She liked the quiet, late at night.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Sol

  “The note says she’s sorry,” Kelly said as she laid the jacket over the back of the couch. Sol threw her a look that slid off her face and landed on the jacket, stuck like Superglue. He hit the mute button on the TV, derailing the movie in mid-scream, and reached over to touch the fabric.

  “Who says?” Eggplant wool, soft as a baby’s butt, rich as butter. He pulled it over to look at the label—small, discreet. His eyebrows went up like balloons.

  “Velvet,” Kelly said. She sounded suspicious and pouty. “The hooker. Why’s a hooker sending you presents?”

  “Think, sweetheart, think. She learned her lesson.” The lining was pure silk, dark blue. It felt like warm skin. “She learned it perfectly.”

  “Well, try it on,” she sniffed, and flounced down in the leather armchair, crossed her legs, and swung her left foot impatiently. “Go on. See if I care.”

  “Did she call?”

  “Huh?” She looked up from examining the TV schedule. “Oh. No. Came with a note. In the pocket.”

  There were, of course, no outside pockets in such a beautiful piece of work; he reached inside and found a plain white piece of paper, plain sloppy writing. Dear Sol, it said. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Consider this an apology. Sincerely, Velvet.

  “Yes indeed,” he murmured, then crumpled the note and tossed it toward the kitchen wastebasket. “My god, yes. I had no idea she had such taste.”

  Kelly mumbled something mutinous. He stood up and shed his wrinkled off-white jacket, slid his arms into the buttery embrace of the eggplant coat.

  Perfect. Utterly perfect. He checked the cuffs, tugged at the lapels, sauntered down the hall to check the fit in the mirror. His color, his size, every line in place.

  It made the rest of his clothes look like shit. He frowned and sucked in his gut, turned sideways, tried again. A new shirt, that was what he needed. Something in dark blue silk. One of those raw silk ties, light yellow. The trousers had to go, too. Time for a housecleaning.

  “What do you think?” he asked, and did a runway spin for Kelly. She glanced up from her crossword puzzle and shrugged. “Come on, what do you think? It’s nice, eh?”

  “I don’t like purple.”

  If he’d had time to think about it, he might not have hit her quite so hard. He flexed his fist and stepped back, careful not to get any blood on the jacket.

  “Time for a housecleaning,” he said aloud. “Get your things.”

  “But Sol—” Stunned, she started to bawl. He resisted the urge to punch her again—hell, there wasn’t any point—and walked back to the bathroom to rinse his knuckles off. When he came back, she was stuffing things in a suitcase—one of his suitcases, the Gucci. He dumped the shit out on the floor, went to the kitchen, and grabbed a garbage bag from under the sink. She sat on the floor, legs splayed, sniffing back blood, and stuffing her clothes into the garbage bag; he felt sick at the sight of her.

  New jacket, new wardrobe, new day, he thought. Today, I change everything. God bless that little whore, she’d made him wake up. He’d go over to Robby’s, sweet-talk her, take her out for some Italian. She’d like the jacket.

  Kelly tried to sneak some of the jewelry into the bag. He convinced her to leave it. When she was packed up, he made her go wash her face and comb her hair, even carried her garbage bag down to the car and threw it in the trunk. When he slammed it shut, he found her staring at him with wide fixed eyes.

  “What? What now?”

  “You—aren’t going to—kill me, are you?”

  He stared at her, stunned. “I don’t kill people, sweetheart,” he told her kindly. “Mama mia, why would I? I’m in the business end. Look, it’s over, that’s all. I take you home, you don’t come back, you don’t make any trouble for me. End of story. Okay?”

  Tears spilled out of her eyes, down her pale cheeks. She wiped them away with trembling fingers.

  “Okay,” she whispered. He opened the door of the Mercedes like a gentleman, closed it for her, walked around to the driver’s side. When he opened his door, she said, “Sol?”

  “What?” He fastened his seatbelt, slammed the door, started the car. The heater smelled like burning socks.

  “I love you.” She continued to cry. He backed the car out into weak sunshine, felt the crunch of the tires as they hit the street. “I really do, Sol. Nobody else loves you like I do.”

