That was too much thinking, so he pulled the money out and counted it-$247,374, not counting the small stuff in his pocket. He went to the gift shop and talked the clerk out of three shopping bags, the stiff, square kind with the twine handles. He put $100,000 each into two bags, and the rest in the third bag.
At 4:00 PM, he called Jenny again, and still got no answer. A gnawing feeling in the bottom of his stomach told him she was gone for good.
Ray loaded the three shopping bags into the trunk of his Mustang. Then he drove past Jenny’s apartment. Her car still wasn’t there. This time he didn’t stop. At a store on Esplanade Avenue, he stopped and used a pay phone to call the House.
Someone whose voice he didn’t recognize answered. No, the voice told him, Jenny Porter wasn’t at work. As soon as he hung up, Ray hated himself for making that call. She had said she was through at the House. When Jenny said something, she meant it. There was something to be learned from that.
Ray took the expressway toward Metairie. At the hotel where they had stayed, he circled the parking lot looking for her Firebird. It wasn’t there. He wandered into the lobby. At the front desk he asked the clerk if Jenny Porter had checked out. The clerk, a young Pakistani man, eyed him for several seconds, then said, “Are you Mr. Shane?”
Ray nodded.
“Mr. Ray Shane?” the clerk asked in his lilting accent.
Ray fought the urge to reach over the counter and choke the shit out of him. Instead, he said, “Yes, sir. My name is Ray Shane.”
The clerk reached under the desk and then handed Ray an envelope with the hotel’s logo and return address in the upper left corner. Ray Shane was written in pen across the front. Jenny’s handwriting. So she had at least left him a Dear John letter.
Ray mumbled his thanks. He trudged across the lobby and sat down on a sofa. The envelope was sealed and didn’t appear to have been tampered with. He used his Swiss Army knife to slit open the flap. Inside was a single sheet of hotel stationery. On it, written in Jenny’s hand, it said, Call me, and gave a downtown phone number.
In the back of the lobby, next to the restrooms, was a pay phone. Ray got change for a dollar from the Pakistani desk clerk and dialed the number.
A hotel receptionist greeted him. He asked for Jenny Porter. His call was put through and Jenny answered on the first ring. Her voice was cautious. “Hello.”
Relief flooded through him. “I got your note.”
She was at a hotel a block from the Doubletree. She had read in the paper and heard on the news about all that had happened. She didn’t feel safe at the hotel in Metairie, or at her apartment. She had left the note just in case he decided to look for her.
Ray went to her hotel. Two steps into the room they were in each other’s arms. They trailed clothes from the door to the bed. The fear, the anger, the longing-all of the emotions Ray had been feeling came out in a gush that left them sprawled on the bed, panting and exhausted.
“Whew!” Jenny said. “What the hell got into you?”
Ray had to catch his breath before he could speak. “I don’t know. I feel better than I have in a long time.” He looked over at her. “Why?”
“No reason.” She smiled at him, just a hint of wickedness in it. “You think you can do that again?”
He grinned and rolled toward her.
“You think it’s safe?” Jenny asked.
“Carlos and Vinnie are dead and Tony is in jail,” Ray said. “You and I are nothing to them. They’re not going to look for us.” He wasn’t really sure about that, there was always Rocco. Tony’s butt-boy wasn’t going to forget Ray so soon, but there was no sense worrying about that.
The sun was coming up and they were still in Jenny’s room. They had barely slept. During the night he had told her everything that had happened. If they were truly going to start over, he had to be honest with her, but there was one issue he had skated around. He didn’t say how much money he had slipped into Tony’s car. Nor had he mentioned that he still had close to $250,000 packed in shopping bags in the trunk of his Mustang.
Still, something in the back of his mind nagged at him about that money. Having it didn’t feel right. He couldn’t remember ever having had a feeling like it before. How could you not feel right about a quarter of a million dollars?
Sometime during the night, Jenny had nodded off for a few minutes, and Ray had propped himself up on one elbow and just looked at her. She lay on her back, covers pulled down to her waist, breasts exposed. Ray was happy, happier than he could ever remember being.
When the sun came up, he asked her if she felt like taking a trip.
“Where?” she asked.
“I know you like California, but how do you feel about Florida?”
She told him Florida sounded great.
That afternoon they piled into his Mustang and drove to her apartment. She only took ten minutes to get what she needed. While she was upstairs, Ray sat in the car. She came back lugging a soft-sided suitcase and a cosmetic bag. Ray helped her stuff them into the backseat. He didn’t want to open the trunk.
“What about my car?” she asked.
“Leave it.”
“Let’s sell it. It’s paid for, and we might need the money.”
The girl was practical.
They went back to her hotel. She got her old Firebird and followed Ray to a used-car lot on Canal Street just past Claiborne. They sold her car for cash.
Ray took five minutes at his apartment. He threw his shaving kit and some clothes into a zippered duffel bag. Then he stuffed the bag into the backseat on top of Jenny’s suitcase. He still didn’t want to open the trunk.
From his apartment, he took Robert E. Lee Boulevard to Canal Boulevard, then drove river-bound past the cemeteries to where it turned into Canal Street. Jenny said, “I thought we were going to Florida.”
“I have to make one more stop.”
“Where?” she asked.
“A friend of yours.”
A few minutes later, Ray turned off Canal onto Rampart Street. He pulled to the curb in front of the Catholic Children’s Home.
“What are you doing, Ray?”
“Remember that nun we saw, the one with those kids?”
Jenny nodded, her expression suspicious. “Sister Claire?”
“This is the school she runs, right?”
“Yeah.”
Ray reached into the glove compartment and punched the trunk-release button. “Come on.”
She followed him to the back of the car. He pulled the two heaviest shopping bags out. “I’ve got something for her.”
Jenny spread the top of one bag open and peeked inside. Her eyes lit up. “Oh, my God!” She looked inside the other bag. “Oh, my God,” she said again.
They walked in and asked a nun sitting behind a reception desk if they could speak to Sister Claire. Five minutes later the old sister walked into the vestibule. Her face was kind. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“These are for you,” Ray said, feeling clumsy as he set the two shopping bags on the floor at the nun’s feet. “Something for the kids.”
After she bent forward and opened one of the bags, Sister Claire looked too stunned to speak. Her mouth moved but nothing came out. As Ray and Jenny turned and hurried out the door, he heard the sister behind him stammering her thanks.
Ten minutes later they were on the interstate headed east to Florida.
Jenny kept staring at Ray. “Why did you do that?”
He couldn’t tell if she was happy or mad. “What do you mean?”
She pulled a tissue out of her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Keeping it just didn’t feel right.”
