Her father’s study, Cole informed them, was locked. Neither he nor Herta knew how to pick locks. He made a mental note for Herta to learn. “When the old man gets back from Europe, he may be in the market for a trophy wife.”
“I can do trophy,” Herta said.
“We need money now, though,” Tariq said. “Didn’t you skim their wallets?”
“Those clowns track each penny like bloodhounds after a scent,” Cole said.
“Did you mean that to be funny?” Herta asked.
“We have to be patient,” Cole said. “See how much Madelyn’s good for, and the same with Pork Chop.”
“Even he’s calling himself Pork Chop now,” Herta said. “That’s how much he loves me.”
“I have needs,” Tariq said. “Like finding a boring sex partner of my own. And, you know, food.”
“There’s pastrami in the fridge,” Herta said. “Jerk off. Make do.”
“Anyone in this country motivated by anything but the accumulation of wealth is a chump,” Cole said. “Every piece of the culture makes the argument.”
“What about that movie we watched?” Herta said.
They’d streamed Love Actually. Her choice.
“The cinematography was adequate,” Cole said.
“It would’ve been better with more nudity,” Tariq chimed in.
“You didn’t see it,” Herta accused.
“It’s something you can say about any movie.”
“It was about love,” Herta insisted, “not the preeminence of money.”
“Yet they all had thousand-dollar haircuts,” said Cole, “cute lofts, beautiful clothes. The real message: money matters.”
“You’re going to wind up cynical if you’re not careful,” Herta told him.
“Sex is a sucker’s game.”
“You’ve really got to think more about your metaphors,” she replied.
“It’s a means to an end.”
“There you go again.”
Cole didn’t do drugs and drank only in the line of duty. He didn’t get music. He didn’t really get sex, either, although he would now and again condescend to screw Herta. What he liked was theft. That and money, but not for what it could buy, most of which did not interest him — simply for the sake of money itself.
Herta liked first-edition books by authors she loved. Ideally with signatures. She also liked good food and nice clothes. She wouldn’t mind a BMW.
Cole took one of her books from a shelf. “I do not understand how this brings you pleasure.” He waved a first edition of The Optimist’s Daughter. “You’ve already read it. Yet you buy a fantastically expensive version because it has a scribbled name that maybe the writer put there. It’s a fetish.”
“How would you rather I spend my money?”
“Give it to me,” said Cole.
At the same instant Tariq said, “I’ll take it.”
“As for you,” Herta said to Tariq, “I read what you call an essay. At least you understand it’s a great book.”
Tariq shrugged. “Not my very favorite, but decent.”
“What’s your very favorite?”
“Pet Sematary,” Tariq said.
“Here we go,” said Cole, but his phone quieted them — a text from Madelyn: Let’s eat at Uchi!! And then head back to my place for private fun!!!
“I’d like to shoot her in the head,” Herta said. “One shot per exclamation point.”
“If you shoot her in the head,” Cole said, “there’s no point in multiple shots.”
“Uchi is major bucks,” Tariq said, adding: “Get the gyutoro yaki.”
“She’ll expect me to pay,” said Cole. “How can we redirect her?”
Herta took his phone and wrote, No to Uchi!!! Can’t wait that long to hop into your giant hooter!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Cole erased the message. “That she doesn’t understand irony doesn’t make her a bad person.”
“Yes it does,” Herta replied.
I’ve ordered pizza for delivery, Cole typed. So we won’t have to get fully dressed when the food arrives.
“It’s not a cheese knife,” Madelyn said that night, after sex but before pepperoni slices, “it’s a rocker knife.”
“Ah, yes,” said Cole. “Of course.” They stood at the kitchen counter with the pizza box and a round of cheese from her refrigerator. She was unhappy with the pizza. Everyone in Houston with a palate orders from Pinks, she’d said. “Anyway,” Cole went on, “it’s the perfect knife for the Brie.”
Madelyn huffed. “It’s not Brie.” Her head quaked with emphasis. “It’s Camembert.” She rolled her eyes.
Cole plunged the rocker knife into her neck. Madelyn’s eyes rolled all the way around until they were, at last, staring inwardly.
“She talked too much,” Cole explained. He was on the phone with Herta.
“Boy howdy,” she said. “Let me tell Tariq. He’s scrounging the fridge.” Cole heard her call out, “Change of plans!”
A moment later, Tariq’s voice at a distance: “Well, crap.”
Herta returned. “And now, o wise one?”
“The backyard is the size of an airport,” Cole said, “and wild in the way back.”
“We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Don’t park nearby.”
“Twelve minutes.”
“There’s pizza.”
“And Camembert,” Herta said.
“It’s spattered with blood,” he said, “but I can carve around it.”
“There’s something in those bushes,” Tariq whispered. They labored near the back wall of the estate, shoveling by moonlight. “I swear to god.”
“But you’re an atheist,” Herta said. “So that means nothing.”
“It’s an expression,” Tariq said, “that indicates sincerity.”
“Not if the expression itself is a dishonest representation of who you are.”
“Dig,” said Cole. “It has to be deep.” He dropped a stack of pavers at their feet.
“Look over my shoulder at those bushes,” Tariq said. “There’s something in there.”
The back wall of the estate held dense ground cover and a mad scatter of hawthorns, live oaks, and sweet gums. Cole lifted one of the pavers and flipped it at a pocket of myrtle. A white-faced creature hit the ground without so much as a squeal.
“Eww,” Herta said.
“A ghoul!” Tariq whisper-screamed. He jumped from the hole and behind a tree. “What is that?”
“Opossum,” said Cole. “I didn’t even hit it.”
“It’s playing possum?” Tariq asked.
“Opossum can’t play possum,” Herta said. “It’s just doing its thing.” After a moment she added, “I don’t like knowing it’s alive. So close and all.”
“Then we should hurry.” Cole yanked the shovel from her hand and headed for the creature.