Too Easy (14 page)

She whispers back, “I'll say.” She pulls her fingers through his hair.
“When things get boring at work, I imagine you're sitting on my desk in front of me. You and what's his name.”

He lets that go. He feels almost normal by now. “You say bored? Everything okay in marketing, isn't it?”

“Sure. We're carrying the paper.”

“What?” He snuggles close to her, running his hand along her side and over her hip.

“Every week we've got some new gimmick.” She pulls back and smiles at him. “Hey, you don't think anybody actually reads the thing?”

“I know they do. Look at the pissed-off letters I get.”

“Couple of people,” she says. “The rest play the games. The April Fool's Four was mine. Moi.”

“You've got the magic touch.” He pinches her lower lip.

They laugh together.

“We ought to talk some,” he says. “Want to sit in the shower?”

She rolls off the bed. “Good plan,” she whispers. “Like the spies do. Robie, you know what stories you ought to be doing?”

“What?”

“About the schools, making them better.”

“Why'd you think of that?”

“Silly. We're going to have kids, aren't we?”

Damn. “Yes, right. I see. . . .”

They go in the bathroom, Robert carrying a Heineken by the neck. Kathy turns the faucets, feels the water. Robert sits at the other end, his legs drawn up. She thins the spray, then settles down by his big feet. Her chin on his knees. Robert watches the water splattering off her head and shoulders. Water streaming down her face. She smiles at him through the hot mist. “Short hair's nice,” she says. “Saves a lot of time.”

He holds her shoulder. “You look great . . . I love you.”

Really, she looks impossibly great, he thinks, and I do love her. And that's the beginning and end of it.

“You better, you better, you bet—”

He can't imagine giving her up, and he doesn't want to disappoint her. He hates the thought of somehow not measuring up. “Well, one thing . . . I did check, uh, on the insurance. . . . A lot of money. It's been in place almost five years. So nobody would connect it to us.”

“I see. That's kind of grisly.” She thinks about it. “But I guess it's a factor.”

“You bet. Three hundred thou. And another hundred thou in the paper's benefit package.”

“Huummp.” She shakes her head. “Well, waste not, want not, I guess. . . . Robie, can you go through with this?”

“Yes, I think so. Right now I don't see any other way.” He shrugs uncomfortably. The spray is making him squint. “Like I told you, we've got to think about the practicalities. Weigh the pluses and minuses. That's what I've been doing. The insurance is a big plus.”

“Go on.”

“Conversely, you have a messy divorce, you lose that
and
a lot, lot more. So instead of four hundred thousand up, you're a hundred thousand down. A half million bucks! Maybe decisive all by itself. Then there's the wear and tear of the thing. Sure, there'll be wear and tear this way, too. But it'll be on our terms and it'll be over soon enough.”

“All I know is this, lover. If you're in, I'm in. It's terrible, but I think somehow it'll be a kind of sacrament. If we do it together.”

“Because . . . we'll be doing it for each other.”

“Yeah, putting everything on the line for the other.”

Robert grimaces. “Let's don't talk quite like that. If we do it right, there's nothing on the line.”

“No, I don't mean just the risk. I mean . . . it's a kind of sacrament, isn't it? I mean, like a ritual. We give up one person so two others can be happy. I don't know. Look, it's not a little thing. It's a big thing.”

“One person who is very much in the way. I get angry
thinking about that. Then I know I can do it.”

“We do it for each other, Robie. Anger is secondary.”

He thinks about what she said. “Good, you're seeing clear on this. Great! Alright, another thing that seems clear to me is that, and you've already agreed with this, we have to do it ourselves.”

“I always thought that. I don't know why. Well, it's a sacrament, like I said.”

“Kathy. Remember that little bar in Queens? The first thing I thought when we walked in. That's the kind of place people go to hire hit men. They think! You can't believe how dumb people are. But there's a story once or twice a year in the New York papers. Some wife wants to get rid of her husband. She goes in that kind of bar, whispers to the bartender, I need a tough guy for some dirty work, you know what I mean. The bartender says, I've got just the guy. Only he turns out to be an undercover cop. The wife makes a down payment, sixteen cops jump out of the bushes. And she's in jail for a long time. And he's free.”

