It must have been the get-well-soon card, he thought. Chicks love cards. He was actually going to bring her flowers too, then, on the way over to her apartment, but he forgot and only got the card, and yet, that seemed to do the trick. He tucked that away for future reference. A card, or flowers, but not necessarily both.
A few months had gone by, and Candy—it was the only name he knew her by—was there pretty much every day, lots of nights too, doing her job. What a fucking relief, letting someone else handle the finances. Those rare times when he’d actually go to a bank machine—not very often, considering there was always plenty of cash around the Kickstart—and take out a hundred, he had to count out those five twenties two, maybe three times, to double-check that he was getting what he was supposed to.
But Candy, she paid the bills, took care of all those invoices, was always on top of things. Never even got that moody. He’d never known a broad didn’t get moody.
Miranda figured she deserved a goddamn Oscar. Meryl Streep never had to work this hard at playing a role.
Almost every day after she got home from work, she’d get sick to her stomach. It was eating her up, working day in and day out with these people. With these men who’d raped her. This man who’d killed her Eldon. She’d take a shower, like she was washing the stink of them off her every day.
She was giving herself a year.
Eldon had died the last day of July. She thought, Maybe I can hang in until next August. Or until Gary starts getting suspicious. The dummy accounts, the fake invoices, it was all going very well. By the time she was done, he’d be fucking bankrupt and she’d have enough to start over with Katie someplace else. But if he started getting wise, started asking too many questions, the “Abort! Abort!” warnings would start sounding in her head. She had to be ready, in case she had to bail early.
But so far, so good.
When she started going crazy, when she thought she couldn’t stand being in the same building with them one more moment, she used thoughts of revenge to calm herself. She imagined Gary’s reaction the day she didn’t show up for work, went hunting for her, discovered she and Katie were gone. And then when he figured out what had happened, that she’d ripped him off. Big-time.
Oh, to be the fly on the wall.
He’d be too astonished to remember to stick his finger up his nose.
The other guys, they seemed wary of Gary lately. They could never figure out why he didn’t avenge the death of Eldon Swain. It had to be the Comets, right? They had to have done it. But Gary, he wasn’t ready to go to war. He was cool with it.
Didn’t seem like Gary.
Even Leo, who didn’t think too hard on anything, asked him one time, “Don’t you miss Eldon? I do. He was always nice to me. When he was going out and I asked him to grab me a burger or something, he’d always do it.”
“He thought he knew everything,” Gary said. “He thought he was the boss around here. Well, he wasn’t. I’m the boss around here.”
Leo pondered that. “If you’re the boss, shouldn’t you be getting who done that to Eldon?”
Gary said, “You want some pizza?”
Leo thought that was a great idea.
Miranda had to be strong. She had to hang in. And she had to be careful not to get too greedy. She had to know when to call it quits. Because if she blew this, she’d be ending up plastered to the front of a train herself.
Katie needed her mommy.
20
ONE NAME KEPT SHOWING UP in all the stories I found about the Slots and the Comets: Michael Cherry, a detective with the Canborough police.
I asked the woman at the information desk where the police station was, and it turned out to be only three blocks south. I left my car where it was and hoofed it. There was a cool breeze coming in from the north, and my sports coat wasn’t up to the job of keeping me warm. I put my hands in my pockets and hunched my shoulders up, thinking that would help. It did not.
Unlike the library, the police services building lacked any architectural link to the past. It was a wide gray and black building devoid of personality. I went up to the main desk and asked whether Detective Cherry was in, and if so could I speak with him?
I got lucky. The woman on the desk said he was still in the building and would come out to see me in a few minutes. I kicked around the front lobby, half listened as some woman complained at the desk about a barking dog. Two uniformed cops brought in an unruly drunk.
Then a bearded man in tattered jeans, T-shirt, and jean jacket approached me, and I wasn’t sure whether this was somebody who’d just been released after appearing in a lineup, or Cherry.
“Mr. Walker?” he said, extending a hand.
“That’s right,” I said. “Detective Cherry?”
“Yeah. Come on in.”
He led me down a couple of hallways, then into a small office. Cherry dropped into a metal and plastic chair behind a cluttered desk. I glanced at some mug shots on the wall as I sat down opposite him.
“So you’re with the Metropolitan?” he asked.
I nodded. I didn’t see the sense in being specific about my current status with the paper.