Icarus w-2, page 19
part #2 of Westwood Series
And then she thought about why she liked the idea of hurting Kid so much.
She didn't know. She really and truly didn't.
But it did make her smile.
– "-"-"THE MURDERESS She could not remember ever being this happy.
Her life was under control for the first time since she could remember.
Business was great and as long as the economy stayed strong and the market kept going up she was sure it would stay great. She loved what she was doing and felt she was now really good at it. She trusted her eye, confident she could spot who and what was going to be hot. And other people obviously shared that confidence.
She'd just gotten back from a dizzying two weeks, one in Paris, one in London. Meeting new customers, new clients, new agents. It was her first-ever trip abroad and it was exhilarating. It was a big step up in class for her, she knew that, but she'd pulled it off. More than that – she'd flourished! In Paris she'd dined at L'Ambroisie, the most expensive restaurant she'd ever been to. She didn't pay, the client paid, but she couldn't help sneaking a peek at the bill and she quickly figured out that it had come to almost two hundred and fifty dollars per person. She must be getting decadent, she realized, because she decided it was worth it. It felt like a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar meal. She went to every museum she could cram in, of course. Spent almost all of her one entirely free afternoon in the Musee d'Orsay, stayed until closing time. Didn't leave until the guard insisted.
In London, she spent one night pub hopping, drinking a ton of beer, and got a little out of control. But it was okay, nobody minded. At the end of the night, she didn't go back to her hotel. She was having too much fun and she was drunk and so she went back to an artist's flat, not very professional, but he'd been hitting on her all night and she thought he was extraordinarily attractive. It had been a good decision because their lovemaking was exceptional. They got even drunker and screwed their brains out and as great as that was, it was almost as good being in the flat, a loft which was right on the Thames, way, way east, with huge windows that looked out over the river and a part of the city that looked like Dickens was still living there. The next day she wasn't even hungover and someone else took her to the Groucho Club to discuss a book idea, whether she thought it was viable for America – and whether she might want to write the introduction.
Her last night there, she dined all by herself. It was her choice – she forced herself to do it, actually, since she was a little phobic about eating in public alone. But she loved it. Went to a chic place in Soho, the Sugar Club – a rave in the Time Out eating/drinking guide. She didn't even bring a book or magazine to read. She just ate and thought about everything that was happening to her and let the waiters fawn over her, which they most certainly did.
Oh, God, she'd felt sophisticated.
She didn't even mind coming home. Didn't mind being bumped in the airport by people rushing to get their luggage. Or getting stuck in traffic on the LIE. She didn't mind coming home to her apartment, which seemed warm and cozy to her. She enjoyed unpacking and tossing her travel clothes in the laundry and putting on her scruffy gray sweatpants and Marc Anthony sweatshirt, which she'd bought at his concert at the Garden.
The only thing she minded was when she checked her phone machine.
Three messages from Kid. He thought she'd be back by now. He really wanted to talk to her, to see her. Would she please call.
She didn't want to call him. It was over and she'd told him that before she left. Now, after this trip, she was more determined than ever to make sure it stayed over. It had been fun and, yes, it had been good for her. Even her shrink said so. But it was over. She had to move onward and upward. It was time to put what she was behind her. Time to become what she was on her way toward being.
She thought she'd made it clear to him. She was positive she'd made it clear. And she didn't want to see him again to go through the whole thing one more time. She knew exactly what would happen – she'd weaken. She'd start to like him – that was never the issue – and she'd start to be attracted to him – that was certainly never the issue – and she'd start to think about everything he knew about her. She'd start to realize how he could make her life so… so undesirable again.
She thought about the messages on her machine and she started to get angry. Really angry. She decided maybe she should call her shrink but then she thought: No, I can do this on my own. I can. I just got back from Paris and London and I'm sophisticated. I can handle it by myself.
She decided the best thing was to ignore him. She wouldn't return his phone calls. Yes, that was definitely best. Otherwise she might get even angrier.
And her anger scared her. And it depressed her.
It made her remember too many things it was time to forget.
– "-"-"THE DESTINATION It was strange being this close to him again. She knew where he lived, she was beginning to learn about his new life; sometimes she thought she could feel his presence. Feel him.
