“You mean you didn’t know all this already? Sorry to break it to you, John. I thought you did.”

  “What else?”

  “Not much. I did have a look at those field office files, though, from Florida, after you got taken down. Odd, isn’t it? That sting operation down there, nothing to do with you, and you walk right into it, bam?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. They knew you were coming. It was in the files. They got an anonymous tip—phone call—that someone was coming down from Jersey to take Cardosa out. Now who could have made that call?”

  Johnny didn’t answer.

  “He punked you. Face it, John. I’m the only one who’s ever given a shit what happened to you over the last eight years. Just me, no one else. When you realize that, all of this will go easier.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You may think I’m winding you up, but I’m not. I’m just letting you know what the situation was. In case you have any doubts that you’re doing the right thing. Because you are. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Johnny said. “I do.”

  Back at the motel, he smoked another cigarette out on the balcony, watched the ocean. He thought of Nikki and Joey Alea, Joey struggling to remember her name at that first meeting above the porn shop.

  He scaled the cigarette away, went back inside. He sat on the bed, pulled the phone into his lap and punched nine for an outside line. He got the envelope out, dialed Information and got the Chicago area code. When he reached the Chicago operator, he gave her the name and address, had her read the number back to him twice while he wrote it down. Then he hung up, called, got an answering machine. A man’s voice read the number back, said no one was home. Before the beep, the phone was picked up.

  “Yes?” The same voice. Dead air, then a woman in the background, asking who was on the phone.

  “Hello?” the man said.

  Johnny set the receiver back down.

  25

  Errol leaned back in his chair until it creaked, feet up on the desk. He lobbed the football easily and Harry caught it without getting up. They were in Ray’s side office, where they each had a metal desk and phone, shared a single computer terminal against the wall when they needed it. The rest of the office was lunchtime quiet.

  “You’re in a pretty good mood this morning,” Errol said. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were smiling.”

  Harry hefted the football, tossed it back.

  “That mean you had a good night?” Errol said.

  Harry’s desk phone rang, saved him from having to respond. He picked it up.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He felt the smile come to his face. Errol was flipping the football into the air, catching it, watching him.

  “I tried your home phone,” she said, “but there was no answer. So I called here and they switched me to this extension. I hope it’s okay.”

  “Sure,” he said. “It’s fine.”

  He held Errol’s gaze. Errol took his feet from the desk, tossed the football in the air a final time, caught it. He got up, humming something to himself, went out into the corridor that led to the reception area.

  Harry shifted so he wasn’t facing the door.

  “I’m glad you called,” he said.

  “I feel a little funny.”

  “Why?”

  “That maybe I put you in an awkward position.”

  “Don’t worry about it. We’re adults. These things happen.”

  “I guess they do.” A pause. “Do you regret it?”

  He looked to the corridor, saw Errol walk by, still humming, carrying a paper cup of water from the cooler. He was smiling but went by without looking in.

  “No,” Harry said. “I don’t regret anything.”

  “We didn’t violate some sort of professional ethics code? Like one of those doctor-patient relationships?”

  “Not as far as I know. I’ll check on it. Get back to you.”

  She laughed.

  “Well, I was wondering if you could stand to see me again,” she said. “Maybe get some dinner.”

  Errol went by again, in the other direction.

  “I think I could manage that,” Harry said.

  “Good. So when do you think we could make that happen?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “How about tonight?”

  The restaurant was in Ocean Township, almost hidden in a strip mall. They had Italian food, glasses of wine on the table. Christmas lights blinked in the windows.

  “This almost feels like a date,” she said when they were finished eating. “I can’t remember the last real one I had.”

  The waiter brought them coffee, left the check in a leather booklet. Harry slipped his credit card inside it.

  “You feel bad, don’t you?” she said. “About last night.”

  He sipped coffee.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You shouldn’t. It’s like you said, we’re adults. And anyway, I’m more to blame than you. I meant it when I said don’t let this screw up anything else for you. That would be wrong.”

  “I know.”

  “And there’s one thing I should make clear. About something I said last night.”

  “What?”

  “About wanting to thank you. I’m afraid that part of it came out wrong. That it sounded like I was somehow paying you off. That’s not what I meant.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, I want to get this right. It’s important to me.”

  “Okay.”

  “When I said I wanted to thank you, I didn’t mean for what you’ve done for me. I meant for the way you’ve treated me, the way you act toward me. You make me feel like, what I was before, the things I’d done—that they don’t matter to you.”

  “Should they?”

  “They would to most men.”

  “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of, when we had to.”

  “You sure it’s that simple?”

  “To tell the truth,” he said, “these days, I’m not sure of much at all.”

  When they left, she linked her arm through his. The night was frigid and clear, the moon bright.

  “Let’s walk down this way,” she said. “I want to show you something. Or try to, at least.”

  “What?”

  She didn’t answer.

