The Good Kind of Bad (23 page)

‘Daydreaming, are we?’ came Quentin’s monotone. I could almost hear the slime dripping off it.

Oh yeah, Quentin. I’d forgotten about Quentin, apart from those unwanted advances, and I’d been so sure he was gay. I’d also never known one man to sweat so much. Maybe if he gave those sweater vests a rest in summer, he’d lose his Mr Perspiration moniker.

‘I’m just brainstorming,’ I muttered, hoping his salacious tongue would go and bother one of the interns.

‘We have a tight deadline, you know. Staring out the window won’t secure the Apple Rosenbaum account, unless you’d like some help with that?’ he suggested, lurching in my direction.

‘I think I’ll manage,’ I replied with an eye roll. As he scurried away I pulled a puerile face, the approaching Cherry giggling. ‘I’ve worked non-stop for him this morning and the second I take a break I find him slithering behind me, Cherry.’

‘We’re going to have to deal with him a while longer. Renaud will never fire his nephew. Hey, I heard you were sick and all? The girls were asking about you and then Mark mentioned you had some super-contagious disease or something? I started worrying. Like, you came for drinks with us at Carter’s. I’d taken a sip of your Margarita! I’ve made an appointment with Doctor Green.’

‘Good to know.’ I combed down my makeshift fringe, disguising my scar while taking another glance at Nina’s chair. ‘Hey, have you seen Nina around? I haven’t had chance to catch up with her yet.’

‘She was in the design meeting last week. I don’t know, maybe Mickey’s whisked her away on a “surprise vacation”.’ Jazz hands accompanied the ‘surprise vacation’ from Cherry, always the optimist. And hypochondriac.

As she examined her bare left hand, I looked to my own. I still wore my blood diamonds, at least for work I did. I’d wanted to rip off my ring, confess what’d happened and show the world my marriage, and husband, were a sham, but I couldn’t. There’d be too many questions, too many stares. Instead I chatted a little longer to Cherry before she left to flirt with Mark in accounts.

My concern for Nina’s safety grew. General consensus confirmed the Caribbean as her likely whereabouts, though even little Tyler, the gun-toting toddler, could put two and two together. Maybe Nina
was
telling the truth over everything I’d doubted.

Nina’s graphic tales of Mickey and Victor had made
The Wire
look like
Sesame Street,
at least in my head. Events could’ve taken an even
worse
turn for the worse, Nina meeting her fate at the hands of Victor. It was ludicrous of course. Nina and Mickey were probably in Barbados, though it didn’t stop me worrying.

I signed Nina’s name over and over on my doodle pad, until it was nothing but alphabet soup, though when my new phone vibrated its way across the page, the lead in my pencil snapped.

Quelle surprise
. It was Evan.

‘Good afternoon, stranger,’ I said.

‘That time already, huh? What’re you doing on such a fine day?’ His voice was smooth, calm. Interested.

‘Being leered at by highly paid, wildly under-qualified executives? Your average uneventful Wednesday, Evan.’

‘On second thought, forget I asked. I’m calling ’cause I have some info. On Joe.’

Finally, they’d found him; hopefully dead in a ditch somewhere.

‘We think he’s still in Atlantic City, judging by what you said about the newspaper. With any luck, he’ll have the pleasure of dealing with New Jersey’s finest, then we can extradite him back here to face charges.’

That was hardly news. After being promised Joe would get what was coming to him, that Evan would deal with him personally, they were obviously still no closer to finding him. And now he’d called, why?

‘So the Fourth of July weekend’s coming up and I had this barbeque idea for Oak Street Beach; let off some fireworks, invite a bunch of people, that type of thing.’

That’s why he’d called. ‘Seriously?’

‘No,’ Evan laughed. ‘That sounds like way too much trouble. How about pizza at my place? No drama, no Joe, just cheesy goodness and crappy movies.’

