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?”
NINE
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 amp; 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.
