The Deacon problem is on hold. But I have a feeling that as soon as Ronnie gets bored of the super-cop tag, she’ll be giving me a call. It would be nice to believe that Detective Deacon would be in my corner should I need some badge. I’ll make the call if I have to, but I’m not counting any chickens. First and foremost Ronnie is a cop, and she’ll uphold the law even if it means hanging her and me both.
Counting chickens? pipes up Ghost Zeb, still hanging on in there. What the hell are you doing counting chickens?
Don’t you listen? I’m not counting chickens.
Counting chickens, not counting chickens, I could give a shit. All these situations you’re closing the door on, what about me? I’m out there somewhere.
Probably dead.
Probably, yes. But did you ever think that I could just be maimed? I’m out there somewhere with my dick cut off, I got maybe forty-five minutes to make it to the ER for reattachment surgery.
I can’t help wincing.
Okay, Zeb, okay. I’ll make a few enquiries.
When?
Soon. Very soon. I just have to pick up my funds at the bus station, then square things with work and Mrs Delano.
I’m bleeding to death and you’re squaring things?
If I find you, will you get out of my head?
Not only that, but I’ll do all your check-ups for free.
Yeah, see that’s how I know you’re not the real Zeb.
My apartment should be goon-free now that Faber’s breath has fogged its last mirror. Just in case there are any hostile stragglers, I dial a phoney B&E call into the local blues from Mr Hong down the hall and slip upstairs to Sofia’s apartment when the cruiser whoops up to the steps.
Sofia Delano pulls open her door before the knock reverb fades and stands before me, chest heaving like she’s run a mile to get there.
‘Carmine,’ she breathes. ‘I’ve been waiting so long.’
I slip inside her lobby, passing close, feeling the breath from her upturned mouth on my cheek, seeing the sheen of her lipstick.
Delano reminds me of someone. Not Cyndi Lauper any more; another eighties icon. Blonde hair, blow-dried big. Striped woollen dress, leggings and ballet pumps.
Ghost Zeb puts his finger on it. We’re the kids in America, woh-oh.
‘My Kim Wilde look,’ says Sofia Delano. ‘You always liked it, Carmine. Remember that club? The One Eight Seven? Those were good times.’
She looks wonderful, smells intoxicating. If only I could remember the good times.
‘Mrs Delano. . Sofia. . I’m not Carmine. I’m Daniel McEvoy, from downstairs. You hate me, remember?’
She takes my face in her hands. ‘Not any more,’ she says and kisses me hard. Not any more? Does that mean she doesn’t hate me any more? Or she doesn’t remember?
I don’t know, and for a moment I don’t care.
And even though I didn’t share the eighties with this woman, I do remember the decade. And here they are, coming around again. With sweet chocolatey perfume, shoulder pads, the haze of hairspray and soft red lips. This is more than a kiss; it’s a time machine.
I feel Sofia’s sprayed hair scratch my cheek, and hear the moan in her throat like all her dreams have come true, and I want to weep. Is this how low I have sunk, making out with a disturbed woman?
I push her gently away, hearing the soft pop as the vacuum seal of our lips is broken.
‘W. . wait,’ I stammer. ‘This is not right. I can’t. . we can’t.’
There is a bruise of lipstick smeared across her upper lip. ‘Sure we can, baby. It’s not the first time. But let’s do it like it’s the last.’
What an invitation. You could sell a movie with a tag-line like that.
‘No, Sofia. . Mrs Delano. This is not me. I mean, I am not Carmine.’
Then something unexpected. She slaps me in the face, hard. I actually rock back on my heels.
‘Pull yourself together, Carmine. How many lives do you think we get? I’m forty years old next summer, and this is my last second chance. You going to break my heart again?’
I can’t do it. I should, goddamn me, but I can’t find the strength. ‘Okay, Sofia.
Okay, I get it.’ I stroke her cheek tenderly. It’s easy to do. Natural. ‘No broken hearts tonight. I want to do it slow, take things easy. We got time, right?’
She blinks, uncertain, as though offering sex to this man Carmine is all she knows how to do.
‘Time?’
‘Yeah, time for romance?’
‘Romance?’ The word hiccups in her throat. ‘You want romance?’
‘Sure. A man can change, can’t he?’
‘I. . I guess.’
Whew. A reprieve, though a big, insistent part of me doesn’t want a reprieve.
‘Good. Great. So, Sofia, you got anything to drink?’
‘I got some cough syrup. And some coffee.’
I react to ‘coffee’ like it’s the holy grail. ‘Wow. Coffee, that would be awesome.’
Definite overkill. I use the word awesome about as much as I use the word bling.
Sofia stumbles to the kitchen on sea legs, a bewildered smile cutting through the lipstick.
‘Carmine Delano asking for coffee. My husband certainly has changed. Maybe you dumped some of that macho baggage you’ve been lugging around, along with the hair.’
‘It’s temporary,’ I blurt, wanting to please her now. ‘The hair. It’s growing back.’
Sofia pours two mugs from the machine. ‘Hair, no hair. Doesn’t bother me, baby. So long as I have you. It’s been hours since you left. I was starting to think I did something wrong.’
Hours? More like years.
‘I. . uh. . I had some business to take care of.’
Sofia pushes me gently to the settee, deep brown leather, squeaks when I sit. A man could get used to relaxing in a promo sofa like this. Smells of Italian food and perfume.
‘Business? Like that naked bitch downstairs? Same old Carmine.’
I absurdly defend myself. ‘That woman was a detective. She was trying to kill me.’
Sofia eyes me archly. ‘Uh-huh. I bet she had good reason. I know what you are, Carmine, all about your dalliances.’
Dalliances. First time I’ve heard that word since Ireland.
Drinking and dalliances. That’s you, isn’t it? That’s your entire goddamn life in a nutshell.
Mother shouting that at my father, and him laughing. Scratching his chin with one hand and swiping the air with the other, trying to catch an invisible fly.
‘Dalliances, eh?’ he’d twitter, then do a little mocking fairy dance. ‘Was this before or after the croquet?’
Back to here and now, but I’m shaking a little. ‘No, Sofia. No dalliances. It’s only you. You’re the only one for me.’
It’s easy to say and it would be easy to mean.
Sofia glows; she sweeps her blonde hair aside, eyes downcast like a twenty-year-old bride.
‘You mean it, baby? You mean it this time?’
‘I do.’ I take her hand and place it on my chest. ‘Feel my heart and tell me I’m lying.’
If my heart could speak, it would say that my every word is a lie. Her husband is gone and he better stay gone, because if he comes back I might just have to kill him.
Sofia places her cheek beside her slim fingers. ‘It’s a strong heart, Daniel. Strong enough to protect me.’