"V" is for Vengeance (33 page)

She put the kettle on the stove and turned on the burner. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“I'm fine. What if an occasion comes up?”

“I guess I'll just have to go shopping. You know what a chore that is,” she said, smiling.

“Might require a trip to New York,” he said, matching her tone.

“Exactly.”

Dinner at the club was pleasant. The place had an old-fashioned fusty air about it, like the home of a rich maiden aunt. The once grand furniture was upholstered in a peach brocade that had seen better days. The couches and chairs were arranged in conversational groupings. Some of the cushions were lumpy and the arms were frayed in places, but an upgrade would require a membership assessment, which would set off endless disagreements and endless complaints. The club was largely given over to couples in their seventies and eighties, whose homes had appreciated in value while their retirement income had dwindled, subject to the whims of the economy. The so-called younger members were in their fifties and sixties, better off financially perhaps but destined for the same fate. Old friends would start dropping off one by one and in the end, they'd be grateful to spend an evening with the few tottering acquaintances who were left.

Robert and Gretchen were their usual ten minutes late. The delay was so consistent, she wondered why they couldn't manage to be on time. The four of them hadn't seen one another since the Christmas holidays, so they caught up over drinks. Their relationship was amicable but superficial. All four were ardent Republicans, which meant any talk of politics was quickly addressed as they were all in agreement. Nora had met the Hellers in Los Angeles shortly before she and Channing were married. Robert was a plastic surgeon who'd been felled by a heart attack ten years earlier. He was fifty-two at the time, and from that point on had cut his practice back to two days a week. Gretchen was his first and only wife, also in her early sixties, but with the years artfully erased. She had big green eyes, white-blond hair, and flawless skin. Her boobs were fake, but not conspicuously so.

The Hellers were the first to buy in Montebello—a six-thousand-square-foot French Normandy house at Nine Palms, which in addition to the golf course offered one-acre parcels in a gated community with like-minded souls. Robert was a dumpling of a man, half a head shorter than Gretchen, bald, and apple-shaped. The two so plainly adored each other that Nora was often envious. Tonight she was especially grateful for their company because it kept the flow of conversation light and inconsequential. Nora managed to remain gracious while keeping her distance from her husband. At moments, she saw his gaze settle on her quizzically, as though he sensed the difference in her without being able to put his finger on it. She knew he wouldn't ask for fear she'd tell him something he didn't want to know.

They moved from drinks in the parlor to the dining room where they ordered their second round of drinks, menus open in front of them. There was a set selection of entrées at surprisingly reasonable prices. Where else could you order Salisbury steak or beef Stroganoff for $7.95, with a salad and two sides? These were foods from the 1950s, nothing trendy, spicy, or ethnic. Nora was debating between the pan-seared petrale sole and the roast chicken and mashed potatoes when Gretchen leaned toward Robert and placed a hand on his sleeve. “Oh my god. You won't believe who just walked in.”

Nora was sitting with her back to the entrance so she had no idea who Gretchen was referring to. Robert glanced discreetly to the side and said, “Shit.”

Two men passed the table in the wake of the maître d' who was leading the way. The first Nora knew by sight though she didn't remember his name. The second was Lorenzo Dante. She dropped her gaze, feeling the warmth rise to her cheeks. Despite his claim he might be there, he was the last person in the world she had actually expected to see at Nine Palms. She'd put the meeting with him out of her mind, refusing to think about the awkward transaction with the ring. She'd returned the ring to her jewelry box, wishing she hadn't been so adamant in her refusal of the seventy-five thousand dollars. She should have taken it.

Nora leaned forward. “Who is he?”

Under her breath, Gretchen said, “Lorenzo Dante's son. They call him Dante.” Then she mouthed, “He's Mafia.”

Robert picked up on the comment and responded with impatience. “Good god, Gretchen. He's not Mafia. Where did you get that idea?”

“The equivalent,” she said. “You told me so yourself.”

“I did no such thing. I said I did business with him once upon a time. I said he was a tough customer.”

“You said worse than that and you know it,” she replied.

The maître d' seated the two men at a corner table, and Nora found Dante facing her, visible just over Channing's shoulder. The juxtaposition was an odd one, Channing's slim elegance in contrast to Dante's more substantial build. Channing's hair was white, clipped close on the sides with a short rough on top. His brows were almost invisible and his face was narrow. Dante was silver-haired and his complexion was a warmer tone. Dark brows, gray mustache, deeply dimpled cheeks. With his features lined up against Channing's, she could see how pinched her husband looked. Maybe the strain of his secret life was taking its toll. Nora had always thought Channing was good-looking, but she wondered about that now. His face was drained of color and he looked like he'd lost weight. The waiter appeared at the table and they ordered their meal and a bottle of Kistler Chardonnay.

She felt herself detach, a state that was becoming all too frequent with her of late. Whatever Robert's business with Dante, he clearly didn't want to talk about it now. Gretchen would have enlightened her, given half a chance. In their social set, gossip was a sport. There was no “fact of the matter,” only rumor and innuendo. Points were awarded for anything juicy, regardless of the truth content. This was what she knew of Dante, that he'd come to her defense. This was what she also knew, that he'd offered her a way out.

She tuned in to Robert's conversation with Channing and heard him propose lunch and a round of golf.

“You have a tee time?”

“Don't need one on Sundays. The course won't be crowded. We can walk on anytime we like.”

