Gun Games by Faye Kellerman Page A

get ready.”
    Get ready for what?
    He glanced at her. She was wearing a ton of makeup, stockings, and fucking pearls—like it was a coming-out party. Even those girls look so dorky. She looked like she was playing dress-up with her mother’s clothing. He glanced away.
    Nervously, she fingered her necklace. “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t matter to me,” Gabe told her. “ I’ve seen opera. Although I hate to be seated late. Everyone looks at you and you’re climbing over people. It’s so rude to the performers.”
    She was red faced and still panting. Her eyes swept over his body and she was quiet. When she spoke, her voice was filled with self-loathing. “I’m totally overdressed.”
    Gabe said nothing and continued to stew. She turned and sat peering out the side window of the cab.
    Traffic was light. They were making decent time.
    Finally Gabe said, “Opera attracts a lot of different people. People dress anywhere from jackets and ties to jeans. Don’t worry about it.”
    She continued to stare out the window.
    They rode another five minutes in silence. Gabe suddenly softened. What was the point of being nasty? That was his father’s domain. He said, “You look nice.”
    She started to say something, but changed her mind.
    Gabe said, “Really, Yasmine. You look very nice.”
    She faced him for the first time. Her eyeliner was slightly smudged. “I’m really sorry I’m so late. My family is always late. I should have warned you. If you wanted me to come at one, you shoulda said twelve. I thought going to the opera was a real fancy thing.”
    “Sometimes it is.” Gabe said to the taxi driver, “Can’t you go any faster?”
    “I already go sixty-five.”
    “Go seventy-five. There’s no one in front of you.”
    “You pay for my ticket?”
    “Yes, I’ll pay for your ticket.”
    “You the boss.”
    Again the cab shot forward. Gabe checked his watch. They had about a half hour to go and were about a half hour away. “Nothing in L.A. is formal, especially a matinee.”
    “Now I know. I’ve never been to the opera. I’ve never even seen any kind of live stage performance.”
    “Your parents don’t believe in culture?”
    “They have culture, just not American culture. In Iran, I’m sure my father was very cultured. He didn’t learn English until he was thirty. Why would he go to the theater here? All the nuances would be lost on him.”
    “Point well-taken. That was rude. Sorry.”
    She fidgeted with the beads on her evening bag. “I look ridiculous.”
    He tried out a smile. “No one’s going to be looking at you because we’ll be stumbling through the dark when we come in.”
    “Sorry I made you miss everything.”
    “We won’t miss everything. We’ll just have to wait until there’s a natural interlude before they’ll seat latecomers. It’s no big deal to me. I’ve seen La Traviata before.”
    “You have?”
    “Yeah, I saw it about four years ago at the Met.”
    Her made-up eyes got wide. “You did?”
    “Yeah. I used to live in New York.”
    “Oh golly.” She sat back and sighed, closing her eyes. “That’s my dream.”
    “To live in New York?”
    “No, to go to the Met.” She sat up. “Who sang Violetta?”
    “I’ve got to think. It was a while ago . . . I think I saw Celine Army.”
    “She’s great!” She faced him, her eyes not quite meeting his. “But Alyssa Danielli is better.”
    “I don’t know about better. They’re different.”
    “Well, I like Danielli’s voice better. It’s sweeter.”
    “I’ll go with you on that one.” He regarded her made-up face with her smeared eyeliner. “How does someone who’s never heard a live concert come to have such a discerning ear?”
    She shrugged. “I’m an alien.”
    Gabe held back a smile. “Liszt used to introduce Chopin by saying that he was from another planet, so maybe that’s not so bad.”
    “Maybe.” Yasmine pulled out a mirror and lipstick from her purse. When she saw her face, she became