Too Easy (17 page)

She sits back, her face blank.

“Let me guess,” Stephanie says. “He said he wouldn't come in your—”

“No,” Kathy says, trying to laugh. “I
told
him to.”

“Oh, now we're getting somewhere.”

A man in a blue suit, a yellow tie, holding a beer against his chest, stops by their table. He's got a big smile. Kathy almost snarls at him, almost says, “Take a hike, asshole.” Then she sees Stephanie's face, the way it got warmer and happier. Kathy makes herself look down at the table, let Stephanie do what she wants.

“Well, a talent inspector,” Stephanie says gaily.

Kathy hears their voices, and she hears Robie saying, “Not now. I can't do it now.”

What? You doubt me, Robie? I am yours totally. What is the problem? That's what I just can't see. If you're the man, you have to act like it.

“And who's this?” the man with the yellow tie asks, smiling down at Kathy.

“Sorry, buddy, I've got a headache.”

“Oh, well, maybe we can fix that.”

She gives him a cold stare. “Don't push your luck.”

The guy laughs uneasily, turns back to Stephanie.

•  •  •

Kathy leaves the bar a little after ten. Three drinks tired and ready to watch Leno for a few minutes and fade. Maybe give Mom a call, see how she's doing. Kathy walks down Third, careful to glance behind her now and then. Still a lot of people about. It's reassuring, but she has her right hand in her coat pocket, holding the little tube of Mace. The city, she thinks, that never sleeps, and never weeps much either. Some cabbie gets shot every day, some cop, some guy in a deli. Governor says the death penalty sends the wrong message. Yeah, and his message is we don't care who gets killed. Hell, I'm just down now. Oh, Robie, Robie, Robie, you're letting me down.

Kathy reaches the corner of 51st. What a great three months, she thinks. Wouldn't trade it for anything. Maybe it's over. Maybe it's all bullshit. Hell no, it's good. Not everything goes all the way, turns out perfect. Man, it takes two to do the nasty. She smiles grimly, walking closer to her building.

She stops.
And there he is.
She's still sixty, seventy feet away. Never mind. She knows the way he holds himself, the pretend-lazy posture. She stands and watches him. He's not even looking around. Just staring up at the building across the street, smoking a cigarette. Leaning on his motorcycle. Worked with Louise, why not her?

What the hell, she thinks, it had to happen. She shrugs, starts toward him. She walks quietly up beside him, says, “Hello, Keith. And how are you this lovely evening?”

He turns slowly, as if he's not surprised she's there, as if he always expected her at just about this time. He grins at her, a handsome, crooked grin. “Hi, babe. How're you doing?”

He's got on the same leather jacket she last saw him in. The black hair's shorter, more styled. There's stubble on his face. He looks her over carefully, finally settles on her hair. “Whoa, look at you. Miss New York! Looks good.”

“Thank you.”

He straightens up off the bike, stretches briefly, faces her. “It's good to see you. Real good. The feeling mutual?”

The light from her building is shining on his face. Oh, he's a man, alright.

“No, Keith. And you know it. You going to waste my time pretending you don't?”

He snorts at that. “You think you got over me, pretty Kathy?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. I'm sorry, Keith. We had some good times. That was then. Don't make me be rude to you.”

He looks up at the hazy dark sky, a few stars there. Takes a last puff on his cigarette, then snaps it in the gutter. “Boy, we did have some times, didn't we?” He smiles at her. “You know what I keep thinking about? That night we climbed up the water tower. Great big old mushroom thing. And we got right on top, and fucked half the night. Joking how all that shaking might make the thing fall right over.” Keith laughs. “Ain't that just something in this world? You had guts, babe. You always had guts. I'll tell you the hard truth. There's nobody else as fine.”

He reaches out to touch her arm. She backs away one step.

He smiles easily. “I got plans, Kath. Big plans. I want you with me.”

“Any of them legal?”

“Yeah, all legit. Mostly. You'll like 'em.”

She isn't sure how to talk to him. Man's like a tide. “Keith, please listen to me. As far as you're concerned, I'm a dead woman, I don't exist. You have to accept that. You keep hanging around, I'll call the police. You're probably on parole or probation or something, right?”

