“Yes.”
“Leave one or two of them open a crack so he can see you moving around. I want to be sure he knows you’re home.”
“Okay.”
“You sound nervous.”
“I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
Wilde smiled.
“See you soon.” A beat then, “One more thing. Don’t talk to me if your face is pointed towards a window. I don’t want him to see your lips moving.”
“Good idea. You brought a weapon, right?”
Right.
He did.
“A gun?”
Right.
That.
He laid in the dark behind the bed, memorizing every sound, every play of light from the streetlights, every engine in the night.
Fifteen minutes later a car pulled into the driveway.
The front door opened and the lights downstairs kicked on.
Curtains swung closed across rods.
More lights kicked on.
A refrigerator door opened. An ice tray got cracked and ice fell into a glass, followed by something poured over it. The sound made Wilde thirstier than he already was. A bottle of RC would be nice-no, not a cola, a beer; an ice-cold beer, straight from the freezer right before it froze.
The suit jacket was next to him on the floor.
Inside the left pocket was the pack of Camels.
Wilde resisted the urge to tap one out.
The resistance lasted all of a minute before he broke one loose and lit up. The smoke in his lungs was so damn perfect. The roughness in his brain softened.
The bedroom lights suddenly turned on.
Curtains swung closed across rods.
With his head at floor level, Wilde had a view of the woman’s feet. They walked towards him and turned at the bed, followed by the woman’s body sitting on the mattress.
“So far, nothing unusual,” she said.
“He’ll wait for you to go to bed. Just keep doing what you do.”
Wilde watched as shoes came off followed by nylons.
A dress dropped to the floor.
Then a blouse.
Then a bra.
Then panties.
“I usually take a shower before I go to bed,” London said.
“Then do it. Don’t break your routine.”
The bathroom was across the hall in line of sight from Wilde’s position. As the woman walked to it, her body came into view.
She was naked.
Her ass was taut and smooth.
Her back was strong.
Her raven hair cascaded.
Her left hand carried a glass of wine.
She left the bathroom door open, got the shower up to temperature and stepped in. The curtain didn’t close all the way. Wilde had a good reflection of her in the mirror. He watched her until his conscience made him stop. Then he rolled onto his back, lit another Camel and stared at the ceiling, being careful to blow the smoke under the bed where it wouldn’t be seen from the outside.
The shower shut off.
Don’t look.
Don’t look.
Don’t look.
That’s what his brain said.
His eyes didn’t listen.
He watched the woman’s every move as she toweled off, swallowed the rest of the wine and slipped into a T-shirt-nothing else, just the T. When she headed back across the hall, Wilde didn’t drop his eyes. The woman’s body was still moist. Her breasts pressed against the cotton.
She flicked the lights off.
The room dropped into darkness.
Then she stepped over him and got into bed.
“Good night,” she said.
Before Wilde could answer, lightning exploded outside, so close that the walls shook.
“Good night.”
“Thanks for being here.”
“No problem.”
68
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Night
Waverly pulled the hotel curtains back just far enough to get a sideways peek of the nightscape, saw nothing but the storm and a few errant headlights punching through it, and let them fall back. On the bed was Bristol’s money, being pushed around by Su-Moon’s index finger. Ten thousand dollars was a lot, more than Waverly made in six years. It made her palms sweat. “If Bristol isn’t out to kill us yet, he will be when he finds his little friends gone.”
Su-Moon looked up.
“We’ll split it evenly,” she said. “Five G’s apiece.”
Waverly shook her head.
“I don’t want it. It’s all yours.”
“What’s wrong? Are you afraid he’s going to call the cops?” She laughed. “Don’t worry, his reputation’s worth more than that.” She tapped a finger on the black book. “That’s his reputation, right there. That’s every bit of everything he is and ever will be.”
“That’s my point.”
“What’s your point?”
“He’ll kill to get it back,” Waverly said.
Su-Moon pushed the money and then looked up.
Her face was serious.
She scooped the bills up, stuffed ’em back in the envelope and stood up.
“Come on.”
“Where we going?”
“Out.”
“You mean down to the bar?”
“No, I mean out.”
“Outside? I’m just finally getting dry-”
They took a cab to Chinatown and pulled over two blocks short of Su-Moon’s apartment. Su-Moon paid the fare, then tore a ten-dollar bill in two, gave half to the driver and said, “Me and my friend are going to take a little walk. We’ll be back within a half hour. If you’re here when we get back, you get the other half.” The driver turned off the headlights and killed the engine.
“I’m already waiting,” he said.
The women stepped out.
The storm assaulted them.
They walked briskly, hugging the lee side of the street and taking as much refuge as they could. Inside Waverly’s left sweatpants pocket was Bristol’s black book. Su-Moon had the money in hers.
The streets were empty.
By the time they got to the corner Su-Moon’s pants were close to dropping off from the weight. She stopped long enough to tighten the drawstring as she studied the street.
No one was there, not a soul.
Su-Moon grabbed Waverly’s hand and pulled her into the street, on the opposite side of the massage parlor, which was closed.
Suddenly she stopped.
“My apartment lights are on,” she said.
Waverly looked.
The curtains were drawn.
Light came from behind them.
“Did you leave them on?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
Yes.
She was.
Positive.
“So what do we do?” Waverly said.
Su-Moon exhaled.
“We’ll walk past and see if we can see who’s inside,” she said.
They did.
They saw no movement.
They kept going and stopped at the end of the street.
When they looked back, the lights were off.
69
Day Two
July 22, 1952
Tuesday Night
River dumped the car at the BNSF service lot a half-mile from his place and walked west through the pitch-black silhouettes of boxcars and gondolas. The gun was in his left hand, cold and wet. January followed two steps behind, saying nothing, hunkered against the rain.
The storm was dangerously wicked.
Wild arcs of lightning flashed low and mean.
His heart raced.
Someone was positioned to kill him.
Someone was waiting silently in a black recess with one thing and one thing only on his mind.
River could feel him.
He slowed from a brisk walk to a timid one, then stopped altogether and put his arms around January.
“Stay here,” he said.
“No.”
“Yes.”