Kathy nods. “I have read that. Yeah, some things you have to do for yourself. That's what we're saying. Both saying.”

“Here, let me stretch this leg.” He kicks out the right one. “A year ago, maybe you remember, this business guy actually tried to hire a private detective. I couldn't believe this moron. He's maybe fifty, successful, and he thinks he can walk into a detective agency, put some money down, and the detective—a guy who's licensed by the state of New York, who's got references and credentials—will kill people. And the plan!? Broad daylight, at a store. Shoot an extra person, make it look random, like a botched robbery. I read this story three times. A year ago. It just fascinated me.” He smiles at her. “Maybe I saw something coming.”

“Smart man.” She massages his leg some.

“You just can't bring other people into it, that's the point. You might want to. But the very people who're out there, looking for this kind of work, are the dumbest, most
unstable, most unreliable people imaginable. Unless you get a real pro. Then you're talking a lot of money. And the Mafia owns you forever. Forget it. They'd blackmail you for every dollar you have left.”

“This is nice,” she says softly. “Sitting here in a warm shower. With the man I love. Falling asleep. It's that protein . . . it makes you sleepy. . . .”

“Don't fall asleep. I'm telling you all this so you can poke holes in it.”

She yawns and then stares at him. “We do it. We do it together. We do it alone. Agreed. That's as far as you got. . . . And we do it for each other. That's important.”

He holds her face between his hands. “You're so smart. That's why I feel it's a sure thing. Two smart, savvy people . . . we can figure something out. Right?”

“Hell, if we can't, lover, nobody can.”

•  •  •

Robert goes down first to the bar. It's on the sixth floor and looks out over Broadway and 52nd. The hotel caters to Europeans. Hell, Robert thinks, you hardly hear any English in this place. Great.

He settles in the most secluded booth he can find, waits for Kathy. Thinking about what they did, what they said. He's still on edge. Or maybe it's a high. Now he has to worry about somebody seeing them. Hell, let it happen, he thinks. Funny thing about danger. You start to like it. Just bluff the assholes. Shhh, can't talk, we're looking into a new French connection, know what I mean? Mum's the word.

Robert looks over the bar, the people. He likes the shadowy, foreign feeling. Yes sir, we're in the Big Leagues now. Things look pretty solid to me. Poor Anne.

When the waitress comes over, he orders two gin martinis.

Kathy comes in five minutes later, wearing the tinted glasses. Hell, she could be French. Looking very chic these days. She sees him without looking at him, waits for him to
signal it's okay. He touches his right ear and she veers slightly and makes her way toward him. God, the woman is cool. What a partner. What couldn't she do?

Kathy slides in next to him, winks. “Hi, lover. Funny meeting you here. You come . . . here a lot?”

They smile at each other.

“Seriously,” Robert says, “we are not doing anything here.”

“First anniversary,” she says. “We'll come back, wake the place up.” The martinis are already there. She sips hers, leans close to him so they can talk in whispers.

“You got it, sweetheart. So look, the trip idea seems right to me. I'll mention it to her, sort of drift into it. I can't tell her where, that might seem loaded. I'll throw out a bunch of ideas, tell her I'm real tired, need a rest. Wherever we go, we'd be there two days. Plenty of time for you to catch up. I keep thinking Bear Mountain would be perfect. Get alone somewhere in the woods and, what do you think, we're attacked by this little mountain guy in a pea jacket.”

“That little guy is going to shoot you, too, you know. Have to.”

“Ouch. Yeah, you're right.”

She kisses his face. “I'll do it with love.”

“I'm not thinking about that part. It's your job. Alright, it's just a question of settling on some place. This weekend, the one after. She might say Boston; she's got a sister there. Or I might say, no, let's be alone, pick somewhere you've always wanted to go but we never did. I let her set it up. Look, I think it's a walk. Things don't work, we wait, try again. The main thing is doing it right.”