“Ain't no never mind, babe. Thing is, you're fooling yourself, you think I'm out of your system. Hell, you haven't forgotten one bit of it. Remember how you used to wake up hanging on to me? Like I might get away.
Don't ever leave me.
You said that a number of times.”

Yeah, she thinks, I did. What a guy this is. Not really that big, just wiry and mean. Keith almost never got in fights, people didn't want to mess with him. She wonders if he's right, even a little? Not out of her system? She looks at his face. The nose almost comes right out of his forehead. Dark eyes, full mouth. Yeah, a tough guy, she thinks. But then there's this little bit of mischief there, too; he sees the funny side of things. That's the part that hooks a woman every time.

He winks at her. “You still miss me, right?”

“No, Keith.”

“Say what you want, pretty darling . . . I know you do.”

“I'm tired, Keith. I've got a real job, a good one. I need a lot of sleep to do it right. You've got to stop this.”

“I know about your job,” he says. “Good show.”

Kathy starts to shout at him. She notices a couple approaching, lets them walk on past. “History, Keith. Ancient fucking history. Our life together. Get it? That thick skull. What is in there? Anything at all?” Yeah, that is the problem, isn't it? Man's just not that smart. “You listening to me?”

“Listening?
Every pretty word, babe.”

“Keith, you want me to start screaming? Throw a fit right here?”

Keith looks puzzled. “What for? What's the point? I want you back. You want it, too.”

The man's wearing me out, she thinks. What am I—tired? angry? Hell, I married him, once long ago. Hate to be mean to him. Thing is,
ouch,
Keith wouldn't pull any of this shit that Robie's doing. Look at him, comes right to my door, lays himself on the line. I say, Keith, go over there, break the door in. He says, Sure, babe. Keith, beat that guy up. Just take a sec, babe, be right back. Keith, drop that old lady you
got at home. Sure, babe, it's done. Yeah, she thinks, staring right at Keith, I'm angry, angry with Robie. Oh, poor, dumb Keith, I really am history. I've outgrown you. How can I explain it?

“Keith, what do you want? Right now?”

He smiles. “You. You and me.”

Kathy frowns, wondering what she's going to do with this guy. The cops and lawyers and all that aren't very reliable. How could she trust them? Besides, he hasn't done anything, really. You can't just tell Keith anything. . . . Hell, she decides, I have to do it myself.

“Look, we'll go up, have a beer, talk this through for the last time. You've got to understand. It's over. You know my name. That's as close as we get. Forever.”

He's grinning. “Sure, let's go up.”

“Are you listening?”

“Always, darling.”

No, he's not. Kathy shrugs, turns toward the door to her small, walk-up building. He ambles along behind her. She unlocks the first door, gets three pieces of mail from the letter box, then unlocks the second door. There's a small lobby, white walls with two paintings, and stairs going up.

“Third floor,” she says.

“Show the way,” Keith says. “I always liked walking up steps behind you, you know that.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“I been all over, Kath. Ain't nobody as fine as you.”

She sighs. “Thank you, Keith.” Thinking about Keith watching her ass, wishing it were Robie. Wishing he were coming up behind her, grabbing her some way, hell, fucking her right on the stairs, saying in her ear, It's done, pretty lady. We can get married today, go to Bermuda for the weekend. That good for you? Oh, you bet. Oh, what the hell are you waiting for?

They walk along the narrow hall, stop in front of 3C. “Home,” she says.

Inside, Kathy points to the little dining table. “Have a seat, Keith.”

He looks at her, almost smacks his lips. “Sure 'nough.” He goes to the table, throws his leg over a chair without pulling it out, settles confidently in.

Kathy takes off her coat, then sits across from him. “I was just wondering . . .”

“Yeah?”

“What can I say to make you understand that everything's changed. I've changed. The river moves on, Keith.”

“Maybe so. But we can ride it, too.” He grins. That beautiful dumb grin of his. “Like a king and queen, darling.”

“No, we can't. Believe me.”

He scowls and smiles, letting the little lady have her say.

“I've gone on, Keith. I've outgrown you.”

“Easy to say”—he smiles—“hard to do.”

Kathy stands up. “You want something?”

