Quiver

by Peter Leonard

  DeJuan looked through the windshield at Bed Bath amp; Beyond in the distance and said, “What’s up? Need help picking out sheets and towels?”

  “I want you to kill my wife.” He said it like he meant it. Had a serious look on his face.

  DeJuan said, “Love is a bitch, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll pay you ten grand, but you’ve got to make it look like an accident.”

  “Accident? Nobody said nothing about no accident.” DeJuan pulled the SigSauer, aimed it at Marty, said, “Boom! Was just going to pop her like that, drop her like that.” DeJuan thinking it sounded like lyrics to a rap song.

  Marty put his hands up like he was going to catch the bullet, said, “Hey, what’re you doing?”

  “Be cool, Marty, not going to shoot you. Only illustrating a point, is all.”

  Marty put his hands down now and let out a breath. Looked relieved.

  DeJuan slid the Sig back in the waistband of his Sean John denims. He said, “Make it look like an accident, a lot more difficult. Going to cost you more.”

  Marty said, “How much more?”

  “What do you care? You rich.”

  DeJuan found out-following the man-Marty was a Mormon. He wasn’t just your average Mormon either; man was bishop of the temple on Woodward Avenue, looked like a mausoleum, all decked out in white marble.

  It occurred to him somewhere in the back of his mind-Mormons were the dudes had all the wives. Part of it sounded good, DeJuan picturing a harem, man. Ladies dressed up, having cocktails, waiting for him to come home. He walk in, check ’em out, pick the one he want to get naughty with. I’ll take Shirela over there with the big knock-knocks, feel like some African trim tonight. Or maybe take Shirela and LaRita, get a doublay on a singlay going.

  But part of it sounded bad. DeJuan thinking about all the ladies in the harem on the rag at the same time, PMS hanging over his head like a cloud of doom. No, on second thought, he didn’t want no harem, stick to his current arrangement, pay for what you want, never have a problem.

  Marty live on a street called Martell and man they had some cribs in that ’hood. Houses look like small hotels, department stores. He found Marty’s, a modern, single-story place built up on a hill, tennis court out front. DeJuan pulled up in the driveway. Could see the whole house now and it was big, kept going across a long stretch of yard. Man had a four-car garage with coach lights over the individual doors, had an oriental garden with a pond, little pagoda building look like a Chinese restaurant sitting out there.

  He knew nobody was home. Marty was at his company in downtown Birmingham, had a whole floor in a big building called Martin Smith Securities. Named after the man’s grandfather. DeJuan checked it out on the Internet, had a whole story about the grandfather going through the Depression with nothing and starting the business with a three-hundred-dollar loan.

  Shelly, Marty’s wife, was getting her weekly massage, must’ve had a lot of stress in her life living in this 7,500-square-foot shack, only had help four days a week. Marty telling him her routine: lunch and bridge and tennis and shopping, home between three and four, and telling him it had to be today ’cause the maids didn’t come on Thursday. Or he’d have to wait another week.

  DeJuan pulled up in the driveway behind the house, pushed a button in the car Marty told him to push, and the garage door farthest from the house started to go up. He drove Marty’s silver Benz in, pressed the button and watched the door go down. Marty said if DeJuan took his own car people might notice. DeJuan could see his point. Probably weren’t many gold metalflake Malibu lowriders in the neighborhood.

  He opened the door to the house, went through the kitchen, reminded him of the kitchen at Brownie’s, where he was a busser, worked his way up to greeter, which was sort of like acting, putting on a fake smile and fake enthusiasm as he greeted people coming in the door-same kind of stove. Remembered the name Viking and the little Viking dude on it. Problem was, everybody was fat and everybody wanted a view of the lake. He’d take these four whales to their table, they’d say, “What about that one over there,” pointing to a table wasn’t bussed yet. Or they’d say, “Don’t you have anything closer to the lake?” DeJuan wanted to say, “Get a carryout, go sit in the water have your meal. That be close enough?”

