I walk the mall for an hour after I arrive. I watch children ice-skate on an indoor rink. I watch groups of teenagers roam in large packs from one end to the other. I buy a platter of warmed-over Chinese food and eat it on the promenade above the ice-skaters.
The jewelry store is one of over a hundred shops under this roof. I saw her punching a cash register the first time I slinked by.
I enter behind a young couple, and walk slowly to the long glass display counter where Kelly Riker is helping a customer. She glances up, sees me and smiles. I ease away a few steps, lean with my elbows on a counter, study the dazzling array of gold chains as thick as ski ropes. The store is crowded. A half-dozen clerks chatter and remove items from the cases.
“Can I help you, sir?” she says as she stands across from me, just two feet away. I look at her, and melt.
We smile at each other for as long as we dare. “Just looking,” I say. No one is watching us, I hope. “How are you?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Great.”
“Can I show you something? These are on sale.”
She points and we’re suddenly looking at chains fit for a pimp. “Nice,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear. “Can we talk?”
“Not here,” she says, leaning even closer. I get a whiff of her perfume. She unlocks the case, slides the door open and removes a ten-inch gold chain. She holds it for me to see, and says, “There’s a cinema down the mall. Buy a ticket for the Eddie Murphy movie. Center section, back row. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
“Eddie Murphy?” I ask, holding and admiring the chain.
“Nice isn’t it?”
“My favorite. Really nice. But let me look around some more.” She takes it from me, says, “Come back soon,” like the perfect salesperson.
My knees are weak as I float down the mall. She knew I’d come, and she had it planned — the cinema, the movie, the seat and the section. I drink coffee near an over worked Santa, try to imagine what she’ll say, what’s on her mind. To avoid a painful movie, I wait until the last minute to buy a ticket.
There are less than fifty people in the place. Some kids, too young for an R-rated movie, sit close to the front, snickering at each obscenity. A few other sad souls are scattered through the darkness. The back row is empty.
She arrives a few minutes late, and sits next to me. She crosses her legs, the skirt inches above her knees. I cannot help but notice.
“You come here often?” she says, and I laugh. She doesn’t appear to be nervous. I certainly am.
“Are we safe?” I ask.
“Safe from whom?”
“Your husband.”
“Yeah, he’s out with the boys tonight.”
“Drinking again?”
“Yes.”
This has enormous implications.
“But not much,” she says as an afterthought.
“So he hasn’t—”
“No. Let’s talk about something else.”
“I’m sorry. I just worry about you, that’s all.”
“Why do you worry about me?”
“Because I think about you all the time. Do you ever think about me?”
We’re staring at the screen but seeing nothing.
“All the time,” she says, and my heart stops.
On-screen, a guy and a girl are suddenly ripping each other’s clothes off. They’re falling onto a bed, pillows and undergarments flying through the air, then they embrace hotly and the bed starts shaking. As the lovers love each other, Kelly slides her arm under mine and inches closer. We don’t speak until the scene changes. Then I start breathing again.
“When did you start to work?” I ask.
“Two weeks ago. We need a little extra for Christmas.”
She’ll probably earn more than me between now and Christmas. “He allows you to work?”
“I’d rather not talk about him.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“How’s the lawyer stuff?”
“Busy. Got a big trial in February.”
“So you’re doing well?”
“It’s a struggle, but business is growing. Lawyers starve, and then if they’re lucky they make money.”
“And if they’re not lucky?”
“They keep starving. I’d rather not talk about lawyers.”
“Fine. Cliff wants to have a baby.”
“What would that accomplish?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t do it, Kelly,” I say with a passion that surprises me. We look at each other and squeeze hands.
Why am I sitting in a dark theater holding hands with a married woman? That’s the question of the day. What if Cliff suddenly appeared and caught me here cuddling with his wife? Who would he kill first?
“He told me to stop taking the pill.”
“Did you?”
“No. But I’m worried about what might happen when I don’t get pregnant. It’s been rather easy in the past, if you’ll recall.”
“It’s your body.”
“Yeah, and he wants it all the time. He’s becoming obsessed with sex.”
“Look, uh, I’d rather talk about something else, okay?”
“Okay. We’re running out of topics.”
“Yes, we are.”
We release each other’s hand and watch the movie for a few moments. Kelly slowly turns and leans on her elbow.
Our faces are just inches apart. “I just wanted to see you, Rudy,” she says, almost in a whisper.
“Are you happy?” I ask, touching her cheek with the back of my hand. How can she be happy?
She shakes her head. “No, not really.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing.” She bites her lip, and I think I see moist eyes.
“You have a decision to make,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“Either forget about me, or file for divorce.”
“I thought you were my friend.”
“I thought I was too. But I’m not. It’s more than friendship, and both of us know it.”
We watch the movie for a moment.
“I need to go,” she says. “My break is almost over. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“You didn’t bother me, Kelly. I’m glad to see you. But I’m not going to sneak around like this. You either file for divorce or forget about me.”
“I can’t forget about you.”
“Then let’s file for divorce. We can do it tomorrow. I’ll help you get rid of this bum, and then we can have some fun.”
She leans over, pecks me on the cheek and is gone.
Without first consulting me, Deck sneaks his phone from the office and takes it to Butch, then together they take it to an acquaintance who once allegedly worked for some branch of the military. According to the acquaintance, the bugging device still hidden in our phones is quite dissimilar to the bugs typically used by the FBI and other law enforcement agencies. It’s manufactured in Czechoslovakia, of medium grade and quality, and feeds a transmitter located somewhere close by. He’s almost certain it wasn’t planted by cops or feds.
I get this report over coffee a week before Thanksgiving.
“Somebody else is listening,” Deck says nervously.
I’m too stunned to react.
“Who would it be?” asks Butch.
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” I snap angrily at him. This guy has no business asking these questions. As soon as he’s gone, I’ll take Deck to task for involving him this deep. I glare at my partner, who’s looking away, jerking around, waiting for strangers to attack.
“Well, it ain’t the feds,” Butch says with great authority.
“Thanks.”
We pay for the coffee and walk back to our offices. Butch checks the phones once again, just for the hell of it. Same little round gadgets stuck in there.
The question now is, Who’s listening?
I go to my office, lock the door, kill time while waiting for Butch to leave and in the process conceive a brilliant plot. Deck eventually knocks on my door, taps just loud enough for me to hear.