The Barbed-Wire Kiss (22 page)

“You have nosy neighbors?”

“I don’t even know their names.”

“Let’s go inside.”

There was a garage door opener hooked to her visor. She thumbed the button.

“You
are
crazy,” she said.

The door rolled up and she pulled in, shut off the engine. The door began to close behind them, darkening the garage. They got out of the car and she used a key to unlock the connecting door to the house.

“This way.”

He followed her through the door and into a wide, white kitchen. There were two ovens, two refrigerators, a microwave mounted beneath oak cabinets. Every surface was spotless.

“Looks just like my kitchen,” he said.

“Edward bought most of this stuff after I moved in. I guess he thought it would impress me. I should have told him the truth, that I didn’t know how to cook.”

They walked through the kitchen into an adjoining dining area, then down three steps into a sunken living room laid with deep red pile carpet. Central air-conditioning hummed around him. Against one wall was an entertainment center with a large screen TV, VCR, and stereo system. Curtained French doors led onto a flagstoned back patio.

He went over to the TV. There were four videocassettes on top of the cabinet. One was a store-bought women’s exercise tape, the others were in black plastic cases, unmarked.

“Surveillance tapes,” she said. “From the restaurant and the club. He tapes everything to see if anyone’s stealing from him, then watches them here. It’s his idea of an evening of light entertainment.”

He followed her back into the kitchen. She took a carafe of ice water from one of the refrigerators, poured a glassful. She drank from it, handed it to him.

“Well, this is it,” she said. “This is where I lead my life of luxury and leisure. Is there anything else you want to see?”

“What’s upstairs?”

“More rooms. Why? Are you planning on coming back later tonight to rob the place?”

“You never know.”

“Well, come on upstairs. You can prowl around while I shower.”

He followed her up carpeted stairs to a long hallway. Half a dozen doors opened off the corridor. The one at the far end was shut.

“What’s that?” he said.

“His office. He always keeps it locked when he’s not in the house. I don’t even have a key.”

“How does the maid get in there?”

“Once a week he lets her in, but he watches her the whole time, as if she were going to steal one of the paperweights from his desk or something.”

He looked into the first room they passed. There were two single beds, both neatly made. The room looked spartan, unlived in.

“Guest room,” she said. “But since we never have guests, it’s kind of a joke. I think Edward hoped that, after we got settled here, the girls would come to stay with him.”

“The girls?”

“He has two daughters from his first marriage. Fifteen and sixteen. They live with their mother up in Short Hills. But they don’t want anything to do with him, or me for that matter. They think I’m after his money.”

She led him into the master bedroom. It was the size of his own living room and kitchen combined. A door near the bed opened onto a small bathroom.

“I’m going to take a shower,” she said. “Make yourself at home.”

She went into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. After a few moments, he heard the shower come on.

He looked around the room. The bed was king-sized, with dark satin sheets and half a dozen pillows. An oak armoire took up one wall, horse-racing prints lined the others.

He moved to the right side of the bed, opened the nightstand drawer. Inside was a racing program, folded open along the spine, the names of horses circled in red. Underneath it was a gold cigarette case and matching lighter, an issue of
Playboy,
a pair of bifocals.

He shut the drawer and went around to the nightstand on the other side of the bed. The drawer there held three packs of Marlboro Lights, two of them half empty, a small black address book, and a plastic container of Vaseline. Near the back of the drawer was a small battery-powered vibrator.

He put everything back, shut the drawer, looked around the room a final time. Then he went to the bathroom door, tried the knob. It was unlocked.

When he pushed open the door, steam rushed out to meet him. He stepped inside, saw a shower stall big enough for four people, her blurred shape visible through the pebbled glass. The counters were marble, the fixtures gold-plated. One entire wall was mirrored, the surface fogged with steam.

He shut the door behind him, locked it, took off his sneakers and T-shirt, undid his cutoffs and let them fall. He slid open the shower door.

“I thought you got lost,” she said.

He stepped in and she turned her face up to the water, eyes closed, shampoo lather running down her back and buttocks. He fitted himself to her, reached around to cup her slick breasts. She moved against him.

