“So,” she said, “they let you out of your cage.”

He nodded. “Thank God.”

She folded the napkin in her lap and sipped her water. He looked around the room as if taking it in. Their eyes met for a moment and then skidded away, like they were on an awkward first date.

“Good evening, folks.” The waiter stepped forward with an obsequious smile. He handed her a menu, then one to him, and set the wine list in the center. “We have several specials this evening.”

They’d been coming here for years, and though Danny teased her for it, she always ordered the same thing. So instead of listening to the specials, she watched Danny fidget with his silverware. His shoulders were clenched. He nodded thoughtfully from time to time, but never in response to anything the waiter said. Truth be told, despite the sharp clothes, he looked wrecked, and her optimism about date night began to evaporate.

“You want another?” She gestured at the scotch he’d already drained.

“Guess I was thirsty.” His smile didn’t quite fit.

“I’ll catch his eye.”

He nodded absently, and turned back to the menu.

“Want to get an appetizer?” she asked.

“Sure. Whatever you want.” It would have sounded sweeter if he’d been looking at her.

“How about the shrimp?”

“Okay.”

“Danny.”

He looked up at her, dark craters under his eyes.

“You’re allergic to shellfish.”

“Right.” He blew air through his mouth, not quite a laugh. “Sorry. I’m not all here tonight.”

“Where are you?” When he didn’t respond, she sighed. “What’s going on? And don’t tell me work.”

He looked at her, then looked away. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You know,” she said, her voice sharp, “a lot of women would start to get suspicious if their boyfriend was suddenly working late every night. Start wondering if ‘working’ was a way of saying ‘sleeping with somebody else.’”

That got his attention. He turned, his eyes firm on hers. “Of course not.”

She felt ashamed. That had been a cheap shot. “I know.”

He nodded, looked away again.

“Danny…” Her voice trailed off. Everybody had rough times. She wanted to believe that’s all this was. But the signals he was giving off were all wrong. In the past they’d always worked through things together, but now he seemed to be pulling away. “Is it me? Something I’ve done?”

“No,” he said quickly. “It’s not you.”

Somehow that was scarier. “Then what?”

“Look.” He leaned forward, hesitated, like he was searching for the right words. “Right now is just a crazy time. I have a lot of things going on, and it’s starting to get to me. But this will all be over soon.”

“When?”

“By the end of the week. Things will be back to normal. I promise.”

It was the kind of answer she should have hoped for, but somehow, it wasn’t comforting. She held up her glass and spun it idly, watching the wine swirl. She felt the grip of one of those weird moments when the physicality of the world – the noisy bar, the art photographs on the wall, the wine rolling red and glinting along the bowl of her glass – overwhelmed any sense of meaning. Left her feeling stranded. Without stopping to consider, she tossed the question like a grenade, hoping they wouldn’t be wounded in the blast.

“Why did a detective call our house today?”

Silence. She looked up to find him staring.

“What?” he asked.

“A Detective Nolan. He left a number. It’s on the machine. He said he had some things he wanted to ask you about.”

It was only an instant. But for a ragged fraction of a second, she saw clear through him. Past what he called his game face. Saw his mouth hanging open and his mind scrambling for a lie.

And then it was over, and his mask slid back into place. “We’ve had some break-ins. Vandalism, some tools stolen. It’s probably just kids, you know, but I have to go through the motions.”

She nodded. She didn’t know what she’d seen, didn’t know what it meant, but she knew she wasn’t going to sit still for it. She’d always pitied women – people – who chose to blind themselves to what was right in front of them. Better to deal with things, even if they were painful. She looked at him again, took in his friendly expression and calculated look, and then she finished a last sip of wine and stood up.

“Good night, Danny.”

He blinked, stuttered her name. Asked her to wait.

She didn’t.

29

When he’d come by and said they were going to lunch, Debbie had said no. Tommy would be scared if she was gone for more than a couple of minutes. They stood in the construction yard, the skies gray and heavy, the motion of traffic barely visible through that orange slatted stuff they wove into chain-link fences. Evan had just looked at her, muscles and strong chin, soap-opera stubble, a tiny grin on his lips, and next thing she knew, they’d been up against the outside of the trailer, her jeans tangled at her knees, panties tugged to one side, the aluminum siding freezing when her breasts rocked against it. And as always, he’d gotten her off so hard her legs melted.

The girlfriends who tried to steer her away from the guys she liked had never understood that it was precisely the fact that they were bad that drew her to them.

Still, as the waitress plunked their burgers down on the Formica table, she fought a wave of guilt. “We should hurry.”

He reached for the Tabasco and began to drench his fries in the stuff. “Why?”

“You know.” She cut her hamburger in half, then in quarters. It didn’t taste right otherwise.

He shrugged, seeming to lose interest in the conversation before it began. “Proud Mary” played in the background, the volume way too soft. If you were going to do Ike and Tina, you had to be able to feel it. Otherwise, what was the point?

“So this is going to be a big score, huh?”

A waitress swayed by, a tired-looking bottle blonde with a nice figure, and she watched his eyes follow her ass before he answered. “Sure.”

“How much?”

“Enough.”

“For what?”

“Jesus, ease up, okay? I’m trying to eat.” His voice barely rose, like she wasn’t worth getting annoyed at.

She shrugged, picked up a quarter of her burger. Overcooked but still yummy, and she ate quickly, glad to have a break from microwave dinners. When she finished she leaned back and tossed her napkin on the plate. He shook his head. “You really are in a hurry, aren’t you?”

She shrugged. “The Rockford Files are on at two.”

“So?”

“I told Tommy we’d watch it together.”

“What, are you playing at motherhood here? You want to adopt him?” He had a thin-lipped grin that she didn’t like, that made him look like a school-yard bully. “This is a job, Deborah.”

The name made her grit her teeth, and he knew it, so she stopped herself from correcting him. “I know. That’s why I want to get back.”

“So you can watch The Rockford Files.”

“No. Because Danny’s plan-”

“Whoa. Danny’s plan?”

“All I mean is, shouldn’t we be there, just to make sure nothing goes wrong?”

“Jesus fucking Christ. You and he sound like the same broken record.” Evan pitched his voice girlishly high. “Oh geez, I hope nothing goes wrong. Oh gosh. Things could go wrong.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s more like it.” He laughed, leaned forward to stub out his cigarette. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“To make a phone call.” He threw money on the table and got up, grabbing his leather jacket in one hand. She stood and followed him through the half-empty diner, the music now “Papa Was a Rolling Stone,” still too low. They walked past the chrome-trimmed counter, the short-order cook behind it scraping at the grill, metal rasping on metal. Between the bathrooms, the phone hung on shabby brown paneling, the cheap kind that felt cozy only at 400 A.M., waiting for the caffeine to counter the alcohol enough that you could see yourself home. The restaurant was quiet here, just an old guy at the edge of the counter twenty feet away. Evan took a matchbook from his jacket pocket and opened it to a phone number.