Icarus. (24 page)

In the women's locker room at the elegant Chelsea Piers gym, she yanked off her running shoes and her socks, stripped off her leotard, then the tank top she wore over it, and stood in front of the long expanse of mirror. She stared at herself, watched the sweat drip from her shoulder, flexed her tricep and saw the muscle glisten under the fluorescent light. She ran her finger from the bottom of her chin, down her neck, down all the way between her breasts. Then she put her ringer in her mouth, tasted her own sweat. She turned slowly, all the way around, standing on her toes, watching herself in the mirror as she spun on her bare feet. There were quite a few women in the locker room now, showering, dressing, getting ready to go back to their office jobs or their photo shoots. She knew they were starting to watch her and that excited her. She liked when all the white girls stared at her body, so she prolonged her twirl, long after seeing what she wanted to see in the mirror. Did it make them envious, what they were seeing? Did it make them horny? Did she amuse them or repulse them? She didn't much care, really and truly. As long as she did something to them.

The afternoon was spent shopping. She didn't need anything and that was the whole point. She bought frivolous things. But elegant. She had learned to be elegant, to have rich, white taste. She liked to tease and tart it up at the gym, get all the guys – the ones who spent their nights beating off thinking about Mariah Carey – all worked up and hot. And at the club, of course; there she loved to bare her rock-hard thighs and wear those fuck-me high heels. But in real life, she liked class. And more than that, she knew what class was. Real class. So while other girls her age were strolling Eighth Street, buying silver-plated earrings, she walked confidently up and down Madison Avenue, stopping into Fratelli Rossetti for a pair of bright-red satin open-toe shoes with a one-inch heel, and into Prada for a black purse with a red snap that exactly matched the shoes. Two black purses with red snaps because… well… because you just never knew when an extra would come in handy.

She had an audition at 3:30, for a soap, but it wasn't much of a part and, besides, she was really bushed, so she blew it off, went home, and instead took a short nap around four. Then, at six, she hailed a cab and went to work.

It was a good night. She slithered and pounced and kicked and was sexy as hell. She made $1,800 in tips and not one person knew that when she was slithering up against them, she was thinking about the new fabric she wanted to buy for her living room couch, or where she'd put the dry-cleaning bill because tomorrow it was time to pick everything up, or what books she was going to read lying on the beach when she took a vacation down in Florida in another month. One guy asked her her name and didn't bat an eye when she decided to goof on him and said, "Madre. Madre Teresa." He just said, "Nice name. Is it Spanish?" and she knew he thought she liked him, knew he believed there was a chance she'd give him her number and maybe even go out to dinner with him. He was a scrawny little guy with a bad haircut and bad skin, and she knew she was doing her job as well as it could be done because by the time she was through dancing for him, he'd given her a hundred and forty bucks and she'd bet her life he didn't make more than five hundred a week.

At 4:00 a.m., the club closed and she left. A taxi was waiting for her when she hit the street. Taxis were always waiting for the girls at that hour. The cabbies liked taking them home; one driver told her they all figured that sooner or later one of the girls would forget her billfold and they'd get a blow job in exchange for the ride. As far as she knew, that hadn't happened in the entire history of the world but she thought it was kind of sweet that the hope was so persistent.

At 4:20, she was sitting in the lounge at Sax, the after-hours club of the moment where most of the girls hung out. She thought Kid would be there. But he wasn't. One of his friends was, though. The sweet one. She could never remember his name; all she could remember was that he wanted a job at the club. He wanted to be a bouncer there. It never seemed to bother him that she couldn't remember even the smallest little detail about him. He was always hanging out at the club or in an after-hours place. He always seemed to be waiting for Kid. Like he was his bodyguard or something. Or his shadow. She wondered if he was as sweet as he seemed. Or if he was just dumber than shit.

She wondered if she should fuck him. Would it hurt Kid? If it would, she'd do it. But she had a feeling nothing could hurt Kid.

Well, something could.

