Good Morning, Killer - April Smith [62]
“Don’t fuck with the Harley.”
Hopeful at hearing his voice, I turned with disappointment to see that Andrew had left the leather jacket inside, which meant he wasn’t following so quickly because he wanted to talk or reconcile; he really thought I’d trash his bike.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said. “See?”
It stood unscathed inside the chain-link.
“Where’s your car?” he demanded.
“On the street. What do you care?”
“I want to know what you’re doing back here,” he said suspiciously.
My arms raised and lowered incredulously. “What do you think? Getting out of your way. Isn’t that what you want?”
“What is this bullshit about the nine hundred dollars? You had to bring that up in there?”
I put my hand on my hip. “You going to pay me, or what?”
“Is that what it all comes down to for you, too? Money? Is that the gig with women?”
I was so angry I could hardly speak. “I don’t know, Andrew, you tell me. You’re the one who slept with the biggest gold digger of all time. After her husband dies. Very classy. I gave it to you for free. Everything! Free and clear,” I screamed suddenly, in the middle of the alley.
Andrew ripped the lid off a garbage can and tried to throw it, but it was chained and the whole damn thing fell over, lobster shells and all kinds of crap, and just as ridiculously I pointed my finger at him as if lightning could shoot from it, threatening: “Stay away from me.”
It took a long drive around the Marina just to stop trembling. I pulled into the Ralph’s and stared into the lighted mirror on the visor, wiping mascara from the blackened crevices underneath my swollen eyes. Drawn to the lights and somnambulant figures beyond the windows of the anonymous market, I took a cart and walked the dead-cold aisles. Regular, bright rows of products put me in a trance.
I had carried the bags up from the garage, unlocked the door and placed them on the counter. It was ten o’clock. I went into the bedroom to change into sweats before putting the groceries away. I had just walked into the room and turned on the light when I noticed some movement in the mirror. I turned around and there was Andrew Berringer, standing in the doorway.
Fear curled inside my gut.
“What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“Did you ever hear of knocking?”
My first thought was that my duty weapon was in my bag where I had thrown it on the bed.
“The door was open.”
“It was not.”
My heart was racing.
“How do you think I got in here?” But then he waved the whole thing off in disgust. He saw the picture of Ray Brennan on the open bathroom door. “What is that sorry son of a bitch doing there?”
“Just to keep it alive.”
“One sick puppy.”
“Him,” I joked, “or me?”
He went into the living room and sat down on the love seat and turned on the TV. My respiration calmed. I knew this man, his smells, the baseball cap collection, each one hanging on a hook above the dark wood bureau in his father’s home, an empty bachelor shrine to his dad, in Sunset Park. He had come here to talk, he said.
“Want something to drink?”
“No thanks.” He didn’t look at me. “I need safe passage.”
“You have safe passage.”
“Okay.” He swallowed. “We both know, from everything that’s happened, that it’s time to end it. I’ll pay you back the money in installments.”
“What am I, a credit card?” I tried to keep it light because I was going to cry all over again.
“I told you I was no good in the relationship department.”
“Oberbeck I can understand. Sort of. At least she’s got tits. But Margaret Forrester?”
“Good old Margaret.” His teeth were clenched. “Always stirring the pot.”
“Tell me the truth and we’ll be clean. Look me in the eyes and tell me. Be warned: I’ll know if you’re lying. I’ve been trained.”
He looked at me. He had gotten up and was leaning against the wall near the kitchen. I was standing near the fireplace.
“I didn’t sleep with Margaret Forrester.”
He held