  The saddest thing about it was she really believed it. He handed her a Kleenex, winced when she blew her nose. He was tired of her, sick and tired, but it was important to be a man about these things. Let her down gently.

  “I know you do, sweetheart. You’re one in a million.” He searched for a new cliche. “I don’t deserve you.”

  “Yes. Yes, you do.” The tears died off to wet snuffles. He gave her another Kleenex. “Oh, Sol, you’re great, you’re really great. I never thought I’d find anybody like you.”

  “That’s great, but—”

  “Please don’t leave me. Please.” She batted tear-clumped eyelashes at him. He sighed and kept driving, turning left on the Tollway, out to the ’burbs where she still kept a cheap one-room apartment. She hadn’t planned on keeping it much longer, he knew. Good thing he’d made up his mind.

  At the tollbooth he blew through at fifty miles an hour without paying; red lights flashed, bells rang, no cops.

  “Fasten your seatbelt,” he said. Sniffing, she did, then folded her hands in her lap and sat like a schoolgirl, head down. “Look, it’s time for you to move on, find somebody else. It’s better that way. Better for both of us.”

  She started crying again. He took the Mercedes up to seventy and let her cry.

  Fifteen minutes later, he eased to a stop in the parking lot next to her building, switched off the engine, sat for a second with his eyes closed. He didn’t feel so good—he’d turned the heater up too high, maybe he was catching something. Cold. Flu. Something. He needed bed rest, some hot soup.

  “Sol?” Kelly hadn’t moved. She sat twisting a loop of red hair in her fingers, watching him with big hopeful eyes. He unhooked his seatbelt and reached across her to pop the trunk. “Oh, Sol, please—”

  The freezing air felt good on his skin. God, he was sweating. As he hauled her garbage bag out of the trunk, a knife of pain went under his ribs. He winced and fell heavily against the car.

  “Sol?” The car shifted up as Kelly got out and came around the back. He couldn’t get his breath. Heart attack. That was what it was. No big deal, an ambulance’d fix him right—

  He was sweating all over the jacket. The wool was blotching dark in places, all ruined. He brushed his fingers over the damage.

  Hot. Hot. Hot.

  Kelly said, “Oh, honey, it’s okay, I won’t leave if you don’t want me to go, it’s okay—”

  She hugged him. When she felt the heat she tried to yank free but he held on, not because he wanted to hurt her but he wanted help, wanted her to make it stop, this terrible thing, this awful pain. Knives. Knives everywhere. Skin coming off in strips. Heat burrowing in everywhere, burning, everything burning.

  Kelly’s fingernails clawed at him, sank deep into his skin and pulled it out by handfuls. He couldn’t hold her anymore but when his legs gave way and he fell she was still with him, screaming, beating at him, clawing.

  Stuck to him. Before the skin went black on her face, he had time to think, You got what you wanted, baby.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Velvet

  It was dark when she woke up, morning or middle of the night or some damn thing. Velvet groaned and put a pillow over her head, but that only made the pain echo more, like a pinball trapped inside her skull. She blinked dry eyes until the digital alarm clock swam into view.

  It said 7-something. She couldn’t tell if it was A.M. or P.M., didn’t really matter, anyway except there was better shit on TV if it was P.M. She was in no mood for “Good Morning America.”

  Christ, how the hell had she gotten home? Speaking of that—where the hell was she? She fumbled for a light and found one on the bedstand. When she flicked it on, she moaned and turned it off just as fast. Neon blue. God, she’d made it to Robby’s, maybe the bus driver had walked her upstairs. Lucky she hadn’t gotten busted.

  With the pillow held firmly over her head, she turned the light on again. She let the glare in in stages—through closed eyes, then just a peek, finally eyes open at half-staff. No way were they coming open any more, not yet, not in this technicolor hell. She kicked the suffocating covers off and stumbled naked out of bed, found a T-shirt and slipped it on, a pair of discarded panties that felt suspiciously stiff. What the hell. She’d change later.

  She was sitting on the end of the bed, head in her hands, waiting for the pounding to die down, when Robby knocked on the door.

  “Are you all right?”

