"It's cold in here." Her voice was subdued: someone who had come out of a sickroom.
Ryan looked over. "How're you doing?"
"I can't find the Excedrin."
"Oh, it's in the kitchen. I'll get it."
He rose, pushing out of the chair and arching the stiffness from his neck. She was already in the kitchen, standing at the sink with the water running, her back to him as he came in.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"You mean, for trying to seduce me?"
"I remembered-when I woke up I remembered things I said . . . what I did. I'm very sorry."
"How do you feel otherwise?"
"Otherwise, shitty. I'll thank you for one thing," Denise said, "not letting me have any more last night. Beyond that, I'm not sure we have anything to talk about."
Ryan turned her around by the shoulders, seeing her eyes briefly, before she looked away.
"We have quite a bit to talk about, after you have some breakfast."
"Just coffee."
"All right, just coffee," Ryan said. "I'm not going to argue with you. I'm not going to try and force you to believe or do anything I say. But I'm going to ask you to listen to me. After that, if you want us to be friends again, fine. If you don't, okay, that's that. But you're not allowed to think of something else while I'm talking, or what you'd like to say, or interrupt with some smartass remark. All right?"
Denise shrugged. She didn't seem to care.
She didn't want Ryan to look at her. She was tired and felt sick. She stood at the counter smoking cigarettes and sipped the coffee getting cold, staring at it while he talked to her in a quiet tone. She liked the sound of his voice and at another time would want to believe him, but right now it didn't matter. She looked awful and felt awful and didn't want to be here.
Not today but tomorrow she could walk in her mother's house with a happy-daughter smile and say, "Hi, Mom, I'm home." Her mother would let Denise kiss her cheek. They would sit down in the kitchen to have a nice cup of coffee with real cream. She would think of all the things she could tell her mother to try to be close to her as a person and not simply a daughter. She could say, "Mom, I've been drunk for three years," saving Bobby Lear till later, and for a moment her mother would stare at her. Then her mother would say, "How could you do that to me?" Or she might say it was impossible because no one in the family drank. Or she might pretend not to have heard. Or she would be saved and protected by an act of God: the telephone or a neighbor at the door, and her mother would come back in the kitchen with a letter from Denise's brother, Don, who worked for National Cash Register in Dayton, and show her Polaroids of Don and Joanne and their three boys, Scott, Skip, and June Bug doing "soooo big" with his arms raised over his head.
She could give up and let herself melt into her mother's life and wear a dress on Sunday and sit with her mother's friends in the maple living room and compare Edison bills and watch TV, the new Oral Roberts who no longer healed people, and, in the evenings, watch Name That Tune and Let's Make a Deal. She would run into boys on the street she had known in high school. Her mother would say all the nice boys were married and had good positions with State Farm and John Deere and the bank or mixing prescriptions. Two of them would be on the County Board of Commissioners. Her mother would find one, though, who had not married. Harold something, a long German name that was on the Edison Company centennial farm plaque hanging in the new annex of the courthouse.
She could live with her mother and listen to her complaints and make molded salads and never have to think again.
"Are you all right?" Ryan said. "Fine."
"You don't look fine. You listening or trying to hide?" She stood with her head down, staring at the counter. "I think I'll go back to bed," Denise said.
"I'll tell you something. This is the hardest thing I've ever done in my life," Ryan said. "I'm telling you everything, but I could be losing something I want very much." He waited.
She was aware of the silence and felt him watching her. "What? The money?"
"Shit. You're not listening." Ryan waited again. "Well, it's up to you. Either you're not listening or you don't believe me."
She did believe him, because she wanted to believe him, but she needed assurance and protection and time; so she said, "Why should I?"
"You know why?" Ryan said. "Because I'm all you've got. You want the money, then you've got to trust somebody."
She looked up at him now. "I haven't said I want it." As she started to look away Ryan reached across the counter and raised her face with his hand and held it a moment.
"And you haven't said you don't want it. Goddamn it, wake up and listen to me!"
