“And then what?”
“Then we live happily ever after.”
“That’s bullshit, Veronica. You know better than that. If all you want is some man, you could have had plenty. What’s the difference whether you’re dependent on a drug or dependent on a man? There isn’t any, and you know it.”
Veronica thought of Jerry, who would take her away if she would only let him. “Why do you care what happens to me?”
Hannah walked over to the window and looked out at the street. “When you walked in here I saw myself, six years ago. There’s a fire in you. A heat. Sexual, emotional, spiritual. It’s been too much for you, all your life. You had to use heroin to keep it from eating you up.” She turned and looked Veronica in the eyes. “I want that fire. I want all you have. The two of us, together, burning until we burn each other up.”
Veronica could not get her breath. She stood up, feeling the fabric of her sweater move against her tight, aching nipples. She walked to the door and locked it. The pressure of her jeans between her legs was maddening. She kicked off her shoes and pulled the sweater over her head.
“Show me,” she said.
At fifteen she’d been in love with an eighteen-year-old pachuco, had fucked him at every possible opportunity, in the backseat of his car, in the park, once in the stairwell of her high school. It was always quick and brutal, and afterward she went home to her empty room. There she could think about the boy and make herself come with her fingers, the way she could never come when he was inside her.
Since then she’d had sex with hundreds of men. None of them had made her come either, not even Fortunato, and as for love, she’d convinced herself it was just another lie.
Hannah changed all of that. They made love five or six times a day. It was all so equal. For everything of Hannah’s there was something of Veronica’s. Afterward they slept in each other’s arms. Under Hannah’s gentle hands and tongue, Veronica found a responsiveness she didn’t think was possible, not for anyone.
“Women don’t come from having men inside them,” Hannah told her. “I’ve read in books that we’re supposed to, I’ve heard there are women who do. But I’ve never talked to one of them. Every woman I’ve ever talked to needs something more.”
“More,” Veronica said. “I want more.”
She only left Hannah’s apartment long enough to score her daily methadone. She wore Hannah’s clothes, when she bothered to wear clothes at all. She did what Croyd had told her to. She stopped fighting and immersed herself in sensation: the smell and feel and taste of Hannah’s body, the exotic foods and teas that Hannah prepared for her, the long nights of physical and emotional intimacy where nothing was forbidden.
Almost nothing, anyway. Veronica found herself talking for hours about her childhood, the terrors of Catholic school, the tangled genealogy of her aunts and uncles and cousins, the hypocrisy of Catholic sexuality in which teenaged girls routinely gave blow jobs but recoiled in horror from the thought of losing their sacred virginity.
It was Hannah that held back. She talked about her childhood, her ex-husband, her parents. She was an imaginative and enthusiastic lover, afraid of nothing. She had Veronica reading about addiction and feminism and Marxism and vegetarianism and everything else that was a part of her life. But she never explained the transition, the years between her drunken marriage and her sober counseling job.
There were hints. She had been part of some kind of radical feminist group. She never mentioned the name. “They believed in a lot of things I wasn’t comfortable with,” was all she would say.
“What sort of things?”
“Things that might appeal to somebody who was still full of anger and bitterness. Things you have to outgrow if you’re going to get anywhere.”
Veronica assumed she was talking about violence. Bombing or assassination or something else illegal. And because Hannah didn’t want to talk about it, Veronica left it alone.
Veronica was the first to say “I love you.”
It was dawn. They lay side by side, their hands between each other’s legs, lips just touching. The pleasure was so strong that the words came out without her quite meaning them to. Hannah held her tightly and said, “It scares me when you say that. People use the word ‘love’ on each other like a weapon. I don’t want that to happen to us.”
“I love you anyway. Whatever you say. Whether you like it or not.”
Hannah pulled far enough away to look into her eyes. “I love you, too.”
“I want to kick the methadone. I want to get clean.”
“Okay.”
“I mean now. Starting today.”
“It’ll be ugly. I can get you drugs to help, but it’s going to tear you apart. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”
“It’s what I want.”
“Give it one more week. We need to get out a little, get you back into the world. If you still want to do it next week, then we’ll try it.”
That afternoon they went to a movie together. They held hands like teenagers. At dinner afterward, over Chinese food, Hannah said, “I think you should bring some of your things over. Clothes and things. You know. And your cat.”
“You mean move in.”
“I guess that’s what I’m saying.”
“I think I would like to do that,” Veronica said. She dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. They both pretended not to see the tears. “What do I tell Ichiko?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“You’re going into counselor mode again.”
Hannah shrugged.
“I guess I tell her I’m moving out. That I’m through. I think she’s probably figured that out already.”
In fact Ichiko had. “I hope you will be very happy,” she said. She hugged Veronica. “I can see already that you are. Here’s a little money to make things easier.” The amount on the check was larger than Veronica had any reason to expect. “Your trust fund, plus a little extra from me.”
