She paused, and stared at the look of utter bewilderment that now crossed his features, then the—yes! there was no other way to describe it—mounting horror, which followed it. His eyes seemed to grow huge behind his large, black-framed glasses.
'You will also note,' she continued, 'that the check can be cashed on the loan's due date.'
The check and accompanying letter jerked in one hand as Sir Ian reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. 'Well . . . yes . . . yes,' he finally sputtered. 'Indeed . . . indeed . . . I see . . .' The bloody fucking bitch! he thought. She's bloody fucking ruined my fucking life!
He looked over at her and, with a supreme and noticeable effort, smiled. 'Everything in order, then. Yes, yes.' He seemed to regain some of his lost composure. 'I'll report to the bank. Straightaway, then.' He folded the letter and check and tucked them into an inside jacket pocket.
'You do that, Sir Ian,' Dorothy-Anne said. She rose from behind the desk, and extended one hand, buzzing Cecilia with the other. 'It was a pleasure to see you. Cecilia will show you out.' Then she added: 'Ms. Flood and I have a very busy day.'
Sir Ian pushed himself to his feet and took her hand in his. 'Good day, Mrs. Cantwell,' he said primly. He turned, and Cecilia, who had just entered the office, showed him out.
A wide smiled spread across Venetia's face as she got to her feet and leaned across the desk, the palm of her hand extended in the air. 'Give me five,' she said.
Dorothy-Anne slapped Venetia's palm with hers, and then they both burst into laughter.
53
Hunt stepped out of the shower, toweled himself off vigorously, then began shaving in the bathroom mirror. All the while thinking of Dorothy-Anne, feeling a lonely ache deep inside him, and wishing she were here with him now.
He had returned the Quicksilver to Puerto Rico from Eden Isle, then flown straight back to California. During the flight, he had mentally prepared himself to tell Gloria that he wanted a divorce, various scripts of the scene running through his head. He had arrived at the house, anxious to tell her right away. But Gloria, as was more and more frequently the case nowadays, was not at home. When he'd asked Roddy, the butler had replied that he didn't know where Mrs. Winslow might be, nor did any of the staff.
Now he wished that the confrontation with her was over, and that the words he'd rehearsed in his mind to use had been heard and, hopefully, accepted. What's more, he wanted to tell his mother and be done with that. But he thought it was only fair to talk to Gloria first.
Althea, Hunt knew, was not going to take it lightly. In fact, she would not cotton to the idea at all. Obsessed with appearances as she was, and with his political career of tantamount importance to her, divorce was anathema. But he also knew that Althea would finally see reason. Once she was convinced his mind was absolutely made up and could not be changed, she would come to accept the inevitable and work with it.
He finished shaving and threw on some clothes, an old worn pair of chinos and a faded blue polo shirt. Then he slid into an ancient pair of Top-Siders and headed for the kitchen. Thought maybe he would pop a beer and make himself a real sandwich, not one of the petite 'society' sandwiches the staff made.
But he never made it.
In the entrance foyer, Gloria, who'd apparently just come in, was starting for the stairs.
She looked up at him. 'Well, you look nice and tan,' she said in a taunting voice. 'Been working out in the sun, I suppose?'
'You don't really care what I've been doing, Gloria,' Hunt said.
'No,' she replied. 'You've got that right. I don't.' Then suddenly her eyes flashed with rage. 'But what I do care about is that while you've been working on your tan, I've had to go out to Cascades and have lunch with your goddamn mother!'
Hunt ignored her outburst. 'We've got to talk,' he said calmly.
'Oh, Hunt,' Gloria sighed. 'Not now. I'm going up to my room. I'm tired.'
'This can't wait,' he said. 'Why don't we have a drink in the library?'
Gloria didn't hesitate. The idea of a drink appealed, and whatever he had to say would be tempered with a good stiff vodka. 'Okay,' she said. She turned on her heels and headed for the library with Hunt following behind.
In the library, she made a beeline for the drinks table, where she splashed vodka into a crystal highball glass, then, using her fingers instead of the tongs, put several cubes of ice into her drink.