It was the last thing I’d expected, though it didn’t sound terrible. At least I’d have some company. The last thing I wanted was another long weekend conversing with a dog. After two weeks holed up between the four walls of the suite (I’d even paid for the Doggy Depot to walk Sybil), until I could venture out without sunglasses and full-on fedora, I’d been more than lonely, but worse, I’d let the beatings and threats overcome me. The more time I’d had to think, the more the PTSD had thrived.

I was about to accept his invitation, when Evan continued.

‘I’ve started dating this girl, too. She’s a promotions chick who opens beer festivals and furniture stores, not Harvard Law School material or anything, but she’s something all right.’

My eyes did at least one full rotation, in a hugely non-jealous way. ‘She sounds it.’

‘Her dad’s some Michelin-starred chef in Paris. She keeps begging me to cook for her. How about it? Saturday okay for you? I thought it’d take your mind off things. We can watch the rest of the city having fun from the window.’

‘But aren’t you seeing . . . what’s she called?’

‘Brandi. She’s called Brandi. Twenty-one, fresh out of community college . . . She’s in St. Louis on some Fourth of July road show with Budweiser. We’ve only been dating a week, officially, but I’ve known her a while.’

A week. Huh. No wonder he’d stopped calling. And twenty-one? Evan had to be at least
thirty
-one.

‘Or we could call the whole thing off,’ Evan said, addressing my silence.

‘It’s not that, Evan. I’m not sure what . . . what people would think.’ I straightened up in my chair, glancing around as if my phone was on speaker.

‘
What
people?’

‘I’m married, technically, and you’ve got a girlfriend . . . plus you’re the detective in my husband’s assault case.’

‘
Technically
I only took your statement, and a guy and a girl can’t be friends? Come on, I’ll be the feminist here for both of us. What’s wrong with us hanging out?’

‘I . . .’

‘Why don’t I pick you up? It’ll save you the cab fare.’

What better way to spend the holiday weekend? Eating pizza with a man I rejected, who had a new airhead, bimbo girlfriend, and while my own husband was in the casinos, drinking himself to death?

Last time I checked, Stella McCartney didn’t make dog beds. With the shoulder detail on my cream dress Sybil’s new chew toy, it was like she was trying to scupper my plans. Joe must’ve left her instructions before taking off with his little suitcase:
Rip the dress, muddy the carpet, take Mom the long way around the park so she’s late for her date with the new guy.

Not that it was a date. Evan had a girlfriend and until I began divorce proceedings, I had a husband.

With outstretched arms, I hurried Joe’s dog to the suite’s bathroom. Yelping at the sight of the water, Sybil tried scaling the bath’s slippery sides, though her escape attempt was futile. With a furrowed brow, she graciously accepted defeat, cowering to endure the clean water and dog shampoo.

I didn’t have time to be washing dogs, and due to Sybil I was already behind schedule for Evan’s arrival.

Joe’s clothes-out-the-window escapade had meant several online shopping sessions to restock my capsule wardrobe, and now my favourite Stella McCartney creation had become a bespoke dog basket, I’d plumped for a Herve Leger bandage dress in green. Yes, for pizza at Evan’s place.

I didn’t want him getting the wrong idea, but I’d take any excuse to wear it. Who wouldn’t? In that dress I felt pretty again, I felt normal. I’d not ventured out much since getting kicked in the face and wanted to remember. I wanted to remember what it was like to wear beauty instead of shame.

I thought about the old apartment; Joe elsewhere, the air musty, withered and untouched since the threats. I pondered how long it’d last him, that envelope of hundred dollar bills, or rather, how much it cost to drink yourself to death. Joe was supposed to be forgotten, that life remembered as a dream, though back between those walls in my mind’s eye, Joe was as real as ever. He was far from the ghost I’d made him out to be.

The nightmare of the past month and the destruction of our future would be a long road to travel. That aside, I knew somewhere far ahead, I’d be okay.

The concierge called. A Mr Thomasz was here to see me. On answering the door to my suite I found Evan grinning and grasping a bunch of white lilies. Although pretty, they didn’t detract from the dishevelled look he wore. His was the outfit of a man working since dawn, I assumed persuaded to work overtime, meaning he hadn’t found time to change. So much for the only working ’til one on a Saturday part.

