“Yeah, that about sums it up.”

Jonathan was thoughtful. “I will find out what I can. But I will not serve you Chaim on a silver platter. All right?”

Decker threw up his hands. “Sure.”

Jonathan glanced at him, then focused on his driving. “I agreed more readily than you expected.”

“Yes, you did.”

The van fell quiet.

“How far are we?” Decker asked.

“Half hour away.”

“Not so bad,” Decker said. “Time goes quickly when you’re having fun.”

“Indeed,” Jonathan said. “I hope that I’m a better partner for you than Donatti.”

“I’m sure you will be for the most part.”

“For the most part?”

“Chris has his benefits.”

“Such as?”

“If things get tight, the psycho’s familiar with a gun.”

30

Coupling, by its very nature, meant somewhere down the line there would be an uncoupling, and when the inevitable happened, he’d always slip into a deep black funk, knowing that the only person in this entire world who gave a rat’s ass about whether he lived and breathed was gone. He knew it was about money-he wasn’t stupid-but she faked it well enough so that he could delude himself that some fraction of her heart cared even if she didn’t love him.

Today was a perfect case in point, because it was good. Too good, and that made the loss that much harder, the void that much bigger. His mood was foul, and his dispirited body ached with profound deprivation.

As he lay in bed in a room devoid of any light, courtesy of blackout drapes, he stared at nothing, random thoughts drifting through his brain, a stupor made possible by booze and painkillers.

Yeah, today had been real good.

As measured by her orgasms because that was how he judged the sex.

It hadn’t always been like that. She had started out like all the others. For him, sex had always been a one-way street because he didn’t give a shit how the girls felt, and 99 percent of them were unable to climax anyway, so why even bother with a pretense. He assumed that Terry was like the rest. He did her like he did all of them, mounting her from behind because it was his favorite position-terrific view, good penetration, and minimum body contact. He abhorred being touched because physical contact in his youth always implied pain. Even the first time Terry had brushed against him, he had stiffened with revulsion. So he did it doggy style, even though almost all the girls he had ever fucked preferred being on top, probably because they felt more in control.

And that was okay for a few minutes. But then they started touching him as they rode him-an instant turnoff-and when it became too much, he’d flip them on their stomachs, pick up their asses, and shove it in from the back. So it was karma when he discovered that on-all-fours was Terry’s favorite position, too; marveling at his luck, he believed he had finally found his soul mate in every respect. Then he got to thinking. Maybe she was too much of a soul mate, that she probably wanted it from the back for the same reason he had liked it-minimal body contact.

Perversely, that threw him in the opposite direction, where he now had to touch her when they made love. He’d lay her on her back, blanketing her skin with his own, smothering her mouth and face with kisses, his hands all over that marvelous bod of hers. At first, she squirmed, clearly hating every minute of it, but eventually she calmed down, allowing him to do whatever he wanted-a small price to pay for all the cash he was feeding her.

Then one day, about a year ago, it happened. He was pumping away, looking at her face as he always did because it was so drop-dead gorgeous. Her eyes were closed, and she held a serene expression, yet her body underneath his was keeping time to his rhythm. Then, abruptly, he felt something-a quickening in her movements. In one silken movement, her legs swung about his waist, the heels of her feet digging into his ass as she pushed him deeper inside. Within moments, her breathing had intensified and heightened. Then she came, her face hot and moist as he felt her muscles contract around his cock. The sensation was so electrifying that he exploded instantly, probably not riding out her orgasm as long as he should have. It didn’t matter, though, because now he knew what she was capable of.

From that point on, he became obsessed with her climaxing, rating every encounter not by his satisfaction, not even by their mutual satisfaction, but by hers alone. When it was good-like today-the high would last him for months. When it wasn’t good, he became angry and sullen, berating her and himself for what had gone wrong, analyzing it ad nauseam. No amount of reassurance would change his brooding state. He had failed, and though she was quick to take the blame, it didn’t help. He’d castigate himself, causing nothing but misery for both of them.

Once she tried to fake it just to please him, and that had made him even angrier, the fire so encompassing that he had lashed out at her in a blinding rage, a heartbeat short of hitting her. But he was better than his old man was because he knew how to control it, although she didn’t know that. The pure fear on her face had haunted him for weeks. Still, in the end, it was worth it. She had learned her lesson and had never tried to deceive him again.

He knew he was making her nervous, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had this self-imposed obligation to satisfy her sexually, to sate her with his cock, and anything less than an orgasm meant he was less of a man.

Today had been a success.

Even in excruciating pain, even with the fever and the dehydration, he had managed to bring her to orgasm two out of three times. He would have gone for the perfect record, but she claimed she was sore because it was right before her period or something ludicrous like that. He didn’t challenge her because he was wiped out, glad to have an excuse even if it was a lame one. Afterward, he sat while she bathed, watching beads of water fall off her breasts, roll over her flat stomach. He thought about asking her to spend the night, but didn’t. Although she’d never refuse him, it wouldn’t have been what she wanted.

What she wanted was to get back to the kid.

It was all about the kid.

Which, in general, was okay. He was glad that she was a good mother. But sometimes it did piss him off.

Now she was gone, and he was in agony. He felt as mean as a tethered dog. Once she had loved him totally, had been willing to risk everything to follow him across the country with no promises in return. Then Decker came along and all that changed.

He took a small sip of scotch from the bottle.

It’s not that she wouldn’t have found out. Of course, she would have found out. He had just wanted it on his timetable, after he had dug a hole for her that was way too deep for her to climb out of.

Decker.

Goddamnmotherfuckingsonofabitch.

After she had dumped him, he had been consumed with thoughts of revenge against her. He had wanted to pop her but held off because he wanted to do it with style. So he kept his watch, witnessing her steady decline into a deep abyss of debt, looking on as she exhausted all of her possibilities with no one around to bail her out. When she had neared rock bottom, he came to her in the dead of winter, into her shitty jail cell of a tenement-a one-room number with just a toilet and a sink-no shower-and a hot plate for cooking. Around nine in the evening, as he remembered it. The kid had been around three, asleep on the couch, and swaddled in covers. A twin mattress lay on the cement floor.

Fuck, it was cold inside. He had been dressed in a heavy wool suit, a cashmere overcoat, plus a scarf and fur-lined gloves; still, he shivered. He couldn’t imagine how she could sleep in such frigid conditions let alone work. But there she was, sitting at a card table, bundled up and breathing mist, stuffing what seemed like hundreds of letters into hundreds of envelopes, and doing it clumsily because her hands were encased in thick but old knitted mittens. A tape was playing-some college professor droning on about balancing chemical equations. Because she was clad in layers, her body looked normal. But her face was the giveaway-as gaunt as a ghost.