Channing caught Nora's eye. “Is that okay with you?”

“Fine.”

The talk shifted to Robert's last round of golf. He'd played Pebble Beach the weekend before, and the two men discussed the course. Neither she nor Gretchen played golf, which meant the two men could hold forth while nothing was expected of them. The salads arrived and the topic of conversation shifted again, this time to the cruise to the Far East the Hellers were taking at the end of June. They compared notes about cruise lines, and Nora was able to keep up her end of the conversation without effort. Once she disconnected, everything was so much easier.

Channing poured her another glass of wine. He smiled when their eyes met, but there was no emotional content. She missed the early days of their romance. Thelma was now the recipient of all that she had cherished in him. If she were honest about it, she'd acknowledge how little of herself she'd given Channing in the past few years. The disconnect wasn't the direct result of his affair, it was habitual to her.

The petrale sole turned out to be a mistake. White and flavorless, lying in a pool of butter. Nora picked her way through the meal, and in the lull between the entrée and dessert, she excused herself and headed for the ladies' lounge. She went about her business, ran a comb through her hair, reapplied her lipstick. She'd felt so clever disguising her feelings from Channing, making sure he had no inkling of where she was or what she knew. But in pretending not to care, she'd actually ceased to care. Reviving her old feelings for him seemed to be out of her control.

As she emerged from the ladies' lounge, she saw Dante coming down the corridor. She felt a jolt—tension or apprehension, she wasn't sure which. He wore a pale gray suit and a dark gray dress shirt with a black tie. The combination gave him the look of a gangster, which he was either unaware of or didn't care to hide. She knew he'd timed his leaving the table to coincide with her return.

She said, “What are you doing here?” Somehow the question seemed accusatory, which wasn't her intent.

“I told you I'd be here. I'm having dinner with a friend.”

“I thought you were just making conversation.”

“I was. You left the office, I decided I better have a look at the guy lucky enough to be married to you. I don't think he appreciates what he has.”

She dropped her gaze. “I have to get back.”

“Why don't you have a drink with me tomorrow, just the two of us?”

“I don't drink.”

“You had wine with dinner. We should talk.”

“About what?”

“How you ended up married to a bum.”

“He's not a bum.”

“Yes, he is. You just haven't seen it yet. I know his type. He looks good on the surface, but underneath, he's a royal shit.”

Nora felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “My friend says you're Mafia.”

He smiled. “Flattering, but false. I'm connected in other ways.”

“You're a thug.”

He smiled. “Now you've got it. A bona fide badass,” he said. “Give me an hour of your time tomorrow. That's not too much to ask.”

“I can't.”

“There's a place out on State Street called Down the Hatch. You can look it up in the phone book. It's a dive. You won't see anyone you know.”

“Channing and I have plans.”

“So cancel 'em. One o'clock. The place will be deserted.”

“Why would I agree?”

“I want to sit someplace quiet and dark so I can look at you.”

“That's not a good idea.”

“I'd say lunch, but then you'd think it was a date and that, I know, you'd refuse.”

“No, thank you.”

“Think about it.”

She started to protest and he put a finger on her lips. His touch was brief but startlingly intimate. “Excuse me,” she said and moved away.

When Nora returned to the table, Channing was talking about leg-hold traps. She was confused that such a subject had come up. As she took her seat, she said, “Leg-hold traps? Where did that come from?”

Gretchen said, “Your gardener's complaining about the coyotes.”

Nora realized Mr. Ishiguro had told Channing about the coyote scat he'd showed her Wednesday when she was at the house. Since she'd told him she'd sent Mrs. Stumbo, she had to play dumb. Even if Mr. Ishiguro had mentioned her being there, his English was so fractured that Channing wouldn't get the reference. “What about the coyotes?” she asked.

Channing's gesture was impatient. “They've invaded the property. They're crapping everywhere. Mr. Ishiguro says he's seen the male leap that six-foot wall between us and the Fergusons'. Karen's two cats disappeared this past week. I told you about that.”

“She shouldn't have left them out. You said yourself how irresponsible it was.”

“You're missing the point. They're getting bolder by the minute. Once they lose their fear of humans, they're really dangerous. Mr. Ishiguro suggested traps and I said fine.”

“Why would you let him use leg-hold traps? Those are horrible. They can snap an animal's leg in two. If the poor things don't bleed to death, they're in excruciating pain. Why would you agree to something so barbaric? Those coyotes have never bothered us.”

“They're predators. They'll eat anything. Birds, garbage, carrion. You name it.”

Gretchen said, “I'll tell you something gruesome. A friend of ours had her little shih tzu dragged off and eviscerated. She was standing right there. The poor dog all bloody and screaming. She said it was the worst thing that's ever happened to her. She went out and bought a shotgun and she keeps it by the back door. She won't go out in the yard now unless she's armed.”

“That's ridiculous,” Nora said.

Gretchen said, “I beg to differ. Even where we are, you can hear them howling after dark. Sounds like a pack of wild Indians about to attack. It gives me the willies.”

“I better keep my pistol loaded,” Channing said with a smile. “If the traps don't work, I can pick them off from the deck.”

“You have a
pistol
?” Gretchen asked.

“Of course.”

“Well, aren't you the wily one. I had no idea.”

“Stop it,” Nora snapped. “If that man sets leg-hold traps, I'm firing him.”

“Well, you better be quick about it. He picked the traps up yesterday and he's using chicken carcasses for bait.”