The Janes

by Louisa Luna

  She slid into a tank top and carefully pulled it down over her abdomen. She lay on the bed and realized every muscle was sore, all of them at once.

  She could still hear the trumpet now and then, but it was muted and not nearly enough to keep her awake. Her lids glided down over her eyes swiftly. She was not quite asleep, but very close, a rogue thought like the smallest feather tracing figure eights on her toe preventing her from falling into the black.

  * * *

  —

  Cap brushed his teeth. Now that the pressure of the case was off, he felt more inclined to his normal routine, so he did the thing that he did at home after brushing his teeth and before going to bed. He pressed his palms to his cheeks and dragged them down, making himself look like a bulldog, to just confirm that he was forty-three and nearing senior citizenship.

  He turned off the light in the bathroom and lay on top of the bedspread. He knew he was tired but suddenly felt unable to sleep. His thoughts clustered and wrestled for space, one on top of another, and he tried to sort them, drop them into drawers and files, but was having difficulty. He shut his eyes hard and turned onto his side, compressed the pillow into a puffy ravioli shape as if it would help.

  Then the phone rang. The strange thing was it wasn’t his cell phone; it was the landline phone in the room, and Cap sat up with a start, confused. He picked up the receiver cautiously.

  “Uh, hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me,” said Vega.

  “Oh, hi,” said Cap. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” she said. “I wanted to tell you something. I let Mackey die on the beach. I shot him and I watched the dog attack him, and I didn’t do anything about it.”

  She paused, and Cap pictured her on the other side of the wall, lying on her bed the way he had been. He thought he should say something.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “I’ve never done that before,” she said, not defensively. “I’ve never had the chance to save someone and not done it, or at least tried to.”

  “Vega,” he said. “There aren’t any rules to this. It’s not clean math. You got all those girls out of that house, and the day after tomorrow, after we do paperwork, you’re going to do it again, and you’re going to keep doing it. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  He listened to her breathe.

  “You have to let yourself rest, okay?” he said.

  “I just wanted you to know that. So there wasn’t a thing you didn’t know between us.”

  He felt a pang somewhere deep in his chest. It was almost like hunger but he couldn’t imagine consuming food at that moment.

  Then she hung up. It was abrupt. He stared at the receiver in his hand, thought maybe she had gotten disconnected by mistake. He began to dial her room number, and there were three quick knocks at the door.

  He hung up the phone and got off the bed and opened the door.

  It was Vega. She was wearing a tank top and yoga shorts. Her hair was down.

  “Hi,” Cap said.

  She walked toward him and angled her face up to his, and he didn’t have time to think about what would be the best way to kiss her, even though he’d planned it over four thousand times since she kissed him in the woods, so he leaned his head down but she came forward too quickly and stood on her toes at the last second, and they clunked foreheads.

  “Ow,” said Cap.

  “Shit,” said Vega. “Sorry.”

  She turned around and shut the door. Then she walked back to him and kissed the place on his forehead where they’d collided. He put his hands on her face, the back of her neck, threaded his fingers through her hair. Then she kissed the burn mark on his temple, then the ridges of his bad ear. Then she kissed him on the lips, and he felt like lips were insufficient, that there was somehow not enough of him to kiss her but he was going to give it his best shot.

  He kissed her chin and her arms; he bent down a little and lifted her tank top and kissed her stomach. She kissed the top of his head, put her nose deep in his hair, and he kissed the skin all around the bandage that covered her cut.

  And after they kissed all the broken pieces of each other, then they kissed all the pieces that worked just fine.

  27

  our girl is in a city she doesn’t know. it’s cold, that’s for sure, and the air is wet but the sun is shining when she steps off the bus.

  Right away a man asks for money in Spanish. He has red blotches on his face but is dressed in clean clothes and new sneakers, so our girl shakes her head and puts on her sunglasses.

  She walks past the bus shelters toward the cabs and waits in line. She wiggles her toes in the boots that are just a little too big for her. After a few minutes, she gets into a cab and hands a note to the driver with the address she’s going to.

  “Outer Sunset, right?” he says.

  Our girl nods, even though she doesn’t understand the words. She looks out the window, and the buildings turn into single-story houses next to one another with no space in between. Then houses stacked on hills like boxes, tan and brown and white with a pop of red or green here or there. Wires stretch overhead, connecting block to block. There is a green lake surrounded by trees. Our girl can’t quite believe it is all part of the same city.

  The ride takes about a half hour. The driver drops her off in front of a powder blue house with scallop marks on the façade, like it was just molded out of clay. There is a driveway with a car in it, a gravel path on either side.

  She walks up a flight of stairs—a mosaic of earth-toned pebbles—and presses a small white button next to the door at the top. She waits, looks around. All up and down the street are houses similar to this one. She sees no people, and she’s relieved. She knows it’s still early in the morning, though; she was on the bus most of the night.