  There was a video shop four doors down, between a Radio Shack and a vitamin store. She reached for the door.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  She ignored him, pulled the door open, an electric chime sounding within. A teenaged girl with short spiked hair and a pierced lip looked down at them from behind a high counter.

  The store was almost empty. She led him between long racks of videos and DVDs until they came to the curtained-off doorway at the back, a small neon ADULT sign above it.

  “No,” he said.

  She tugged on his arm.

  “You should know,” she said.

  She pushed the curtain aside, looked in. There was no one inside.

  “Is this really necessary?” he said.

  “Come on.”

  They stepped through into a smaller room, about ten by twenty feet. Wall racks were lined with adult videos and DVDs, naked women and men gazing out from glossy box covers.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never been in one of these places,” she said. “I wouldn’t believe it.”

  She let go of his elbow, started browsing the racks. He stayed where he was, near the curtain. She picked up video boxes, looked at the backs, replaced them. She carried one back to him.

  “Here,” she said.

  He took the box. On its front was a full-color picture of a brunette in black lingerie and pearls, leaning back against the brass headboard of an old bed. The title was Eager to Please.

  “It’s pretty restrained,” she said. “Compared to some of the other covers.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Higher production values too, not like most of the direct-to-video junk they shoot nowadays.”

  “Why are you showing this to me?”

  “Turn it over.”

  On the back was a paragraph-long synopsis of the plot, six inset photos of different couples, most naked or close to it, making love in various positions.

  “Second one from the bottom,” she said.

  He looked. In the picture, a naked woman with long blonde hair was kneeling on a bed, leaning back against a muscular man with her eyes closed. He was kissing her neck, one hand cupping her right breast, the other covering her pubic area. It took him a moment to recognize her. He felt his face grow warm.

  “I’m surprised they still have that,” she said. “It’s about five years old. Usually the turnaround is much quicker. They sell the used tapes off to make room for newer titles, rougher stuff. I guess I should be grateful for that. Every year there are fewer copies out there.”

  There was a cast list in small type on the bottom of the back cover. “Nikki Lynn” was next to last.

  “That’s me,” she said. “Original, huh? That was my third film. I got a thousand dollars for it. I did fourteen in all. But they get so chopped up, re-edited into compilations and best-of tapes, you never know how many are floating around out there. But I never got above fourth or fifth billing anyway. It didn’t take long to play itself out.”

  He handed the tape back to her.

  “I wanted you to know who I am,” she said.

  “I already did.”

  “Different, though, isn’t it? Seeing it in color like that?”

  “I guess. But I didn’t need to.”

  “Stoic, as always. It’s attractive in a strange way.”

  “Can we leave now?”

  She ignored him, turned the box around, looking at it. She held it up again so he could see the brunette on the cover.

  “You think she’s attractive?” she said. “Sexy?”

  “Sure.”

  “I did a three-way with her once. In a movie. Another one.”

  “You feel obligated to tell me that? I know what you did.”

  “You know some of it.”

  She replaced the video, came back and took his arm again, led him through the curtain.

  “You’re bright red,” she said. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

  “That wasn’t your intention?”

  “Not entirely.”

  The kid at the counter ignored them as they went past and out the door.

  “Sorry if I embarrassed you,” she said as they walked to the Mustang. “But like I said, I wanted you to know who you were getting involved with.”

  “I heard you.”

  “I didn’t want you to have any false ideas about me. Because I don’t have any about myself. I could never have been a good mother, or a good wife. I know that. I’m not pretending otherwise.”

  “I would have taken you at your word.”

  “You know what they say—‘Ten steps to heaven, five steps to hell.’ It’s always easier to do the wrong thing.”

  When they got to the Mustang, he unlocked the passenger-side door, held it for her, shut it. She leaned over, unlocked his side and he got in, started the engine.

  “You shouldn’t look so shocked, though,” she said. “Porn keeps mom-and-pop stores like that in business. There will always be a market for it. It’s a fantasy. A world where every woman loves sex and there’s no consequences or messy emotional issues. Everyone just wants to fuck and suck their lives away. The act without the complications. That world doesn’t exist. But the fantasy sells.”

  He pulled out of the lot and onto Route 35, heading south.

  “You didn’t feel exploited?” he said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe on some level. But I was a participant in it, not a victim. It was almost more honest than dancing, you know? And hard to believe as it might be, most of the people in the business are pretty nice. Sweet. At least at the production level. The money men, that’s another situation.”

  “Then why’d you leave it?”

  “A lot of reasons. One of them was marketability. That business ages you quickly. By the time you hit thirty, you’re washed up. At least if you’re a woman. And there’s always another wide-eyed eighteen-year-old getting off the plane, happy to take your place.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But you know something about those tapes? It’s almost nice to have a record of yourself when you were young and attractive, before things started falling apart. When you could still compete.”

  “I think you made your point.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll shut up. Did I offend your sensibilities?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Are you religious?”