He had no idea she was around, of course. And it was better that way. It was the only way; she understood that. It would be a mistake to see him. It would be a disaster, in fact. He wouldn't want to think about her. He wouldn't want to see her. He wouldn't even want to know that she was alive.
She turned over in her bed. Slowly stroked the back of the man next to her, until he stirred, coming awake. She shouldn't have told him. That had been a mistake. But she thought somehow he would like it, that it would bring them even closer. It didn't, though. It had scared him. He hadn't said that but she could see it in his' eyes. It had disturbed him, as if there were something sick, almost perverted about the connection.
Oh, well. It was too late now, though, wasn't it?
She often thought there should be a place where you could queue up and receive a ticket that would allow you to live certain parts of your life over again. A replay. Like in a friendly tennis match.
But there were no replays in life, were there? She was living proof of that. So was the ache in her heart. She wondered if that ache was ever going to disappear.
She was beginning to think it was a permanent part of her. A physical attachment. We'll meet for tea? Oh, yes, I'm easy to find. I'm five-foot-six, have short black hair, gray eyes, and a large hole in my heart.
The man's eyes were open now and he smiled at the pleasure he was receiving from her nails scraping lightly down his spine.
He was a handsome man, Kid Demeter was. She liked being in bed with him. She liked being with him, period. Hell, she just plain liked him.
But she was in love with Jack Keller.
And, as always, she wondered if she'd ever be able to do anything about it.
TWENTY-FIVE
It was a Monday, the last week of a glorious May, and Dom was doing what he always did at noon on Mondays. Or 11 a.m. on Wednesdays or 4 p.m. on Fridays. He was working, quartering a baby calf, one of two requested by one of the top chefs in the city for a private party. This was Dom at his best: not only did he enjoy the work, he had charged the chef twice the going rate for these beauties and didn't even have to haggle. He looked at the man to his right, busy slicing up the second calf, and he smiled.
"You haven't lost your touch, Jackie boy."
Jack looked up, satisfied with the job he'd done. He laid the butcher knife on the table, the razor-sharp blade glistening and dripping with red. "I love these knives," he said. He stared at the row of eight, each one a different size and thickness, that Dom had lined up on one of the butcher-block tables. These knives were a good forty years old, they'd been there since Jack was a boy. Thick, dark wood handles, rough-hewn and worn but somehow elegant and light to the touch. The blades, sharpened every day, able to slice effortlessly through muscle and gristle and even bone. Jack walked over and picked up the cleaver. He turned it over, admiring it from every angle. "They're works of art, aren't they?"
"I wouldn't get carried away," Dom said. "They're nice enough. Mostly they're sharp as shit and they get the job done. But I'm glad you like 'em so much. If you ever want your old job back…"
"I keep forgetting who I'm talking to," Jack said, then looked at his watch. "I told him not to be late."
"Kid's never been on time since he was twelve years old," Dom told him. "Relax."
"It's just-"
"Yeah, yeah, I know what it's just. It's just that you haven't been back to the restaurant since…" He hesitated, saw the fear in Jack's eyes, decided to plunge ahead anyway, it was the right thing to do. "… since she died and you're nervous about it. You got a right to be nervous about it, pal. And guess what? You'll feel like shit for a while and then it'll get better. You gotta do it sometime so you might as well do it now. And don't think I'm tryin' to take your mind off this whole thing, but I gotta tell ya, you're walkin' just about normal now. You look really good. Who'da thought Kid'd actually know what the hell he was doin'?"
"I heard that." It was Kid. His voice came from somewhere among the hanging slabs of meat but they couldn't see him yet. Jack heard footsteps, then heard a punching sound – like fists hitting a heavy bag – and he saw one of the hanging pigs off to the side start to sway. Kid stepped out from behind the pig, rubbing his right fist. He jerked his head toward the moving pork slab. "He gave me a tough fight, but I knew he'd weaken around the seventh. I'm sorry I'm late."
Dom snorted and Kid gave Jack a "what's up with him?" look. Jack shrugged as if he had no idea.