  He liked to watch the looks on they faces as the food came, like junkies, man, couldn’t wait to stuff those perch sandwiches in their mouths.

  Why they have a kitchen that big? And Shelly, Marty say, don’t cook. He went through the dining room and living room. Was a Japanese sword hanging on the wall, looked like the Hattori Hanzo sword the Bride used in Kill Bill. DeJuan picked it up, slid the blade out the case. The metal glimmered. He felt the edge, see if it was sharp. Sharp? Could’ve shaved with it. He gripped the handle with two hands and slashed the air the way he’d seen ninjas do in movies. “Hey, motherfucker, want some of this?” He moved now, attacking three imaginary dudes, thrusting and slashing the sword, the blade making a swishing noise as it cut through the air.

  DeJuan carried the sword around the living room looking at things. On one side of the room was a wall of glass that looked out on the backyard, and a sliding door that opened to a walkway that led to the pond and the pagoda. Furniture looked oriental, too. Black lacquered tables with oriental figures, Japanese bitches in kimonos and ninjas with swords. More Jap warriors in pictures on the wall, DeJuan trying to figure out what the connection was with this Mormon dude and all this Japanese shit.

  He moved through the living room into an office, had a desk and a leather couch and chairs arranged for people to sit and talk. On the desktop was a framed shot of Marty posing with a good-looking dark-haired girl. Next to it was the Book of Mormon. DeJuan laid the sword on the desk, picked up the book and opened to a page, said: The First Epistle of Paul and the Apostle to the Corinthians-Chapter 15.

  DeJuan read-read it in a voice trying to sound like the preacher of the First Baptist Church, where his grandmother had took him when he was about ten, his mother smoking rock pretty serious by then, disappearing for days at a time. “1. moreover, brethren, I declare unto you the gospel which I preached unto you, which also ye have received, and wherin ye stand.” Huh? Didn’t understand why someone use words like moreover and wherin. Why not say in addition and where, make it easy on the reader? He closed the book, checked out the pictures on the walls. One called Joseph Smith’s First Vision showed two angel-looking dudes with light behind them appearing to a young white dude. DeJuan wondering if this Joseph Smith was related to Marty. There was another picture showing a caravan of

  Mormons in covered wagons. A line under it said: Crossing the Great Plains in 1847.

  He heard something, looked out the window across the backyard, saw a car pull in and park, a Jag. Good-looking woman-twin of the one in the picture with Marty-got out the car, went toward the house.

  DeJuan stood at the door to the office with the sword pointed straight down, tip of the blade buried in the black wool carpeting, listening, heard her in the kitchen, sounded like the refrigerator door closing. Watched her cut through the living room and head down a hallway to the bedrooms.

  Now he stood outside the bathroom door in Shelly’s pink bedroom, listening to the water running in the shower. Should he go in now, drown Shell-bell in the bathtub? Hit her over the head, make it look like she fall in the shower? DeJuan thinking, he could do that, sure, but he was curious about her and Marty. Sleeping in their own bedrooms, his down the hall, no mistake about it, shit everywhere. He’d’ve thought Marty’d be neater. Man was a pig.

  He checked out Shelly’s dressing room, boxes of shoes stacked to the ceiling, name Manolo Blahnik on most of them and Jimmy Choo. Boxes of hats, too, and twenty feet of dresses and shit on hangers. He heard the shower turn off, went back in the bedroom.

  He was sitting on the black-lacquered, four-post queen-size bed when Shelly opened the bathroom door, came out in a white robe, hair wrapped turban-style in a white towel, letting out a cloud
of steam.

  She fixed her gaze on DeJuan as if she was expecting him to be there and said, “Whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it.”

  DeJuan wasn’t expecting that. “Why he want to get rid of you, good-looking woman like yourself?”

  “I get in the way,” Shelly said.

  DeJuan said, “Want me to reverse the contract, that what you’re saying?”

  “What’s he paying you?”

  “Twenty grand.” DeJuan thinking, she don’t know the going rate for assassinations currently, trying for the long dollar.