“I don’t know.…”
“Take it,” Ichiko said. “Times are changing. I don’t feel so good about this business, the way I used to. I look around, I see all this hatred. They hate jokers and aces. When I first came to this country, they hated me for being Japanese. Fortunato’s father had to hide us during the Pacific War so they wouldn’t put us into camps. People afraid of each other, hurting each other. My geishas don’t help that anymore. When a man uses a woman, it doesn’t make him a better man. Any more than having black people for slaves made white people better. In the end they only come to hate each other.”
“What are you saying? Are you going to close down the business?”
Ichiko shrugged. “It’s something I think about, more and more. There is all this pressure on me, these gangsters and big-money men wanting to take over the business. If I close down, they will go away and leave me alone. I have enough money. Who cares about money anyway?” She pushed the check toward Veronica again, and this time Veronica took it. “You go and be happy and find love where you can.”
Veronica went upstairs and finished packing. Eventually she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer and knocked on the door of her mother’s room.
Miranda had heard most of it from Ichiko, and what she hadn’t heard she’d figured out for herself. She took Veronica’s hands and held them both for a long time without saying anything. Finally she said, “You know I don’t care that you’re in love with a woman and not a man. You know I’m happy you’re giving up … the Life. I never wanted that for you in the first place.” She sighed. “Just be careful, darling, please. You’ve only known this woman for what, not even two weeks?”
Veronica pulled her hands away and stood up. “Mother, for God’s sake.”
“I’m not trying to rain on your parade—”
“Yes, you are. That’s exactly what you’re trying to do.”
“I’m just saying you don’t know her very well. I want this to work out for you, really I do, but it may not, and�
�”
“Save it,” Veronica said. “I don’t want to hear it. Just once, be happy that I’m happy. And if you can’t, then keep your mouth shut about it.” She walked out and slammed the door and took her things down to the cab where Hannah waited.
On the ride home, with Liz huddled nervously on her lap, Veronica started to shake.
“Are you okay?” Hannah asked her. “Did you get your methadone today?”
“I took it,” Veronica said. “It’s not that.” Though the symptoms were much the same. She felt clammy and her bowels were knotted up. “I’m scared, that’s all.”
Hannah put her arms around her. “Scared? What are you afraid of?”
“I have my whole life in front of me. It’s just out there, waiting. I don’t know what to do with it.”
“You live it,” Hannah said. “That’s all. One day at a time.”
The next afternoon they walked down Fifth Avenue, looking in the windows. Veronica stopped in front of a blue-sequined strapless gown in the window of Sak’s. “God,” she said. “How gorgeous.”
Hannah took her arm and led her away, smiling. “And how politically incorrect. That’s just a harness men put you in. Come on. Let’s get this money of yours in the bank before it turns to fairy dust or something.”
They walked down to the Chase Manhattan and went in. There was a single line, marked off with red velvet ropes, for the Paying and Receiving tellers. Veronica stepped up to the back of the line, already six people long, and two more moved in behind her.
“I’m going to walk around,” Hannah said. “I hate lines. They make me claustrophobic.”
There was a nervousness in Hannah’s eyes Veronica had never seen before. She remembered what her mother had said, realized how little, in fact, she knew this woman she was in love with. “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“No,” she said, her smile flickering like a bad fluorescent bulb. “I’m not.” She stepped over the velvet rope and wandered off into the open part of the lobby. Veronica couldn’t help noticing a good-looking blond kid a few feet away from her, filling out some kind of form at the service counter. Hannah saw him, too, and turned for a second look.
Veronica felt a stab of jealousy. The kid was in his late teens, dressed in expensive khaki pants, loafers, and a V-necked sweater with nothing underneath. He had a long black coat draped casually over one arm. His hair fell over his ears and collar and he had the start of a five-o’clock shadow. There was an effortless sexuality about him that was obvious to everyone around him.
Hannah smiled and shook her head. It looked like she was smiling at herself rather than the kid. She started to walk away. The man in line behind Veronica cleared his throat noisily. Veronica looked up, saw the line had moved, took up the slack. She looked back at Hannah just in time to see her stagger.
“Hannah…?” Veronica said.
Hannah caught her balance and took a couple of hesitant steps. It was like her shoes had heels that were too high for her. But Hannah never wore high heels. She turned and looked at Veronica.
Her eyes were wrong. There was something crazy in them, and in the way she smiled. Veronica looked at the long line that stretched out behind her. She didn’t want to lose her place, but if something was really wrong …
Suddenly Hannah began to run.
It was clumsy and slow, but it took the security guard by surprise. Hannah had the gun out of his holster and pointed at his head before he knew what was happening.
“Hannah!” Veronica screamed.
The gun kicked in Hannah’s hand. The shot boomed off the marble walls and the room went silent for a long second afterward. The bullet threw the guard against the wall, his face collapsed around the black hole in his cheek. He left a long red smear against the pale stone of the wall as he slumped to the floor.
Veronica tried to jump the velvet rope and caught her foot. Hannah turned toward her as she fell and fired again, the bullet howling over Veronica’s head. The silence gave way to screams and shouts of panic. An alarm went off, barely audible over the rest of the noise. The customers, most of them men in dark suits, ran for the doors. Hannah spun around to watch, a hideous joy on her face.
