Page 17 of Slow Burn

“Hey,” he said sharply. She looked up at him, and got a wide smile, sharp as a razor. “Smile.”

She did.

Jim’s phone rang six times before he answered. At his snarled, “What?” she said, “Goddamn son of a bitch dagobastard, and where the hell were you, you asshole? Shopping?”

Her accent had gone back to Dublin, thick and rolling with anger. In the second or two of silence that followed, some of the suffocating panic bled out of her chest. She adjusted her head on the arm of the couch. Across the room, the TV played silently, its flickering the only light in the room; it gave everything a surreal blue glow, like radiation.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Dinner with Sol. Fucking wiseguy wannabe asshole.” She hardly ever cursed, but the words just spilled out, natural as blood. Her voice was shaking. She took deep breaths to steady it.

“Tell me everything,” Jim said. He sounded calm, dangerously calm. “Did he move on you?”

“No.” Better if he had, she thought. It would have been more humanizing. She still heard Irish in her voice, and forced it flat. “Just played daddy. Dammit, where were you?”

“I wasn’t invited. So?”

“Linguini and singing waiters. Christ, it was like a bad Italian soap opera.” She stopped and wished he were here, with her, close enough to touch. She wouldn’t have to tell him then, he’d know, he’d see it in her. “I was scared, Jim. I was really scared.”

She rubbed her eyes and opened them to stare at the ceiling. Shadows from the window, leaves rustling like dollars in the dark.

“There’s nothing to be scared about, you know that. He’s a lowlife. Let him play his little role and strut around, and when he’s gone, we’ll still be here, working. What did he want? Was he complaining about the take again?”

“No,” she said. The apartment felt cold and lonely. She thought for the thousandth time that she needed a dog, something warm and bouncy to come home to. “No, he was bitching about Velvet.”

“Who?”

“The hooker.”

“Jesus Christ, that was fast. Anyway, it was my goddamn shower, I don’t know what he was upset about. Youdidget rid of her.”

“Sure I did.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.”

She nodded, chewing the inside of her lip, and rolled over on her side, staring now at the television. The evening news was on, grainy footage of wars in countries she’d never heard of, shell-shocked faces, wailing women. No matter where it was, what they were wearing, it always looked like Dublin to her. She hitched back over on her back to avoid the memories.

“Velvet—the hooker—she saw somebody burn up, Jim. Just like Arnold.”

A long silence now, very long. She remembered the look of broken trust.

“I thought we agreed to forget it.”

“I tried. Look—Jim—”

“No, Robby, you look. Forget it. Sol’s an asshole, but he works for people who are bigger assholes. Stay quiet.”

She started to sayI can’t do that, but closed her mouth on it. Instead, she said, “Okay.” In the corner of her eye, the news footage shifted to weather reports. Colder temperatures. Winter storm warnings.

“Want to come over?” Jim asked. “I’ll let you win a game of chess.”

She found herself smiling, which was odd, because she really didn’t feel like it. Acting again, even when she didn’t mean to.

“No. Think I’ll call it a night.”

“You know you’re welcome.” Just the slightest hint of apology in his voice. “Always.”

“I know,” she said, and after she’d hung up she stayed on the couch, staring at the moving shadows on the ceiling.

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