Hunt watched her. 'Don't you want some tonic or something in that?' he asked.
Gloria smirked. 'Why ruin good vodka?' she said, then sat down on the leather-upholstered couch, kicked off her shoes, and drew her legs up onto the well-worn leather.
Hunt made himself a scotch and water and sat opposite her.
'Cheers,' Gloria said, holding her glass up. And then drank down half of it in one swallow.
Hunt didn't respond but took a sip of his scotch, watching her. Then he set down his drink and cleared his throat. 'I want to discuss something very serious,' he said.
Gloria arched her eyebrows in a look of mock interest and concern. 'And?' she said flippantly.
'This marriage is not working,' Hunt began. 'And—'
'What an acute observer you are,' Gloria broke in with a sarcastic snarl. She took a sip of her drink.
'I think it's time we get a divorce,' Hunt said.
Gloria stared at him. Oh, Jesus, she thought. He would decide that now. Now that I've found somebody to get rid of him for me.
When she spoke, her voice was devoid of any sign of flippancy. 'Are you sure about this, Hunt?' she asked.
'Absolutely,' he said.
'What's your mother going to think?' Gloria swirled the ice around in her drink with a finger, then licked it off. Trying to remain calm. Trying to appear to be casual.
'It doesn't matter what she thinks,' he said. 'It doesn't matter what anybody thinks, for that matter.' He paused and took a sip of scotch. 'This marriage is a farce. We both know that, and it's time we ended it.'
Gloria felt a rising panic and got up and went back to the drinks table. She poured another splash of vodka into her glass and took a large swallow. Then she turned to him. 'Why now?' she asked.
Hunt didn't respond for a moment. Finally he said, 'Why not?'
Gloria walked back over and sat down again. 'It just seems so sudden,' she said. 'I thought we could go on . . . you know . . . '
' 'Go on' what, Gloria?' he asked. 'Torturing each other? Living like strangers in the same house? Being seen together for the sake of appearances?' He slammed his drink of the table. 'I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the whole charade, and I want it over.'
Oh, God, what am I going to do? Gloria wondered, her panic now in full gallop, threatening to overwhelm her. Time. I have to buy time. Time for Christos to take care of this. To take care of him. For she knew there wouldn't be nearly as much money if she and Hunt were divorced. And she also knew that, although they had talked about divorce before, this time Hunt was serious. Deadly serious.
'I'll make certain you're well taken care of, Gloria,' he said gently but firmly. 'I want this to be as painless as possible for both of us.' He paused and sipped at his scotch again. 'But I definitely want divorce proceedings to start.'
Gloria was silent for a moment, her best effort at a look of utter sadness and desolation fixed on her face. She would have to talk to Christos soon. To convince him to take care of Hunt fast. In the meantime, she would play along with Hunt. Appear to be saddened but accepting. Willing to cooperate with him.
Well, she thought, I will grit my teeth and do it. Whatever it takes. I want that money. I want that money and I want Christos.
'So it's really over,' she finally said in as defeated a little voice as she could manage.
'Yes, Gloria,' Hunt answered softly. 'It's over.'
He looked over and saw the look of desolation on Gloria's face and wondered for a moment what his wife was really thinking and feeling. He hadn't expected quiet acquiescence. If anything, Gloria was a fighter,
and a very nasty one at that. But, he told himself, it was finally time to quit wondering and worrying about her. It was time to let go.
'Like I said, I want this to be as painless as possible for both of us,' he said. 'I hope you do, too.'
'Yes, Hunt,' Gloria said, sighing, her sad and defeated act beginning to wear on her. Jesus, she thought. I've got to get out of here. Got to get this over with and go call Christos.
'I'm awfully tired now, Hunt,' she said. 'Regardless of what you might think, this has come as a blow.'
'I'm sorry, Gloria,' Hunt said. 'Sorry for everything.'
'Yes,' she said. 'Me, too.' Gloria leaned down and picked up her shoes. 'I'll do whatever you say,' she said. 'But I want to be by myself now.' She got to her feet and, shoes in one hand and drink in the other, she left the room.
