"So I guess that was why I put the money in the car. I wanted my father to find those boxes and not have to worry. It was stupid, Charlie, it was so incredibly stupid. I loved him so much, you know? I just wanted to-I don't know, I wanted-"
"Redemption," Charlie said, in a voice far from himself. "You wanted redemption." He was tired now, but he asked, "I don't understand why you didn't just head down to Florida as soon as you got out of prison."
"Because I don't want my mother caught in this." She lit a new cigarette. "I think Tony got me out of prison, Charlie. My sentence wasn't over yet. I think he did something with the police, paid somebody, and they just released me."
"He knows you took the money."
She nodded. "I have to assume that."
"What does Tony want now, the money or revenge?"
"Probably the money," she answered.
"Could you retrieve it and give it back?"
She didn't answer him directly but instead went to her purse and pulled out a picture. "This is what they did last week, that first night we were together. This is what was waiting for me when I went home, Charlie."
He looked at the Polaroid. A man holding the wet stump of his arm, T-shirt spattered with what looked like blood. "Who is that?"
"That's Rick."
Leave, he told himself. "Where's he now?"
"I don't know… I doubt they killed him, though."
Charlie studied the photograph, then set it aside. I need sleep, he thought. I'll deal with all this in the morning, figure out what to do next. They were safe in the hotel. He picked up the phone and requested a 6:45 wake-up. She got under the blankets. He rolled onto his side behind her. Ellie's sleeping alone, he thought sadly. Alone in her sleeping-pill dreams.
"Been a long time since I spent the night with a man," Christina murmured. "It's nice."
"You feel safe?" he asked softly.
She gathered his hand toward herself. "Starting to."
Awake, running on China time, light melting in through the window, clock said 6:15. He eased out of bed, wanting to leave now yet afraid to break the spell and rush back into his life. Teknetrix, Ellie. Back felt stiff. Needed the smelly tea. He looked at his feet-bony, chopped up on one side, cadaverous veins. He felt exhausted-sleepy, mouth sour-yet oddly alive. Get yourself into the game, Charlie. He drifted through the room. She looked small and vulnerable in the bed. He turned on the television, hitting the mute button, flashed through thirty channels, saw Dan Marino throw a touchdown pass. Still kind of missed Don Shula. He turned it off and stared at her cigarette butts. Goddammit, Charlie, he told himself, you're fifty-eight years old, you spent the night with a woman who just got out of prison, who lied to you…
He noticed the photo of the boyfriend on the table. A big guy standing there holding his wet stump. Frightening. I really should just leave, he thought. Melissa-he meant Christina-was nothing but trouble. She lay there so innocently, dead asleep, hair a mess, a knuckle against her lips. He found her bag and not-so-guiltily looked inside. A brush, some change. A cell phone. He examined the brand and smiled to himself-it probably had Teknetrix components inside. Cosmetics. Pencil. Not much. Same stuff as Ellie, probably. Women were funny about their purses-regarded them as their privates. The menu of a restaurant called the Jim-Jack. A tiny flask of perfume. His own business card, with all his work printed on it, including his cell phone. Her wallet. What was inside? No credit cards, no driver's license, just a tattered Social Security card. Nothing with her picture on it. How could that be? She'd talked a lot about driving but had no license. Do they take away your license if you go to prison? He doubted it. Nothing in the bag absolutely verified the identity of the woman on the bed.
Oh shit, he thought. Maybe the Christina name is made up, too. He retrieved her cell phone, clicked it on, and scrolled through its screen of phone numbers, a hundred or more, finding it a very strange group: pharmaceutical companies, German photo agencies, an East Side furniture dealer, a hotel in London he'd never heard of, two women's names to which "enema ok" was appended-and, all with addresses in lower Manhattan, a plumber, an electrician, a house painter, a plasterer, and a heating oil company. No one named Rick or Tony or Christina or Melissa or any of the other names she'd mentioned. I don't fucking get it, Charlie thought, putting the phone back in her bag, I'm completely lost here.
Coming up to 6:30. He remembered the Sir Henry Lai phone in the bathroom and went in and closed the door. And turned on the heater. The hum would mask his voice. Sarasota, Florida, she'd said, Anita Welles. He called information down there. There is only an A. Welles listed, said the operator. He wrote the number down. She could've made this name up, he thought. I wonder if this number really is her mother's; maybe Christina is actually Anita. The name's not so far off. Maybe A. Welles is Christina's husband, a fact that I would not mind knowing. Allan Welles. Albert Welles. And what might any of this have to do with German photo agencies? Everything she told me could have been false, Charlie decided. I need a baseline reality.
He picked up the phone again. I have the right to do this, he thought.
He punched in the Florida number. On the third ring, a woman's voice croaked, "Hello?"
"Is this the home of Christina Welles?"
"I'm her mother," came the reply.
"Anita Welles?"
"Yes. Where is she?"
"She's here in New York," said Charlie, relieved. "She's fine. I apologize about how early it is."
"Oh, I've been up an hour, sugar," said her mother agreeably, as if talking to an old friend. "Had too much coffee already. We might get another hurricane. I'm sick of them. Last one wrecked my garage. This her friend? She's been trying to reach me. Tell her I'm here, will be here all day, and I want to talk to her."
"Sure," Charlie answered, feeling much better.
"You're calling from New York, you say?"
"I'm a friend."
"She's fine?"
"She's asleep right now."
The mother was getting curious. "You sound like an older friend."
"I suppose I am." He wanted to get off the phone. "Would you like her to call you at any certain time?"
"I'll be here all day. Maybe I should call there, just so I don't miss her."
"Oh."
"May I have your number?"
He stared at the phone. Christina might not want her mother to know where she was. On the other hand, she might be glad. On the third hand, they'd be leaving the room soon anyway.
"I have a pencil," said her mother, prompting him.
He gave her the hotel number. "Ask for Suite 840."
"You tell her I can't wait to talk."
Now he stood over Christina for a few minutes, watching her affectionately. He wanted to see her naked again, especially her smooth breasts, but didn't dare pull away the sheet. The night came back to him. It'd be better for all concerned, he realized, if he just somehow forgot the sex, particularly if he wanted to be able to putter along with Ellie once a week or so, go back to old-people sex. And maybe it was better if Christina did not see him naked in the morning light.
In the bathroom, again with the door shut, he canceled the wake-up call, then dialed his apartment to see if Ellie had left a message, which she hadn't. In the game here, Charlie told himself. He showered then, letting the hot water pound him as he soaped and resoaped his crotch. He'd be walking into his apartment building unshaven, he realized, in the same clothes from the day before, but so be it. He toweled off and dressed in the steamy bathroom, and when he finally emerged, he found Christina sitting awake in the bed.