“I quit.”
“You got another job?” she asked.
“No.”
Probing now, her eyebrows arched into those inverted Vs that only an angry woman can really do well. “You're not going back to stealing cars, are you?”
“No. Well, I don't intend to boost anymore. Not after the one I grabbed yesterday, I mean.”
Shaking her head like she couldn't believe it. “So you have started stealing cars.”
“Just the one.”
“The cops might not look too fondly on that.”
“I stole it from a cop. An ex-cop, actually. And I really don't give a shit how he looks on it.”
“Is that why you seem so wired?”
He started toward the bar and then stopped. Liquor would only make things worse. “I feel it too. Sorry.”
“Something the matter? Besides quitting the job and jacking a car, I mean.”
“It wasn't much of a jack, and I brought it back a couple hours later.”
“Police after you?”
“Nah.”
She touched his shoulders and got his coat off. “You really have terrible taste in ties.”
“I thought it was distinguished.”
“Maybe for 1956.”
“That's the look I was going for.”
“Consider it a success then.” She unknotted it and tossed it on the floor, undid the first couple buttons of his shirt, pressed her cheek to his chest, and took a deep breath. He brushed her hair back and kissed her again.
“Lie down on the couch,” she told him, and he did. He liked the way she put a roughness in her voice, expecting no back talk. But focusing completely on him as she took his shoes off, shoved the sceenplays aside, got his feet on the table, and rubbed them for a while.
“Put a kimono on you and you get all geisha,” he said.
“It's a side of my personality that doesn't come out much.”
“I bet.” One of the scripts had flipped onto the couch. He reached down and flipped through a few pages.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“The title doesn't resonate.”
He shut his eyes while Glory Bishop's hands worked over him, knowing he should be very happy here with her, but still finding himself thinking of Maria Monticelli. You couldn't restrain your brain, no matter who said you could. He opened his eyes and stared at the side of Glory's face as she unbuttoned his shirt farther and started to undo his pants.
She said, “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“As if you don't know who I am.”
You could hide some things, but never those of consequence. Dane grinned and pulled her closer and held on for a second like this moment truly mattered. Which it did, but maybe not enough. She let the kimono slide off her shoulders and she dropped on top of him, both of them keeping their eyes open while they kissed.
Somehow it made him angry and they began to struggle together, riding the wave of tension, as he pulled out those little bows on her nightie and grabbed her all over, squeezing hard. She moaned, and the noise didn't sound right. He shifted so he was on top of her on the couch and realized it was himself groaning, sounding weak.
Dane tasted blood. She was biting his lips and it hurt like fuck, but he responded in kind as her nails raked over him. The best thing about sex is you could put all your hate where your love ought to be and still get away with it.
Afterward, unsated but more relaxed, they ordered Chinese food, drank a little too much, and had another go-round with much better results. He held her, stroking her thighs, as she nodded off.
If he could sleep, he might get over this caged feeling. It would probably be gone in the morning. He shut his eyes and slid his mouth against the muscular grooves of her back, but he could still taste blood under his tongue.
While she softly snored he searched the dressers and closets but found nothing out of the ordinary. He didn't know much about bugs but he checked out the places they were most likely to be hidden, the lamps and electrical outlets.
He sat down in the sex swing for a while and decided the thing was stupid enough when two people were in it, but when you were alone it was just pitiful.
Somebody knocking on the metal door from the other side of his skull.
He moved back to the sunken living room and sat on the edge of the couch, tired all of a sudden. Working against your own apathy took a lot of energy. He toyed with Glory's hair for a few minutes as she cooed in her sleep. He shifted slightly and spotted her cell phone on the far side of the coffee table, nearly hidden by the strewn screenplays.
It was open.
He picked it up and saw the tiny screen bright with his own face.
Jesus, she really didn't have much shame. A pole scene in an action flick is one thing, but Christ, giving somebody else a show of her and Dane in bed really pissed him off.
He held the phone up and stared at it. A surge of relief went through him because, finally, the show was coming together.
He whispered, “That you, Daniel Ezekiel?”
“Hellfire, son,” the cell phone said. “You got me.”
TWENTY-THREE
Look at this.
The boy with the sick brain leaning over in the corner and hiding his face, but holding his arm out to Dane like he wanted to be hugged.
The kid had tears on his cheeks and dried blood clotting the sutures thatching his shaved head. His hospital jammies were open. Bedsores spotted his back, covered with a thick salve that was stinking up the place.
Below him, crouched but staring wide-eyed, Dane's mother had her forehead pressed to the boy's leg, closer to him now than she'd ever been to her own son.
Well, all right, some things you have to get used to. Dark circles rimmed her eyes and her lips were thick with yellow froth. Dane almost fell over backwards but managed to stay on his feet.
She raised her chin and her mouth moved. He got a very strong sense that she did not wish him to approach. That would disturb the moment, the dynamics of this new bond they'd made in death. Him, his ma, and the ill child.
Dane wondered, thinking if he mapped his scars and those of the boy, how they'd line up. If they would connect and continue into a larger diagram, some kind of chart showing the measured slopes and ranges of their shared pain.
Stick them up close to each other, pressed cheek to cheek, temple to temple, and you could read the jagged routes of this brotherhood of head wounds.
He could feel his ma, struggling but feeble, trying to speak and growing frustrated with her lack of voice. She crept aside, head low as if she couldn't lift it. He looked at her hand where he'd rubbed his thumb over her flesh for hours, unable to stop, ill with that endless rhythm, and saw he'd left an impression there like a burn. Perhaps it was a sign of his love.
Dane let himself relax, pressing his envy as far to the side as he could. Maybe it would be enough, but it didn't seem possible anymore.
This new son of his mother continued to weep, shaking his head, still reaching out for something more. A
