“The same. A succession of broken hearts, usually his, occasionally some poor boy’s that Sweetheart loved and lost the next day. But it’s all a part of the parade of fabulousness. I swear, Bobby, I’ve never known him to be actually sad about anything. Even when he’s upset about some tragic romance, it’s like hearing the plot of a really good sitcom.”
“And the rest of the gang?”
“You know. Same old, same old. Walter’s getting back to his old self. He told me to pass along his greetings. And how are things for you?”
Caught by surprise, I handled it with my usual flair. “Huh?”
“You, Bobby. You ask about everyone else—you even asked how Teddy and I are doing—but you don’t say anything about yourself. What’s going on?”
“You never did finish telling me about you and Teddy, now that you mention it. You two getting on all right?”
She gave me a look—she knew I was changing the subject again—but gave in with dignity. “We’re okay. I wanted something different than you. I got it. He’s dependable, kind, always returns phone calls. He opens doors for me.”
“I used to open doors for you!”
“Only because you had that stupid little car where the doors wouldn’t stay open by themselves and kept shutting on my head when I tried to get out.”
“Oh, yeah, that ragtop Buick. I miss that car. You could feel every bump—like riding a giant, high-powered skateboard.”
“My tailbone is still bruised.”
“I had to sell my Matador, you know.”
“Was that the one with the checkerboard upholstery?”
“Yep.”
“I’d like to say ‘too bad,’ but honestly, it was like being in a clown car. No, like a booth in an imitation fifties diner.”
“Yeah, pile it on, now that my poor Matador Machine isn’t here to defend itself.”
“You’re still avoiding the subject, Bobby.”
“What subject?”
“The subject of what’s going on with you. And something is definitely going on.”
I had a little tingle up the back of my neck. “Why do you say that?”
She laughed. Sourly. “Oh, come on. You take me out to dinner? When was the last time you took me out to dinner, even when we were sleeping together?”
“I’ll have to go through my canceled checks.”
“For the early two-thousands. Seriously, you take me out to dinner, you ask politely about all the old friends you never bother to come see, even though they hang out in the exact same bar as always—hell, most of them are in the exact same booths.” She frowned. “I know you, Bobby. You can’t wake up with a guy for three years, admittedly off and on, without learning a little something about him. You’re worried. No, you’re scared shitless about something. You’ve got a new girlfriend, but I never hear anything about her from anyone, and it’s not because they’re protecting me. Nobody knows, and you never talk about her either. And the only time I hear from you is when you want help to sneak into some rich lady’s house. What? Did you get your new woman knocked up? Were you planning to steal some Persian art treasures to pay for her to get it dealt with?” Suddenly her face changed. “I’m sorry, that was terrible. I didn’t mean it to sound so mean. But what’s going on with you? I thought we’d agreed to stay friends.”
“We are friends. Look at us, sitting here all friendly. Me eating your leftover croutons.”
“I’ve seen nearly every cute trick you have, Dollar, and heard every excuse you make. I’m not that easy to distract. If I am your friend, talk to me.”
And I would have. At that moment, I was dying to talk to someone. It was why I’d insisted on taking her out to dinner. Monica was the one person I could talk to who would both understand and sympathize. It wasn’t even the Caz thing, not anymore. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell Monica something that she would have to keep secret, especially if everything went badly sideways at the museum. At the moment, the Vanity Fair ploy was her only involvement, and she didn’t know what she’d done or why. How could I change that and make her part of this, just to have a shoulder to cry on, just to have someone who would pat me on the back and tell me everything would be all right? Shit, even I’m not that selfish.
No, this whole thing had been a bad idea, and the fact that it felt so good to see Monica again, and to be reminded how much fun she could be to hang out with, only made it worse. “I can’t,” I said at last. “You have to believe me. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that I don’t want you involved.”
“Really? This isn’t one of your it’s-not-you-it’s-me speeches, is it?” She stared across the table, really stared, like she could see right into me. I used to think she could, sometimes, but most of the time I knew better. I mean, what woman would hang out with me if she really could see the inner Bobby? “Oh, shit,” she said.
“What?”
“Now I’m scared. I think you’re telling the truth. What are you into, Dollar? Tell me. Please, talk to me.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” And that was my biggest lie of the week, no doubt. “Honestly, don’t let it worry you. I’m just being cautious.” I handed the check back to the waiter, along with enough cash to cover the meal and the tip. “Keep it,” I told him. “You want a drink for the road, Naber?”
She was still looking at me like you’d look at a senile grandfather who had just announced he was going on a long trip. “I shouldn’t. I’m supposed to stop at the Compasses to meet Teddy, and I’ll probably have another glass there. Assuming I don’t get a call. Are you really on leave of absence?”
“Temporarily. Just ’til I get some stuff sorted out.”
I walked her to her car. She stopped, turned, and put her arms around me before I was ready for it, and got in a good squeeze before I could stiffen up and lean back a little. She felt very good, and without thinking I let my hands drop to her hips. They’re very nice hips.
“You’ll call me soon, right?” she said. “Let me know you’re okay?”
“Sure.” Usually I had no problem saying things like this to women without meaning it, even women I really liked, like Monica. “I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.” I paused. I should have let go then, but I didn’t. “And thanks for everything. You’re a wonderful person, Monica. Heaven’s finest.”
Her grip on my waist tightened. “You’re scaring me again. Unless you’re making a pass.”
“No. No pass.” I leaned and kissed her, gently and carefully, on the lips. Nothing romantic, not at first, but for a second we didn’t break apart either, and then it started to seem like something else was happening. I was lonely, I was scared, and she felt so good—not just familiar, but right, someone I knew and trusted. Someone I wanted to hold onto. Someone I definitely, at least for those few seconds, didn’t want to let go of. My hand started to slide up her back, and then I remembered why I was in all this trouble in the first place: Caz. Small, fierce, shiny-bright as a Fourth of July sparkler, and right now under house arrest in Hell. A prisoner forever, unless I did something impossible. And I had to try.
I let go and took a step back. “I’ll always care about you, Monica,” I said. “No matter what.” I turned and walked toward my car.
“Oh, my God,” I heard her say loudly from behind me, perhaps in part to wake herself up from what had just almost happened. “You got rid of the plaid-seats clown car and bought a taxi?”
“Not everyone can pull it off,” I said, still not looking back.
If she had said any number of things, I might have turned around. Luckily for both of us, she didn’t. “Nobody can pull that off, Dollar.”
I gave her my best casual wave. “Oh, ye of little faith. Just wait ’til you hear this baby roar. I’ve got seven or eight horses under the hood, minimum.”
“Take care of yourself, Bobby,” she called as I opened the door and got in. “Seriously. That’s not a joke. If you do something stupid and get yourself killed, I’ll . . . I’ll murder you.”
It was the nicest death threat I’d received in a long while.