Kathy listens, thinks he's got it. Some fake toughness maybe. But he's dealing with the details, really thinking about them. Going to kill his wife for her—her and a small fortune. Still, it's the long way around. But, hey, that's about as far as a man can go. I think about it, I get hot. Always a good sign of being in the right place.

Kathy licks his face. “Together forever.”

“You got it.”

What a thing, Robert thinks, looking down at her face. If anything, the fever's growing, not dropping off. The more I get, the more I want. Sounds like love to me. What wouldn't I do for her? He feels unbelievably strong. Hell, he thinks, I can do this. I can do anything.

•
 Robert sees his boss coming toward his office. This big bald guy looking very harried and belligerent, which can't mean anything good. “Rob,” he says, hardly through the door, “you get down there, too.”

Robert tries to act casual about this. He leans back in his swivel chair. “So what is this thing?” he asks slowly. “It's not terrorism, is it?”

“No, probably not,” the man says. “ConEd just blew up the street, looks like.”

Robert ponders this thoughtfully. The old pro giving the matter his full consideration. He shrugs. “Well, I think my people can handle it. I just assigned everybody.” Robert tries for a buddy-to-buddy expression. “You think it's really necessary for me to be there?”

The man stares down at Robert. His pink jowly face tense and unhappy. “Damn it, Rob, there's bodies lying in the street. Get your ass moving.”

Robert smiles manfully, thinking, You fuck, you're wrecking all my plans. “Sure, boss, no problem.”

“Report back,” the man says. “Figure a late night. Take Ferguson with you.” And he's gone.

Who the hell is Ferguson? Damn. For once I told Anne the truth. Now I can't use it. Everything was all set. . . .

He sees Kathy as he grabs the phone, dials his wife's work number, thinking fast. “Oh, Anne, hi, Robert. Another delay. . . . You'll see it on TV. Big explosion on 24th Street. Boss just walked in, said to prepare for an all-nighter. I'm going down there now. . . . No, don't worry. I just have to look after the troops. . . . I'll call after dinner, give you an update. . . . Great, talk to you. Bye.”

He slumps back. Damn it to hell, I need a drink.

He picks up the phone again, dials Kathy's number. “Miss Becker? Mr. Robbins here. That meeting for the fourth has run up against—”

A young woman knocks on the frame of his door, walks in. Robert covers the phone, snaps: “What?”

“Hi, I'm Lucy Ferguson. Mr. Townsend said I should tag along with you.”

“Ferguson?”

She shrugs. A short, plain, earnest-looking woman, about twenty-six. “They just sent me down from Rochester.”

“Great,” Robert says, making it sound ironic. “Just stand there.” To the phone he says, “People in and out. Fourth no good. Get back to you in three hours, set up something else. . . . Yeah, real sorry.” Robert glances at the new reporter, worried that
real sorry
might sound romantic or too emotional. “Bye.”

Robert hangs up, gets to his feet quickly, reaches for his jacket, and moves quickly past the woman. “Okay, Ferguson, game time.”

He marches to the elevators, thinking, Let's show the little rookie we're all business around here. No hanky-panky
whatever. No fucking on the roof angles. No cunt-crazy-editor-kills-wife stories around here.

God, just thinking that put a shock up my rib cage. Am I losing it? I am losing it.

He ignores the new reporter in the elevator and as they rush out to Third to hail a taxi. He smiles to himself as she has to run to keep up. He gets in the cab first, sliding to the left side, yelling instructions to the driver.
“Come on,
Ferguson.” He waves her in. “We're going to the front lines.”

She sprawls in, trying to please. He stares straight ahead, a rock of an editor, planning all the big stories he'll make out of this second-rate disaster. Actually seeing Kathy bending over in front of him, slowly hiking her skirt. . . .

“Mr. Saunders?”

He looks around at her sincere face. The dark hair has a smooth, shiny texture, like Kathy's.
“What?”

“Is everything all right?”

“Of course. What do you mean?” Who the hell is this, Florence Nightingale?

“I . . . you don't look so good.”

He stares at her in a belittling way. “Yeah, Doc? So how do I look?”