Robber Bride - Margaret Atwood [221]
This is a little too close to what Tony thinks herself. She finds herself smiling; smiling, and sliding back down, back in, into that state she remembers so well. Partnership. Pal-ship. The team.
“Why us, at your funeral?” says Tony.
“Window dressing,” says Zenia. “There had to be somebody there from the personal side. You know, old friends. I figured you’d all enjoy it. And anything Roz knew, Mitch would know too. She’d make sure of that! He was the one I wanted. He ducked it though. Prostrate with grief, I guess.”
“The place was crawling with men in overcoats,” says Tony.
“One of them was mine,” says Zenia. “Checking up for me, to see who was there. A couple of them were from the opposition. Did you cry?”
“I’m not a cryer,” says Tony. “Charis sniffled a bit.” She’s ashamed, now, of what the three of them had said, and of how jubilant and also how mean-minded they had been.
Zenia laughs. “Charis always did have mush for brains,” she says.
There’s a knock at the door. “It’s the coffee,” says Zenia. “Would you mind going?”
It occurs to Tony that Zenia may have a few reasons for not wanting to open doors. A prickle of apprehension runs up her spine.
But it really is the coffee, delivered by a short brown-faced man. The man smiles and Tony takes the tray and scrawls a tip on the bill, and closes the door softly, and puts on the safety lock. Zenia must be protected from the forces that threaten her. Protected by Tony. Right now, in this room, with Zenia finally incarnate before her, Tony can hardly remember what she’s been doing for the past week – the way she’s been sneaking around in a state of cold fury with a gun in her purse, selfishly planning to bump off Zenia. Why would she want to do that? Why would anyone? Zenia sweeps through life like a prow, like a galleon. She’s magnificent, she’s unique. She’s the sharp edge.
“You said you needed to talk to me,” Tony says, creating an opening.
“Want some rum in your coffee? No?” says Zenia. She unscrews a small bottle from the mini-bar, pours herself a dollop. Then she frowns a little and lowers her voice confidentially. “Yes. I wanted to ask a favour. You’re the only one I could go to, really.”
Tony waits. She’s alarmed again. Watch it, she tells herself. She should get out of here, right now! But what harm can it do to listen? And she’s avid to find out what Zenia wants. Money, probably. Tony can always say no.
“All I need is to stay somewhere,” says Zenia. “Not here, here’s no good. With you, I thought. Just for a couple of weeks.”
“Why?” says Tony.
Zenia moves her hands impatiently, scattering cigarette ashes. “Because they’re looking! Not the Irish, they’re off my track. It’s some other people. They’re not here yet, not in this city. But they’ll get around to it. They’ll hire local professionals.”
“Then why wouldn’t they try my house?” says Tony. “Wouldn’t that be the first place they’d look?”
Zenia laughs, the familiar laugh, warm and charming and reckless, and contemptuous of the idiocy of others. “The last place!” she says. “They’ve done their homework, they know you hate me! You’re the wife, I’m the ex-girlfriend. They’d never believe you’d let me in!”
“Zenia,” says Tony, “exactly who are these people and why are they after you?”
Zenia shrugs. “Standard,” she says. “I know too much.”
“Oh, come on,” says Tony. “I’m not a baby. Too much about what? And don’t say it would be healthier for me not to hear.”
Zenia leans forward. She lowers her voice. “Does the name Project Babylon mean anything to you?” she says. She must know it does, she knows what line of knowledge Tony is in. “The Supergun for Iraq,” she adds.
“Gerry Bull,” says Tony. “The ballistics genius. Of course. He got murdered.”
“To put it mildly,” says Zenia. “Well.” She blows out smoke, looking at Tony in a way that is almost coy, a fan dancer’s look.
“You didn’t shoot him!” says Tony, aghast. “It wasn’t you!” She can’t believe Zenia has actually killed someone. No: she can’t believe that a person sitting in front of her, in a real room,