They shook hands, but the hawklike smile on his face collapsed into the frustrated squint of a man who’s just had his plans ruined.
“We’re going to have a private drink, Ronald,” Allison said, touching the man’s tanned forearm. “Tash and I need to catch up.”
“No problemo, cari?o,” Ronald said, glancing a rebuke at Natasha. “Let me know if you need another one of those.”
“Cari?o?” Natasha said when he was gone.
“He’s cute,” she said.
“He’s trying to get laid.”
“Of course he is,” she said. “He’s lonely. Everyone here is lonely.”
“The kids with David?”
Allison pouted for a moment and took a sip of her margarita.
“With my mom,” she said. “David’s in New York. Again.”
Natasha had known Allison since they were seven. They had been the only two kids on a cul-de-sac of brand-new homes in the second housing development in Santa Elena. Most of the houses hadn’t been purchased yet and sat empty. It was like living in a ghost town that first year, but they had each other. If they’d met today, though, Natasha doubted they’d make much of an impression on each other. Their lives were too different—Allison the bored (ignored, she would say) housewife to a traveling exec named David. She ferried her kids from soccer game to dance recital to karate training. Natasha was the career woman who worked 24/7, a decision Allison could never wrap her mind around. “It just seems so empty,” Allison had said to her one night when too much alcohol dulled her sense of social etiquette. “I can’t imagine life without kids.” Yet here Allison was, poured into a dress the crimson of a ripened strawberry, accepting drinks from a half-drunk man hoping to get her in bed tonight.
Natasha ordered a whiskey and they talked for a while—the kids and their grades, little Donnie and his anger problems, the work on the kitchen that had been delayed because the Mexican tile they wanted was out of stock, David and his job, David and his bonus, David and his endless travels, David and…
Natasha lit a cigarette and found herself tuning out, nodding when appropriate. She wanted to say, Hey, you know someone was murdered last night? Shut up and enjoy the big house and the big car and the spoiled kids and the absent husband. It’s what you wanted. She wanted to say this, but she knew it would sound like jealousy to her friend’s ears. That was the nature of privilege, to assume any argument against it was jealousy. Natasha wasn’t jealous. She couldn’t live Allison’s life, couldn’t lock herself up in a faux Mediterranean house in the hills and drive a minivan back and forth to Lucky’s. Natasha needed to define herself by something other than the man who took care of her and the children she took care of. Natasha’s mother had been a housewife, a smart woman who wandered around that brand-new home like a ghost, disinfecting this and washing that, her brain atrophying. When Natasha discovered evidence that blew a case wide open, nailed some perp to the wall, the satisfaction was like a drug. And, Lord, she wouldn’t know what to do with a man like David—he drank white wine, liked smoked Gouda, and dry-cleaned his jeans. Jesus, pressed creases in his Levi’s denim! He talked down to Allison, too, as if she were some teenage girl in threat of getting out of line. Maybe she was being too hard on her friend. Maybe Allison was like Natasha’s mother—bored out of her mind. Maybe that’s why she was here, getting free drinks from middle-aged men who dressed like they thought Jimmy Buffett was high art.
“But enough about me,” Allison finally said. “How are you?”
“I’ve been busy at work,” Natasha said.
A waiter swooped in and set down two sweating margaritas in front of them.
“Compliments of the dudes over there,” the kid said.
And before she knew it, Ronald was back, leaning into Allison’s ear. His friend, Aiden, was sitting cross-legged in the seat next to her as if he owned the table.
“So what’s your line of work?” Aiden asked. He was in his mid to late forties. His face was sunburned, his eyes watery and bloodshot, his sunglasses perched on the top of his head.
“She’s a doctor,” Allison chimed in.
“A doct—”
“A medical examiner,” Natasha said.
Allison shot Natasha an annoyed glance. Don’t do it, she was saying. Don’t bring it up.
“Like a coroner?” Aiden said.
“Something like that.” She called the waiter over and ordered a Dewar’s. “I’m not crazy about drinks that need shade from umbrellas.”
“So what’s a beautiful girl like you doing in that line of work?” Aiden’s voice wheezed a little, as though he were having trouble breathing.
“I like to know what killed people,” she said. “For instance, say you died suddenly, just dropped dead in the shower, went to bed and never woke up, whatever the case. If I cut into you, I’m pretty sure I’d find a liver in the early stages of cirrhosis.”
“She’s joking,” Allison said. “She likes to play this little game.”
Natasha lit another cigarette.
“Cardiomyopathy,” she said. “You know what that is?”
“No,” Aiden said. He was leaning back in his seat now.
“A weakened heart,” she said. “Alcohol enlarges the muscle, thins the walls so the heart can’t pump blood efficiently. That’s why you’re having a hard time breathing. It causes other problems, too. Blood can’t get to the extremities, if you know what I mean.”
“Excuse us,” Allison said, grabbing Natasha’s arm and pulling her away from the table.
“Why do you do that?” she said when they were in the foyer of the restaurant.
“I’m not in the mood for the dating game,” Natasha said.
“You’re never in the mood.”
“You know,” she said, “Ronald thinks you’re going to give him something tonight. He doesn’t know you’re just using him to feel important for a few hours.”
“So what?” she said. “He’s using me, too.”
Natasha let out a deep breath. “I’m going,” she said. “I’m too tired for this.”
She sped home in her 280Z; she liked a sports car, liked the feel of the road. At her apartment, she showered and almost called Tony. Something about Las Brisas, being together with all those lonely people throwing sexual Hail Marys, made her feel lonelier.