Then out of nowhere it hit her again, the fact that her husband had very nearly murdered her. If she hadn't known how to dive, she wouldn't be alive to enjoy the sunshine on her bare arms, Norah Jones on the radio, the scent of new purse leather. It had been Chaz's wish for her to end up in the steaming belly of a shark, or nibbled to pieces by crabs and needlefish.
That asshole, thought Joey, and headed straight for the interstate. Fifty minutes later she was removing the spare key from the bird feeder in her backyard. She entered the house through the rear door and turned off the alarm. A heavy chill took hold of her as she prowled through the familiar rooms; there was no trace of her anywhere.
From past incursions Joey was aware that Chaz had removed the obvious reminders-photographs, clothes, CDs. Now, though, even more was missing. Paintings and pencil sketches that she had picked out were gone from the walls. A crystal figurine of a dolphin that she'd given him for Valentine's Day had been taken from the bookcase. Four silver candle holders, a wedding present from her brother, had disappeared from the china cabinet. Her antique jewelry box was nowhere to be found.
Even in the kitchen, Chaz had expunged all traces. Where was the orchid that had hung in the window? Her coffee mug? The copper pot she'd bought for boiling his precious fucking spaghetti? It was as if she had never lived there, never been there, never existed.
Joey took a steak knife from a drawer and stalked to the bedroom with the notion of slashing his new silk sheets, which smelled like they'd been laundered in stale sangria. Chaz, so particular about Joey's perfumes, evidently let his bimbos drench themselves with any maggot-gagging aroma that happened to be on sale.
She raised the knife over her head, but that was as far as it got. This is pathetic, she thought, and not very original. She dropped the knife and flopped down on the bed-her side of the bed. She stared at the popcorn ceiling as she had hundreds of nights before, only now she felt like an intruder.
Which she was.
She had to give Chaz credit. He had thoroughly erased her from the home that had once been theirs. Joey's shoulders started shaking and her knees drew up, and she realized she was sobbing. It made her angry-no, furious-to be crying over a man who wanted her dead.
Just stop it! she told herself. Stop right now.
This isn't about losing Chaz. This is about pride and self-image and all that Dr. Phil crapola. How could my own husband come to hate me so much? What did I ever do to him?
"Nothing."
This Joey stated aloud, between sniffles.
"Not a damn thing."
She sat up, dabbing at her eyes with the top sheet.
"So, to hell with Chaz Perrone."
Joey slipped into the bathroom, wincing at her reflection; the puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. She sat down to pee, and to figure out what to do next. On the vanity was a jumbo bottle of Maalox chewables, the sight of which buoyed her spirits. For Chaz an ulcer would be excellent, she thought; a burning, bleeding ulcer the size of a tortilla.
Normally he didn't return from work until six o'clock, so Joey assumed that the slam of the car door had come from another driveway. When a key began jiggling the front doorknob, she tugged up her jeans, shot out of the bathroom, snatched the steak knife off the carpet and rolled beneath the bed.
Footsteps that seemed heavier than Chaz's plodded through the living room and then up the hall. Joey held her breath, thinking: Damn, I didn't flush. If he notices, it's all over.
She switched the knife to her right hand and tested her grip, the footfalls now approaching the bathroom doorway.
Of all the dumb ways to get caught, Joey thought morosely. The one time I forget to flush.
Life was so much simpler bossing a farm crew. You needed money, all you had to do was steal out of their pay. Most of the time they never said boo, they was so afraid you'd turn their asses over to the INS. Ship 'em back to Haiti or the D.R. or whatever godforsaken hellhole they come from. Adios, motherfuckers, do not pass Go.
The fentanyl had taken care of Tool's pain but not the sense of displacement. He stared at the seeping tooth marks on his knuckles and thought: I hate the city.
Partly it was Red's fault for not fronting him some cash. Tool had forgotten how tough it was to pry a dollar bill out of that rich little peckerwood. If Tool had been carrying even a ten spot, why, the driver of that soda truck wouldn't be on his way to the emergency room with his face stoved in like a rotten pumpkin.
Tool shook his head in exasperation. Hadn't he asked like a gentleman?
Hey, son, how 'bout a case of that Mountain Dew?
The driver had chuckled and said he couldn't sell straight off the truck; said so in a tone that Tool took as rude and belittling. The man hitching his eyebrows and asking, "How much is it worth to you, pops? Maybe I can make an exception."
Him not knowing, obviously, how desperate for refreshment a person under the influence of hospital-grade painkillers could be.
Tool didn't believe in beating around the bush, so he'd let the driver know that he wasn't in a position to pay for the case of Dew, on account of he had no money. Promised the guy he'd catch up with him later, though, next time the minimart was due for a soda delivery.
That got the driver laughing so hard that his head started bobbing up and down like a goddamn parrot, which Tool didn't care for one bit. Out on the farm, nobody laughed at him. Nobody dared to look even slightly happy when he came around.
The truck driver was a younger fella, broad and muscle-bound and full of hisself. Most men would've thought twice about doing what Tool done, but Tool right away marked the guy as a gym pussy. It was the smile that give him away, all those teeth so white and square, like the tiles in the John at the Greyhound depot. The driver, talking down to Tool like he was some sorta retard, Tool studying them shiny perfect teeth and thinking: This fucker's never taken a serious punch his entire life.
Then proceeding to hit the man square in the face, shattering to pieces that movie-star smile and the nose it was hung on. Down went the truck driver, and off walked Tool with a whole pallet of unrefriger-ated Mountain Dew-them two-liter jumbos, which he greatly favored. Driving back to the doctor's house, he guzzled a whole bottle warm, that's how blessed thirsty he was.
Now he stood belching in the hallway, trying to decide whether to take a leak or lie down or maybe call Red and make a pitch for some dough. The guys that bodyguard the president and movie stars and such, they get spendin' money. Tool was sure of it. He went in his room and kicked off his overalls and sat down bare-assed on the bed.
The cell phone that Red had loaned him had the speed-dial function pre-set to call Red's office in LaBelle. Lisbeth said that he was in a meeting, but she promised to pass along the message about Tool needing some cash ASAP.
Tool wiped his bloody hand on the blanket. I don't belong here, he thought. I'm not a city man.
He clicked on the television and there was Oprah, that black lady what had her own show. Tool had heard on Christian radio that Oprah was richer than some of the richest white people on earth, so he decided to tune in for a while and see what all the fuss was about. Damn if Oprah wasn't yakking with three movie actresses about what a hassle it was to be famous and have photographers snooping around, following you to the grocery and the ATM, whatever. Tool didn't feel one tiny bit sorry for her and them other gals, on account of they was rich enough to build twenty-foot walls around their mansions if they wanted. Butlers, bodyguards, the best of everything.
Tool found himself thinking about Maureen, the old lady at Elysian Manor, alone and dying of God knows what kind of rotten cancer. Damn nurses won't even let her out of the sack to take a shower or go to the can. There's somebody would trade places with them actresses in a heartbeat, Tool thought, Maureen would. She'd be smilin' and wavin' at them photographers, she'd be so grateful not to be sick.