“You have got to tell me what happened back there,” she says.
We’re in her limo, heading to her hotel so we can, ahem, do the deed.
She adds, “When Sal said he was in on the heroin deal I thought we were dead in the water.”
“We would have been, but you saved us.”
“How?”
“Last night you failed to create a backup plan to escape Frankie’s closet.”
“So?”
“It made me re-think our backup plan for explaining why we killed Frankie.”
“Why?”
“My real reason for killing Frankie was to protect Sal. I thought he’d be furious at Sal for ordering a hit on his wife. So that was the main reason, and you tortured Frankie so we could have a backup reason. But something you said last night made me think Frankie already knew Angie was getting whacked.”
“Something I said?”
“You said it to Frankie.”
“Tell me.”
“After torturing Frankie a long time you said, ‘You know what really pisses me off? You haven’t even asked about Angie.’”
“Ah,” she says. “He didn’t ask about her because he assumed she was already dead. Because he knew I was there to kill her.”
“That’s what it sounded like to me. Plus the fact he lingered in the garage a while when she walked in the door.”
“So the real reason was no longer a valid one.”
“Right. So now the heroin deal became our reason for whacking him.”
“Which left us without a backup reason.”
“Exactly.”
She says, “So how did you make all this happen overnight?”
“The geeks worked all morning on it. That’s the reason I was late getting to Cincy.”
“I understand that. But the geeks couldn’t manufacture the tapes out of thin air.”
“No.”
She gives me an exasperated look. “So how did you manage to get the tapes?”
“I cashed in part of my life insurance,” I say.
“Donovan.”
“Huh?”
“This business about how you tell a little at a time to build up the suspense?”
“Yeah?”
“This shit needs to stop. You make me want to shove my hand down your throat to pull out the next word. Do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“From now on, when I ask you something, cough out the entire hairball at once.”
“I’ve been taping Sal for years. I’ve got hundreds of them.”
“How’s that possible? You heard him. He sweeps his office for bugs twice a week.”
I laugh. “Cheech comes in, runs a fancy wand around the rooms, tells Sal everything checks out.”
“Why would he lie?”
“He’s on my payroll.”
She smiles. “You never cease to amaze me.”
“Wait till we get to your hotel room!”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“That’s mighty big talk for an older guy. Is there something I should know?”
“Like what?”
“Are you hiding a monster in your jeans?”
“It’s not the size of the sword that counts,” I say. “It’s the fury of the attack.”
42.
“THE MOMENT OF truth!” Callie says, as we enter the room. “Are you ready?”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been ready for ten years!”
She laughs. “You’ve only known me for eight.”
“Yeah, but I spent two years dreaming about meeting someone like you.”
“And now you have. What’s left unsaid? Anything?”
“Just this: you’re the most beautiful, exciting woman I’ve ever met. And I adore you.”
She sits on the bed, kicks off her shoes, and suddenly suffers a sort of winking spasm in her right eye.
“You okay?”
“Of course. Why, what does it look like?”
She does it again.
“Like you’ve got an eyelash caught in your eye?”
She laughs. “I was trying to give you a come-hither look?”
“Come hither?”
“A sexual rallying cry. A call to action.”
“Do it again.”
She does.
I say, “Got it. Next time I see it, I’ll know what to do!”
“Wait,” she says. “What if we’re at a party and I actually do have an eyelash in my eye?”
“It would certainly liven up the party!”
“Perhaps a verbal cue would be better,” she says.
She pats the space on the bed beside her and says, “Come hither, Romeo.” Then adds, “How’s that?”
“Works for me!” I say.
I kick off my shoes.
“Enough foreplay,” she says. “Take me now!”
She lies down on her back in the center of the bed, spreads her legs, pulls up her sundress.
“What happened to your panties?”
She dangles them from her hand.
“When did you-”
“Do you really care?”
I sit on the side of the bed and lean over her, intending to plant a little kiss on her vertical smile when it suddenly happens.
An explosion.
Then a pause.
Then another explosion.
I’m so disoriented by the suddenness of the attack my brain is slow to react. But my body’s in full fighting mode, circling, looking for attackers. But I see no one. I hear a gasp and turn toward Callie. See her eyes wide open, her face a frozen mask. Except for her mouth, which is opening and closing in a frightening way, like she’s trying to get air, and can’t.
I shout her name, and drop beside her on the bed.
She’s trying to lift herself up, trying to speak.
I can’t hear. My ears are ringing, mind’s in a fog. I was so completely in the moment, and now we’re in a different moment, and she’s trying to speak. Trying to say something. I gather her in my arms and lift her up and see the blood. Not just some, but everywhere. Her back is sopping, the sheets beneath her drenched.
“Oh, God!” I scream. “Callie! Oh no! Oh, my God, no!”
43.
THE NEXT HALF hour’s a blur. Even now, at the hospital, I’m having trouble remembering the exact sequence of events. I remember Callie passed out from loss of blood. I held a towel against her wounds, and called 911. Told the operator there’d been an explosion. Told her Callie’s name, age, physical condition. Gave our location, Winston Parke Hotel, room three-sixteen. She told me to make sure the door was open, said someone would be with us shortly. Had me stay on the line, answer questions about Callie’s condition so the medical team would know what they’re dealing with.
“We’re getting other reports of a bomb detonating,” she said. “They’re preparing to evacuate the building.”
“Any other injuries reported?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Are you hurt, Mr. Creed?”
Was I? It never dawned on me to check.
“No injuries, I’m fine,” I said. “Which tells me it wasn’t a bomb.”
“Apparently it was,” she said.
“It was a gun.”
“A gun? Are you certain?”
“Just a minute.”
I pulled the bed halfway across the floor and looked through the hole in the concrete. It was a mess below us, but I saw a body, half-covered in dust and concrete, and the barrel of a giant handgun.
“Yes,” I said.
“Sir?”
“It was definitely a gun. A handgun.”
“And did you shoot your girlfriend, Mr. Creed?”
She said it in such a matter-of-fact way I almost didn’t catch the question.
“What?”
“Do you have the gun in your possession at this time?” she said.
“The gunshots came from the room below us,” I said. “The guy who shot Callie is lying on the bed in what I assume is room two-sixteen.”
While keeping 911 on the line, I used my cell phone to look up and dial the hotel’s number. When their operator answered, I put the room phone down and asked for the manager. When the manager got on the line I told him not to evacuate the building. Having all the people out front would delay Callie’s medical treatment. I said, “Lock the exit doors, station a guard at each door, and let no one out. You’re looking for a man or woman covered with plaster.”