“Listen, honey, can you hang on a sec?” I said. I smothered the bottom half of the phone with a fist. “What?”
“This is the broad, on the fridge?” Merker asked.
“It’s my wife.”
“The one in the picture, with the nice rack?”
Was my wife’s honor worth protecting at a moment like this? Did I tell Merker to go fuck himself and run the risk of him pulling out his gun and shooting me through the head?
I thought about it, briefly, and told him, “Just give me a sec. I’m just about done.”
Sarah said, “Zack? Are you there?”
“No, no!” Merker said. “She can do it.”
“What?”
“We put the wig on her. She can do it.”
“You’re out of your mind,” I said, and unwrapped my hand from around the phone. “Sorry, honey. There was just someone going by.”
“Where are you?”
Merker was whispering. “How’s her handwriting?”
“Hang on, Sarah,” I said, again, and covered the phone again. “Shut up. It’s not happening. I’m not dragging her into this.”
He snatched the phone from me. “Hey!” I shouted.
Just as suddenly, Gary had the gun back in his hand—the real one—and was pointing it at me while he put the phone to his ear with his left hand.
I could hear Sarah say, “Zack? Zack?”
Merker said, “Hey, Mrs. Walker?”
“Zack? Who’s this?”
“This is Gary, Mrs. Walker. I’m a friend of your husband’s.”
“What happened to Zack? The phone went all funny.”
“Listen, we kind of need your help with something. Can I ask you a kind of personal question?”
“What?”
“How would you describe your breasts? I saw your picture, that one on the fridge where you’re wearing that gown? At your place? I know you can’t tell everything from a snapshot, but I’d say they’re pretty nice.”
“Put my husband on the phone.”
“Well, I’d like to, but I’ve got a gun pointed at his head right now, and if you don’t help us out, I’m gonna give his brains some fresh air.”
Annette came back in with the baby on her hip. “Even if I can’t do this thing, I should still get something for my time.”
38
WE WERE PARKED across the street from SunCap Federal. Merker behind the wheel of the Ford pickup, me on the passenger side, Sarah between us. She had the red wig on and was practicing her Marilyn Winter signature a few more times. I’d dug a tattered old owner’s manual out of the glove box, and Sarah was writing out her new name in the margins of pages that described how to check oil levels and properly install a hitch. She scribbled into page after page, glancing up at the fake ID resting on the dashboard for guidance.
“That’s pretty good,” Merker said. “I think the W is off just a tiny bit, I think it should slant a bit more to the right, but really, you’re good.”
Sarah, normally fairly polite, did not respond to Merker’s praise. I looked at her last two forgeries, and they were pretty much dead on. The situation seemed too unbelievable. Here was my wife, pretending to be Marilyn Winter, the phony name of Trixie Snelling, who was actually Miranda Chicoine, also known as Candace.
“Even if I get the signature right, what if someone notices that I’m not her?” Sarah asked.
“You got the hair, you got the key, you can sign the name, the boobs are close,” Merker said, full of confidence. “You can do it. Although you could of dressed a little sexier.” Sarah was wearing a black blouse, tan skirt, sensible, flat shoes. “Can you at least hike the skirt up a bit?” His eyes narrowed. “You have to get this right. You fuck it up, bad things are gonna happen.”
Sarah glanced at me.
“So we’ll be sitting out here,” he reminded her. “I see anything funny going down, first thing I do is shoot your husband here. Then I call Leo and get him to kill the kid. A cop car comes screaming up, people come running out of the bank, anything like that, and the shit hits the fan.”
“I’ll do it,” Sarah said. “You don’t have to worry.” I believed her, but I didn’t know whether Merker was convinced.
He patted her bare knee encouragingly. Sarah tried to pull it away, but there was no room to move. “That’s a good girl,” he said.
I so wanted to kill him.
“Let me out,” Sarah said. I opened my door and stood on the sidewalk. I held out a hand for Sarah, but she made a point of navigating her descent from the raised truck without my assistance.
“Don’t forget this!” Merker shouted, tossing out a small blue zippered gym bag. He’d asked Annette if she had something he could carry a bit of cash in, and she’d offered him that. If Merker ever did get Trixie’s money, it was going to smell like old socks and sour towels. Sarah grabbed the bag by the strap and stood next to me.
“It’s a bit crooked,” I said.
“What?” said Sarah.
“The wig. It’s just a bit off to one side.”
She used the oversized mirror bolted to the passenger door to take one last look at herself, made a minor adjustment.