He saw her eyes come alive. When he took his hand away she continued to stare at him. Good. He held her gaze and told her quietly she had three ways to go. She could trust Mr. Perez. She could believe him and sign his papers and end up with nothing. And if she gave him any trouble, it was very likely he would have her killed. Mr. Perez wanted it all. Or she could trust Virgil Royal and ask him to help her, believing Virgil only wanted what was owed him. But if she got past Mr. Perez, Virgil would kill her for the whole prize. Either way, Mr. Perez or Virgil. They killed people or had them killed and didn't think much of it.
"Or you can trust me," Ryan said. "I want to help you get it, the whole hundred and fifty thousand if that's possible, because I owe you something. Look at it another way, I think I owe them something, too."
"And what would I owe you?" Denise said. Staring at him was not hard now. She was getting back her confidence.
"You don't owe me anything."
"Why not?"
He was uncomfortable again and it made him mad.
"I'm not looking for anything," Ryan said, "or trying to make a deal with you. I've been playing enough games, I want to get this thing done and feel good about it, about myself. You understand? You've been to enough meetings, you ought to know what I'm talking about."
Her eyes were watery, red-looking.. He knew she was aware of herself, and the way she kept staring at him, not letting go, surprised him.
She said, "How would we do it?"
"I call Perez, tell him you're in the bag," Ryan said. "If he comes over with the papers, I can probably get them signed."
"Yeah, then what?"
"You can't even hold on to the pen. I tell him, leave the papers, I'll get you to sign when you start to come out of it."
Denise waited.
"If he's made out the power of attorney paper, that he sends to the company, then we'll know the name of the stock."
"He doesn't seem dumb," Denise said, "somebody that'd make a mistake."
Ryan shook his head. "No, he isn't dumb, but maybe he's overanxious."
Mr. Perez sounded calm on the phone, though, the son of a bitch. Polite and in control. He said he and Raymond would be right out.
Raymond was there with him in the hotel suite. Mr. Perez hung up the phone. He said, "You heard the saying, Don't ever shit a shitter?"
Raymond nodded. "I know it well."
"I don't believe our friend does," Mr. Perez said.
Ryan came back from the A&P with two half gallons and a fifth of Gallo Rhine. He put the fifth on the counter, opened the two half gallons and poured them into the sink.
"Don't look," Ryan said.
Denise didn't say anything. She turned to the paint table, picked up the full ashtray, and reached down for the empty wine jug on the floor.
"No, leave those," Ryan said. He put the two empty half gallons on the counter. "Dirty dishes, everything. You're not getting ready for company, you're on a drunk."
Denise watched him, holding her arms, cold. "Will I be in bed?"
"Not in it, on top of the covers, with the raincoat, and barefoot. That's a good touch, the raincoat."
"It's what I wear," Denise said.
Ryan smiled at her. "So it won't be too hard to fake, will it? Your eyes are great."
"Thanks," Denise said.
Ryan opened the door. Mr. Perez came in, followed by Raymond Gidre, who was wearing only a suit coat, his shoulders tightly hunched.
"Cold enough for you?" Ryan said.
"Jes-us," Raymond said.
Mr. Perez walked over to the counter, laid his attache case down flat, and snapped it open.
"She called me this morning about five," Ryan said. "You can see what she's had."
"Like a couple of gallons," Raymond said. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, little skinny thing."
"Where is she?" Mr. Perez said. He had typewritten papers in his hand and was taking a pen out of his inside pocket, his gloves still on. He was wearing a gray hat, a gray herringbone topcoat with a black velvet collar, and the thin, tight-fitting gray gloves that looked like suede.
"She's in the bedroom," Ryan said. "You want to take your coat off?"
Guess not. Mr. Perez didn't bother to answer. He took the papers and pen and went through the hall area into the bedroom. Ryan followed him, seeing Denise lying on her side in the raincoat, her white feet drawn up, her eyes closed. Mr. Perez sat on the edge of the bed looking down at her.
"Miz Leary," Mr. Perez said, "how you feeling, dear?"
Denise made a sound or mumbled something, burrowing into the pillow, that Ryan couldn't hear.
"That's a shame, little girl taking sick. Honey, look at me. I got something for you."
"Go fuck yourself," Denise said, barely moving her mouth, eyes still closed.
Mr. Perez said, "Is that nice?"
"I guess she talks like that," Ryan said, "when she's been drinking. You should've heard her before."
Mr. Perez nudged her gently. "I'd just like you to sign these papers, little girl, then you can sleep long as you want."
