Page 62 of Slow Burn

“Did she call?”

“Huh?” She looked up from examining the TV schedule. “Oh. No. Came with a note. In the pocket.”

There were, of course, no outside pockets in such a beautiful piece of work; he reached inside and found a plain white piece of paper, plain sloppy writing.Dear Sol, it said.Sorry for the misunderstanding. Consider this an apology. Sincerely, Velvet.

“Yes indeed,” he murmured, then crumpled the note and tossed it toward the kitchen wastebasket. “My god, yes. I had no idea she had such taste.”

Kelly mumbled something mutinous. He stood up and shed his wrinkled off-white jacket, slid his arms into the buttery embrace of the eggplant coat.

Perfect. Utterly perfect. He checked the cuffs, tugged at the lapels, sauntered down the hall to check the fit in the mirror. His color, his size, every line in place.

It made the rest of his clothes look like shit. He frowned and sucked in his gut, turned sideways, tried again. A new shirt, that was what he needed. Something in dark blue silk. One of those raw silk ties, light yellow. The trousers had to go, too. Time for a housecleaning.

“What do you think?” he asked, and did a runway spin for Kelly. She glanced up from her crossword puzzle and shrugged. “Come on, what do you think? It’s nice, eh?”

“I don’t like purple.”

If he’d had time to think about it, he might not have hit her quite so hard. He flexed his fist and stepped back, careful not to get any blood on the jacket.

“Time for a housecleaning,” he said aloud. “Get your things.”

“But Sol—” Stunned, she started to bawl. He resisted the urge to punch her again—hell, there wasn’t any point—and walked back to the bathroom to rinse his knuckles off. When he came back, she was stuffing things in a suitcase—one of his suitcases, the Gucci. He dumped the shit out on the floor, went to the kitchen, and grabbed a garbage bag from under the sink. She sat on the floor, legs splayed, sniffing back blood, and stuffing her clothes into the garbage bag; he felt sick at the sight of her.

New jacket, new wardrobe, new day, he thought.Today, I change everything.God bless that little whore, she’d made him wake up. He’d go over to Robby’s, sweet-talk her, take her out for some Italian. She’d like the jacket.

Kelly tried to sneak some of the jewelry into the bag. He convinced her to leave it. When she was packed up, he made her go wash her face and comb her hair, even carried her garbage bag down to the car and threw it in the trunk. When he slammed it shut, he found her staring at him with wide fixed eyes.

“What? What now?”

“You—aren’t going to—kill me, are you?”

He stared at her, stunned. “I don’t kill people, sweetheart,” he told her kindly. “Mama mia, why would I? I’m in the business end. Look, it’s over, that’s all. I take you home, you don’t come back, you don’t make any trouble for me. End of story. Okay?”

Tears spilled out of her eyes, down her pale cheeks. She wiped them away with trembling fingers.

“Okay,” she whispered. He opened the door of the Mercedes like a gentleman, closed it for her, walked around to the driver’s side. When he opened his door, she said, “Sol?”

“What?” He fastened his seatbelt, slammed the door, started the car. The heater smelled like burning socks.

“I love you.” She continued to cry. He backed the car out into weak sunshine, felt the crunch of the tires as they hit the street. “I really do, Sol. Nobody else loves you like I do.”

The saddest thing about it was she really believed it. He handed her a Kleenex, winced when she blew her nose. He was tired of her, sick and tired, but it was important to be a man about these things. Let her down gently.

“I know you do, sweetheart. You’re one in a million.” He searched for a new cliche. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes. Yes, you do.” The tears died off to wet snuffles. He gave her another Kleenex. “Oh, Sol, you’re great, you’re really great. I never thought I’d find anybody like you.”

“That’s great, but—”

“Please don’t leave me. Please.” She batted tear-clumped eyelashes at him. He sighed and kept driving, turning left on the Tollway, out to the ’burbs where she still kept a cheap one-room apartment. She hadn’t planned on keeping it much longer, he knew. Good thing he’d made up his mind.

At the tollbooth he blew through at fifty miles an hour without paying; red lights flashed, bells rang, no cops.

“Fasten your seatbelt,” he said. Sniffing, she did, then folded her hands in her lap and sat like a schoolgirl, head down. “Look, it’s time for you to move on, find somebody else. It’s better that way. Better for both of us.”

She started crying again. He took the Mercedes up to seventy and let her cry.

Fifteen minutes later, he eased to a stop in the parking lot next to her building, switched off the engine, sat for a second with his eyes closed. He didn’t feel so good—he’d turned the heater up too high, maybe he was catching something. Cold. Flu. Something. He needed bed rest, some hot soup.

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