“I’ll try,” Marla said, obviously still stunned. “How did you get these?”
“I guess as a shrink you think no question should go unasked and that no areas should go unexplored. But with this… Well, it’s the kinda thing you shouldn’t ask, okay?”
“Okay. I guess I see.”
“I didn’t know what to do with them, but I figured you’d have a better idea. If you want me to destroy ‘em-”
“No, Joe. This man did more than rape them. He took away part of these women’s lives. He took away a sense of control. I think maybe I can help them get some of it back. Determining what to do with the tapes should be their decision. Can you understand?”
“I do. Look, I’m sorry I ruined your evening, but-”
“You didn’t ruin anything.” Marla stood close to him, folding herself into his arms. “I’ve never known another man like you. Guys always talk about what they’ve done or would do, but this is something-I just don’t have the words for it.”
“Then let’s not talk about it anymore.”
And with that, he kissed her until it hurt.
Vinny was talking to him. He could swear it. It wasn’t a dream because he could still taste Marla on his lips. The suffocating stink of vanilla filled the air. Joe Serpe forced his eyes open. Marla was next to him, naked and asleep. So much for taking it slow. He stared at the smooth curves of her body in the sputtering candlelight. Just seeing her there excited him. Vinny interrupted:
“… if it’s gone to three alarms and you’re still in the house making this call, bend over and kiss your ass-”
Joe looked at the clock, picked up. “It’s three-fifteen, for chrissakes,” he whispered. “Who the fuck is it?”
“You told me to call any time, right?”
“Who is this?” He was more insistent.
“It’s Paco. Sorry, man, I’m just doing what you asked. You remember me?”
“East L.A.”
“That’s me. So, you want to meet Reyes’ boys?”
“Now?”
“Hey, you didn’t tell me banker’s hours only, jefe. So, you interested?”
“Very.”
“Good. Meet me in the parking lot in front of Iguana in ten minutes.”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty,” Paco repeated. Click.
Joe moved quietly into the shower, shut the bathroom door behind him. He didn’t want to have to explain his skipping out on what had been a perfect night. Marla had other plans, silently sliding in behind Joe. She pressed herself against his back, wrapping her arms around him. By the time Joe turned around he was already hard. Marla knelt down, taking him in her mouth, Joe’s back shielding her from the water. He let his left hand fall on top of her hair, stroking, twisting it in his fingers. As he did, Marla let out little sighs. Her mouth was moister now and her motion more insistent.
He stopped her, pulling her up by the shoulders, kissing her hard on the mouth.
“I’ve gotta go,” he said, brushing the shower spray off her face. “And if I don’t stop you now, I’ll never stop.”
“Then let’s never stop.”
He kissed her again. “You can stay here if you want, but I don’t know when I’m getting back.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to stay.”
“Then ask.”
“Stay.”
“Okay.” She rested her cheek on chest. “Why are you going?”
“It’s important.”
“Oh,” she said, “another one of those things I’m not supposed to ask about.”
“Maybe later you can ask. It may turn out to be nothing.”
“I’ll be here.”
He stepped out of the shower and toweled off.
The lone car in front of Joe’s kept kicking up debris into his windshield. Though no snow remained from the heavy winter crop, a sheet of dust, pebbles and loose gravel covered the near-empty streets. Snow always disappeared if given enough time, but the plowing, the salt and sand used to deal with it did far more damage. In the end, the cure was worse than the disease itself. When he was a cop, Joe never gave this kind of thing much thought, but when you drive a truck for a living, you learn to pay attention to the roads beneath your tires.
Iguana was dark, the parking lot empty. Portion Road was well lit, but the night was deadly still. Joe checked his watch. Twenty minutes exactly. Joe wondered about getting out of the car to wait. His hair still wet; he decided he’d stay warm. Then, in the black doorway of the restaurant, a flame. Someone had struck a match. Now there was a flame and a red point of light. The flame was out. The red point of light remained. Paco, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, walked up to Joe’s window. He rested his forearms on the door ledge. Joe cranked the window. “Hey, Paco. So what’s the deal?”
Paco pointed toward the passenger window. “Look over there.”
Joe turned his head right. If there was something there to see, he was missing it. When he turned back, however, he got the idea. The muzzle of a Desert Eagle was pressed against his left cheek.
“I like you, boss,” Paco said calmly. “So don’t make me have to blow a big, fat hole through the side of your face, okay?”
“Okay.”
Paco whistled and two men stepped out of the shadows. Both held handguns at their thighs.
“Step out slowly and put your hands on the roof,” Paco instructed Joe. Then he let go with some Spanish.
Joe did as instructed, not bothering to try and talk his way out of this. First, he wanted a sense of how this was going to play out and he didn’t want to piss anybody off. One of Paco’s men sat in the backseat, the other walked up behind Joe and wrapped a thick piece of duct tape across his eyes. Joe felt the barrel of a gun in his ribs and followed its directions carefully. He couldn’t see, but he knew he was in the backseat between Paco’s buddies.
“Relax,” Paco said.
“When I used to tell people to relax, it usually meant they were fucked.”
Joe knew the area roads better than most, but after a few turns he lost track. His mind was on other things. He couldn’t get the thought out of his head that he might never see Marla again. It seemed so strange that he should worry about her most of all. Maybe not. He thought of Healy, too. Man, his life had changed a lot in two weeks. He tried calming himself with the notion that he had at least gotten a life back. That and the fact they’d blindfolded him gave him some room for hope. No need to blindfold a man you were going to kill. But reminding himself about God’s sick joy in kicking the same dead horse, Joe was careful not to get his hopes up too high.
The car came to an abrupt stop. Unlike Jean Michel Toussant, Joe didn’t make a scene of exiting the car. All it took was a nudge in the ribs and he climbed right out. Someone rapped on a door, a metal door. There was an exchange in Spanish. The door opened. Another nudge. Joe stepped through the door. Another exchange. Hands slapped together. Backs were patted.
“Careful,” Paco warned. “There are stairs. Go down slow.”
One of Joe’s back seat companions took his arm and made sure he didn’t tumble. The door closed behind them. One step and another and another and. Twelve steps. Too bad he wasn’t an alcoholic.
“Whachu smiling at?” a strange voice asked.
“Inside joke,” Joe said.
“He got some cojones on him, this guy.”
A hallway. Linoleum on the floor. Joe had lots of company. He could hear their footfalls and shuffling, their