“Let’s clean you off,” she said. She stepped away to let him get under the water, took a bar of soap from the rack, and began to lather his back, then his chest and stomach. She moved lower to his hardness.

“Rinse,” she said.

He turned into the spray, did as he was told. After a minute she reached around him, shut the water off.

“Out,” she said.

She opened the shower door, stepped out onto the bathmat, got a thick towel from the counter, and began to dry herself. He followed her, his legs shaking, took the towel from her.

“Let me,” he said.

He dried her first, then himself. When he was done he took her hand, tried to lead her into the bedroom.

“No.”

She took back the towel, used it to clear a wide spot in the mirrored wall, then spread it out on the counter.

“In here,” she said. “In front of the mirror.”

She faced him, put the heels of her hands on the counter and hopped up, pushing things aside to make room. A bottle of perfume broke in the sink. The smell of lilacs wafted around them.

“Like this,” she said. “So I can watch.”

He knelt on the tile floor, palmed her knees, parted them gently. When she set her feet on his shoulders, he kissed the inside of one calf, felt her tremble. She ran her fingers through his hair, cupped his head and drew him closer. At the first touch of his tongue, she called his name.

It took him a little more than a half hour to get to the Rip Tide, driving north on Route Nine all the way. The night was hot and the wind had died. The strip malls and stores he passed were dark and silent.

He’d dressed in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a thin black windbreaker, and he was sweating lightly inside his clothes. The bank bag was beneath the seat, tucked into the springs.

When he saw the floodlit sign for the club, he moved into the right lane and slowed. The building was set back from the road, a one-story cinder-block structure embroidered with neon. He could hear the thump of music from inside.

He drove past, went up a half mile, took a jug handle, and swung around onto the southbound side of the highway. There was a darkened strip mall on the right; almost directly across from the club. He pulled in, steered the Mustang around so it faced the road, then cut the lights and the engine. He looked at his watch: twelve-thirty.

He took the field glasses from the seat beside him. There was a half-filled blacktop parking lot alongside the club, lit by two pole lamps. In their glow he could see Fallon’s Lexus parked nose first against the side of the building. Beside it was the maroon Buick he’d seen at the Sand Castle.

While he watched, the door of the club opened and a group of young people spilled out, drunk and laughing, the music following them. They split up into pairs and trios, went to their cars, peeled rubber leaving the lot.

He waited, watched people leave the club in couples and groups, saw a fight broken up by bystanders, the combatants dragged off by friends. At one-fifteen, the music stopped.

One-thirty came and went. Ten minutes later, there were only three cars left in the lot, the Lexus, the Buick, and a black Jeep Wrangler, the same one he’d seen in the Sand Castle lot that day. The floodlights beneath the sign winked out, the neon flickered and faded.

He started the engine, pulled onto the highway. He had to go a quarter mile south before he could turn around again. He steered into the lot, his headlights sweeping the building and the cars parked against it.

He circled the lot, pointed his lights down the alleyway behind the building. There was a Dumpster there, stacked cases of bottles. A rear fire door was propped open.

He backed into a spot on the far side of the lot, shut off the engine and lights. From the glove box, he took a small notebook and a stub of pencil, wrote down the license numbers of the Jeep and the Buick. He touched the can of CS spray on the console, decided against it. The notebook went back in the glove box.

He opened the door, reached beneath the seat, and tugged out the bank bag. He slid it into his windbreaker as he got out of the car, zipped up to hold it in place, and shut the door with his hip. As he started across the parking lot, a car flew by on the highway, laughter spilling from its open windows.

The heavy glass door was unlocked. He stepped through into a dim mirrored foyer, empty except for a cigarette machine. Beyond was the brightly lit main room, chairs upended on the bar, a wall of metal legs. A doorway to the right led onto the dance floor, a wide room with mirrored walls and tables on one side.

He went in. Two men in suits sat across from each other at a table toward the back. One of them was Tommy from Convention Hall. He lifted his chin at Harry, and the other man swiveled in his chair. It was the heavy man he’d seen outside the Sand Castle. Harry walked toward them.