She reached into her purse, fingered the switchblade that lay nestled beneath the gum and the loose cash and the lipstick. She loved the feel of it, loved just having it. One of her ex-boyfriends had given it to her over a year ago. For protection, he said. All Spanish girls eventually need protection. Especially if they have a body like yours. She didn't want it, not at first, but she took it, it was easier than arguing. Then she got to like having it. Then she got to love it. The noise it made when it ssssssed open. Its sleekness. The fact that it was so beautiful and yet so deadly. She'd never had to use it and part of her hoped she never would. But part of her felt quite differently. Quite differently. She pulled it out of the bag now, held it under the table, and flicked the button that released the long, slim blade. Sssssss. She ran her finger over the flat surface of the cool steel.

That could hurt him.

Somebody had done it to him already; she'd watched him unwrap the bandage, she'd seen the jagged cut. Why couldn't she do it, too?

Touching the blade, she thought: That could hurt him bad.

Smiling, she closed the blade and put it back into her purse. Then she smiled across the room at Kid's friend. Waved him over with a slight movement of her index finger.

He started talking. She didn't know about what. She was busy thinking about her dry cleaning again. And then the test she was supposed to take the next day. Psychology. She already knew one of the questions: Can you prove that there is such a thing as the pleasure principle? Yes, she could. She most definitely could.

And then she thought about why she liked the idea of hurting Kid so much.

She didn't know. She really and truly didn't.

But it did make her smile.

– "-"-"THE MURDERESS She could not remember ever being this happy.

Her life was under control for the first time since she could remember.

Business was great and as long as the economy stayed strong and the market kept going up she was sure it would stay great. She loved what she was doing and felt she was now really good at it. She trusted her eye, confident she could spot who and what was going to be hot. And other people obviously shared that confidence.

She'd just gotten back from a dizzying two weeks, one in Paris, one in London. Meeting new customers, new clients, new agents. It was her first-ever trip abroad and it was exhilarating. It was a big step up in class for her, she knew that, but she'd pulled it off. More than that – she'd flourished! In Paris she'd dined at L'Ambroisie, the most expensive restaurant she'd ever been to. She didn't pay, the client paid, but she couldn't help sneaking a peek at the bill and she quickly figured out that it had come to almost two hundred and fifty dollars per person. She must be getting decadent, she realized, because she decided it was worth it. It felt like a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar meal. She went to every museum she could cram in, of course. Spent almost all of her one entirely free afternoon in the Musee d'Orsay, stayed until closing time. Didn't leave until the guard insisted.

In London, she spent one night pub hopping, drinking a ton of beer, and got a little out of control. But it was okay, nobody minded. At the end of the night, she didn't go back to her hotel. She was having too much fun and she was drunk and so she went back to an artist's flat, not very professional, but he'd been hitting on her all night and she thought he was extraordinarily attractive. It had been a good decision because their lovemaking was exceptional. They got even drunker and screwed their brains out and as great as that was, it was almost as good being in the flat, a loft which was right on the Thames, way, way east, with huge windows that looked out over the river and a part of the city that looked like Dickens was still living there. The next day she wasn't even hungover and someone else took her to the Groucho Club to discuss a book idea, whether she thought it was viable for America – and whether she might want to write the introduction.

Her last night there, she dined all by herself. It was her choice – she forced herself to do it, actually, since she was a little phobic about eating in public alone. But she loved it. Went to a chic place in Soho, the Sugar Club – a rave in the Time Out eating/drinking guide. She didn't even bring a book or magazine to read. She just ate and thought about everything that was happening to her and let the waiters fawn over her, which they most certainly did.

Oh, God, she'd felt sophisticated.

She didn't even mind coming home. Didn't mind being bumped in the airport by people rushing to get their luggage. Or getting stuck in traffic on the LIE. She didn't mind coming home to her apartment, which seemed warm and cozy to her. She enjoyed unpacking and tossing her travel clothes in the laundry and putting on her scruffy gray sweatpants and Marc Anthony sweatshirt, which she'd bought at his concert at the Garden.

