Charlie T is actually quite relaxed about the whole reconnaissance thing in Ripley Fields. For a start, there’s no problem spotting the aunt and the two girls, and since there’s a predictable route they’re taking, house by house, he and Angelique can keep their distance. And unless they live here, or close by, it’s most likely they’ve driven. There’s a bunch of cars parked down near the entrance to the estate. If that’s the way they’ve come, well, it would be hard to give chase without drawing too much attention to themselves. He could wait in the car, but that doesn’t allow for the possibility that the targets are residents here. So there’s a limit to how bad things can get.
And that’s what concerns Charlie T the most: that he’s going to get embroiled in a course of action with Angelique alongside, and end up endangering her, and as a result, himself, the kids, the entire fucking enterprise. Not to mention wanting nothing to do with her harebrained fucking scheme to kidnap the kids and try and extort money out of their father. This is of course also in the context of trying to stop beating himself up over Angelique being here at all, and what a walkover he seems when she wants her way. What Charlie is hoping, basically, is for nothing whatsoever to happen, him and Angelique to drive their car load of yuppie trinkets back to Chicago, hit the bars for a few, decant themselves up to her apartment, pop open the vial of amyl nitrate she filched from the hospital and ride each other into merry, raw oblivion. The idea that Angelique can be both the ultimate porny girl and a, well, the, possible mother of his children … this happy dream fills Charlie T with a warm, horny glow. This would be everything he could possibly ask for. The only problem is what kind of life can the two of them have together if he does the work he does? Against that, what other kind of work can he do? Tending bar is not going to keep him remotely satisfied, let alone Angelique.
As if in answer to his prayers, if they can be called prayers, his phone throbs with a text message. It’s from Mr Wilson: Client says it must all go down tonight.
Charlie T fires back: Does client have an address for mark?
And by return: You’re in the field, Charles – improvise. Client says it’ll be worth double.
Double? That’s not bad. Not enough to clear his debt, but a start. All right. Let’s make the conditions a wee bit more secure. The targets reach the house on the far corner and start working their way back towards them. He draws her into a copse of trees between two big neo-Colonials and lays it out for her quietly.
‘Angelique, pet, something’s come up, I need you to wait in the car. OK?’
‘What’s come up?’
‘Instructions.’
‘What instructions?’
‘I can’t really go into that.’
Angelique gives him that look, the disappointed-in-him look, makes him feel about five years old.
‘Charlie. Instructions are for kids. Remember where we’re going with this. Whoever that guy is, Mr Weirdo—’
‘Mr Wilson.’
‘Whatever. The point is, you need to be the sole trader here, not an employee. You’re the one who does the work—’
‘The intelligence is part of the work – a crucial part.’
‘My point exactly. And where is the intel on this job? You don’t have a name, an address, you’re left to improvise. With my assistance, I surely don’t have to point out. So if this Wilson guy is not upholding his end of the bargain, well, you’ve got to stand up for yourself. A deal is a deal, am I wrong?’
She’s not wrong. She’s not wrong. And man, she looks hot being not wrong, the streetlights glistening in her hair, her sticky lips red and full, her cheeks hot with passion, with fire. As if she can read his thoughts, she pulls him close and kisses him, rubs a thigh against his hardening cock.
‘And the best thing is,’ she whispers in his ear, grinding herself against him, ‘I think I know how they got here.’
‘How?’ he says.
‘You notice they’ve all got mud on their boots? The girls are wearing Uggs and there’s mud stains halfway up them? And she’s got hiking boots caked in mud as well?’
‘I hadn’t noticed, but I’ll take your word for it.’
‘Well. It’s dry tonight. It hasn’t rained in over a week. The ground is hard. Where did they get the mud from?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Ripley Fields. Lake Ripley. There’s a lane way between houses over that side, we passed it our first time around; I don’t know for sure, but I’ve a pretty good idea it leads down to the lake. Maybe there’s some kind of walkway down there, a lakeside path or something. I’m ready to guess that’s the way they came, that their house is accessible from the path. And if that’s so …’
Charlie T jumps in and has to reduce the volume immediately, so excited has he become.
‘If there’s adequate forest down there – and it’s wild enough up here, so there’s no reason to expect it isn’t – it could be perfect. Out of sight, easy to separate the kids, to spook them … that’s really smart, Angelique.’
‘Don’t you mean “partner”?’
Charlie thinks a bit, and grins. ‘I do.’