Double Solitaire

by Craig Nova

  Farrell reached over and picked up her hand and squeezed it.

  “Stop being so sappy,” she said. “I’m still not sure I’m going to leave you alone.”

  “I think you will,” he said.

  She finished the chili dog, rolled up the paper it had come in, and tossed it into a trash can with a flick of her wrist. Then she turned back to him.

  “I told you once that the secret to good police work isn’t always tracking someone down. You just wait for someone to do the same stupid thing again. So, I’ll be watching you.”

  “Be my guest,” he said.

  “In your dreams,” she said. “Pride goeth before a fall . . .”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “There’s only one thing I don’t get,” she said. “Yeah, we should have gotten to Mulholland earlier to follow Karicek. We just got his car and the body of the girl, but not him. And so, I’m left wondering why would a guy like Karicek kill himself? Usually they hang on to the last minute.”

  “Maybe you should have got there earlier,” said Farrell.

  “Don’t rub it in,” she said. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  “Pelican Bay is a bad place,” said Farrell.

  “Maybe,” she said. “But I don’t buy it.”

  “I wish I could tell you,” said Farrell. “But I don’t know.”

  * * *

  In the evening, Farrell drove the Camry to Coin-A-Matic, parked, and went to the small door in the large one. He stood at the threshold and tried to imagine the whir of the fans built there that had made wind for movies. Then he went in, picked up his clipboard, and started going from one pile of boxes to another. The boxes were filled with small bags of Doritos, bacon-flavored potato chips, and candy bars. Next to these stood bottles of water in packs held together with shrink wrap. The light over the bench came down in a golden triangle, oddly domestic and commercial at the same time.

  Nikolay and Pavel came in when he was examining his spreadsheet to see if they were losing money or not. It didn’t really matter this month since Braumberg had him paid a lot of cash.

  “Farrell,” said Nikolay. “How are things?”

  Farrell looked up from the spreadsheet. He was beginning to think that it would be a good idea to bring the Sig Sauer from his house and to leave it here. But, for now, he sat there, glancing from one of them to the other.

  “You’ve come for your money?” said Farrell.

  “No,” said Nikolay.

  “We saw in the paper about that guy. Karicek. The one you said was into auto parts. You remember that?”

  “I remember,” said Farrell.

  “You should have come to us earlier,” said Pavel. “We could have done some real business.”

  “What’s real business?” said Farrell.

  They stepped closer. Pavel sat down on a stool next to the bench with the golden cone of light and the tools on the wall.

  “We never believed you about the auto parts,” said Pavel.

  “Never,” said Nikolay.

  “So, after you left that shitty motel, we followed the guy. He went up to Mulholland and starting poking around in the bushes, but we grabbed him, bang.”

  “Bang!” said Nikolay.

  “And?” said Farrell.

  “And? And?” said Nikolay.

  “Yeah,” said Farrell.

  “So, you want us to trust you?” said Nikolay.

  “You were talking about business,” said Farrell.

  “Business isn’t all trust,” said Pavel.

  Pavel and Nikolay looked at each other as they thought it over.

  “We’re talking to you only to remind you that you should have come to us sooner. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Sure,” said Farrell.

  “So, we take him to the beach, nice quiet place near Zuma. And I let Pavel talk to him.”

  Pavel hit his palm with a fist.

  “Show me the man, and I’ll show you the crime,” he said.

  “And the crime is this guy was the brother of a movie star. And they were with underage girls,” said Nikolay.

  “It wasn’t easy to get the facts,” said Pavel. “How he squealed.”

  “You know what kind of money that could be worth?” said Nikolay. “So, take this as a warning.”

  Farrell looked at one and then the other.

  “Here’s the thing we don’t understand. It’s like this. We had him on the beach, and we knew about his brother and him, and we were talking over how we could go to the newspapers, and the guy just steps into the water and starts swimming.”

  “We never saw anything like it,” said Pavel.

  Each shook his head.

  “And why didn’t you stop him?” said Farrell.

  They shifted their weight from one leg to another, bit a lip, looked around the warehouse. Then Nikolay said, “We don’t know how to swim.”

  “Next time,” said Pavel. “Come to see us earlier.”

  * * *

  In Farrell’s kitchen, he opened a bottle of wine and poured two glasses, and then Rose Marie came over. He gave her a glass. She sipped her wine, which was the color of sunlight in France.

  “That’s it,” Farrell said. “And I’m changing jobs. Okay?”

  She wasn’t quite crying, but close, when she sat down next to him.

  “I’d like to invite you,” he said.

  “Where’s that?” she said.

  “Well, I was thinking about Paris,” he said.

  “You want me to go with you?” she said.

  “Yeah. With me,” he said.

  “How sweet,” she said. “And what would we do?”

  “Rent an apartment in Paris,” he said. “Go to restaurants. Picnics in the Luxembourg Gardens. Walk along the river.”

  “What else?” she said.

  “Oh,” he said. “There’s an open-air market off Rue de Buci. Flowers, fruit, vegetables. The guys who sell cheese or pâté will give you a taste if you ask nicely.”

  She swallowed.

  “And after that?”

  “Oh, there’s a place I know for dinner.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Le Petit Pontoise,” he said.

  “The kids will be glad. They really will.”

  “And what about you?” he said.

  “Oh, don’t be so dumb,” she said. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” he said.

  “Where do you think?” she said. “We haven’t finished our bake-off . . . under that blue skylight. Are you ready?”

  “I’ll give it my best,” he said.

  “Good,” she said. “You’re going to need it.”

  About the Author

  Craig Nova is the author of fourteen novels, which have been translated into ten languages. He has received an Award in Literature from the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters, a Guggenheim Fellowship, the Harper-Saxton Prize (previous recipients have been James Baldwin and Sylvia Plath), multiple awards from the National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, and other prizes. His work has appeared in the Paris Review, Esquire, New York Times Magazine, Men’s Journal, Best American Short Stories series, and other publications. As a screenwriter he has worked for Touchstone Pictures (a division of the Walt Disney Company), Amblin Entertainment, and other producers. A film was made in 2018 from his novel, Wetware.