Leave It to Me - Bharati Mukherjee [69]
“You turned her in?”
“Why not? A procurer’s goal is profit. Patriotism and personal loyalty are strictly for the naive. Your boss knows that. She bought her way out of jail by turning ‘approver’ on me. That I could forgive. I’d have done the same in her place, but stupidity? She thought I’d rot to death in jail or, better still, get killed. The only peace of mind she’s had for twenty years is thinking I’d never get out. Cads have more lives than cats.”
“No one says ‘cad’ anymore.” Frankie Fong said “cad,” but he was imitating British actors in white silk scarves and paisley silk dressing gowns.
“Three life sentences still leaves me plenty.” He pulled a letter or document out of the inner breast pocket of his stylish white jacket. The size and quality of the sheets of paper reminded me of the transcripts Fred had shown me when I was cocktail waitressing at poor Beth’s club. I hadn’t murdered Fred, but I’d killed him.
I kept my eyes on the Pollyanna Jag while Romeo Hawk read aloud portions from the court transcript. He said, “ ‘BARRISTER: You are claiming that the defendant bought five Kingfisher beers for the deceased female at Shakti Bar, which is known to be frequented by prostitutes and hippies. Five quart-sized bottles would be enough to fell a habitual alcoholic. Is your claim supported by personal and visual witnessing? APPROVER: I was there at the Shakti that night. I have twenty-twenty vision. BARRISTER: Can you deny that you also were heavily imbibing? APPROVER: That’s irrelevant. He got her drunk so he could steal her passport and valuables, rape her, then garrote her. Garroting was a signature method with him. BARRISTER: You have this knowledge of theft, carnality and murder because you were present in the room and therefore you are not merely a witness to these deeds but also an accessory. APPROVER: Yes, I was present when he choked her to death. No, I wasn’t an accessory. He cast a spell over me with that body, that smile … I saw him kill Astrid, I mean the deceased female, I saw him kill her and I did nothing.’ What do you think, Devi? Is she guilty of accessorizing?”
Mother wore her guilt the way other women wore hats, scarves, earrings. The madman in my passenger seat didn’t know how right he was.
I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge.
Jess must have thought it was Ham coming back with hummus and pita when Romeo and I clambered on board Last Chance. She popped out on deck through a narrow doorway, very smart in white jeans and white sweater, shouting, “Sweetheart, did they still have the whole wheat we like?”
I said, “Hello, Mom.”
Jess shrieked.
“She is registering pleasure,” Romeo explained.
Jess shrieked again.
Romeo turned on the charm, scooped her hand off the deck rail and kissed it.
“Long time no see?” I suggested.
With her free hand, Jess grabbed the deck rail. Scary biceps. She kicked Romeo hard once, twice, thrice, in the shins. Romeo’s grin got wider and wider as each kick landed. Envy my strength.
Change that bumper sticker, Pollyanna. Some five-foot-nine, one-hundred-fourteen-pound children are miserable.
Romeo tired of Jess’s kicks. His leg shot up and out and made contact with Jess’s chest. He was faster than the Flash. Two more high kicks. Speed and malice total serious damage.
Jess moaned. “You can’t have fucking broken out of that Indian jail. They kept you shackled. You’re not here. You’re fucking dead.”
Romeo belly-laughed. “I’m not enjoying your nice company and the view of this nice bay,” he said. “Bribery doesn’t pay.”
“Devi, call the cops!”
I backed away from Mom and Dad.
“That’s what cell phones are for, Devi. Emergencies. Get 911!”
“We left in a hurry, Jess.” No cell phone, no promo kit; only the care basket of waters, fruits and candies in the backseat of the Corolla.
Romeo snickered. “She doesn’t like guns to her head.” He shoved Jess roughly against the deck rails, bent her torso so far back over the top rail that I felt her pain in my