Veronica got her legs under her and ran at Hannah. Guards converged from all over the building, guns out. One of them shouted at Veronica, something like, “Hey, lady, stay down!” Another guard fired a shot over Hannah’s head and Hannah fired back at him, twice.
By then Veronica was in the air.
She tackled Hannah around the waist and they slid across the polished floor. The gun came loose and skittered away. With the strength of absolute fear she pinned Hannah’s arms above her head. “It’s me, goddammit!” Veronica yelled. “What’s wrong with you?”
Across the lobby a body hit the floor.
It was the blond kid in the sweater. He seemed stunned, paralyzed, as if he’d had a stroke. His face was distorted with terror and something else, some kind of alien presence. He started to raise one hand to his face, then jerked forward like a fumbled puppet.
And then, just as the guards swarmed over them, Veronica saw the light come back into Hannah’s eyes. Her mouth moved, but no sound came out. Two pairs of hands pulled Veronica away. Two more bank guards and an NYPD cop shoved gun barrels into Hannah’s face, screaming at her not to move. In seconds they had her in handcuffs and out the door.
Veronica tried to get loose and the guards tightened their hold. She strained to find the blond kid in the crowd.
He was gone.
They took her to the precinct station in a squad car. At first they just wanted her story, over and over. Veronica told them she and Hannah were roommates, told them about the heroin, about the check she’d been taking to the bank. When they asked her what happened there, she told them she didn’t know. “It wasn’t Hannah,” she said.
“We’ve got a dozen witnesses that say it was.”
“I mean, it wasn’t her inside her body. It was like she was … I don’t know. Possessed.”
“Possessed? The devil made her do it?”
“I don’t know.”
She told the story again and again, until the words lost all meaning.
Then a cop in a suit came out of the darkness and said, “What do you know about a bunch that calls itself WORSE?”
“I never heard of them. Can I have a glass of water?”
“In a minute. Can you tell me what the initials stand for?”
“I told you, I never—”
“Women’s Organization to Reach Sexual Equality. Now does it ring a bell?”
“No, I—”
“Last year there was a riot outside an abortion clinic. These people from WORSE sent five protesters and a cop to the hospital.”
“Good for them,” Veronica said.
“The cop died. Now do you think it’s funny? There’s at least seven incidents in the last year where these women have provoked violence in the streets. One of the people they’ve got it in for is your old employer. Fortunato.”
“What’s that got to do with Hannah?”
“Not much. She’s only the president.”
“What? That’s impossible.”
“I guess you know everything about her, right? How long did you say you’ve known her? Ten days?”
“She said she had nothing to do with those people anymore.”
“You just said you’d never heard of WORSE.”
“She never mentioned the name. She said she used to be part of some radical organization, but she didn’t agree with their methods. She said it was over a long time ago.”
A little man with pattern baldness and glasses said, “She’s clean, Lou. She’s telling the truth.” The man was a low-grade ace, the weakest sort of telepath. The cops had ten or fifteen on staff to use as lie detectors.
“To hell with it, then,” the man in the suit said. “We’re cutting you loose. But I don’t want you away from a phone where I can find you for more than an hour at a time. You got that?”
“I want to see her,” Veronica said.
“Forget it. Her lawyer’s there. That’s all she gets.”
“Who’s her lawyer?”
The man in the suit sighed. “Bud?”
One of the cops looked through the file. “Lawyer’s name is Mundy.” He whistled. “From Latham, Strauss. Hot stuff.”
“Now get out of here,” the man in the suit said.
Two uniformed cops gave her a ride home, then followed her inside. They had a warrant, signed and sealed. She sat on the floor and watched them as they took the apartment apart. One of them found the sexual toys in the drawer by the bed. He held up the wooden ben wa balls for his partner to see, then looked over at Veronica.
“Fuck you,” Veronica said, blushing, close to tears. “Leave that stuff alone.”
The cop shrugged and put the balls away. Finally they left. Veronica had watched them carefully. There was nothing in the apartment, not a single piece of evidence, to connect Hannah to WORSE.
As soon as they were gone, she called Latham, Strauss. The answering service took her number. She hung up and moved restlessly through the house, putting the Plexiglas-framed drawings back on the walls, refolding clothes and putting them in the drawers, wiping down the cabinets.
The phone rang.
“Veronica? This is Dyan Mundy.”
“Thank God.”
“I was about to call you when I got your message. Hannah asked me to. She wanted you to know she’s okay, they haven’t hurt her.” The woman’s voice exuded confidence, control, a kind of artificial warmth. Veronica visualized chin-length blond hair, gold rings, three strands of pearls. “There’s no way I can get you in to see her just now. She understands that, and sends you her love.”
Tears ran down Veronica’s cheeks. “What happened? Did she say what happened?”
“She tried to explain, but frankly, her story doesn’t make much sense. She apparently had some kind of out-of-body experience. She felt this shock and disorientation and then she was suddenly off to the side somewhere. Watched herself shoot the guard as if from a great distance. I don’t know how well that’s going to play in court. Do you know if she’s ever been treated for an emotional disturbance? Is there any history of it in her family?”
Wild Cards VIII: One-Eyed Jacks Page 13
