Back in his apartment, five o'clock, Bobby made himself a cosmopolitan and checked his messages. Another one from Megan, sounding pissed off.
"I know you're there, pick up the fucking phone. If I don't hear from you-"
Bobby punched erase, rolled a joint and went in the bedroom to get dressed. A few minutes later he danced into the living room with the joint in his mouth, drink in hand, listening to The Black Parade by My Chemical Romance. He heard a knock on the door, thought it might be Nicole, danced over and opened it. Megan came at him, glaring and grabbed the collar of his black Lacoste golf shirt.
"I've left six messages."
Bobby said, "You're kidding. Must be something wrong with the machine."
"I think there's something wrong with you," Megan said.
"What kind of talk is that? You're my honey girl." Bobby tried to say it with feeling, but he sounded like a soap opera actor. He wasn't ready for this, hadn't prepared. He put his arms around Megan, still holding the glass and the joint. She pushed him away, spilling the drink, Jesus, on the beige carpeting.
"I did my job," Megan said, still in his face. "Now I want my money. It was my idea in the first place."
Bobby said, "I have it. What's the problem?" He decided to give her some of his own money rather than try to explain what happened. He was going to be rich soon anyway.
Megan followed Bobby into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, took out an opaque plastic pitcher and pried off the top. There was a white number ten envelope inside. "It's kind of cold," Bobby said. "But it'll warm up once you get to the mall."
Megan took the money out, a stack of bills, all hundreds, and started counting.
Bobby said, "Can I get you a drink? How about a nice cosmo? Fix you right up."
Megan finished counting the money and looked at Bobby. "You've got to be kidding. This is only $1,500. Where's the rest of it at?"
Bobby gave her a puzzled look.
"The man cashed out with $9,600," Megan said. "I know for a fact because I handed it to him."
"Trust me, I only found $4,500 in the house, and you got a third like we agreed." He said it straight and serious, trying to hold back the grin that was forming on his mouth.
"Come on," Megan said. "That's bullshit and you know it."
She opened the refrigerator and started dropping things on the floor: a plastic half gallon of milk that slid into the base of the island counter; a carton of eggs that hit and exploded sending yolk and chunks of shell all over the floor and wall.
Bobby said, "What the hell're you doing?"
"Looking for my money. You owe me $1,700 more."
He said, "Lloyd's got it."
Megan said, "You expect me to believe a control freak like you is going to let Lloyd keep your share of anything? Come on?"
Bobby was surprised. He'd never seen Megan act like this. She'd seemed different than most of the girls he'd gone out with. Not moody or bitchy or a pain in the ass. The only thing he didn't like were the fucking cats, but she was fun and seemed to get things and liked to drink and she had great tits that Bobby referred to as her fun bags. Everything was good until now. And now all this rage was coming out like he'd hit a nerve, pressed some button that flipped her out, made her lose it. He hoped the thing with the Greek's woman worked out because this sure wasn't. Bobby said, "Listen, I'll get your money and bring it to you."
Hearing that calmed her down. She picked up his cosmo off the counter and took a big drink. That seemed to help too.
Megan said, "My B-my bad… I just…"
Bobby wanted to finish her sentence: "Went fucking schizo."
Megan said, "I didn't hear from you. I was mad. I guess I overreacted."
She moved to Bobby and put her arms around him, holding him close, not moving now, hugging him.
"You okay?" she said.
Bobby stood there frozen, staring down at the mess on the floor,
Megan clinging to him. She freaked and asked him if he was okay. Huh? Bobby said, "Sure." What else was he going to say? "You don't sound like you mean it," Megan said. "Everything's wonderful," Bobby said, "tip-top," putting a little more energy into it.
Chapter Six
Lou Starr was in Vegas at a restaurateurs convention, excited because he was staying at the Wynn. It was the nicest hotel he'd ever seen in his life. Karen should see it.
"Cost almost $3 billion to build," Lou said, with pride in his voice. "Makes the Bellagio look like a Super 8. They've got a championship eighteen-hole golf course. They've got a spa. They've got a casino. And you're not going to believe this, they've even got a Ferrari/Maserati dealership in the hotel."
Karen hadn't heard Lou that excited since he'd added all-you- can-eat moussaka to his menu.
"There's even a wedding chapel," Lou said. "We could come out here and elope, spend our honeymoon gambling, going to shows and screwing."
Karen wanted to tell him there wasn't going to be a wedding or a honeymoon in Vegas or any other place, but this wasn't the time. He'd been driving her crazy for months. Karen counted the things he did that annoyed her, and the list kept growing. Clearing the phlegm out of his throat. She'd hear him horking in the bathroom and say, "Come on, Lou, that's disgusting."
He'd say, "Want me to choke to death?"
Picking his toenails in bed was another one. Leaving hair on the floor of the shower like somebody skinned an animal in there. But the real deal breaker was his pushy, demanding attitude-telling her things he wanted her to do every day like she was the hired help. The list went on and they'd only been living together for eight months. Eight months going on eight years.
She'd met Lou on the rebound. It was a fix-up, a blind date. At the time she didn't have any great desire to go out with anyone, the breakup with Samir was still fresh in her mind. It had been three months since she'd walked out of that relationship and her good friend Stephanie said, when you fall off a horse you've got to get back on. Stephanie was dating a disc jockey named Michael Harris who had a friend named Lou Starr. Why not meet him? Stephanie said. What do you have to lose?
Her first impression of Lou: he was too short and too old. But he redeemed himself, taking her skeet shooting at the Metamora Gun Club on their first date.
He'd said, "Ever fire a gun?"
She'd said, "Does a BB gun count? My dad and I used to shoot empty Coke and Bud cans in the backyard when I was a kid."
Lou said, "A BB gun, huh? I'm impressed."
At the range, after telling her skeet was a Swedish word that meant "to shoot," Lou put a Krieghoff 20 gauge over-and-under in her hands and taught her the basic fundamentals: how to stand; how to tuck the gun inside her shoulder to minimize recoil; how to swing through; how to lead and point out; how to hold position and when to call pull.
Lou said, "Know how many muscles it takes to pull a trigger?"
She assumed it was a trick question and said, "One."
He said, "One? Try twenty-seven."
"Come on?" Karen said.
"It's a fact. Twenty-seven muscles in the upper and lower arm and hand to pull a trigger. And only four or five to let it go." He grinned to let her know he was just goofing around with her.
They shot from eight high and eight low stations. Lou was perfect. He hit every target and she only missed three out of thirty-two. She liked the balanced feel of the Krieghoff, bringing it up from below her waist, swinging it across her body, aiming two feet in front of the target and pulling the trigger- Ka-boom, watching the clay pigeon disappear in an explosion of dust.
"You're amazing, a natural. You sure you've never done this before?" he said, giving her a questioning look.
"Positive," Karen said.
"What'd you think?"
"It's a blast," Karen said and added, "No pun intended."
Lou smiled. "That's good. You always this clever?"
Karen said, "I guess you'll just have to wait and see." She was surprised how much she liked skeet shooting and Lou. It was her best first date ever.