Denise asked him, slurring the words just right, why he didn't fuck off and leave her alone and get his ass off the bed. Mr. Perez looked over his shoulder. As Raymond came in, Mr. Perez said, "Sit her up," losing some of his sweetness.
Between them they got her upright, leaning heavily against Raymond, her legs doubled under her beneath the raincoat. Raymond pulled the collar of the raincoat out a little, trying to look inside. Mr. Perez put the pen in her hand.
"Pull the table over."
Raymond grabbed the night table with one hand and gave it a jerk to bring it over in front of them, letting the lamp with the glass chimney fall and shatter to the floor. Denise opened her eyes.
"What're you doing? Hey, for Christ's sake-"
"There she is," Mr. Perez said. "Got your little eyes open?"
Ryan went over and began picking up the pieces of broken glass, listening to Mr. Perez's sweet words.
"That's a good girl, hold the pen. There. Now, see those papers? Right in front of you on the table. All you got to do is sign your name where you see the little Xs. Precious, you see them? Down there at the bottom. Write 'Denise L. Leary.' You don't have to worry having it notarized, I'll get that done for you." To Raymond he said, "Take her hand and put it there."
Raymond tried to. Denise pulled her hand away and let the pen drop to the floor.
"Get it, Raymond."
Ryan stood up, carefully holding the pieces of broken glass. As he started out, Mr. Perez was saying, "Now, let's try it again. Come on, sugar, you can do it. Hold the pen. That's it."
In the kitchen Ryan opened the cupboard beneath the sink and dropped the glass fragments into the trash basket.
"Goddamn it, sign the goddamn thing! Now!"
Ryan tensed. In the silence that followed, he let himself relax. He lit a cigarette, then took the tin paper and screw-top off the fifth of Gallo on the counter. He was in the living room when Mr. Perez and Raymond came out. Ryan looked at the papers in Mr. Perez's hand.
"She sign them?"
"She can't see to pee straight," Mr. Perez said. "Goddamn drunken woman. There's nothing worse than a drunk woman."
Ryan stepped aside to let Mr. Perez walk over to his attache case on the counter.
"Maybe when she sobers up a little," Ryan said.
"I swear, all I been doing on this one is waiting. Waiting to find her, waiting for her to make up her mind, waiting for her to sober up." He dropped the papers into the open case.
"I was thinking," Ryan said, "she starts to come around she's gonna want a drink, glass of wine. So let's say I give her about a half a glass. Then when she wants some more, dying for it, I say, Okay, but you got to sign some papers first. I think, the condition she's in, it'll work."
Mr. Perez turned a little to look at Ryan. "You're betting thirty thousand dollars it works. If it doesn't, I don't see I'll need you anymore."
Ryan shrugged, showing he was at ease. "It's okay with me. I never intended making a career out of this. Give me till about noon and I'll call you."
"Maybe it won't take that long," Mr. Perez said.
"Maybe, but I think a couple of hours the way she's sleeping," Ryan said. "Let her dry out a little, she'll wake up dying of thirst."
"Well, Raymond and I could wait around for that matter." Mr. Perez was playing with him now.
Ryan shrugged again, as though it didn't matter. "It's up to you," he said, "you want to sit around."
"Or I could leave Raymond."
"You decide what you're going to do," Ryan said. He was tense and had to move. He walked around into the kitchen and turned the burner on under the kettle. "You want some coffee?"
"No, I guess we'll leave it in your hands," Mr. Perez said, taking the papers out of the attache case and laying them on the counter. "Two copies of the agreement, two giving us power of attorney. It won't hurt to get them both signed, and the copies." Mr. Perez picked up his case and started out. "You'll be sure and call me, now."
"The minute she signs," Ryan said. "You got my word."
Denise sat up as she heard the door close. She was scuffing her feet into her sandals when Ryan came in, looking at the papers.
"What does it say?"
"Wait-'We believe you are the legal owner of assets you are entitled to receive.' " He paused. "No, this is the agreement." He looked at the other typewritten form. " 'I, Denise L. Leary, hereby appoint Francis X. Perez'- I love that, named after Saint Francis Xavier, the son of a bitch. This is it." Ryan looked through the form quickly, then read it slowly, every word, before shaking his head.