  “God damn nosy Irish bitch,” Velvet whispered into her trembling hands. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “No.”

  She hadn’t figured Robby would pay any attention, and she was right. The door opened and light—a lot brighter than the little nightstand glare—hit her like a white wall. She wailed and shut her eyes.

  “Poor thing.” Robby sounded unsympathetic. “Time to get up. I’ve got to go.”

  “Where?”

  “Work. Come on, get up, you’ll feel better if you move around. Do you remember getting here?”

  Velvet tried to shake her head. It was a bad idea.

  “You opened the door at three in the morning and hit the floor like a sack of bricks. On top of that, the intrusion alarm went off. I didn’t know whether to kill you or call the paramedics.” Robby was doing something behind her, straightening up, pawing through clothes in the closet. The rattle of bangers was enough to make Velvet’s eyes bleed. “I put you in a cold shower just in time for you to start throwing up. All in all, it was a glorious morning, and don’t you ever do that to me again, ever, or you’re out on your ass, understand me?”

  Velvet pried her fingers away from her eyes and blinked until Robby’s face came into focus. Hard. Cold brown eyes. A mouth like a straight razor.

  “Sure,” she agreed, and gulped back a hot mouthful of something she didn’t want to identify. “Sorry. Won’t happen again.”

  “It had better not.” Robby glared at her another minute, then went back to rattling hangers. “Have you seen my brown pants?”

  Actually, from where she sat, Velvet could see them real well. They were crumpled in a ball under the dresser, probably covered with vomit and Chivas and Listerine. She covered up her eyes again.

  “No. Got any aspirin?”

  “Bathroom.”

  She tried to get up. She managed to get about two inches off the bed. The resulting fall back to the mattress made her think her brain might actually explode, but it only throbbed until her teeth rattled. Scotch. She knew better than to get drunk on Scotch.

  “Uh, could you …” The question died under the weight of Robby’s stare. “No. Didn’t think so.”

  Somehow, once she’d got her feet under her, the room stopped swaying like a rope bridge and just felt like a tilt-a-whirl instead. Not so bad. She kept both hands pressed against the hallway on the way to the bathroom, averted her eyes from lemon yellow and cheery day-glo orange, and dug aspirin out of a cabinet. She swallowed four of them dry, found vitamin C capsules, and swallowed them, too.

  As she stood slumped and miserable, staring at her bruised swollen face in the mirror, Robby appeared in the doorway and handed her a frosty glass of orange juice.

  “There’s coffee on the counter,” she said. “Turn the pot off when you’ve had enough. Unplug it, too. And wash out the pot, just water, no soap.”

  Nodding seemed to still be a risky proposition, so Velvet waggled her hand in agreement. Funny, it had ink stains on it. She blinked and finally remembered jotting the address on it.

  The paper. Oh, God, she hadn’t meant to tell him all of it, surely she hadn’t—God. Oh, God.

  No telling what she’d done. Told the story on nationwide TV. Screwed her way across Dallas. Who knew?

  She tossed back a mouthful of orange juice and gagged, but Robby was still watching, so she kept drinking, and drinking, until all she got was a frothy mouthful of pale bubbles. Robby took the glass back.

  “Thanks.” The word came out rough around the edges, not quite the way she’d meant it, but Robby nodded and went away. “Where’re you working?”

  “Hockey game,” Robby called. “Good business, especially around the beer lines. Lots of flush people at hockey games for some reason. Sports events are always good.”

  “Good in my line of work, too,” Velvet managed to say, and sat down on the toilet. Mercifully, the lid was down. “Guys are always horny after a good game.”

  Robby came back from the kitchen. This time, she was holding a steaming cup of coffee. Velvet wrapped chilled hands around it and sighed in gratitude; the steam cushioned the ache a little, made her feel a little more normal.

  “Does it ever bother you?” Robby asked. Velvet met her eyes. After a long uncomfortable silence, Robby turned away. “Sorry. Not a very polite question, I suppose.”

  “No,” Velvet agreed, and sipped coffee. It was bitter and hot and tasted like the bottom of a grease pit, and she didn’t care at all. “It’s not a very polite question.”