  Then a woman opens the door. She’s young, and her skin is a shade or two lighter than our girl’s. Her hair is black and straight and cut at an angle, the longest tips touching her shoulders. She wears glasses and clothes that seem too big for her—a sweater like a sack and pants so wide with legs long it looks like she has no feet.

  “Hi,” says the woman in English. “You’re Vega’s friend?”

  Our girl hears only “Vega” and nods. She can’t tell if the woman is Latina. Her eyes are black liquid dots.

  “Sí,” our girl says. “¿Habla español?”

  “Poquito,” says the woman, pinching her fingers together to indicate the amount. “Got plenty of Tagalog though.” Once she sees our girl doesn’t understand she shakes her head, as if to say never mind, and says, “Come in.”

  She gestures for our girl to enter, so she does, into a room filled with electronic equipment. There is a long white table covered with laptop computers and machinery, cords crossed and connected through a console in the center blinking.

  The woman picks up a camera and says to our girl, “Stand over here, okay? Aquí,” she says, pointing toward a wall.

  Our girl does as she’s told and stands still. The woman presses buttons on the camera, and it clicks and whirs.

  “Good,” says the woman. “You can sit down,” she says, pointing to a chair. “This will take a couple of minutes. Dos minutos.”

  Our girl nods and sits, watches the woman plug the camera into another machine along the wall.

  “You want some café?” the woman asks, making a drinking motion with her hand.

  Our girl shakes her head. She’s not sure what she wants. She waits a couple of minutes. The woman is busy, walking from one machine to another, tapping a few keys on one laptop, then another.

  The woman gathers some papers and cards and brings them to our girl.

  “Here is your social security card, birth certificate, state ID. Vega said to give you these, and you can get a passport and driver’s license
if you want.”

  Our girl takes the paper and the cards, examines her new name.

  The woman hands her another card, gold, with silver numbers.

  “Here’s your bank card. You have twenty thousand US. Veinte mil.”

  Our girl stares at the card. She understands what it means.

  “I can give you a ride to a motel,” says the woman.

  Our girl hears only “motel” and nods. Vega had told her that the woman would drive her.

  “Thank you,” says our girl in English.

  The woman shrugs like it’s any other day for her.

  “No worries,” she says.

  “What…is…your…name?” our girl asks haltingly.

  “Me?” the woman says, somewhat surprised. “Joy. My name’s Joy.”

  “Dalena,” says our girl, placing her hand on her chest.

  “Not anymore you’re not,” says Joy, laughing. “That’s you now,” she says, pointing to the documents.

  Our girl smiles, confused, and looks down at her face on the ID.

  “That’s okay, you’ll get used to it,” says Joy. “I have dos nombres, too. Most people call me the Bastard. El Bastardo,” she says, rolling the “r.”

  Our girl likes Joy. She thinks she will like this strange town as well with the houses close together.

  Joy grabs a jacket and some keys and puts on sunglasses.

  “You ready, girl?” she says.

  Our girl puts on her sunglasses too and nods. She’s ready.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  again, i could not have done this without the support and kindness of the following people. I am in a constant state of gratitude to all of them:

  Agent Supreme, part-time psychologist and el perro duro, Mark Falkin—I cannot believe how lucky I am that you continue to be in my corner. Don’t ever think about retiring, or I will have to take certain steps.

  Mr. Rob Bloom—it’s a toss-up as to who understands these characters better, me or you. Your patience and humor have once again made this process rewarding and invigorating. You can also never retire, I’m afraid, and the threat’s a little more real than the one for Mark since you and I live in the same town. Sorry!

  The nonstop hardworking folks at Doubleday—Todd Doughty, Sarah Englemann, John Fontana, Nora Grubb, Mandy Licata, Rachel Molland, Charlotte O’Donnell, Victoria Pearson, Bill Thomas, Andrew Weber. You all make this biz look easy.

  Dr. Judy Melinek—many thanks for fielding my forensic pathology queries. In my next life, hopefully I can be your assistant.

  Anna Quindlen and Samantha Irby—thanks upon thanks for spreading the good word about Vega to so many of your readers. You have very bright futures in this business.

  My brother, Zach—your continued optimism and encouragement are greatly appreciated. You’re a nice person!

  JP and Florie—you guys keep me going. Thanks for not minding when I, for example, burn out the car battery, or forget to pack the spaghetti in the thermos for lunch and leave it in the microwave all day. These are just examples of things that could happen. Thank you for being proud of me and full of good advice and love. All the love.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Louisa Luna is the author of Two Girls Down (featuring Vega and Cap) as well as Brave New Girl and Crooked. She was born and raised in San Francisco and lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and daughter.

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