“I do,” I said. “Let’s stick with current state contracts.”
“Current ones.” He looked at me. “Contracts already in place?”
“Right. Instead of looking all over the place for people bidding on new contracts, we just go to the people right in front of us-the people feeding at the public trough right now.”
“And why would someone pay us squat if they already have a contract with the state?”
“Because,” I said, “they want to keep it.”
Cimino was silent for a moment, his eyes in a squint. “They want to keep it.”
“The principle’s the same, Charlie. We tell them the same thing: It’s time to pony up. Only instead of offering them a contract with the state, we threaten to take away the one they already have, if they don’t pay up.”
“Huh.” Cimino thought about that. “A stick instead of a carrot.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Every contract has some kind of termination clause. The state always has some reason why it can fire a contractor. I’ll be able to find something to threaten them with. And here’s the best part, Charlie: It’s all under the radar. There’s no disgruntled bidder who lost out on the contract. There’s no bending and twisting of the Purchasing Code. There are no losing bidders. The people we’d be approaching already have contracts. Hell, we don’t even need the PCB. We narrow the number of players to you and me.”
“Right,” Cimino said equivocally. “And if they tell us no?”
“Some might. But most won’t. This is their livelihood. They have a state contract, probably worth hundreds of thousands, if not millions. They won’t say no to a thirty-thousand-dollar contribution. And even those that do say no-they’re not going to run to the feds over this. Why piss off the new governor and jeopardize their prized contract?”
Cimino kept thinking, but I could see that my idea was finding a warm landing. It made all kinds of sense from his perspective.
“They won’t say no,” I said.
“No, they won’t.” Cimino broke into laughter. “Brilliant.” He slapped the steering wheel. “Fucking brilliant, Jason.” He reached over and grabbed my arm. “You done good, kid.”
I’ve never been one to shy away from praise, but this was a new one for me. I was being lauded for coming up with a new and improved criminal scheme, congratulated by someone whom I distrusted and disliked, whom I was screwing over in the biggest way. But it wasn’t lost on me that I had accomplished my goal, which was to add value, to prove my worth, to further cement Cimino’s trust in me. I wasn’t going to have to worry about Cimino checking me for a recording device any time soon.
Famous last words.
37
After that day with Cimino, I spent the weekend before Christmas alone. Shauna’s family had come into town on Saturday so she was occupied, and I resisted her invitation to join in any number of things they had planned. She’d pushed me hard to be a part of Christmas dinner, but so far I’d refused, and I figured once they were staying with her, she’d get caught up in all things family and leave me alone.
That was fine. I wasn’t in the mood for a crowd. I did okay with loneliness, which is to say that I didn’t pine for the company of others. Racquetball with Cimino had whetted my appetite for sweat, and I fell back into my bachelor routine of intense workouts, which included long runs in the frigid outdoors, my way of proving to myself how tough I was. My diet that weekend consisted of pizza and potato chips. Workouts and junk food, the staples of a contradictory bachelor lifestyle. I threw in a couple of crime novels and movies, though I didn’t enjoy the sidelong glances from people when I went to a movie alone. I never really got why moviegoing had to be a shared experience. You go into a dark theater and watch something on a screen; why do you have to know the person sitting next to you?
On Monday, Christmas Eve, I got it into my head that I was going to dismantle Emily Jane’s room-remove the crib and the custom rocking chair and changing table, tear down the Beatrix Potter wallpaper, repaint the walls something neutral, and move on with my life. I got as far as walking into the room before my blood went cold and the breath was whisked from my lungs.
It was odd to me how it all worked. On a daily basis, it was Talia who came into my mind more frequently. We’d spent so much time together, so many memories and experiences. Emily came in just at the end, a last, brief chapter in the book-three short months, most of which I spent tied up in the Almundo trial. I didn’t remember her face like Talia’s. Little things didn’t remind me of Emily like they constantly did of my wife.
And yet, if I thought of Emily less often, it was more jarring when I did. It’s easy to say the obvious thing, the absolute grotesqueness of a life lost after only three months. Barbaric enough to shake your faith, as it had mine. Sure. Of course. But there was more to it. We hadn’t connected enough, Emily and me. Not yet. I can say all the right things-my love for her, my utter devotion-but the truth, I think, is that that kind of bond develops over time, and I simply hadn’t had the time. I didn’t love Emily Jane in the same way I loved Talia, or as much as I would have loved her over time. That, I had come to realize, is what bothered me as much as anything: I didn’t get the chance to love my daughter as much as I was supposed to.
When the doorbell rang, I lifted my face out of the comforter on my bed. It was dark outside my window, which meant it was probably five in the evening, at least. I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep, or if I’d even been technically asleep at all. I went to the mirror and saw hair standing in every direction, swollen eyes, and a line running south to southwest across my cheek from the pillow. But I made up for it with a fashionably wrinkled t-shirt and cut-off sweats. The doorbell rang again, and then I heard my cell phone buzzing where I had left it apparently, on the floor of Emily’s bedroom. Whatever. I figured the phone caller was the impatient person at the front door, and it took me one second to narrow the candidates down to one.
I was wrong. It wasn’t Shauna. It was Charlie.
“Jesus, kid,” he said when I opened the door. “Did I wake you?”
He was in an expensive coffee-colored coat and cream scarf. A bit more nattily attired than I.
“I was giving myself a pedicure.” It fell flat. Shauna would have laughed.
“Merry Christmas,” he said. He handed me a package in silver wrapping. A shoe box.
I shook it. “And here I didn’t get you anything. You want to come in?”
“No. Wife’s waiting in the car.” He nodded at me. “Go ahead. Open it.”
I did. It was a shoe box. But it didn’t contain shoes.
It was cash. Crisp, clean hundred-dollar bills wrapped neatly in bands.
Five thousand dollars in cash.
“Charlie, I–I-”
“You’re doing great, kid. That’s a thank-you. We’re gonna have a great 2008.”
“Charlie-”
“Get something for your lady friend,” he said. “Shauna, right? The one you went to the movies with Friday night?”
Our eyes met. This wasn’t a casual remark. He wanted me to know.
“You two close? Share each other’s secrets? That kind of thing?”
“Charlie,” I said, “are you tailing me?”
He made a compromising noise from his throat, like I was overreacting. “I’m protecting my investment.”
“Don’t,” I said.
“What do you tell her about us?” he asked.
“I don’t. I don’t tell her anything about what we’re doing.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’m sure that you better stop tailing me, Charlie.”
“Listen, kid.” He spoke out of the side of his mouth. “I know she’s a great piece of ass, and I know you want to show her what a swell guy you are. But I’m telling you, women? They come and go. What’s a secret today is something she’ll tell all her friends tomorrow. And who knows? It ends badly? Maybe she calls a reporter or a cop or something.”