  She waited in the bathroom until she heard the door shut, wandered out to check the locks, eased herself carefully down on the sofa. The leather was as cold as ice, but warmed up quickly.

  She went to sleep, curled up under a clown-red afghan with bright yellow fringe, with the TV on ESPN as she waited for the hockey game to start. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep—long enough that there were guys fighting on the ice on TV—when a volley of knocks on the door woke her up. She came bolt upright, and met the wall of her hangover with bruising force.

  It’s that guy. The suit. Jesus, what do I do?

  She hit the mute button on the TV and huddled under the afghan. The knocking continued. After it got quiet again, she ventured over to the door and looked through the peephole.

  “Well, well, well,” she murmured, and flipped the deadbolts, tossed her hair back over her shoulders, and opened the door. She clung to it in what she hoped looked like a sexy way, instead of a way to stay upright.

  Mr. College-Prep-School-Dimple-In-The-Chin-Not-Lenny-Fucking-Bradshaw stared at her with those big soft eyes. She batted her eyelashes at him—it still hurt—and said, “Hi, Lenny. Come on inside.”

  He hesitated only a couple of seconds, giving her exposed legs a wide glance. She locked all three deadbolts behind him, making sure he got a good view of her butt.

  “Uh, Velvet, I didn’t know you’d be—”

  “No, of course you didn’t. I told you about Robby, didn’t I? You must have come by to see her, not me.” She kept smiling. “Have a seat.”

  He did, perching uneasily in the magenta chair. She offered coffee. He refused. She sucked on what was left in her cup—cool, getting cold—and watched him watch her. Little prick. Lying little sonofabitch.

  “When’s my story coming out?” she asked. He shrugged.

  “Editors. You know.”

  “Uh-huh. So, what’d you want to talk to Robby about?”

  “What you told me. The man she saw.” He took his eyes off her thighs long enough to give the apartment a quick glance. “So, is she here? Can I talk to her?”

  “Gosh, Lenny, I’m real sorry but she’s out. Working. So, how’s the newspaper business?” She crossed her legs, slowly. He swallowed hard.

  “Good. Since I’m here, do you, um, have anything you want to tell me? Anything new?”

  “Cash,” she said. He dug in a pocket and laid a hundred on the coffee table. “Keep coming.”

  He stopped at two hundred, and not even uncrossing her legs could make him go to three. She sat up, grabbed the money, and stuffed it in her panties.

  “Sorry you had to skip the table dance, but I’ll make it worth your time.” She gave him a wicked toothy grin and made sure she could make it to the kitchen and Robby’s knife rack before she said, “You want more information, read about it in the papers.”

  Lenny’s college-boy face smoothed out. The dimple looked like a special effect.

  Funny how fast those eyes could cool off.

  “Pardon?” he said softly. She put both feet flat on the floor and leaned forward, ready to run. “I’m, sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “No? How about this one—I lost your number, Lenny or whatever-your-name-is. So I called the Big D Gazette. You don’t look anything like Lenny Bradshaw.”

  She expected some babble of lies and apology, but he just sat there, watching her, quiet. She didn’t like the calculating look on his face. There wasn’t any more of the college boy; this guy looked old now, older than she did, fine lines of wrinkles around his eyes that she guessed didn’t come from smiling.

  “But, hey, whatever, no skin off my nose—” she continued.

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Who?”

  “Bradshaw. At the Big D Gazette.”

  Funny, how her hangover vanished under stress; she could feel it jittering madly down in her guts, vibrating up around the top of her head, but right now her brain was working hard.

  “Nothing,” she shrugged. It seemed the safest thing to say. Lenny—or whoever—leaned back in the magenta chair and smiled.

  “Oh, come on, Velvet. I know you better than that. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut if somebody put a gun to your head, could you? And you’re always looking for a buck. So you went looking for bucks at the paper. How much did he pay you? Three hundred? Five?” He laughed softly, a street laugh, not college-boy at all. “Did you have to blow him on top of that?”

  “Fuck you,” she said; it was half-automatic, and it was half-fright. God, who was this guy? Had he already been to the paper, talked to Bradshaw?