Hard Rain by Peter Abrahams Page B

“What’s to drink?”
    Jessie shoved the frozen food into the oven and looked in the booze cupboard. “Wine?”
    â€œCheck.”
    â€œRed or white?”
    â€œRed. Let’s live a little.”
    Jessie filled two glasses with Beaujolais and took Barbara down to the workroom. “Toi giet la toi?” Barbara said. “Isn’t ‘toi’ French?”
    â€œYeah. But ‘giet’?”
    Jessie looked it up in her French-English dictionary. “Giet” wasn’t there.
    â€œMaybe you need a better dictionary,” Barbara said.
    â€œThis is the Robert.”
    â€œI beg your pardon.”
    They went upstairs. “Have you got anything I can put on?” Barbara asked. “I’d like to get out of this man suit.”
    â€œWhy? It’s you.”
    â€œFuck off,” Barbara said. “Blake’s picking me up a little later. Businesswear intimidates him.” Barbara reached for her Camels, shook one out and stuck it in her mouth.
    Jessie remembered the sleepy voice on the phone. “Who’s Blake?”
    Barbara’s eyes darted toward her, then away. She lit her cigarette, frowning over the match flame. “You’ll meet him.”
    Jessie lent Barbara a pair of jeans and a sweater. They were both tall, but Jessie had a bigger frame and more flesh on it. Barbara came out of the bedroom looking softer, as though she’d put on a boyfriend’s sweater.
    They sat down at the kitchen table. Jessie pried the tops off the Lean Cuisines and poured more wine. But neither of them ate. Barbara smoked and drank her wine. Jessie just drank.
    â€œI was at a meeting the other day where someone proposed we lobby the U.N. to declare the twenty-first century the International Century of Women,” Barbara said.
    â€œWhy don’t we shoot for the whole fucking millennium?”
    They looked at each other. Barbara began to laugh. She threw her head back until the cords in her neck stood out, laughing and laughing. Smoke curled up between her parted lips. All at once, Jessie was laughing too. She too laughed and laughed. Her body shook with it; her stomach muscles ached. She laughed until only ugly honking sounds came out. She couldn’t stop. Tears rolled out of her eyes and down her face. The next moment she was holding onto Barbara.
    â€œHelp me, Barbara. Help me get her back.”
    Barbara held her close. “Don’t worry, Jessie. We’ll get her back.” Barbara was crying too.
    They went into the bathroom, washed their faces, patted their hair. “God, he’s a shithead,” Barbara said. “This time we’re going to nail him to the wall, baby; I mean it.”
    â€œHe’s really not that bad. His parents died when he was a kid, don’t forget, and he never finished high school. It was very destabilizing.”
    â€œMy heart bleeds. Explain to me why he has to shove his dick into every woman that comes by.”
    But that’s what Jessie couldn’t explain. “He’s just a boy who can’t say no, I guess.”
    â€œâ€˜Boy’ is the operative word, Jess. Boys are all that’s out there. I’m in a position to know. Boys in three-piece suits, boys with seven-figure salaries, boys with silvery hair like lions’ manes—like your friend Norman Wine. I heard a rumor of a man being sighted the other day, but it turned out to be false.”
    They stared at each other in the mirror: two heads of frizzy hair, two dark faces, one very thin and modern, the other a little fuller and classical. “How much did you get for Norman’s wife?” Jessie asked.
    â€œTen grand a month.”
    Jessie whistled.
    â€œThe schmuck can afford it. He’s making a killing in real estate.”
    â€œNorman’s a record producer.”
    â€œThat’s his job. But he gets rich from real estate. Wake up, Jess. The music’s over.”
    Jessie woke up. The