“But I could,” I said. “It would be my pleasure.”
The next day was windy, the palms streaming. I didn’t have to check on Ben, he called me midmorning. He was on board.
“I can’t stand him. He’s chatting away in there with the door open, talking to some contractor. I’d like to drive a stake through his heart. Talking to me like we’re best buddies. What gall.” I could picture Jack — cheerful, hearty, talking on the phone, leaning back in his big leather chair, cowboy boots on the desk. “What do you want me to do?”
I told him to meet me at the IHOP on Dinah Shore Drive, a place where no one was likely to know us. At that hour, it would be mothers with little kids, retirees carefully counting their change.
The IHOP was ice rink cold, I imagined a Zamboni polishing the linoleum. I took a corner booth in the back, wearing the Elke wig and a modest shirt that nevertheless clung to every curve, sending a teasing mixed message of decorum and sex.
Ben looked like money in his pink shirt and his tan. Could he have been more conspicuous? He slipped into the booth next to me, lowered his Ray-Bans. “Come here often, Mabel?”
“I meet all my daddies here.” Every daddy around us was in a wheelchair.
The waitress came by with a menu, refilled my coffee. He ordered a club sandwich, mayo on the side. I got the Rooty Tooty pancakes.
His eyebrows jerked upward. He seemed actually shocked that a person would order pancakes at a pancake house.
“What do you want me to order, the chicken cordon bleu?”
We watched the waitress retreat, the bow of her apron. He lowered his voice. “You should have seen him. Swaggering around, on the phone with the fucking city planner. I’m ready, so help me god. Let’s get this over with.”
Over the rim of my cup, I studied him, wearing those stupid sunglasses. Sure, he’d like me to get rid of Jack for him. Keep his Ivy League hands clean. But this was what I’d lived for these last years. The only thing bringing air into my lungs, blood to my heart. “In three nights, you’re going out with him. Just the boys. You’ve got something to talk to him about, confessions, advice, father-son stuff. Leave your car and take his. Don’t park yours at the office, use a garage. He drives, that’s important. Take him somewhere they won’t know you. Not Melvyn’s or Spencer’s. A hotel. A bar at the airport. Not a casino, they’re loaded with cameras.”
Our meals came. I could see the wonder on his face as I tucked into the pancakes. “No carbs at your house? Poor Ben.”
He grabbed my hand. “Miranda, I can’t stand the way I’ve been living my life. Like a stupid kid. But when this is over, it’s going to be different. It’s going to be you and me and the whole wide world.”
“Easy, pardner.”
He let go of my hand. “You’re not getting away from me,” he whispered. “I used to think Alan’s girlfriend was hot. But you melt metal. I’d like to come over there and fuck you into next year.”
You’re not getting away from me. I’d have to think about that. Later.
He texted my burner every hour for the next three days. How it was torture to go to the office. How Alan invited him and Sherry up to his place for dinner, to talk to some people about a development in Laguna Canyon. I hate this.
Miss you.
He’s making his special burgers.
I hope he chokes.
I remembered them well. Worcestershire sauce, a bit of horseradish. Those barbeques we used to have. All that father-son sharing of esoteric grill lore. Reeling us in, putting us to sleep. Well, your son’s awake now, Jack. Sharpening the knives.
He called me, late, from home. Sherry must have been sleeping. I heard the water splash, the sexy rumble of his voice. “As soon as we break ground, I’m taking you to Tokyo. First class. You see Lost in Translation?”
I hadn’t been to a movie in years.
“In that wig, you remind me of Scarlett Johansson.” He loved his games.
“Anybody get killed in it?”
“Jesus, Miranda! Relax. We’ve got this.”
Nobody slept the night before. I went out to the arroyo and shot off some of the fresh ammo I’d bought at the Gun Barn out on Indian Canyon. The blasts were startlingly loud but nobody called the cops, nobody did shit. I imagined him kneeling in the dirt. Goodbye, Jack.
After work they went for some Mexican food, then to a jazz bar. Good. Dark.
How’s it going? I texted him.
Having a good old chat. Says he wanted to be a drummer when he was a kid. Hemet. Jack was from Hemet. A tough little town on the other side of the mountain. A local boy. I’m laughing with a dead man. Flying.
I’d told him to take one of Sherry’s Dexis, so he wouldn’t be totally shitfaced after a night out with Jack. I hoped he’d only taken one.
At last, it was eleven. I drove up to the site in the moonlight, descended into that beautiful bowl of rock and sage and cactus that held all of Ben’s dreams. I could see it as if it were already built. He’d brought me up here before — showed me where the pools would be, the firepits and tennis courts.
I didn’t need any speed to feel like I was flying. Every gesture seemed symbolic now, perfect, relentless. I took an old green army blanket and covered my car so it wouldn’t glow, found my hiding place behind some boulders on a rise, where the moon would be in his face. And then life would begin. The clock that had stopped would start again.
Okay, put a wrap on it, I texted him. Showtime.
I imagined them walking down to the car, no valet. Jack squeezing Ben on the shoulder. The drive down South Palm Canyon, past the mobile court which had been my final resting place. No more. I was going to rise, rise. Any minute they’d be turning up Coyote Hill Drive. I waited, crouching with the scorpions and the tarantulas and the snakes in the desert night. All of the hunters.
Here they came, headlights bursting over the crest. The Porsche jolted as it descended the roughly graded road. It came to a stop right where the big pool was going to be.
They got out, so clear in the moonlight. Cocky Jack with his cowboy boots. Ben yammering about something, waving his arms around. “Yes!” he shouted. “See? This is it. This is the Future Perfect.”
Jack lit a cigar, leaning up against the silver Porsche, offering his Steve McQueen grin. He held one out to Ben. Long and thin, a panatela. See, I remembered... A last smoke, a final farewell.
“I love this place,” Ben said, exhaling. “Maybe I’ll move in when it’s built.”
“Lot of projects ahead,” Jack said. “This ain’t the end.”
Oh, but it was, Jack. Silently, the sand slipping under my shoes, I came down from the rocks. My clothes were dark, my hair, neither of them saw me at first. Then Ben did. And Jack. The gun glinting in my hand. I would have worn the wig, but it would have stood out too soon, spoiled my surprise.
“Hi, Jack. Remember me?”
Ben tossed the cigar, moved away from his partner, skirted the nonexistent pool, giving me a clear shot, and came around to stand by me.
Jack took it in, me, Ben. He was figuring it out. No smile now. “Miranda Constantine,” he said. “Not somebody I’d be likely to forget.”
“Guess you didn’t go to Bogotá. Bet your wife wasn’t even Colombian.”
Even with a gun pointed at him, he managed a laugh. “She wasn’t even my wife.” He hooked his thumbs into his belt loops.
The moon turned everything to bone. “Did you know Gil hanged himself?”