Jericho Point (17 page)

He edited the photos and added them to his collection. It was good stuff.

So why did he feel that gnawing sensation in his stomach?

Because there were three problems with tonight’s pictures. One, they were still footage. Two, they had no audio. And three, he wasn’t in them.

Shit.

No, calm down. Tonight was a head fuck. Toying with them. Don’t sweat it.

To cool off, he watched the greatest-hits video. That always put him in a good place. Sure, the video was incomplete—the early stuff was missing, the home burglaries, but back in school it hadn’t occurred to him to film them. Doing robberies was what gave him the idea. He always scoped a job out ahead of time, photographing the place he planned to hit. Then a flash of genius told him to take the camera with him on the boost. People’s faces, man, they were priceless. And when he got a girlfriend to tape him in action, the highlights video was born.

He fast-forwarded. Yeah, this one was good, the old Lebanese guy cowering behind the counter at the minimart. And this one, the fat chick at Jolly Time Liquors, crying as he whipped an electrical cord across that lard ass of hers.

He felt so frustrated. Pix without him in them—that just didn’t cut it.

He fast-forwarded to his favorite performance: hitting the 7-Eleven. That was the jackpot, because the CCTV footage made national television.
America’s Most Wanted
ran it. He watched himself pistol-whipping the store clerk. The blood, the screams, the perfect arc as he swung the butt of the gun down on the guy’s forehead. He looked great. Confident. Powerful. Too bad about the ski mask; you couldn’t see his face.

Fuck.

Screw this. He stood up and went to wash his face with cold water. Looked in the mirror. Took cleansing breaths, watching his chest rise and fall. He needed to plan his next performance. That would fix things. Solve his problems. Fuck all these losers who were interfering with his life. Like Ricky. And P.J. And that nutcracker Evan Delaney. He gazed in the mirror. His eyes grew serene.

When I got home I worked for six hours straight, staring absently at the draft of an appellate brief. Then I ran for an hour through bracing sunshine. I showered, and told myself that things would even out. Eventually. They had to, because I couldn’t stand to think of any other outcome. I sat on my bed running a comb through my hair, and looked at the clock.

Holy moly. I was due for the fitting of my bridesmaid’s dress.

I threw on some clothes, took Ollie outside to relieve himself, poured him fresh water, and shut him in the kitchen behind the baby gate Nikki had lent me. I ran out. Wait—fancy shoes. I ran back in. I found one under the coffee table and the other in Ollie’s box. Drooly.
Blech
. I dashed to the car and peeled out for the dress shop.

The boutique was in Montecito, between an art gallery and an Italian restaurant in an elegant arcade. It was presided over by a crone named Madame Kornelia, who would have fit in at the kaiser’s table with the other monocles, cracking a riding crop against her hip. She was the size of a porcupine, smoked like an exhaust pipe, and had a reputation for poking contentious brides with straight pins. But she had a knack. She made women beautiful. She could turn brides made of sauerbraten into wisps of confectionery— sugarplum fairies, ready to float to the altar.

And she charged for it.

This wasn’t, I add, where I purchased my own wedding dress. The one that hung in the back of the closet, looking perplexed, wondering when I planned to put it on. But that was an unfinished story between me and Mr. Blackburn.

A bell tinkled when I opened the door.

‘‘Ah, Miss Delaney. Five minutes ago your appointment was.’’

Madame Kornelia shuffled across the shop toward me. She had mastered the art of walking without lifting her feet off the floor. She wore a tape measure around her neck and a pincushion on her wrist. She had my bridesmaid’s dress on a hanger.

Shoving it into my hands, she shooed me around the corner into a dressing room by the back door. I pulled off my cords and blouse. Seeing myself in the mirror, I knew I should have worn better underwear. The safety pin in the bra strap didn’t cut it, much less the
Star Trek
panties.

The dress. Yes.

On the hanger it looked spooky. For starters, the color gave me qualms. Madame Kornelia called it crème de menthe, but any tomboy knows pus when she sees it. Then there was the hemline. It frothed, putting me in mind of mint juleps exploding from a blender. I held it up, trying to figure out which side was the front.

‘‘Knock, knock.’’ Madame Kornelia pulled open the door. ‘‘Let me see how you look.’’

Too late. I stood there while her gaze lingered on the
Trek
panties. They said,
Resistance is futile
.

