He thought of his father, listening to the cassette version of that record, Some Girls, in his Chevy Silverado work truck, Spero beside him on the bench, a boy happily going to a job site with his dad on a summer day, one of their many adopted Lab mixes back in the bed. Van’s curly hair, salted with gray, was blowing about from the wind of the open window, and there was a smile on his face, because he was a man who was doing something very simple that he loved. He was headed to work in a pickup truck and hanging out with one of his sons.
“It’s a great day,” said Van.
“What are we gonna do, Baba?”
“Work. Family and work, boy mou. That’s what matters. There’s a lot to be said for leading the straight life. You’ll see.”
Lucas wondered what his father would think if he could see him now, drunk, creeping around outside the home of a married woman. Van Lucas would tell Spero to stop what he was doing. That he was all wrong. He’d tell him to get back in his car, go home, and sleep it off. And in the morning, he should ask himself what kind of man he wanted to be.
But Lucas did not go back to his truck. He walked on.
Past the house, Lucas turned into an alley. There, the home’s screened-in porch shared space with a small side yard and a driveway leading into a freestanding garage. Along the porch was a series of windows, and through them Lucas could see a modern kitchen with a built-in refrigerator, wall oven, and island. Charlotte and her husband were standing next to the island. They were talking and drinking red wine.
Lucas wondered if it was that Barolo she liked.
The husband was not what Lucas had envisioned. In his head, Lucas had seen a smallish guy wearing glasses, with a receding hairline, a man who lived the life of the mind rather than the physical. But in the flesh he was on the tall side, well built, with a full head of hair. A handsome guy, still in his dress shirt and tie, having a glass of wine and a conversation with his wife after an honest day’s work. Straight.
Family and work, boy mou. That’s what matters.
The husband said something, and Charlotte smiled shyly, then sipped at her wine.
They looked content to him. Comfortable with each other. At the moment, happy.
Soon they’d be upstairs in their master bedroom. Maybe they’d just go to sleep. Or maybe he’d undress her, spread her out on their bed, and make love to her. She’d enjoy it, if only in a familiar, reassuring way. She’d told Lucas that her sex life was the insufficient piece of her marriage, and that he, Lucas, filled a void. So this was what he was to her in the end: a piece in a puzzle. Something that made her complete.
But on his own, Lucas wasn’t enough for her. He wasn’t even in the ballpark. She’d never leave this man, her security, this house.
Charlotte’s husband stepped forward and touched her forearm, and both of them smiled.
Don’t do that, thought Lucas.
She’s mine.
Twenty-Two
Billy King had been shacking up with Lois Wilson for a few days in her waterfront house, a brick two-story on Dyer Road in Newberg, Maryland. Courtesy of her ex-husband, the home was furnished handsomely, with new appliances and an up-to-the-minute home entertainment center. A hundred yards from its back porch sat a dock, complete with boathouse, on a brackish deepwater creek leading out to the Wicomico River. In the boathouse was a nearly new twenty-two-foot Whaler powered by a big Merc engine. King figured he could spend some quality time in this place and live princely like the stud he was. But he was restless.
Not that he wasn’t wanted here. Lois was hungry, and he gave it to her until it seemed she couldn’t take any more. Then, when he hinted he might go, she begged him not to leave. He had her where he wanted her, but he’d gotten tired of her quick. Old stuff was all right in a low-lit bar, but when you got it home under stark incandescence it sure did look its age, and some things couldn’t be hid. Lois’s cans had been worked on, and her crow’s feet had been erased, but her thighs were oatmeal, and when the Spanx came off there was that dreaded roll around her waist. Still, she had some nice jewelry lying about on her bedroom dresser, a pearl necklace, diamond earrings and such, and a sweet emerald-and-diamond ring.
King was about to leave her for a while, but he’d return. For now, he had business in D.C.
The unsold paintings were bothering him. He’d worked hard to get them, two from the crinkle-bunny who lived at the Wyoming, and the last one from that juicer on Champlain Street. Jobs like those were an investment in time and effort. Now the paintings were sitting there at the house in Croom, wrapped in brown paper. That was real money, gathering dust. Charles Lumley needed to do his job and move the goods.
But Lumley wasn’t returning his calls. This disturbed King and made him suspicious. He didn’t like to be ignored. Worse, his phone calls to Serge had gone unanswered and unreturned as well. And now Louis had become unreachable. This was Louis, who followed King around like a broke-dick dog. Something was wrong.
King walked out of the house carrying his bag. He opened the rear lid of his Monte Carlo SS and stashed the bag in its trunk.
Lois followed him from the house wearing a bathrobe, cigarette in hand.
“Billy,” she said, reaching him as he opened his driver’s-side door. “Where you going, hon?”
Hon. Lois liked to brag that she hailed from Baltimore, and King gave a fuck.
“Work, doll.”
“You’re coming back, right?” She clutched at her robe, let it fall open slightly to give him a look at her retooled globes. She was going for sexy, but the sunlight did her no favors.
“Oh, yeah,” said King. “I wouldn’t leave a dish like you alone for too long.”
She moved to kiss his mouth. He let her, but held his breath. She smelled like an ashtray.
King fired up the SS.
He drove right into Washington and parked near Lumley’s shop. Going to the door, he felt the heat well up in him as he read the note taped inside the glass.
To my loyal patrons:
After several years here as a merchant in Dupont Circle I have made the difficult decision to close my business and move on. I’d like to thank you for your loyal patronage and friendship, and hope that our paths cross again.
Best,
King looked into the nearly empty shop. No paintings on the walls, no easels, no goods for sale. Only a desk and a chair remained. Even the landline had been removed.
King drew his cell and phoned Lumley. Once again, he got dead air, not even a recording.
Lumley owed him no money. In fact, he had stood to make a hefty commission on the sale of the paintings. Maybe the fit young man in the Oxon Hill parking lot, the one who’d stood down Serge, had come back to Lumley’s shop and persuaded him to leave town. Maybe Lumley had given up the location of the paintings to this private heat before he skipped.
With growing dread, King got back into his Chevy and drove out to the house in Croom.
Louis’s Crown Vic wasn’t in the yard.
King approached the house with care and used his key to open its front door. He smelled death and heard the buzz of insects as soon as he walked inside.
Serge was lying near the dining room table, dotted with flies. He’d been shot several times.
King went to the paintings. The Double was gone. The other paintings had been left behind, and the computer equipment had gone untouched.
The couch, tables, and floor had been shot to hell. Up on the landing, a large portion of the plaster wall was gone.