Hunt watched her go with a sense of relief that their talk was over, that he'd finally told her he wanted to get a divorce. At the same time, somewhere in the back of his mind, little alarm bells were going off. He was beset by niggling little doubts and worries he couldn't pinpoint, couldn't identify. This was not quite the Gloria he knew.
What was she up to?
54
Okay, he had the two cars, the de Ville in the garage off Van Ness, the Tercel with the Celica's plates in a multideck garage off Union Square, where he was now, needing the Tercel for the drive over to San Leandro, to see a man about a gun.
Boosting the Tercel had been ridiculously easy, like taking candy from a sleeping baby. In retrospect, Christos didn't begrudge Carlos the four hundred bucks he'd charged for the key. Hell, it had been money well spent. As it turned out, the hardest part had been scraping and Windexing the price, $2,499, off the windshield.
Christos still couldn't believe his luck. So far, everything had gone according to plan, without so much as a single hitch.
He hoped it was an omen of things to come.
Unlocking the Tercel, he got in, started it, and backed neatly out of the slot. Drove it down the tight turns of the spiral ramp, tires squealing, four floors to street level. Said, 'How you doin',' to the attendant in the booth, handing the guy his check-in stub and a twenty-dollar bill. Didn't bother to count the change, just shoved it into the glove compartment, then drove out into the bright Saturday afternoon and slipped on his mirrored aviator shades. Kept the windows rolled down, his bent elbow sticking out as he drove.
Once he was across the bay, he found that San Leandro was not the kind of place they featured in the tourist brochures. In a way, it reminded Christos of Long Island City. It was flat and industrial, with the same preponderance of warehouses, factory buildings, and storage facilities.
But with one major difference. Parts of it were residential, the houses small, single-family dwellings, one right after another. Most were of beige- or turquoise-painted stucco. All showed their age, along with not- so-benign neglect.
Christos wasn't keen on the neighborhood. It was decidedly grim and down-at-the-heels. Enough so that he pulled over and took the precaution of stashing most of his loot down into his boots. He switched the radio off.
Then, following the directions he had been given, he drove around for a while. He realized it was a circuitous route, expressly designed so that anyone watching could tell if he was being tailed, or was part of a police sting.
Slick's contacts were obviously a cautious and suspicious lot.
Good. That cut both ways.
Presently Christos reached his destination, a potholed street empty of cars and trucks, lined on both sides with deserted, graffiti-covered warehouses. Not a human being in sight.
He pulled over, killed the engine, and waited. Time crawled by. He waited some more, starting to wonder if perhaps this wasn't somebody's idea of a bad joke. If it was . . .
Up ahead, at the next cross street, a cute black kid, maybe ten or eleven, wearing a towering knit red-and-white Cat in the Hat hat, streaked by on a mountain bike.
Christos sat up straighter, peered forward, looked in his rearview mirror, and saw nothing. He settled back again. Then, a few minutes later, he caught the same kid in his mirror, streaking behind him, a shadowed, high-hatted blur against the burst of sunlight, and then he was gone.
The kid whizzed a couple of snappy circles around the car, then skidded to a halt beside the driver's-side window, the friction of his giant- tread tires throwing up a rooster's tail of loose gravel.
'C'mon. You to follow me,' the pint-size ordered, pushing off and peddling madly.
Christos waited a moment, undecided, then started the engine. He followed the kid, careful to keep his distance since the little squirt didn't bother using hand signals, just made these crazy, spur-of-the-moment lefts and rights, unexpected shortcuts through the odorless maws of deserted warehouses, then bursting out the other side into brilliant sunshine.
Block after block it went; light, shadow, darkness, until Christos lost his sense of direction entirely. He wondered at the desolation as they zigged and zagged this way and that, without so much as a single car, truck, or workman in sight.
And then he remembered. It was Saturday. During the week these same deserted streets would be a hive of noise and activity, jammed with container trucks and forklifts, the air throbbing with the noises of engines, machinery, and shouts.
The kid cut through a rubble-strewn lot and then another deserted warehouse . . . or were they backtracking? Going around in circles? It sure looked like the same warehouse.