"So what's this big business idea you're goin' off to discuss?" Dom asked. "And do I get to buy in?"
"You'll get your chance," Kid said. "If Jack thinks there's anything to it."
"I can't believe you're usin' him as the sounding board. I taught this guy everything he knows about business."
"That's true," Jack said. "That's why it's a miracle I ever made a dime."
"Nothin' but grief," Dom muttered. "Nothin' but grief…" And then both he and Jack were looking at Kid, who was standing still in the middle of the warehouse, a distant look in his eyes. He looked up questioningly at Jack, who was taking off the white apron he'd worn to slice up the calf, and Jack nodded solemnly.
"I didn't even think when I told you to meet me here… I thought you'd like it."
"I've been here since then," Kid said. "And I do like it. I don't always think about it. But today… I don't know, it just seemed to hit me." He stared down at the floor. "It was right about here, wasn't it?"
"He was slingin' a side of beef," Dom said. "On his way to the loadin' dock. No warnin', no pain, no nothin'."
"Just dead," Kid said quietly. "Forty-four years old and dead of a heart attack." His voice caught and when he spoke again he sounded angry. "He didn't take care of himself. Drank and ate every shitty thing he could put in his mouth. Just another fat slob with a beer belly! He was so goddamn stupid."
"Your dad was a good man," Dom said.
"Yeah, he was," Kid agreed. "A fat, stupid bastard but a good man."
Jack tossed the bloody apron on the floor and put his sports jacket on. "Are you ready for lunch?" he asked and put his arm around Kid's shoulder. "Let's go. We'll make a whole ghost-filled day out of it."
– "-"-"IT WAS STRANGE being back at Jack's but not as awful as he'd feared.
The lineup had changed somewhat, but he recognized most of the servers and even most of the bussers. The decor hadn't changed, at least not so he could tell at a first look around. It was no longer his and it was part of a giant syndicate, but it still felt like Jack's. And he was surprised at how good it was to be back inside, ghosts or no ghosts.
"I always thought this place looked classy," Kid said as they were led to their table.
"That's because Caroline designed it," Jack told him.
The chef came out of the kitchen now, saw Jack, and rushed over to hug him. "I'm hating this" was the first thing he said into Jack's ear. "Already they're in my kitchen, asking me how come I use ten pounds more of onions than they use in Chicago. What am I supposed to do?"
"Solve it," Jack told him. "I'm out."
"I thought you were a consultant."
"I am. Consultant's a fancy word for 'out.'"
"We miss you, Jack."
"I miss you guys, too."
"You want me to make something special for you?"
"As long as I get a side of Jack's Potatoes."
The chef then turned to Kid, who said, "Anything other than red meat."
Jack shrugged, a "what can I do?" gesture, and Kid said, "Hey, the body's a temple, you know," then the chef nodded and rushed back toward the kitchen.
The waitress was over in a moment and, for the first time, Jack saw Kid in action. All he did was order a sparkling water – but that's all it took.
"Is Pellegrino okay?" she asked, and if he said that it wasn't, Jack was fairly sure she'd burst into tears. Or offer to run to the store and buy him a bottle of Perrier.
"Pellegrino's fine," Kid told her and flashed a grin.
She nodded and smiled back shyly. "Can I get you anything else?"
"Like what?" Kid asked.
"I don't know," she stammered. "I guess Chef already took your order, didn't he?"
"He did," Jack said but she barely glanced over at him.
"I'll let you know if we need anything," Kid told her. "I promise." And she slid away across the floor, turning to look back at him several times before she managed to reach the bar and put their drink order in.
"Okay, I'm impressed," Jack said. "Nauseated but impressed."
"Don't be," Kid said back. "I'm thinkin' of giving up the Team."
"Excuse me, is that the sound of hearts breaking I hear?"
"I'm serious," Kid said.
"I don't think so," Jack told him. "Not after watching you with her."
Kid leaned forward, spoke quietly now. "Listen," he said. "Things have changed."
"What things?"
"The Destination. I think I have to tell you about her."
Jack didn't interrupt, he just nodded, letting Kid know that he could say absolutely anything.
"She told me something and it kind of shook me."
