SEVEN WEEKS LATER
It’s funny how quickly the routine comes back. One day I’m playing millionaire spy and sneaking around gangsters’ warehouses; the next—literally the next day, because of my boss’ ultimatum—I’m opening the store at five and mopping up spills like I never left. At least the jet lag works for me those first few days.
I’ve told Chloe about all my supposed adventures in New York. It kills me to have to lie to her so much, but she keeps secrets about as well as Wikileaks.
My ten-grand pay for the Milan job dropped in my Singaporean account a couple weeks after I came home. Then it flowed right out into my lawyer’s Vanuatu bank, leaving only the grand that keeps my account open. My new clothes are clean and folded in my fifteenth box. I haven’t worn them since I left LAX.
But a few things are different.
I’d changed those five thousand euros Carson took off Burim for dollars at a couple Milanese banks. Now I can dribble out a few extra twenties a week to help pay for food and rent.
The Camoin showed up three weeks ago. Gianna marked the shipping bill “riproduzione” and valued it at €99; the note inside said, “€1 discount for the good customer. Baci!” The canvas hangs over Chloe’s rickety old bookcase in the front room. I smile whenever I see it, and not just because it’s like having a $22,000 savings account on the wall.
And another thing. The store’s still full of beautiful Westside women, but a lot fewer of them make me want to chew through my knuckles. After spending a lot of time with a couple healthy, 100% organic, no-preservatives-no-additives women, it’s hard to take the plastic and glitter seriously anymore.
I haven’t been by the library to check out this month’s fashion magazines, either. I’m not in the mood for anorectic Slovakian teenaged models. Progress?
I’m sitting at one of the store’s outside tables on Hill, watching the traffic and walkers pass by on Santa Monica’s version of Main Street. It’s the pre-lunch lull, just the usual people piling on the free wifi and treating the store like an office. I’m about halfway through my milk and a marked-out bagel from yesterday, thinking about the email I got—well, Hoskins got—from Gianna.
The Miro’s owners anted up with the €30,000 reward pretty quickly. She’s been coasting on that since Diciannove closed for the last time. She said she’d be getting the €100K check for the Sisley today or tomorrow. The text practically bounced with excitement. I couldn’t be happier for her. The picture of her smile is stamped on my brain. Maybe someday.
I watch a couple babes in shorts cross the street. One is Carson’s size and has her legs. A couple weeks ago, Carson sent me a not-quite-focused picture of what looked like a gallery with a Polish sign over the door. I guess that’s her way of saying “hi.” I can still see her in her party dress just as clearly as when she first walked into that damn suite.
A guy in black bike-racing leathers rounds the corner and marches toward me. His visor’s up, but all I can see is eyes and a nose. The leathers creak as he walks. A black messenger bag’s slung across his chest.
He stops in front of my table. “Matthew Friedrich?” No accent this time.
I hesitate a moment. “Um… yeah?”
The guy zips open the messenger bag and reaches in. I wonder too late if this is Rodievsky cleaning up a loose end, but there’s no time to even flinch. Instead of a gun, the guy pulls out a 6x9 manila envelope and drops it on the table, then turns and leaves.
I watch the thing for a few moments, waiting to see if Rodievsky or Burim went the package-bomb route. It just sits there, my name and nothing else on the front. I finally pick it up and rip open the tape sealing the flap. Three things fall out.
A blue flash drive, about the size of my thumb. Too bad I had to give back the Acer.
A strap of used 200-peso notes. Twenty thousand Mexican pesos, or almost $1,300. A yellow sticky says, “Advance on expenses.”
Finally, a folded itinerary for a flight on American two days from now.
For a return trip to my new life.