But Christos didn't have time to ponder it. Back out in the sunlight, the kid abruptly braked, jumped the bike into midair, and turned it around on its own length, so when the tires hit the ground he was facing the oncoming Tercel.
'Shit!' Christos screamed.
He slammed on his brakes and screeched to a stop with only inches to spare.
'You nuts?' he yelled out the window at the kid. 'Whaddya tryin' to do, get yourself killed?'
The kid pulled up nonchalantly to the driver's side, reached into a pocket, and tossed Christos something.
He caught it—a black, bunched-up knit rag, it seemed. He held it up.
No. Not a rag. A ski mask.
'For your own protection,' the kid said. He turned and pointed to an open loading dock door some twenty yards away. 'Af'er you puts it on, you to drive in there.'
Christos stared at the kid.
'They don't wanna know what you looks like,' the kid explained. 'An' they in masks, too. You don' wanna know what they looks like. Them dudes, they some baaaaad mothers.'
When Christos didn't respond, the kid's voice rose to a falsetto. 'Watch you waitin' for, man?' he scolded, making shooing motions. 'Put it on! Don't want to drive in there wit'out it. Go on now!'
And with that, the Cat in the Hat hit the road, pedaling furiously away.
Christos looked at the ski mask in his hands. Might as well get it over with, he thought, and pulled it down over his head.
It felt hot and scratchy and cut down on his peripheral vision. But a glance in the mirror showed a black knit head with three paler circles. Okay, so it looked bizarre. But he found the precaution reassuring. At least these guys were pros.
He drove toward the open garage door and into the loading dock. As soon as he was inside and had the Tercel in park, someone pulled on the big overhead door.
It came down with a thundering crash.
The sudden darkness was total.
Someone else, up front and above him, shone a high-powered flashlight at his windshield. He shielded his eyes with his arm.
'After you out of the car, lean up against it,' a deep baritone called. 'Like we the cops and you assuming the position. Dig?'
Christos chucked his door open. The dome light clicked on briefly, then he was outside and snapped the door shut. The flashlight stayed on him as he leaned against the side of the car, arms and legs spread.
Someone else came up from behind him.
'Just checkin' to make sure you ain't wired,' a bass voice said, so close he c
ould feel the warm breath on the back of his neck.
Then he was being expertly patted down, no social niceties observed: arms, underarms, chest, back, belly, buttocks, crotch, legs, boots . . .
A large pair of hands felt through the stitched leather of his Westerns and squeezed. 'Well, what you know. This where you keep your bankroll?'
'Hey!' Christos protested.
The guy who'd been patting him down got up and chuckled. 'Man, we no thieves. We bidnessmen. We wanna steal? You be seein' stars and hearin' tweety birds by now.'
Then, calling out to his accomplice holding the flashlight: 'He clean.'
A series of overhead fluorescents flickered on. Christos blinked and looked around. He was in a vast empty warehouse, all concrete and cinder block. Beside him, a big guy, the one who'd patted him down, was also in a ski mask. So was the skinny dude up on top of the loading dock who had a flashlight in one hand and a revolver in the other.
'C'mon.' The big guy. 'We got bidness to conduct. Don't got all day. Or ain't you heard? Time, it money.'
The loading dock was chest deep, and they hoisted themselves up, swinging their legs sideways to the warehouse level.
'This way.'
Christos fell in behind the big guy; the skinny one with the revolver made up the rear. They marched over a few bays, to where a bright blue tarp covered what looked like a minivan. A Plymouth Voyager maybe. Something like that. It was hard to tell.
The guy in the lead hopped down off the dock, landing neatly in the bay. Christos followed suit. Then the skinny guy, who slid aside the van's side doors.
Christos noticed that the passenger seats had been removed, and that another tarp covered the entire floor of the van.
The skinny guy reached in and pulled the tarp aside.
'Holy shit!' Christos whispered.
The van was an arsenal on wheels, the gray carpet covered with every kind of gun imaginable. All neatly arranged by type, like merchandise in a glass case. Revolvers and pistols on the left. Rifles and carbines in the middle. And semi-automatics and automatics on the right. Directly behind the front seats were cases of ammo.
Second Love Page 54