"Hard to imagine what would shake you."
"Yeah, I know. But this did. She told me a secret."
"Must have been some secret."
"It was. And I have to tell you a few other things. The Mistake… I need to find out where the Mistake was…"
"I'm not following."
"I know I'm not making sense. Give me a few more days. I'm really close."
Kid's eyes flicked up to look toward the front of the restaurant. He grimaced, shook his head slowly, and raised his hand in a wave. He looked back at Jack and said, "My partner's here."
Jack looked up, too, and gave a half wave toward the young man making his way through the restaurant.
"Listen," Kid said, and there was a quiet urgency to his voice that made Jack narrow his eyes. "I told her a secret, too."
"The Mistake?"
Kid looked startled but just said, "No. The Destination. She knows a lot of stuff now."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Complicated stuff. I just want you to know that. A couple of them do."
"Are you all right, Kid? You seem-"
"Yeah, I'm great… I'm great. But remember what I said. A couple of them know…"
Before Jack could ask another question, the restaurant anchor was upon them and Jack turned to greet Kid's oldest and dearest friend as he reached their table. Jack hadn't seen Bryan Bishop since he was about twenty years old, maybe four or five years ago. But the boy hadn't aged much. He still had a teenager's face and the friendly, open expression that Jack recalled as soon as he spotted him. Kid was right – Bryan had lost a lot of his size. In college he'd been huge, a lineman on the football team. Kid had said something about steroids; even at that age athletes were fed them. But those days were apparently over because, although obviously in sensational shape – he was still bigger than Kid and looked even more powerful – he was back to being normal-sized. As Bryan approached, Jack remembered him as a sort of loyal sidekick, not very polished, not nearly as bright as Kid, but ingenuous and impossible to dislike. None of those impressions changed as Bryan pulled out a chair, hesitated, then stuck his hand awkwardly in Jack's direction.
"You probably don't remember me, Mr. Keller," Bryan said, almost apologetically, as they shook hands, "but-"
"Of course I remember you, Bryan," Jack said. "I can still see that block you threw that sprung Kid. In that championship game…"
"Against Malloy," Bryan said, and when Jack nodded, Bryan's whole face lit up.
"Monster block," Jack said.
"I knew I always liked you, Mr. Keller," Bryan told him and Jack thought he'd never seen such a pleased grin on anyone's face.
"Doofus," Kid said now, looking in Bryan's direction, "I told you to wear a tie."
Bryan looked down at his outfit – jeans, running shoes, a muscle shirt with the words "Hanson Fitness Center" on the front, and a too-big tweedy sports jacket thrown over him – and shrugged. "I thought I looked okay," he said.
"You look fine," Jack told him and Bryan grinned sheepishly.
Jack waited until Bryan ordered – the waitress was delighted to have another opportunity to come over to the table – and then he put the manila envelope he'd been holding on top of the table. Kid, who'd given Jack his business plan three days earlier, watched nervously as Jack opened the envelope and removed a batch of papers. He smacked them down on the tablecloth, a tad flamboyantly, even he knew it, and said, "Tell me why you guys want to open a gym."
"'Cause we always have," Bryan said excitedly, enthusiastically. "Ever since we were kids-"
"Bryan," Kid said, not too sharply but pointedly enough that the bigger man looked embarrassed and immediately stopped talking. Kid turned to Jack and spoke calmly and seriously. "It's all we've ever talked about, Jack. When we were just starting to fool around with weights and when we started playing ball and, you know, learning about the body and how things worked, it's all we wanted to do. Between the two of us, we know a lot about it. I mean, you can see what the Wall" – he stopped, then nodded his head at Bryan; the Wall was clearly Kid's longtime nickname for him – "what Bryan looks like. That actually means a lot. It's inspiring for someone to come into a gym and work out with a guy like him. And I know a lot of different things: the physical therapy, different approaches to training. And now that I'm almost done with school, I've got a good idea of what's needed on the business side – how to make this whole thing work. We think there's a real market for what we have to offer: a small, personalized gym, a little upmarket, top-of-the-line equipment, top-of-the-line trainers – class." He looked around the restaurant. "Like this place."