"What?" Denise said.
"No company or stock name. The spaces are blank." He dropped the papers on the bed. Denise didn't pick them up or even look at them.
Ryan walked over to the window. He looked out at the wet asphalt of the parking area that was empty except for a few cars. His light-blue Catalina stood atone near the entrance. It was quiet in the bedroom.
"They didn't have to break my lamp."
Ryan was thinking, Get in the car and go.
There was silence.
"Look, I don't care," Denise said. "If I don't sign, then he doesn't get anything either, does he? So why don't we let it go at that? I'm tired and I really don't care one way or the other. Really. I'd just as soon forget the whole thing. Shit, everything."
There was silence again for at least a minute, maybe a little longer.
Ryan turned from the window. He said, "Pack a bag, a suitcase."
Denise looked up at him. "Why?"
"Come on, pack something and let's get out of here."
Chapter 19
They went to Florida. Ryan was going to drive, but changed his mind heading south on 75 and made the turn to Detroit Metropolitan, got them seats on a Delta flight to Lauderdale and a Budget Rent a Car to Pompano Beach, a Pinto without air, and by seven o'clock that evening they were in an efficiency at the Vista Del Mar with groceries, new bathing outfits, thongs, and Coppertone, looking out at the Atlantic Ocean.
"There," Ryan said. "No more thinking for a week. Whoever mentions Perez or the stock or anything connected with it has to put five bucks in the kitty."
Denise looked around the room, from the picture window to the flowered rattan chairs to the twin beds
, against opposite walls, that featured tailored beige spreads and bolsters that disguised them as sofas. Forty-five dollars a day including color TV and the ocean view. What more could you want? Ryan said.
Denise said, "What I'd like more than anything is a glass of wine."
Ryan went into the kitchen and dug into a grocery bag. He came back out with a bottle of Blue Nun and two jelly glasses.
"You mean it?" Denise said.
"If the corkscrew works," Ryan said. He took it out of his coat pocket.
Denise watched him twist it into the cork. "You're gonna have one, too?"
"So you won't have to drink alone," Ryan said. He got the cork out. Pouring the wine, he said, "It's not cold, though."
"I don't care." She took the glass he offered, with yellow daisies on it, and said, "Jesus, I don't believe it." Then took a drink and closed her eyes and opened them. "Jesus," she said again, and watched Ryan sip his wine, "Why're you doing this?"
"I guess-I don't know," he said. "I guess I want us to be like normal everyday people on a vacation. Not think-I don't mean get drunk and not think. I mean not worry about anything, relax, and have a good time. We can have the steak and a salad, I thought, instead of getting dressed and going out someplace."
"That sounds fine."
"I got a bottle of red, too, we can have with the steak."
"I didn't see you get the wine."
"No, well-we can have this before, then the red with dinner. You want to fix it, or you want me to?"
"No, I'll do it."
"You feel okay?"
"I feel fine. This morning, it seems like a long time ago," Denise said. "I was going to take a shower, unless you want to eat right away."
"No, go ahead," Ryan said. "We're not in any hurry. We're on our vacation."
They were polite, but it didn't seem forced. That was the idea, to be natural.
Ryan went outside with his wine. He turned on the orange light by the door, then turned it off again and sat down in a deck chair, propping his feet on the low wall that separated the patio area from the empty beach. It was a good time of the day: alone, feeling the breeze and listening to the ocean as it came in out of the darkness and broke and washed in forty yards away. He was here and she was in the shower and Mr. Perez was somewhere and out there were the Gulf Stream and Bimini, the Bahama Islands, and way out there in the darkness some of Denise's whales talking to each other, not giving a shit about Mr. Perez getting mad and tense as he telephoned and got no answers. Maybe he'd go out to Denise's again. Then what? Ryan could think about Mr. Perez without putting five bucks in the kitty, but he wished he could turn the man off in his mind. Kick the habit. He didn't know what he was doing with the wine. Playing a game. Helping her through a bad time. Having some with her so she wouldn't feel like a drunk. Making excuses. It didn't taste that good, yet. She was probably pouring herself another one. He almost got up, but he made himself sit there, looking out at the ocean, and smoked a cigarette, and then, after a few minutes, smoked another one.