  “Not very. Not these days.”

  “Why not?”

  “I had my share of it, I guess. Twelve years of Catholic school. That’s enough for anyone.”

  “You wear a uniform and everything?”

  “Most of the time, yes.”

  “You must have looked cute. So what did you get out of it?”

  “Out of what?”

  “Twelve years of Catholic school.”

  He thought about that for a moment.

  “I’m not sure. But I guess it cured me of Catholicism.”

  “No, it didn’t,” she said.

  They lay side by side, sweat cooling, her head on his chest. Candlelight flickered.

  “Jack and Reggie will be back in the morning,” she said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea if you stay tonight.”

  “Then I won’t,” he said. He stroked her hair, kissed it. He bent his left wrist so he could see his watch. Eleven o’ clock.

  “I should go now,” he said. “Let us both get some sleep.”

  She turned, kissed him. He ran his hand down the smoothness of her back. She traced her lips down his jaw, the side of his neck, the hollow of his throat.

  “This isn’t exactly pushing me out the door,” he said.

  She laughed, kissed his chest, moved lower. Then, when he was ready, she swung atop him, took him deep. He arched up into her and she moaned, their shadows rising and falling against the bedroom wall.

  He locked the front door behind him, zipped his leather jacket up. The frozen porch boards creaked under his feet.

  He pulled his gloves on as he walked to the Mustang. He still had the smell of her on him, her taste on his tongue.

  At the Mustang, he stopped and looked back at the house. He could see the warm glow of the candles in the bedroom window. Wished he were still up there.

  Johnny looked up at the lighted window, then down at the Mustang. He heard the engine start, saw the lights go on.

  He was in a stolen Mazda, parked halfway down the street. He’d been out here for three hours now, in the cold, watching.

  He twisted the ignition wires together and they sparked, the engine catching immediately. He watched the Mustang pull away, then looked up at the house again, saw a shape moving behind the window.

  The Mustang was at the end of the street now, signaling to turn. He took a last look up at the window, then pulled away from the curb, his lights off.

  26

  Driving back to Colts Neck, cold air streaming through the wing window, he found himself thinking of Cristina again, of their days together. Back when his life still made some kind of ragged sense.

  Halfway home, he knew he’d need a drink if he wanted to sleep. He pulled into the lot of a storefront bar and liquor store on Route 33. All the diagonal spots in front were taken, so he steered into the alleyway, parked beside a Dumpster.

  The bar was crowded, a sea of cigarette smoke, noise and laughter, a Christmas party in full swing. The bartender wore a Santa hat. The Ronettes’ version of “Sleigh Ride” was playing on the jukebox.

  Harry chose a bottle of red wine from the wall rack. A TV high on the wall was showing It’s a Wonderful Life with the sound off. Jimmy Stewart running down a snow-covered street past bars and dance halls, flashing neon signs.

  He paid for the wine at the bar, pocketed his change and went back out into the cold, the bottle in a paper sack in the crook of his left elbow.

  At the Mustang, he got his keys out, sniffed the air. Cigarette smoke. Close.

  He turned just as the figure stepped out from behind the Dumpster, still in shadow. On the wall above, a security light flickered.

  “Hey,” the figure said. “Got a light?”

  He let the wine bottle slide easily down into his hand, grasped its neck through the paper. The man’s face was still hidden, but Harry could see jeans, heavy work boots, a dark army jacket. A hand came up into the light, holding an unlit cigarette.

  “Sorry,” Harry said. “I don’t smoke.” He unlocked the driver’s-side door.

  “Too bad,” the man said. He took a lighter out, flicked it open. It flared, the flame illuminating his face for an instant.

  Harrow.

  The lighter clicked shut, went away. The tip of the cigarette glowed. Harry stepped slightly away from the Mustang to give himself room, let the bottle hang at his side, half hidden by his leg.

  “Nice car,” Harrow said. He stepped out of the shadows, hands empty, looking at the Mustang, the cigarette hanging from his lips.

  Harry watched him, waited.

  “So tell me something,” Harrow said.

  “What?”

  “Are you fucking her?”

  Silence between them. Harrow grinned, no humor in it. He nodded at the bottle in the bag.

  “You going to hit me with that?”

  Harry didn’t answer.

  “Shame to waste it, whatever it is.”

  The alley light buzzed, flickered.

  “Why don’t you just step back from the car?” Harry said.

  Harrow raised his hands, backed away.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “I know who you are. So cut the bullshit. Just walk away.”

  Harrow nodded, took another half step back, looked at the ground, pushed at gravel with the toe of his boot. Harry hefted his keys in his right hand, ready to throw them.

  Harrow took the cigarette out of his mouth, blew on the tip until it flared. Then he flicked it casually onto the back window of the Mustang. It burst into sparks on the glass, rolled onto the trunk and lay there glowing.