Evan’s hair sat unruly, his white shirt was crumpled and a stain soiled the sleeve.

I beckoned him closer. ‘Come in, come in.’

‘I bring gifts . . . flowers, and I had your dress dry cleaned. The blood-stained one? I’ve got to tell you, I think the guy in Randolph’s would’ve phoned the cops if he didn’t know I was one. Anyway, here.’

He thrust the flowers and a blue bag, containing the dress, almost hesitantly towards me. The white lilies were beautiful, carrying a sweet scent that complemented my perfume. They were probably bought from a street vendor, though to an impersonal suite they were a welcome addition.

‘You didn’t have to get flowers, and it should be me thanking you. Besides, I thought tonight was a no effort thing.’

‘If it is, you didn’t get the memo.’

I noticed him look me up and down as a hand travelled his hair. I pointed out the mark on his sleeve and he twisted the material to take a closer look.

‘Like I just crawled out of the gutter, huh? The stuff’s like toothpaste; damn tomato sauce from Earl’s hot dog stand.’

‘So, kill any bad guys today?’ I asked, after moving to the kitchen area and stuffing the dress in the cupboard below the sink. I could get rid of it later. As for the flowers, I didn’t have a vase so dumped them in the sink for the time being. Evan wouldn’t notice. He was too busy looking at something else: i.e., my arse. I was starting to regret my wardrobe choice and began pondering what this pizza-eating escapade was really about, if this really
was
a date.

‘Kill any bad guys? A few drug barons, a couple of Mafia bosses, nothing I couldn’t handle.’ He gave me a smile, then purposefully checked his watch. ‘Come on, we should make a move. Wouldn’t want to be late.’

‘Late for pizza?’

‘Can’t a guy be starving? And you won’t need your jacket,’ he warned, as I reached for it on the hat stand. ‘It looks like a nice night out.’

‘Sybil?’ I turned to her bed by the window where she lay dozing on her back. ‘Be a good girl. I’ll be a few hours, that’s all.’

After heading through the hotel foyer downstairs and out onto East Walton, a warm night hit us ‒ that condensed, censored air of the Gold Coast.

Evan signalled over the street with his hand. ‘I’m in the parking garage over there. Come on,’ he said, reaching for my hand as we negotiated the traffic.

Once out of the parking lift, we were plunged into the depths of the garage and the pungent clamminess of below ground, the sound of my heels clattered against the walls as again Evan brushed my arm with his. With strip lights illuminating the grey-painted breezeblocks, the high-end automobiles sat crammed around us like some world record attempt for most cars per square foot. Venturing further into the depths, it wasn’t long before we passed a Chevrolet Chevelle, parked over two bays and skewed on the corner.

I did a double take. It stuck out a mile, and not due to the lame parking attempt or it being the only car to roll off the production line last millennium. It was on Missouri plates, rusty with a hint of black and both wing mirrors were secured by tape.

I developed instant rigor mortis, my feet cemented to where I stood.

Evan had also stopped. He was pointing further into the garage. ‘Honey? The car’s this way.’

‘He’s here,’ I mouthed to Evan, my hushed words trembling. ‘He’s
here
.’

‘What do you mean? Who’s here?’

‘Joe Petrozzi, pleasure to meet you, man.’

In the darkness beside me, Joe was slouched against a pillar with a face half buried in a smirk. He wore a crescent moon smile, baring his teeth like some villain of the week as he stared right through me, eyes left of centre. His forehead contained a fresh wound below the hairline, a beard had replaced the stubble and, dressed in a white vest, stained jeans and biker boots, from his shoulders his leather jacket hung dirty and creased.

Joe was supposed to appear on page 27 of the Atlantic City Chronicle, a small footnote to a random act of violence:
Chicago Man Found Dead in Park
‒
Small-Time Crook and Wife-Beater Savaged by Wild Dogs
. Instead he staggered, swayed, teetered and tottered towards us before shooting a forceful hand at Evan, again repeating his moniker.