Robin didn’t hear him, and in fact, he rather doubted she would have heard a nuclear blast in the adjoining bathroom. The barracuda was dead to the world, and he couldn’t help worry for a moment that she might suffocate, facedown as she was, but then she moved and turned her head to rest on one cheek instead of her face. It struck him then that in sleep, with her mouth shut, the ballbuster was actually a very pretty woman.
Satisfied that she would live to call him a pervert again, Jake quietly pulled the door to. Figuring he had some time before the monster awoke, Jake returned to the entry, where he proceeded to lay tarps, silently cursing Chuck Zaney’s name. Zaney had been his best friend since high school—they had played baseball together until Jake had gone on to the minors and Zaney had gone to the oil fields. When a torn Achilles tendon ended any hope he had of playing professional ball, Jake had gotten a job in construction.
He’d landed in the restoration and renovation business by accident, but one job led to another, and before long, he had enough to occupy himself full-time. It was a little lean now and again (now), but he was steadily building a business.
Then Zaney fell off a rig one day and landed on his head. No lie, the dude had landed on his head and had lived to tell about it. The only problem was, his brain was stuck somewhere between 1975 and 1996, and no one wanted to hear about the Clinton years. Jake had taken him on to help out a friend. It had been tough going at first, but he’d eventually discovered that once Zaney knew a task, he could do it well. He just wasn’t your go-to guy on something new.
Last night, Zaney had gone out for a few beers after work. He ended up, he’d told Jake at the detention facility this morning, at one of their old haunts on the east side of Houston, and had managed to get himself into a fight over a game of pool. In addition to a charge for public intoxication (for which Jake had bailed him out) and a mean hangover (for which Jake had given him two aspirin), Zaney had severely sprained his right arm (for which Jake had dropped him at the clinic).
Jake could not bear to think how far behind he was going to fall without Zaney. He tried to concentrate on the work in front of him. He was carefully removing years and layers of paint from these old brick walls, a tedious process that allowed him to save any gems of paper or paint he might find beneath the surface. Today, the work was made all the more tedious by the shrill beep of the answering machine picking up calls for Robin Lear.
The first call came from a guy named Evan who sounded totally gay to Jake. “Robin, it’s Evan. Pick up if you are there.”
“Robin won’t be picking up anything for a while, pal,” Jake muttered.
“Robbie, are you all right?” the guy asked breathlessly into the answering machine. “I heard about the fire, and I’m worried sick about you. Look, just call me, okay? I need to know you’re okay. Call me.”
Fire? That piqued Jake’s interest. Maybe she was arrested because she started a fire. That was an intriguing thought. A sexy arsonist . . .
The next call came from a woman who sounded like she soaked her Wheaties in Tabasco sauce every morning. “Where the hell are you, Robin? Jesus, you would not believe the calls the yard is getting about the fire!”
Must have been some fire.
“Everyone wants to know where you are, including me, thank you! Your grandma said you looked like hell—were you out drinking last night? Evan has called three times now and says he’s coming down tomorrow, so I booked him in at the Four Seasons, but they’re having a wedding or something and he can’t get his usual room, so he was all upset about that. Oh yeah, and Darren somebody from Atlantic? He’s called twice and wants you to call him as soon as possible. I told him about the fire, and he acted like I was bothering him. Man, where are you? I’m at the yard, and you know that guy, Albert? He—”
The answering machine clicked off, stayed silent for a while. Jake became engrossed in his work, digging through four layers of paint to old brick that was good quality, antique vintage.
The phone rang again. “Umm, hey, Robin . . . Bill Platthaus here. I’m back in New York. Long flight.” There was a pregnant pause; Jake picked up the Code Red he’d bought at 7-Eleven to wash down his doughnuts, waiting for the Platypus guy to ask about the fire. “Uh, listen, Robin, I have been trying to get hold of you for over a week now. . . .” He paused again, laughed nervously. “You know, I’m starting to wonder if maybe you don’t want to talk to me? I’m probably just imagining things, huh?”
Jake rolled his eyes, downed half the Code Red, and put it down. “You’re not imagining things, pal,” Jake said. “Consider yourself extremely lucky, because you have dodged a bullet.”
“Listen, I’d really appreciate it if you would give me a call. I’ll be home tonight. Let me make sure you have that number. 212-555 9249—”