The heavy one coughed, dug in his jacket pocket, and came up with a pack of cigarettes. He lit one without taking his eyes off Harry, then clicked the lighter shut and dropped it on the table. He pointed the cigarette at the back wall.

Harry looked, saw the door there marked private. Beside it, the DJ’s booth was silent and empty.

He nodded, headed for it, feeling their eyes on him. The door opened into a wide, concrete-floored storage area. Cases of beer lined one wall. On the other, a door marked office was partially open, a TV on inside.

Wiley came in through the fire door. He looked at Harry, turned slowly, and spat outside.

“He’s here,” he said toward the office.

They watched each other. Wiley broke eye contact first, hoisted a case of empty beer bottles from against the wall, and lugged them into the alley. Demoted, Harry thought, and not happy about it.

The office door opened wide and Mickey Dunleavy was standing there, smiling.

“Harry,” he said. “Come on inside. Have a seat.”

Harry followed him in. Filing cabinets lined one wall, on top of them a small TV was tuned to a boxing match. Fallon sat behind a battered wooden desk, holding a carton of take-out Chinese food, idly prodding at its contents with a plastic fork. He wore a dress shirt, tie undone, suit jacket hung on the wall behind him. There were other food cartons on the desk, a bottle of Chivas Regal, and a cheap white Polaroid camera.

Dunleavy sat down in a chair near the door, crossed his legs. He gestured at a leather couch against the far wall.

“Go ahead,” Fallon said without looking up. “Sit down.” He took a remote control off the desk top, pointed it at the TV, and the screen went dark.

“What’s it like outside?” Dunleavy said.

“Hot,” Harry said. He stayed where he was.

“Supposed to get a hell of a storm later.”

Fallon put the carton on the desk, pushed it away.

“Who can eat this shit?” he said. “Nigger food. Did you ever notice that every nigger neighborhood has a half-dozen Chinese take-out joints?”

“They like the spare ribs,” Dunleavy said.

Fallon opened the Chivas, splashed scotch into a square glass.

“I’ve got it,” Harry said.

Fallon looked at him. He swished the scotch in the glass, drank some.

“That’s Harry,” Dunleavy said. “Always business first.” He uncrossed his legs, stood up. “Do me a favor, will you, Har? Go over there and put your hands on top of that cabinet? Just for a minute.”

“What’s this?”

“Relax.” Dunleavy touched him lightly in the small of the back. “This is what I do now, remember? Don’t be offended.”

He had expected it, but it still felt wrong. He didn’t move.

“Come on, Harry, you understand. Let’s get this over with.”

He went to the cabinet, raised his hands to shoulder height. Dunleavy patted him down quickly, unzipped the windbreaker, and took out the bag. He set it atop the cabinet, then crouched and ran his hands up and down Harry’s legs. He slapped his ankles, then straightened up, took the bank bag, and set it on the desk.

“Close the door,” Fallon said.

Dunleavy shut the door quietly, then sat back down. Harry turned to face them.

Fallon nodded at the bag. “How much?”

“All of it,” Harry said. “Thirty-one five. Count it and see.”

“I will. I will definitely do that.”

Harry turned to Dunleavy.

“Is there a problem here?”

Dunleavy shrugged, half smiled, crossed his legs again.

Fallon unzipped the bag, spilled the bundles onto the desk.

“Thirty-one five,” he said. “Not much, is it? We do that much business here on a good weekend.”

“It’s what we agreed on.”

“I know what we agreed on.”

Fallon pushed the bundles around the desk with a finger, drank from the glass again.

“The thing is,” he said, “the more I think about it, the more I’m reminded of all the time my money was tied up. And then I start to think that maybe some interest is in order.”

“We had a deal. No one said anything about interest.”

“Maybe not. But as I was waiting all this time for this piddling thirty K, I was starting to feel like I was being taken advantage of.”

“What’s this all about?”

“You tell me.”

He looked from Dunleavy to the door, then back to Fallon.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. There’s your money. It’s what we agreed on. We’re done.”