Not that Nicholas could. She was dangerous too. But not because she was angry. No, she couldn’t stay mad at anyone for long. She was like a puppy that way, growling then swishing its cute little tail. He had known some pissed-off women, Harley girls, abandoned wives, bitter and bored, and Anna Lia wasn’t like them. If the bomb hadn’t blown, her Capriati snit would have passed. She and Nicholas could have spent their days laughing again under the sheets.
A twinge pinched his leg. Shit, neither of them had thought she had the strength. To her, it was all just a game. “Maybe I could shoot him or poison his coffee, or — how about your hunting knife?” Before he could say, “Careful,” she’d picked it off his desk and made a playful lunge.
That night, after the emergency room, she was supersweet with him in bed. Snuggling was all he could manage. The painkillers spun him around. Again, he tried to talk her past Capriati — not that he believed she’d really go after the guy. Her threats and the knife … they were part of her childish delight in things. She snatched whatever moved — even her self-loathing — and rode it until it was dry. That’s what made her so exciting. Nicholas knew she’d drop him soon. But the adventure was worth it. Capriati, hell, he’d screwed up by pulling her father’s shit on her, and that got her fuming.
He remembered watching TV with her. In Rome, her family hadn’t owned a television set, and she couldn’t tell fake from fact. When an actor shot another actor, she curled up in horror as if she’d really seen a murder. “But it looks so real!”
That should have told him the story. Usually he was a fair judge of a person’s facility with hardware. Fuck, he should have kept her away from the stuff. His brother had warned him. But she found his knowledge erotic, and it gave him a thrill to show off for her. “These aren’t toys,” he’d tell her, but of course she didn’t hear that, any more than she listened to Clark. He’d laughed at the asshole, but hell, he should have seen his own damn self …
Still, the cops knew everything now, including the reason for his visit to the emergency room. They didn’t seem to blame him. Funny — he wished he could tell Clark how shitty he felt. He was sure even Anna Lia didn’t know how far she would go. But Clark was such a putz. He wouldn’t care. Nicholas couldn’t confide in his brother or their buddies. They’d think he’d gone soft on them. Best to stay quiet, bear his bum leg as a punishment.
Danny reached for another beer. In the yellow light from the walls’ silver fixtures, his hand was the color of egg yolk.
“Sweetie, you’ve had enough.” Marie moved the pitcher away from him. Ricky chuckled.
Danny brushed the back of his neck. An air conditioner rattled above him, but that wasn’t it. It was her. She floated above him, panting onto his shoulders, the way she used to do in bed, trying to get him excited.
A man approached their table. “Excuse me?” he said. “Mr. Clark? Danny?”
“Hmm?”
“Danny, my name is Hugh Campbell. Libbie’s fiancé? You may not remember. We’ve met a couple of times — ”
Danny squinted to see his face in the shadows. “Yeah. Oh yeah, right. How you?” He tried to offer his hand, but his arm was too heavy.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I was just having dinner over here … and … well, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Anna Lia.”
“Thanks, that’s … that’s very …”
Marie touched Danny’s shoulder. Ricky glanced away, embarrassed or bored. Behind him, a string of red, pepper-shaped lights winked against the wall.
“I guess you’ll see Libbie before I do,” Campbell said. An accusation? A little poke in the ribs? Was Danny crazy, or did the man look slightly angry? Behind him, a cook slipped out the door, holding a tray of food. “Tell her hi for me.”
“She’s ver’ sweet,” Danny slurred. “Good friend.”
“Yes. Yes, she is. Well. Just wanted to …” He shrugged. “Take care of yourself,” he said. He nodded good night, then turned to his table. Just then, the restaurant’s lights went out.
Sweet, hot breath on his neck. Danny leaped to his feet. “Goddammit, Anna Lia, go away! If you’re going, then fucking go!”
“Danny, Danny!” Marie reached for his hands. “Hush now. Hush. Everything’s all right. Okay? Sit down. Danny?”
Now the room felt hot, airless, and small. A waiter scurried out of the kitchen carrying candles. He found some matches. Soon, bright white flames perked around the room.
Midmorning, on her way to the funeral home, Libbie heard on the radio that the volcano had stopped spraying ash into the air. Now, the haze over Houston came from forest fires in Sierra Madre del Sur. Mexican and U.S. authorities suspected the worst fires had been set by drug lords clearing mountain woodlands for poppy. Recently, a Oaxacan priest had been murdered just a day after he’d denounced, in a sermon, “dope peddlers who destroy our virgin forests.”
Libbie’s fingers shook on the wheel. She pulled over to a shutdown Conoco station, switched off the radio, and jammed her hands into her armpits. That she could live in Houston, eat breakfast every day, drink coffee, greet the people she knew, and at the same time, breathe corrupt air from thousands of miles away, the smoke of addiction, sickness, and death, was incomprehensible to her.
I don’t know anything, Libbie thought. Nothing at all.
People worked so hard to establish routines, to surround themselves with friends they could trust, but for all that effort, time, and expense, no one was safe. A small ripple on the other side of the world could swell into a storm, grow without your knowledge, and someday smash everything you thought you knew.
The funeral home was on Navigation Boulevard near the original Ninfa’s Restaurant. Ninfas was a Houston legend — little more than a taco stand run by a Mexican housewife when it opened decades ago, the business had expanded into several large establishments across the city. People came from all over Texas to eat at Ninfa’s now, hoping for authentic Mexican flavors. But to Libbie, the food at the newer outlets tasted prefab and bland. Nothing gets better, she thought. Nothing improves. “Stop it,” she told herself aloud. “Buck up.”
Still shaking, she parked in a small lot behind the funeral home, beneath a white metal sign that said MANUEL CRESPI MEMORIAL SERVICES. Danny’s black Mazda, still warm, sat nearby. Carla hadn’t arrived yet. The building was made of sandy brown stones. A tall chimney at one end. Yellow smoke hung in the air, along with car exhaust. A sour shrimp odor wafted upwind from the Ship Channel.
Inside, the place smelled like the animal shelter, only mustier, with a hint of mothballs, old suits. Lamps cast an orange glow onto the deep red carpet. A thin man in a dark brown suit, whose head was as smooth as a bar of soap, was standing over Danny, patting his shoulder.
“Hi,” Libbie said. “Are you the undertaker?”
“I’m the funeral director. The memorial counselor. Anthony Crespi.” He offered his hand. It was cold. “I was just telling Mr. Clark here not to worry about a thing. We’ll create a beautiful Memory Picture for you.”
Danny looked fit for a coffin. Uncombed, unshaven. Just half an hour ago, Libbie had fought with Hugh on the phone: he’d run into Danny last night at Chimichanga. “Libbie, he was acting crazy. And he had a gun,” Hugh said.
“What are you talking about?”
“There was a power failure — the lights went out — and he jumped up, all agitated. Marie tried to calm him down. When a waiter lit some candles, I swear I saw, tucked into his pants, a pistol. Libbie, I don’t want you around him anymore. I think … I mean, I really do think he’s lost it. He might be dangerous, honey.”