The only thing she minded was when she checked her phone machine.

Three messages from Kid. He thought she'd be back by now. He really wanted to talk to her, to see her. Would she please call.

She didn't want to call him. It was over and she'd told him that before she left. Now, after this trip, she was more determined than ever to make sure it stayed over. It had been fun and, yes, it had been good for her. Even her shrink said so. But it was over. She had to move onward and upward. It was time to put what she was behind her. Time to become what she was on her way toward being.

She thought she'd made it clear to him. She was positive she'd made it clear. And she didn't want to see him again to go through the whole thing one more time. She knew exactly what would happen – she'd weaken. She'd start to like him – that was never the issue – and she'd start to be attracted to him – that was certainly never the issue – and she'd start to think about everything he knew about her. She'd start to realize how he could make her life so… so undesirable again.

She thought about the messages on her machine and she started to get angry. Really angry. She decided maybe she should call her shrink but then she thought: No, I can do this on my own. I can. I just got back from Paris and London and I'm sophisticated. I can handle it by myself.

She decided the best thing was to ignore him. She wouldn't return his phone calls. Yes, that was definitely best. Otherwise she might get even angrier.

And her anger scared her. And it depressed her.

It made her remember too many things it was time to forget.

– "-"-"THE DESTINATION It was strange being this close to him again. She knew where he lived, she was beginning to learn about his new life; sometimes she thought she could feel his presence. Feel him.

He had no idea she was around, of course. And it was better that way. It was the only way; she understood that. It would be a mistake to see him. It would be a disaster, in fact. He wouldn't want to think about her. He wouldn't want to see her. He wouldn't even want to know that she was alive.

She turned over in her bed. Slowly stroked the back of the man next to her, until he stirred, coming awake. She shouldn't have told him. That had been a mistake. But she thought somehow he would like it, that it would bring them even closer. It didn't, though. It had scared him. He hadn't said that but she could see it in his' eyes. It had disturbed him, as if there were something sick, almost perverted about the connection.

Oh, well. It was too late now, though, wasn't it?

She often thought there should be a place where you could queue up and receive a ticket that would allow you to live certain parts of your life over again. A replay. Like in a friendly tennis match.

But there were no replays in life, were there? She was living proof of that. So was the ache in her heart. She wondered if that ache was ever going to disappear.

She was beginning to think it was a permanent part of her. A physical attachment. We'll meet for tea? Oh, yes, I'm easy to find. I'm five-foot-six, have short black hair, gray eyes, and a large hole in my heart.

The man's eyes were open now and he smiled at the pleasure he was receiving from her nails scraping lightly down his spine.

He was a handsome man, Kid Demeter was. She liked being in bed with him. She liked being with him, period. Hell, she just plain liked him.

But she was in love with Jack Keller.

And, as always, she wondered if she'd ever be able to do anything about it.

It was a Monday, the last week of a glorious May, and Dom was doing what he always did at noon on Mondays. Or 11 a.m. on Wednesdays or 4 p.m. on Fridays. He was working, quartering a baby calf, one of two requested by one of the top chefs in the city for a private party. This was Dom at his best: not only did he enjoy the work, he had charged the chef twice the going rate for these beauties and didn't even have to haggle. He looked at the man to his right, busy slicing up the second calf, and he smiled.

"You haven't lost your touch, Jackie boy."

Jack looked up, satisfied with the job he'd done. He laid the butcher knife on the table, the razor-sharp blade glistening and dripping with red. "I love these knives," he said. He stared at the row of eight, each one a different size and thickness, that Dom had lined up on one of the butcher-block tables. These knives were a good forty years old, they'd been there since Jack was a boy. Thick, dark wood handles, rough-hewn and worn but somehow elegant and light to the touch. The blades, sharpened every day, able to slice effortlessly through muscle and gristle and even bone. Jack walked over and picked up the cleaver. He turned it over, admiring it from every angle. "They're works of art, aren't they?"