He shrugs. “You got that right.”

“To drink, Keith? To eat?”

Still not the right question. Keith grins at her.

“Keith—how about a beer?”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe some bacon and eggs.”

“Now you're talking. You didn't forget my favorite meal. Not counting, you know—”

“Keith. Let go.” She walks around to the small kitchen alcove. She turns on the water to make some noise, give her a moment to think. She looks back at her ex-husband's profile. He's sitting there, or slouching there, one arm on the table, cool as ever, smiling to himself. What is he thinking about, Kathy wonders. Other than fucking my brains out.

She opens a cabinet, pulls out the small frying pan. Then she goes to the refrigerator, finds the eggs and butter. Keith glances at her briefly, says, “You're looking real good, Kath. Glad to see you in fine health.”

He seems to mean this. She picks up the frying pan and
moves behind him. She lifts it back over her right shoulder, holding it with both hands, twisting the handle until the pan's flat bottom is facing forward. Then she swings the pan like a baseball bat, in a smooth, horizontal arc right into Keith's head. The noise is surprisingly loud. He slumps over on the table.

She shudders at the sound, then hits him again. “That one's for beating up Louise.”

Kathy puts the frying pan on the sink, goes to the phone, dials 911. Hears the bored cop voice.

“Hi, this is Kathy Becker.” She gives the address and phone number, slowly, precisely. “My ex-husband came over and started hassling me. I hit him with a frying pan. He's out. But he might come to. I want some cops over here right away. My life could be in danger.”

“Sure thing, lady.” Cop sounds happy now. This call sounds real, not the usual false alarms and bullshit they have to listen to all night. And on East 51st Street, no less. “Fast as we can.”

She sits at the table, across from Keith, to wait for the cops. He's breathing heavily, but breathing. She doubts she could kill him with a frying pan. Head of concrete, this guy. But she could knock him out. That much is for sure. Look at him. Wasn't anything to it, she thinks. How long's it take to raise the thing? He's sitting there thinking how we'll be jumping in the sack after the bacon and eggs, I guess. I was wondering how to do it. I kept thinking it'd be difficult. Wasn't. It was nothing.

She reaches in his jacket for his cigarettes. Still a Marlboro man. Should've known. She lights one, inhales at length, exhales slowly, staring at Keith's face. “You come to,” she says, “I'll hit you again. So don't.”

She watches him some more. “I'm not betting any big money,” she says. “But I do bet you get it now. You just needed a clear picture. A real big, real clear picture.”

She feels better now. Dealing with this thing. Hell, she
thinks, dealing with anything always makes you feel better. It was so easy. She sits back, smiling some. “Tried to tell you, old buddy. The river moves on. And you,” she laughs, “well, you sink to the bottom.”

She thinks about Robie, wishes he could see her now. See, man, it was nothing. I was soooo cool. Pressure? What pressure? You just do it a step at a time. One, two, three. . . .

The buzzer sounds, she gets up to let the cops in. It's sweet, she thinks. Tell them everything just the way it happened, but then just at the end he got mean, she was scared. Better check his name on the computer, guys. Oh, yes, I'll press charges. And why did I let him in? He said he wanted to talk. Why not? He used to be my sweetie.

She stands by the door, smiling. And me just so damned pretty. With a fancy job and great tits. Who's going to believe Keith about anything?

Man could've listened to me. Paid just a little attention to what I told him. Hell, then he wouldn't be Keith, would he?

There's knocks on the door. Kathy glances at Keith, then down at her blouse and skirt. She notices the cigarette, shrugs—hell, I was so scared, guys, I really needed one, you know how it is. . . .

She opens the door, lets two cops in, a man and a woman. “Oh, officers,” Kathy says, a little breathlessly, “thanks for coming so fast. . . . There
he
is. . . .”

She does such a good job, the big male cop reaches for his gun as he rushes in.

•
 Kathy is waiting in front of a little shop on Water Street, peering in the window now and then to look busy. She's wearing a light tan coat and sunglasses. A few minutes after five a cab pulls up and Robie gets out. He's got on a similar coat, a gray tweed cap, and the sunglasses Kathy gave him two weeks ago—“your secret lover glasses,” she called them.