Her expression didn’t change. It remained exactly as arch as before. She bustled in, took the dress, and unzipped it. ‘‘Deep breath.’’ She flipped the dress over my head. It rustled and she grunted and I squirmed, and when my head popped out again she said, ‘‘Suck in,’’ and wrestled the zipper up my back. I squeaked.

She stepped back, stared, and pressed teeny fists to her hips. ‘‘Will do.’’

‘‘Does it come with an oxygen tank?’’

She made a spinning gesture with her index finger. Turning, I saw myself in the mirror.

‘‘Oh, my.’’

She fluffed the hem and straightened the seams, her knuckles digging into my ribs. I felt dizzy.

‘‘Is okay, I think.’’

‘‘Okay isn’t the word.’’

Grammar deserted me. This was a double negative turning into a positive. My sprinter’s legs and meager chest were juxtaposed against the strict bodice and green lather of the hem—and, inexplicably, it worked. I looked timeless.

‘‘It’s exquisite,’’ I said.

‘‘Come over to the light; we let out that seam.’’

I slipped into my dress shoes. I rustled when I walked, which made me forget the dog drool. Out in the shop she pinned up the bodice while I savored the view in the mirror. My every move seemed elegant, every gesture polished. I felt like Grace Kelly. Until Madame Kornelia handed me the bill.

My eyes had gone bad. I prayed they had.

‘‘Your credit card will cover?’’

‘‘Yes.’’ If I sold a kidney.

It was impossible. And it was the day before the wedding, and I’d promised Jesse. He and his cousin and the jittery bride and his fretful mother were all counting on me to do this. And I was almost out of work, and should be saving up for my criminal appeal.

‘‘I just need to call the credit card company. Can you put the dress on hold?’’ I said.

She gave me a look like a piece of broken glass. ‘‘Very so.’’

I went to the dressing room to change, but ended up twirling helplessly, trying to reach the zipper. I went back out. And saw, cruising past in the parking lot, the red van that Merlin and Murphy Ming drove.

I ducked behind a clothing rack. The van rattled away, spewing blue fumes.

Madame Kornelia huffed. ‘‘For some reason you think people should not see you in my dress?’’

I scuttled to the counter. ‘‘Unzip me.’’

Clucking her tongue, she gave the zipper a tiny tug, three inches at best. I hurried back toward the dressing room, around the corner, and stopped. The back door of the shop was open. Had the wind blown it open?

Outside, in the alley behind the arcade, the red van cruised past. I hissed and jumped inside the dressing room, trying to get out of sight.

Murphy Ming was waiting for me inside.

He grabbed me and swept his hand across my mouth.

‘‘Rowan,’’ he crooned.

He smelled like cooking grease. The drooping mustache gave him a lazy look, but agitation vexed his eyes. I pawed behind me for the doorknob.

‘‘You look wicked in this dress.’’

I found the knob. As soon as I turned it, Murphy lifted me off my feet, swung me around as if we were waltzing, and pinned me against the mirror. He flattened himself along me like an enormous flank of meat. He brushed my neck with his lips.

‘‘The money.’’

His breath was humid on my skin. His mustache licked my neck, silken and stubbly, like a hairy insect.

‘‘You’re close to getting hurt,’’ he breathed.

He leaned against me, the studs on his dog collar scraping my collarbone. I couldn’t move. His thighs were warm. And oh, crap, I felt his crotch against my thigh. The big worm was wriggling awake.

‘‘But I don’t have to do it. Getting hurt’s up to you. Understand?’’

I nodded.

‘‘I’m gonna give you a choice. People always get a choice. You act of your own free will.’’

There was a tap on the door. I writhed and moaned.

Merlin hissed from outside the door. ‘‘Murph, cut it out. You ain’t supposed to mess with her.’’

Murphy’s face was two inches from mine. His skull shone as if it were varnished.

Merlin tapped again. ‘‘The hag’s gonna see. Let’s go.’’

Murphy breathed against my throat. ‘‘Here it is. You can come with us and fix the money issue this afternoon. Or you can scream, in which case the old lady ends up with sewing scissors through her eye socket. And she will; don’t even think about doubting it. Then we’d have to come back another time to sort things out. And that’ll be far worse, believe me.’’