  “He try to bargain with you?”

  “Not that I recall,” DeJuan said.

  “You’re lucky. Marty’s worth millions, he makes the maids reimburse him for phone calls.”

  DeJuan said, “You don’t look like you’re doing too bad.”

  “I can pay you thirty.”

  “Seems fair, under the circumstances,” DeJuan said. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  NINE

  Jack stood against the railing-Somerset Collection, second level-looking down at all the glitzy storefronts and the parade of shoppers, everyone carrying a coffee cup or bottle of water. When did that start? He remembered his sister telling him to stay hydrated. Huh? He didn’t know what she was talking about but got it now. Everybody drinking water, carrying bottles with them so they wouldn’t die of thirst on the way to the mall.

  He saw a blond come out of a store called Williams Sonoma with a shopping bag in her hand and move past Gucci, stopping to look in the window, either at herself or a leather jacket on display. He watched her go into Barnes amp; Noble and took the escalator down to the first floor. He went in and couldn’t believe how many people were in there buying books, Jesus. It was packed. He tried to remember the last book he’d read and thought it was Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger, that much he seemed to recall, pausing now, trying to come up with the story line: A guy named Holden went to New York to find himself. Jack thinking the way he’d gone to Tucson. Only he couldn’t remember Holden Caulfield committing armed robbery and spending thirty-eight months in prison.

  He looked around; it was the biggest bookstore he’d ever seen. Dozens of people buying books and drinking coffee. He saw her in the section called New Releases. Recognized a couple names like John Grisham and Stephen King but had never heard of most of the others: Mary Higgins Clark, Patricia Cornwell, or Sue Grafton.

  He moved closer and studied her face. She looked older. Who didn’t? But she was still a knockout. Her hair different, cut shorter, and that’s what threw him at first. She’d had shoulder-length blond hair the last time he’d seen her and he couldn’t imagine her ever changing it. But that was sixteen years ago. He’d changed too. Thirty pounds heavier now, at least, and his hair was thinner on top at age thirty-eight.

  Nothing to panic about yet: girls still checked him out when he walked into a room-even in a khaki janitor outfit-he discovered his first day out of prison at a grocery store in Tucson.

  When he glanced over, she was gone. He scanned the checkout line, the coffee bar. Ran out of the store, looked down the mall concourse, first one way, then the other. Saw her, just a brief glimpse, walking into a store.

  He felt strange going into Victoria’s Secret, seeing all the negligees and female underthings. He saw her shuffling through a rack of pajamas and moved in close, holding up a skimpy negligee. “I think you’d look better in this.”

  She turned and looked at him, did a double take and said, “Jack …?”

  “It is you,” he said. “I wasn’t sure.”

  They moved toward each other and hugged. It was awkward. He held her too long and she pulled away from him and seemed nervous.

  They had lunch at P F Chang’s, sitting across the table from each other in a booth after sixteen years. It felt odd and confining. Kate glanced at the menu, then at Jack. “What’re you going to have?”

  “Sweet-and-sour chicken. It’s the only thing on the menu I’ve ever heard of.”

  He looked older, his face fuller and heavier, hair starting to go gray.

  They ordered.

  Jack looked at her and smiled and said, “It’s good to see you. You haven’t changed, it’s amazing.”

  Kate looked down at the table. She was nervous, like it was their first date.

  The waiter brought their drinks-tea for her and a Kirin for him-and left. Kate picked up the teapot and poured tea in her cup. She told him about Owen dying in a freak accident and about her son Luke.

  Jack said, “How old is he?”

  Kate said, “Sixteen.” She sipped her tea.

  “You didn’t waste any time, did you?”

  “You went out to get beer and cigarettes and never came back,” Kate said. “What did you expect? I thought you were dead or in the hospital.” She could feel herself getting angry again, reliving it.

  “I called,” Jack said.

  He picked up the beer bottle and took a sip.

  “What-two weeks later.”

  “You thought you were pregnant, I-”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Still pissed at me?”

