Of course, I had to clear it with Darwin. There’s no way I could keep Sherry Cherry’s whereabouts a secret without his help. In return, he expects me to go back to work for him full-time, killing suspected terrorists for Uncle Sam. I’m willing to do that, since I miss the excitement. Not to mention it’s what I do best.
Now that I’ve got my deal, the first order of business is to pay off Doc Howard and get the code, so I can protect my brain in case Darwin decides to renege on our deal.
It will all work out.
Roger’s happy. He got his family back. He was thrilled to learn that Bernard’s leg is still attached to his body. That bed with a hole in it has gotten a lot of use these past few weeks.
Back at Sensory, Doc Howard and I re-program the chip. Then I re-program it again, on my own. Then Lou and I meet to discuss Sherry Cherry.
“In a few months not only will Sherry be drug-free for the first time in twenty years, she also gets the opportunity to watch her grandchildren grow up,” I say, putting a positive spin on things.
“Lucky Sam,” Lou says, chuckling.
“Maybe they’ll bond,” I say.
The next day I escort Jane and Bernard—still sedated—back to L.A. Roger helps me get them in his house, and I leave it to him to come up with an explanation for what’s happened to them over the past ten days.
I get a hotel room on the beach in Santa Monica and take two full days to recharge my batteries. Then I order a jet to fly me to New York City for my date with Miranda. On the way there, I call Billy “the Kid” King.
“I’m on my way to New York,” I say, cheerfully.
“I’m carrying a gun,” he says.
“What kind?”
“Smith & Wesson, .357 Magnum.”
“The four-inch?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it is.”
“Well, I think you’ve made a good choice,” I say.
“Yeah, why’s that?”
“Revolvers are simple. They don’t jam, so they’re reliable. They’re small enough to carry, powerful enough to stop a man. Make sure you’ve got it with you when I see you.”
“Why?”
“I can always use another gun in my collection.”
There is dead silence on the phone.
“Billy? Are you still on the line?”
In a very small voice, Billy says, “How can I make this stop?”
“I thought you’d welcome the opportunity to see me again. Prove to your friends I was lucky the first time.”
“You weren’t lucky. I just want to be left alone.”
I think about it a minute.
“You really want me out of your life?”
“More than anything.”
“Miranda’s trying to put herself through school.”
“So?”
“If you write her a check to cover her next semester, I’ll leave you alone.”
“I can’t write a check to a hooker! What if she takes it to the police? Isn’t that what happened to Jerry Springer? I’d lose my broker’s license!”
“You make a good point. Pay her in cash. Fifty grand.”
“What? That’s insane!”
“No, seriously. Tuition, books, study materials—I don’t know how parents do it these days. Student loans, I guess. But Miranda’s trying to avoid all that.”
“By shaking me down.”
“You’re the one that punched her, Billy.”
“We were being playful. Things got out of hand.”
“Right.”
We were quiet a moment. Then I said, “So, you want me to pick it up personally?”
“Can we do it another way?”
“You know Guy at the gym? Z’s friend?”
“Yeah.”
“Put the cash in a duffle and give it to him.”
“I don’t want the guys in the gym to know about this.”
“That makes sense. Tell you what. I’m staying at the Pierre. Put the cash in a box, wrap it like a birthday present, and leave it at the front desk for me.”
“How do I know you’ll give it to the hooker?”
“Does it really matter?”
“What if you take the money and claim I never brought it?”
“Billy, listen to me. I’m a billionaire. I’d rather break your nose every time I come to town than steal your money. You asked what it would take for me to go away, and I’ve told you. But there’s one caveat.”
“What now?”
“You have to promise to stay away from her.”
“No problem.”
“I’m serious, Billy.”
“Me too.”
“No running into her, no booking her under an assumed name, no following her around.”
“The bitch is nothing but trouble. I never want to see her again.”
“In that case, we’ve got a deal.”
“What time should I bring the box?”
“Anytime tomorrow before five p.m. Surprise me.”
“You trust the front desk?”
“Billy. It’s the Pierre.”
“Okay.”
47.
Miranda Rodriguez looks like a million dollars. Then again, I love watching a gorgeous girl dig into a sixteen-ounce prime strip steak and a side of skillet potatoes and onions.
“Are we really going to see Jersey Boys tonight?” she says.
“We are.”
“That is so cool!”
Cool. Sometimes, when I forget I’m twice her age, she brings me back to reality with a single word like “cool.” She’s trying to say the right thing, but “awesome” is what she’d say if I were her age. “Cool” doesn’t sound right, coming from her twenty-year-old throat. I catch myself wondering what Rachel would have said, and come up with nothing. Because the fact is, Rachel is exactly what she claimed to be that very first day we had sex: unpredictable.
We’re at Del Frisco’s in Midtown, and my favorite waiter, Rob, is working hard to make me look good in front of my date. He brings us a couple of pineapple-infused vodka martinis. Miranda takes a sip and swoons.
“Oh…my…God!” she says. “This is to die for!”
She’s wearing the low-cut burgundy petal dress I bought her earlier this afternoon. After spending an hour trying to find matching shoes, I talked her into a pair of black (“goes with anything”) triple-platform strappy sandals with 5 ¾ inch heels that make her six feet tall.
“Do your feet hurt yet?” I ask.
“If they start to, I’ll deal with it,” she says, with a wink.
Normally I wouldn’t put a lady in such a pair of shoes. But the way her eyes lit up this afternoon when lifting the display shoe to inspect it, rendered me incapable of saying no.
“There are only so many years you can wear something like that,” I say. “May as well enjoy it while you can.”
Miranda doesn’t know it yet, but there’s a comfortable pair of black sandals in the box Billy left for me at the front desk. I opened it earlier, to check the contents, and tossed the shoes in as an afterthought. I’ll give her the present after the show, when her feet are killing her. The fifty grand should have a soothing effect as well.
“You’re pensive,” she says. “Anything wrong? Please say no!”
I smile. “That dress looks fantastic on you.”
“Wait till you see how it looks on the floor tonight,” she purrs.
I already know how it’s going to go. We’ll have a great time at the show, we’ll go to her place afterward, and she’ll be overwhelmed by the cash. She’ll say and do all the right things. When we start having sex, she’ll pretend I’m a stallion. She’ll start whimpering that breath-catching sound Hollywood taught women to identify with orgasm. It’ll start with a low moan, and build to a crescendo worthy of a porn star. She’ll throw in a few “Oh, God’s” and maybe call out my name. I start to say something about all this, and then change my mind.
“I’m sorry,” Miranda says. “I didn’t hear you.”
I had started to say, If we wind up in bed tonight, will you do me a favor? And she would have said, Of course. And I would have said, Could you be perfectly quiet while we have sex? And she would have said, Of course. And the fact that she wouldn’t have asked me why, or gotten the least bit offended about my asking, is why I decided not to pose the question in the first place. Because each brick of predictability might eventually pile up and make a wall between us.