Ten minutes later, Rodman and Kelson sat at the kitchen table. Dominick Stevens was packing his bag and his briefcase, getting the hell out of a place Rodman falsely promised would keep him safe. The baby cried on Francisca’s shoulder, and she yelled at Stevens, calling him a cobarde – a pussy, a coward – for running at the first gunshot.
‘Two gunshots,’ he said. ‘Five, if you count this idiot’s. And I’m not running. I’m walking away. You should come with me.’
‘Where to?’ she said. ‘Your house? That man’s been there. My apartment? He’s been there too.’
Rodman looked at Kelson. ‘He must’ve followed us back from Edgewater last night. I watched but didn’t see him.’
‘Someone from his crew could’ve followed. Could’ve been anyone.’
‘Unless Doreen tipped him,’ Rodman said. He went to her. She was floating – somewhere.
‘Nah,’ said Kelson.
Rodman searched her until he found her phone. He checked call history and shook his head. ‘Must’ve followed us from Edgewater,’ he said again.
Stevens said he was going to his office. He would surround himself with people who could protect him. He would stay in touch.
‘You’re stupid to go,’ Rodman said.
‘Stupid to go, stupid to stay. Right now, nothing looks smart,’ Stevens said.
‘Cobarde,’ Francisca said.
Rodman made a call, and, an hour after Stevens left, Marty came back, dragging a sheet of plywood up the stairs. Rodman nailed it over the shot-out window and then showed the little man to his and Cindi’s bedroom.
‘Sleep with a finger on it,’ Rodman said. ‘Francisca will let you know if Toselli comes back. If Doreen’s painkillers wear off and she gives you trouble, knock her out however you want.’
The little man slipped off his shoes and lay face up on the bed. He rested a pistol on his belly, looping a finger through the trigger guard. When Kelson and Rodman went out the front door – guns drawn, eyes on every hiding spot below them – Marty was breathing deep and easy, already dreaming of his big girlfriend or whatever a tough little man like him dreamed.
Kelson and Rodman drove north to Nancy’s house. The neighborhood was quiet, her driveway empty. They circled the block before pulling to the curb. While Rodman waited in the car, Kelson went to the door and knocked. No one answered, so he let himself in. Every time he’d come to the house since Nancy kicked him out, the contents seemed to have shifted a little, as if spitting him out bite by bite. The weekend after he moved, Nancy rearranged the furniture in the living room – not that she ever complained about where it was when they lived together. Now he put the sofa back where it belonged. ‘Haunted,’ he said. ‘By me.’
He needed to be sure that all was right, as he needed to check his pistol magazine even when he knew it was loaded, and so he climbed the stairs. Sue Ellen had left her bed unmade, the pink sheet and blanket kicked to the foot, the stuffed animal monkey she’d had since she was two years old face down. He went in, tucked the sheets, and propped the monkey on the pillow. Pencil drawings of Payday and Painter’s Lane were tacked to the wall above the head of the bed – each of the kittens sketched with a sure, steady hand. ‘When did you learn to do that?’ Kelson asked.
He went to the bedroom he used to share with Nancy. It looked just as it did when he last slept there. Even with all the danger and confusion, even with the gaze he’d exchanged with Doreen a couple of hours ago – maybe because of it – he felt a pang. ‘Ouch,’ he said. He went to Nancy’s side of the bed and sat. He opened the nightstand drawer. Along with a box of Kleenex and a bottle of Motrin, there was a hairbrush. Kelson pulled a tangle of hair from the bristles, smelled it, and stuck it in his pocket.
He went to the other side of the bed. The familiar comfort flooded back. He said, ‘What I would do—’ then stopped himself again. ‘For what?’ He opened the nightstand drawer. Like a wave withdrawing and washing in again, nausea rolled over his comfort. There was a man’s watch – a stranger’s – and a box of Trojan Pleasure Condoms – two of the packets, bright as bubble gum, ripped open and empty.
He grabbed the watch. A Movado, nicer than his own. He crammed it in with the ball of hair.
He went downstairs and out the front door. His Dodge Challenger idled at the curb. He climbed in and stared out the front windshield.
‘Anything?’ Rodman asked.
‘Yeah, a mistake,’ Kelson said. ‘And a watch.’ He fished it out of his pocket and handed it to Rodman. ‘I stole it.’
Rodman looked it over, front and back. ‘I could get a hundred for it on the street.’
‘Yeah, do that. Take Cindi out for dinner.’
‘You look sick.’
‘I feel it.’
Rodman considered him. ‘You’re divorced, you know.’
‘Yeah.’
‘That means she can sleep with anyone she wants.’
‘I know.’
‘You can too.’ Rodman considered him some more. ‘When you first saw Doreen Felbanks, you wanted to, right?’
‘The first time, yeah.’
‘But not now.’
‘That would be pretty screwed-up, huh?’
‘Really? You still want her? Yeah, that’s screwed-up. But there’s no accounting for desire.’
‘She has the eyes of someone who’s seen pain. I’ve seen it too.’
‘So you like her eyes, huh?’ Rodman said.
‘And have you checked out the rest of her?’