“Dunno.”
“Where is he? His body?”
“Don’t worry about that.”
Carmen had been out smoking a globe of tik, come back with that crazy rush in her head when she saw the fat boer waiting for her outside her apartment. She had let him in, expecting abuse over the money that Rikki owed him. The cop was bad luck.
But today he had brought her good news. Fuck, it was unbelievable.
The cop was speaking, but she was caught up in the spin cycle in her head. He prodded her with one of his fat fingers, and she nearly fell. “I’m fucken talking to you!”
Carmen had to concentrate hard to keep her head together. “What, man?”
He shook his head at her. “Fucken tik whore.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he lifted a hand to shut her up. “Now listen and listen careful.”
“Okay.”
“People are going to want to know where he is, you get me?”
“Ja.”
“But you not gonna tell them he’s dead.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m telling you not to, that’s why not!” He was looming over her, his stink like a dead thing in the room.
“But what do I do? If people want to know where he gone?”
“You tell them him and his buddy…”
“Faried.”
“Faried. You tell them you heard them talking about going up the west coast.”
“For what?”
“Who gives a fuck for what? For crayfish or abalone. Or Hottentot whores. Just say they went and you haven’t seen them since. You understand me?”
Carmen nodded. “Ja. Okay, man.”
Gatsby grabbed her by the arm. She could feel her tit lying against his hand. He pulled the hand away. “I hear you saying anything else, and I come and cut your fucken throat. You got me?”
She nodded, stepping away from his stench. He looked around the room. “Where’s the old alkie?”
“Gone to buy a wine. Don’t worry, he won’t say nothing.”
“And the kid?”
“Social Services took him.”
“What, they say you unfit?” She shrugged. “So, no husband. No kid. You can sell your ass again.” There was a phlegmy sound from deep in Gatsby’s lungs, like a chest wound sucking. He was laughing.
“Fuck you!” Carmen couldn’t stop herself.
He moved fast for a huge man, and his fist flew at her. He pulled the punch at the last second, and she felt his clammy knuckles brush the skin of her cheek. They stood like that, eyes locked until he lowered his fist.
“Next time, I’ll put you in hospital.”
Then he turned and lumbered out, leaving the door open. Carmen shut it.
She sat down on the stained sofa. Rikki was dead. She still couldn’t believe it. She had dreaded telling him they had lost Sheldon’s grant. Rikki would have blamed her, and, unlike the fat boer, he wouldn’t have pulled his punches. Fuck, knowing Rikki, he would have put the boot in.
She felt relief and even some odd sensation that wasn’t familiar to her. It was happiness, she finally realized. She was happy. For the first time since she was seven years old, when her father had started visiting her with his whispered, sweaty demands, she belonged to no man.
Burn stood in the kitchen looking through at Susan and Matt on the sofa in front of the TV. Susan held her son’s hand. Two days ago this would have made Burn happy. He would have taken this as a sign that Susan was growing close to Matt again, that she was moving out of the closed circle of her and her baby.
But he knew now that Susan was getting ready to turn herself in. She was afraid she’d be separated from her son and was taking what time she could to be with him. Burn couldn’t stand watching them any longer, in the knowledge that in a couple of days they would be out of his life.
Probably forever.
He found himself on the deck in the dark, staring out over the lights of the city below. He felt a moment of vertigo as if everything was sliding away from him. He sat down on a wooden chair and deliberately slowed his breathing. Forced himself to calm down. Forced himself to remember who he was.
He had always been a fighter. As a kid, he’d protected his older brother from bullies. He’d worn the bruises and the broken teeth, but he’d never backed down. Ever. There were still men in his hometown who would prop up the bar and talk about the night he won them the high school state championship with his arm broken. His throwing arm. He’d landed his passes on a dime and scored the winning touchdown.
In the marines, no matter what brand of shit hit the fan, he had found a quiet place, some stillness within, that allowed him the time to act.
The night the men had come in off the deck, he had known he was going to take them down. It wasn’t a thought; it was a reflex. He was a fighter.
Now he was losing his family, and he wasn’t doing a fucking thing. He was letting Susan slip farther and farther away.
He stood and paced the deck, asking himself the tough questions: Did he want her to go? Did he want to be alone, with nothing to lose? Did he want to get rid of everything that made him vulnerable, go deep into a cold place within himself and live out the rest of his days a refugee from both the law and any of the emotions that made him human?
No. He did not.
Burn went inside. Matt was still hypnotized by the TV. Susan was in the kitchen, chopping vegetables.
Burn leaned on the counter and watched her chop. She had beautiful hands, long delicate fingers. She’d been a sculptor when he had first met her. She’d lost interest in sculpting in the last few years, her passion to be an artist diluted by the duties of a wife and mother. It was a pity. She was talented.
Susan ignored him. She scraped the vegetables into a wok and walked it across to the stove.
Burn didn’t take his eyes off her. “Ernie Simpkins.”
She looked up at him, brushing hair from her face. “What?”
“The dead cop’s name was Ernie Simpkins.” She shrugged, stirred the wok with a wooden spoon. “I wish to hell I could change what happened, Susan, but I can’t. I don’t want to lose you. Or Matt. Or the baby.”
“It’s too late, Jack. You already have.”
“I screwed up, big time. I admit that.”
She looked up from the wok. “No, Jack, forgetting an anniversary is screwing up. Murdering a cop is in an altogether different category. And let’s not even talk about what you did the other night.”
Burn watched her as she cooked, determined not to let her anger scare him and drive him into silence. “Baby, do you really want to split up our family? If you do that, you know that we’ll never be able to see each other again. The kids will grow up not knowing who their father is.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“That isn’t you talking, Susan.”
“It is, Jack. Get used to it. I’m not your cute little trophy wife anymore.”
“You were never that.” He came up behind her, tried to hold her, but she spun away from him and crossed to the fridge for soy sauce.
He pressed on. “Let’s go to New Zealand.”
She laughed in disbelief. “New Zealand?”
He nodded. He had to sell this. He had one chance. “I made a mistake bringing us here. This place is like, hell, I dunno, a candy castle built on a septic tank. New Zealand is beautiful, wild, just about zero crime.”
“Now there’s an irony. You looking for a place that’s crime free.” She added soy to the vegetables, stirring rapidly.
“Susan, look at me.” Reluctantly, she looked up. “I want another chance. Jesus, I deserve a chance to make