  The waiter came and served their lunch, put a plate of seared ahi tuna in front of her and sweet-and-sour chicken in front of him.

  When the waiter left, she said, “John Lennon did the same thing to Yoko, although they got back together a year or so later.”

  Jack said, “How do you know we won’t?”

  He reached over and touched her hand, and she pulled it away.

  Jack said, “What’s the matter?”

  Kate sipped her green tea, staring at him over the edge of the cup.

  “Believe it or not,” Jack said, “I always thought we’d hook up again. I read this article about couples who dated in high school and college, broke up and ended up together twenty, thirty years later. It’s called fate or kismet.”

  “You’re not going to tell me your sign, are you?” He sounded like he was picking up where he left off.

  Jack met her gaze.

  She said, “What do you want?”

  He sipped his beer, speared a piece of chicken with his fork and looked at her.

  “Don’t tell me you happened to walk into Victoria’s Secret and saw me standing there after sixteen years, and call it fate or kismet.”

  “I parked in front of your house and waited till you came down the driveway in your Land Rover.”

  “How’d you find my house?” She looked down at the plate of seared tuna and wasn’t hungry now.

  “The phone book,” Jack said.

  “Come on.”

  Jack grinned. “You’re right,” he said. “I saw the article about Owen in USA Today and I knew at that moment I had to come back here and see you. I wanted to do it right away, but I knew you’d need some time to sort things out.”

  “You think because it’s been seven months,” Kate said, “everything’s okay now? I’m over him? That’s all the time I get?” She was angry and couldn’t stop herself.

  “I didn’t mean that,” Jack said. “Take all the time you want.” He took a bite of chicken.

  “You sure?” She said it with the same angry tone.

  “I just wanted to see if I could help you,” Jack said.

  “I don’t need help,” Kate said. “I’m okay.”

  “Yeah, you’re tough, aren’t you?”

  She looked at him and he looked away. Moved the food on his plate around with his fork.

  “You did well for yourself,” Jack said. “Better than if we’d have stayed together.”

  “Still down on your luck, huh?”

  “Is that the way you see me?”

  “That’s all I remember,” she said, thinking about the night they walked out of the Pretzel Bell after dinner and saw an Ann Arbor cop car, lights flashing, double-parked next to the BMW he’d picked her up in. Kate asked him what was going on and he told her he just got the car but hadn’t had time to register the license plate.

&n
bsp; She said, “Well aren’t you going to tell the cop?”

  He said, no, they could arrest him on a misdemeanor charge. He’d wait till they got the paperwork straightened out and then claim the car.

  It sounded believable the way he said it at the time, but in retrospect, it was total bullshit. It was a year or so later that she found out he stole cars and sold them to a theft ring. That’s how he made his money. That, and selling weed.

  She said at the time, “Were you going to tell me?”

  He said, “What, that I steal cars? Are you kidding?”

  Getting away from Jack was one of the big reasons she joined the Peace Corps. But he was also the person she called for help when she was in trouble in Guatemala. He didn’t hesitate-flew down and took charge. He got a black-market US passport for Marina, and he knew a pilot who made regular runs from South Florida to Bogota and arranged to have them picked up in Guatemala City and flown to Miami.

  They got back together again after that, Kate feeling a sense of loyalty that lasted till he left town six months later.

  She’d always been attracted to him and still was, staring at him across the table, thinking he looked like a movie star, a cross between George Clooney and Matt Dillon. But he was trouble.

  Jack said, “I still have dreams about you.”

  “Stop it, will you?” she said, raising her voice.

  A foursome of women at the next booth looked over at them.

  “Take it easy,” Jack said. He drank his beer.

  “You show up after sixteen years and think you can pick it right back up, huh? It doesn’t work that way.”

  “Tell me how it works,” Jack said. “What’re the rules?”

  “You sound like your old self,” Kate said. “The Jack Curran I remember.”

  He sat there staring at her but didn’t say anything. Kate poured more tea in her cup from a ceramic pitcher with a wicker handle. She decided to change the subject. “Are you married?”