I didn’t doubt it for a second. And I knew this wasn’t really a choice. But I also knew that they wanted money I didn’t have, and if I could convince them they’d been lied to—if I could clarify that to them—I could get out of this. Once and for all.

‘‘I’m taking my hand off your mouth. You decide which it is.’’ He pulled his hand away.

‘‘I’ll come with you.’’

The red van was parked next to a Dumpster in the alley. They shoveled me into the back to sit among keyboards, drums, and sound equipment. And a clothing rack on which hung what looked like the Bee Gees’ closet, circa 1978.

‘‘Where are you taking me?’’ I said.

‘‘To meet the boss.’’

They pulled me out of the van at the harbor. It was a glittering winter day. On the beach, tourists braved the brisk air. Kids with pails and shovels sprinted toward the water, kicking up soft sand. Seagulls screeched overhead.

Murphy held my biceps. ‘‘Keep your mouth shut. Just walk.’’

‘‘And if people ask me when the bride’s tossing the bouquet?’’

‘‘Shut up.’’

They led me toward the marina. The ocean was sapphire spread with gold sparks. Sailboats lazed at their moorings, halyards clanging against masts. Merlin’s eyes jerked back and forth and up to the sky, as if a gull might mistake him for a burrowing rodent and carry him off.

I had a plan: talk, straight, about the money. This boss of theirs, their manager, Tibbetts Price, may have been ripped off. I needed to explain that nobody had ever given me their money. I didn’t have it, knew nothing about it, couldn’t get it.

I’d tell him to take it up with Sinsemilla Jimson.

We went through a gate and out onto the dock. We passed a long row of sailboats. I heard radios and televisions, and saw an occasional sailor working on deck. We walked to the end of the dock to a sleek white boat.

Navy brat though I am, I had no idea what class of boat it was, except expensive. Merlin grunted and hopped aboard. Murphy and I followed. It had been years since I’d been on a boat, and, wearing high heels, I felt myself pitching. Merlin walked down a set of steps and opened the cabin door.

‘‘Boss, it’s us.’’

Murphy stood behind me, one moist hand gripping my arm. His other hand crept to the center of my back and began unzipping the bridesmaid’s dress.

I pulled away. ‘‘Stop it.’’

He pulled me back. ‘‘You want to play hard to get?’’ His hand went to his own zipper. ‘‘Okay, me first.’’

Merlin called into the cabin, ‘‘We got her.’’

A voice spat back from belowdecks. ‘‘Hey. Hey. Haul it right back up the steps, Merle.’’

‘‘But—’’

‘‘You need to request permission to come aboard. Do I have to tattoo that on your forehead?’’

Merlin bungled backward, pushing his little glasses up his nose.

Murphy called out, ‘‘Permission to come aboard, Skipper?’’

His answer was a whistle from the cabin. He zipped up and pushed me down the steps ahead of him. I ducked my head and went inside, getting a Jonah-versus-whale feeling.

The cabin was beautiful. Teak paneling, brass fixtures, sconces on the walls. Like something out of
The Great Gatsby
, aside from the empty pizza boxes, bags of tortilla chips and popcorn, the half-eaten tubs of cake frosting on the coffee table, MTV droning from a television, and the roaches in the ashtray.

‘‘You wait topside, Murphy.’’

He left, climbing the stairs to the deck. I stood, trying to find my sea legs, facing their boss, who leaned back in a green canvas director’s chair, reading the
Wall Street Journal
. He wore horn-rimmed half-glasses. A .44 lay by his feet.

He nodded at a bench built into the wall. ‘‘Sit.’’

I rustled over and sat, tamping down my green hem. My hands were cold and trembling.

‘‘Murphy behave himself?’’ he said.

‘‘He likes unzipping in public.’’

‘‘He’s a musician. Busy hands.’’

‘‘Quite. Hello, Toby.’’

He thumped the chair down onto all four legs. ‘‘It’s Mr. Price. But I’ll let that slide, since I did ask you to call me Toby the other night.’’

In the daylight his hair was streaked with gray, his tan dark and weathered. His T-shirt wilted across his beef-jerky frame.

‘‘And what should I call you?’’ He folded the newspaper neatly and set it down. ‘‘Kathleen Delaney? Rowan Larkin?’’

‘‘Evan.’’

I could barely hear myself. I could barely think. I squeezed my hands between my knees so he wouldn’t see them shaking.