“You still have Sunday’s paper?”
“How should I know?”
“Aunt Leona keeps newspapers, doesn’t she? Gives them to some charity drive?”
“She sells them. She’s so goddamn money-hungry. Where you going?”
“I’ll be right back.”
Maguire went in through the manager’s apartment, past Leona asleep in her Barcalounger, with a TV movie on, to the utility room off the kitchen. There were several weeks of newspapers stacked against the wall. He began looking through the first pile and there it was, last Sunday’s edition of the Herald, finding it right away. Sometimes that happened. He pulled out the “Living Today” section, glancing at Karen and Frank DiCilia, then took the sports section, too, and slipped “Living Today” in behind the sports pages.
Lesley was sitting now, her chair turned away from the table, one foot on the seat, a tan expanse of inner thigh facing him. A lot of flesh there.
“Why’re you so interested in the paper?”
“There’s a story on the Tigers I missed.”
“I think baseball’s boring. Nothing ever happens.”
Maguire was eating. He didn’t care what Lesley thought. He wondered, though, how she’d get around to the car.
She said, “Brad’s really pissed at you, you know it?”
“Why?”
“You were supposed to stay after and work with Bubbles.”
It sounded like she was talking about school.
“I forgot,” Maguire said. He’d left without looking back, not wanting to see the two Cubans again.
“Brad saw you take off in the car. He goes, ‘Jesus Christ, where’d he get that, steal it?’ ”
That was how she did it, indirectly. Maguire worked his way through another pizza wedge, not giving her any help.
“Brad goes, ‘He didn’t have it yesterday. He must’ve got it last night.’ ”
Maguire drank some of the cold beer: really good with the salty anchovy taste.
“ ‘Somebody must’ve loaned it to him.’ Then he goes, ‘But who would he know that owns a fucking Mercedes?’ ”
“I bet you said that, not Brad,” Maguire said.
“I might’ve. Somebody said it.”
“It’s a friend of mine’s,” Maguire said. “I’m using it while he’s out of town.”
“Well, let’s go someplace in it.”
“I’m not allowed to take passengers. He’s afraid it’ll get messed up.”
“You big shit, you’re just saying that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Who’s is it?”
“Guy by the name of Andre Patterson.”
“The one you were talking to on the phone?”
Talking about on the phone to Andre’s wife, but it didn’t matter. “Right. He went on a vacation.” Christ, 20 to life. He should write to Andre, tell him how things were going. He wanted to read the newspaper story again and look at the picture of Karen on the seawall.
“How would he know the difference?” Lesley said. “I mean just me, not a lot of people.”
“Maybe,” Maguire said. “You want some more?”
“No… I feel like-” She gave him a sly look. “You know how I feel?”
“How?”
“Horny. Isn’t that funny? I don’t know why.” She looked over at the bed. “You want to lie down, see what happens?”
“Your feet are dirty,” Maguire said.
“My feet?”
“Actually I’m awful tired. You mind?”
“Jesus Christ,” Lesley said, getting up. “You have a headache, too?”
“No, but I don’t feel too good. I think maybe the pizza.” He said, “Why don’t you catch me some other time, okay?”
“Why don’t you catch this,” Lesley said, giving him the finger and slammed the jalousie door, rattling the frosted-glass louvers.
There were times, yes, when he didn’t mind dirty feet. Or, there had been times. But going from one to the other, from the woman to the girl, he couldn’t imagine ever having to try and compare them. Hearing Lesley’s voice, “Brad’s really pissed at you.” Serious. A crisis because he’d forgotten to stay after closing to work with the young dolphin. “Brad goes, ‘What’d he do, steal it?’ ” Brad and Lesley, the whole setup, like a summer camp. Then hearing Karen’s voice:
“What do you think I’m worth?”
Karen’s voice:
“I’ll tell you right now what I want.”
Not putting it on, trying to act sultry, but straight. Looking at him without the sunglasses. “I’ll tell you right now what I want.”
She wanted it, too. She had said the first time, “I could hardly wait.” This time was like the first time multiplied, more of it, more free and easy with each other, fooling with each other in that big broken-down bed, then getting into it, picking it up, beginning to race, feeling the rush. It was as different as day and night, the girl and the woman. The girl okay, very good in fact, but predictable: the same person all the way, making little put-on sounds-“Oh, oh, oh, don’t stop now, God, don’t ever stop”-she must’ve read somewhere and decided that was how you made the guy feel good. The woman, the forty-four-year-old woman didn’t fake anything. She watched him with a soft, slightly smiling look that was natural. She moved her hands all over him, everywhere, which the girl never did-as though the girl was supposed to get it and not give unless she gave as a special favor; the girl very open and, quote, together, saying, “You want to fuck?” if she felt like it; except that it had no bearing on how she was in bed-the girl not aware of the two of them the way the forty-four-year-old woman was. The woman in the photograph. The lady in the million dollar home. The lady. That was the key maybe. The lady, with a poise and quiet tone, easing out of the role as they moved over and around each other on the bed, not being tricky about it but natural, touching, entering the special place of the slim, good-looking lady, moving in and owning the place for awhile, right there tight in the place, and the lady trying to keep him, hold onto him there. Yes, there. Now that was different. That was being as close to someone as you could get without completely disappearing into the person, gone. Man. To look forward to that for another-how many years? Wondering if it was a consideration, a possibility. Maybe not. But at least feeling close enough to be able to say, “They got your age wrong in the paper.” Smiling.
“They got a number of things wrong,” Karen said, “including the way it was written.”
“All the questions. It was like a quiz.” Kissing her shoulder, her, neck, feeling it moist. “I don’t care how old you are… we are. What difference does it make?”
“None that I can think of,” Karen said.
Her tone was all right, but what did it mean? None, because the way they felt, it didn’t matter? Or none, because nothing was going to come of this anyway?
“I’m almost forty,” Maguire said. “It’s just another number. Forty, that’s all.”
“Then why are you talking about it?” Karen said.
They went downstairs and sat in the living room, with drinks Karen made at the built-in marble bar. Maguire checked the room for hidden mikes planted behind figurines and paintings or in the white sofa and easy chairs. They talked about Roland, what he might ask for, wondering if they could get him to ask for it over the phone, make an extortion demand and hook him with his own device. Which wasn’t likely. Sometime, Karen said, she’d like him to look at the antiques and art objects and tell her what they were worth. Maguire was ready to do it now, but they went outside instead, all the way out to the seawall. They stood looking at tinted points of light in the homes across the channel, at cold reflections in the water. He thought of the photo again that had been taken here, Karen standing with hands on hips, legs somewhat apart, sunhat and sunglasses-the slim, good-looking woman who was close to him, in a skirt now, barefoot.
He liked skirts. He liked the idea of lifting up a skirt, something from his boyhood, something you did with girls. She moved against him when he began to kiss her. She let herself be lowered to the grass where he began to bring her skirt up to her hips and put his hand under it.