you made the call.”
A man’s voice off-camera said, “Yes. And she’s still working, and she’ll take the job.”
“She? It’s a woman?”
“Yeah. I was surprised myself. I never asked, you know, I only knew who to call. But when I asked, my friend said, ‘She.’ ”
“She’s gotta be good,” the on-screen Carmel said. The offscreen Carmel decided that the camera must have been in the cupboard, shooting through a partly open door.
“She’s good. She has a reputation. Never misses,” the man’s voice said. “Very efficient, very fast. Always from very close range, so there’s no mistake.” A man’s hand appeared in the picture, with a mug of coffee. Carmel watched her on-screen self as she turned it with her fingertips, then picked it up.
“That’s what I need,” she said on-screen, and she took a sip of the coffee. Carmel remembered that it had been pretty good coffee. Very hot.
“You’re sure about this?” asked the man’s voice. “Once I tell them yes, it’ll be hard to stop. This woman, the way she moves, nobody knows where she is, or what name she’s using. If you say, ‘Yes,’ she kills Barbara Allen.”
The on-screen Carmel frowned. “I’m sure,” she said. The offscreen Carmel winced at the sound of Barbara Allen’s name. She’d forgotten that.
“You’ve got the money?” the man asked.
“At the house. I brought your ten.”
The on-screen Carmel put the mug down, dug in her purse, pulled out a thin deck of currency and laid it on the table. The man’s hand reached into the picture and picked it up. “I’ll tell you this,” the voice said. “When they come and ask for it, pay every penny. Every penny. Don’t argue, just pay. If you don’t, they won’t try to collect. They’ll make an example out of you.”
“I know how it works,” on-screen Carmel said. “They’ll get it. And nobody’ll be able to trace it, because I’ve had it stashed. It’s absolutely clean.”
“Then if you say, ‘Yes,’ I’ll call them tonight. And they’ll kill Barbara Allen.”
Carmel, offscreen, had to admire her on-screen performance. She never flinched, she just stood up and said, “Yes. Do it.”
The tape skipped a bit, then focused on a black telephone. “I’m really sorry about this, but you know about my problem. I’m gonna have to have twenty-five thousand, like, tomorrow,” the man’s voice said. “I’ll call and tell you where.” T HE TAPE ENDED. Carmel took a long pull on her coffee, walked into the kitchen, poured the last couple of ounces into the sink, and then hurled the cup at one of the huge plate-glass windows that looked out on her balcony. The cup bounced, without breaking. Carmel didn’t see it; she was ricocheting around the kitchen, sweeping glasses, dishes, the knife block, a toaster, silverware off the cupboards and tables and stove and onto the floor, kicking them as they landed, scattering them; and all the time she growled through clenched teeth, not a scream, but a harsh humming sound, like a hundred-pound hornet.
She trashed the kitchen and then the breakfast area, and finally cut herself on a broken glass. The sight of the blood flowing from the back of her hand brought her back.
“Fuckin’ Rolo,” she said. She bled on the floor. “Fuckin’ Rolo, fuckin’ Rolo, fuckin’ Rolo . . .”
FIVE
For the rest of the day, Carmel worked her way through alternate rages and periods of calm; fantasized the painful end of Rolando D’Aquila. And finally admitted to herself that she was in a corner.
She called Rinker, left a number and said, “This is really urgent. We’ve got a big problem.”
The next day, a little after one o’clock in the afternoon, Rinker called on Carmel’s magic cell phone. She didn’t introduce herself, she simply said in her dry accent, “I’m calling you back. I hate problems.”
Carmel said, “Hold on: I want to lock my door.” She stuck her head out into the reception area, said to the
A man’s voice off-camera said, “Yes. And she’s still working, and she’ll take the job.”
“She? It’s a woman?”
“Yeah. I was surprised myself. I never asked, you know, I only knew who to call. But when I asked, my friend said, ‘She.’ ”
“She’s gotta be good,” the on-screen Carmel said. The offscreen Carmel decided that the camera must have been in the cupboard, shooting through a partly open door.
“She’s good. She has a reputation. Never misses,” the man’s voice said. “Very efficient, very fast. Always from very close range, so there’s no mistake.” A man’s hand appeared in the picture, with a mug of coffee. Carmel watched her on-screen self as she turned it with her fingertips, then picked it up.
“That’s what I need,” she said on-screen, and she took a sip of the coffee. Carmel remembered that it had been pretty good coffee. Very hot.
“You’re sure about this?” asked the man’s voice. “Once I tell them yes, it’ll be hard to stop. This woman, the way she moves, nobody knows where she is, or what name she’s using. If you say, ‘Yes,’ she kills Barbara Allen.”
The on-screen Carmel frowned. “I’m sure,” she said. The offscreen Carmel winced at the sound of Barbara Allen’s name. She’d forgotten that.
“You’ve got the money?” the man asked.
“At the house. I brought your ten.”
The on-screen Carmel put the mug down, dug in her purse, pulled out a thin deck of currency and laid it on the table. The man’s hand reached into the picture and picked it up. “I’ll tell you this,” the voice said. “When they come and ask for it, pay every penny. Every penny. Don’t argue, just pay. If you don’t, they won’t try to collect. They’ll make an example out of you.”
“I know how it works,” on-screen Carmel said. “They’ll get it. And nobody’ll be able to trace it, because I’ve had it stashed. It’s absolutely clean.”
“Then if you say, ‘Yes,’ I’ll call them tonight. And they’ll kill Barbara Allen.”
Carmel, offscreen, had to admire her on-screen performance. She never flinched, she just stood up and said, “Yes. Do it.”
The tape skipped a bit, then focused on a black telephone. “I’m really sorry about this, but you know about my problem. I’m gonna have to have twenty-five thousand, like, tomorrow,” the man’s voice said. “I’ll call and tell you where.” T HE TAPE ENDED. Carmel took a long pull on her coffee, walked into the kitchen, poured the last couple of ounces into the sink, and then hurled the cup at one of the huge plate-glass windows that looked out on her balcony. The cup bounced, without breaking. Carmel didn’t see it; she was ricocheting around the kitchen, sweeping glasses, dishes, the knife block, a toaster, silverware off the cupboards and tables and stove and onto the floor, kicking them as they landed, scattering them; and all the time she growled through clenched teeth, not a scream, but a harsh humming sound, like a hundred-pound hornet.
She trashed the kitchen and then the breakfast area, and finally cut herself on a broken glass. The sight of the blood flowing from the back of her hand brought her back.
“Fuckin’ Rolo,” she said. She bled on the floor. “Fuckin’ Rolo, fuckin’ Rolo, fuckin’ Rolo . . .”
FIVE
For the rest of the day, Carmel worked her way through alternate rages and periods of calm; fantasized the painful end of Rolando D’Aquila. And finally admitted to herself that she was in a corner.
She called Rinker, left a number and said, “This is really urgent. We’ve got a big problem.”
The next day, a little after one o’clock in the afternoon, Rinker called on Carmel’s magic cell phone. She didn’t introduce herself, she simply said in her dry accent, “I’m calling you back. I hate problems.”
Carmel said, “Hold on: I want to lock my door.” She stuck her head out into the reception area, said to the
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