed by then, a bluish-green color.

“Is this another disguise?” I asked. Meaning all the makeup she was piling on.

“Not yet. Be patient,” she said, now painting her fingernails the same shade as her lips.

“All right.”

“I want to go out later. Is that okay?”

“You don’t have to ask me if—”

“No. I don’t mean I am going alone. I want you to take me.”

“To eat, right?”

“No.” She giggled. “I am aware that you consider me a sow. Where I … live now, there is a little bar. It has a pool table. I always watch, never play. I would like to play. I understand it takes practice to play well. But I need to know the rudiments of the game before I can practice. And I hoped you would teach me.”