was just the opening salvo. She raised her eyebrows, but kept her eyes on the magazine, turning pages casually. “I should have been a model,” she said to no one in particular. “Seems like I’d get to sit around on bearskin rugs in Uggs and a bikini, not a care in the world.”
“Is there something you want to tell me?” I said.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Fiona said.
“I think it’s cute when you guys repeat each other’s sentences,” Sam said.
“Do you know who Bruce Grossman is, Michael?” Fiona said. “I mean, do you really know?”
“I know he’s a person with a problem,” I said. “I know he’s a friend of Barry’s. I know he’s been a fool since he got out of prison. I know his mother is going to die soon. Isn’t that enough?”
Fiona shook her head slowly, like she couldn’t believe how utterly daft I was. “Right, right,” she said. She still hadn’t bothered to put down the magazine or look at either me or Sam. “What I’m saying is that the man is near a legend, Michael. I heard of what he was doing in Ireland. He broke into every bank imaginable. And so smart about it, too. Safe-deposit boxes are bank robber nirvana, Michael.”
“And?”
“And maybe he’d be good to keep around,” Fiona said. She looked up finally, smiling, flirting, batting eyelashes, doing that thing she does with the tip of her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip.
“No,” I said.
“No, what?”
I could see the wheels turning in her mind.
“No, he will not rob banks with you. No, you will not sell his services to other people who rob banks. No, you will not put him in a box and ship him to a small town in Iceland where there are very old banks. No, no and no.”
There’s not much about Fiona that remains a mystery to me, apart from her total nihilism. But it’s unusually cute, so there’s that.
“I’m just saying that in the position you’re in,” she said, “where revenue streams seem inconsistent, it might be wise to look at all avenues, Michael. It’s not every day someone from history shows up.”
“Duly noted,” I said, “and still, no.”
I went back to eating my yogurt and thinking about how to un-swallow Bruce’s problems. Fiona went back to reading her magazine, presumably thinking about the fashion shoots she’d missed in Bora Bora all these years. But Sam wasn’t doing anything. That was troubling, particularly since he’d finished his beer and hadn’t gone foraging in my fridge for another.
“Is he really from history?” Sam asked.
“The Safe-Deposit Bandit,” Fiona said. “There are probably textbooks about him.”
“As a kid, I always thought it was ‘safety’ deposit box,” Sam said.
“That’s because your American education never put the proper emphasis on enunciation. Both of you sound like you learned to speak with dirt in your mouth.”
Sam gave me a look that said, basically, What the hell?
“Something else troubling you, Fiona?”
“If you must know,” she said, “I’d like it if you found a way to describe me that didn’t make me sound like the help.”
“That’s my cue,” Sam said and headed for the door.
“Wait,” I said. “We haven’t figured out what we’re going to do with Bruce.”
“I can’t stand to hear you two fight,” Sam said, already halfway out the door of my loft. “It just breaks my heart.”
“Sam,” I said.
All that was left was his waving arm. “Call me later,” he shouted. “We’ll do some covert stuff together and it will be a great time.”
And then he was gone completely, leaving me alone with Fiona, who, in the last year or so, had become an inconsistent emotional concern. One minute she loved me, the next minute she hated me, a minute after that she was kissing me, two minutes later she was punching me in the head, five minutes later we were in bed . . . and always, always, there was some guilt on both ends.
And now this.
“If we’re going to talk about
“Is there something you want to tell me?” I said.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” Fiona said.
“I think it’s cute when you guys repeat each other’s sentences,” Sam said.
“Do you know who Bruce Grossman is, Michael?” Fiona said. “I mean, do you really know?”
“I know he’s a person with a problem,” I said. “I know he’s a friend of Barry’s. I know he’s been a fool since he got out of prison. I know his mother is going to die soon. Isn’t that enough?”
Fiona shook her head slowly, like she couldn’t believe how utterly daft I was. “Right, right,” she said. She still hadn’t bothered to put down the magazine or look at either me or Sam. “What I’m saying is that the man is near a legend, Michael. I heard of what he was doing in Ireland. He broke into every bank imaginable. And so smart about it, too. Safe-deposit boxes are bank robber nirvana, Michael.”
“And?”
“And maybe he’d be good to keep around,” Fiona said. She looked up finally, smiling, flirting, batting eyelashes, doing that thing she does with the tip of her tongue along the inside of her bottom lip.
“No,” I said.
“No, what?”
I could see the wheels turning in her mind.
“No, he will not rob banks with you. No, you will not sell his services to other people who rob banks. No, you will not put him in a box and ship him to a small town in Iceland where there are very old banks. No, no and no.”
There’s not much about Fiona that remains a mystery to me, apart from her total nihilism. But it’s unusually cute, so there’s that.
“I’m just saying that in the position you’re in,” she said, “where revenue streams seem inconsistent, it might be wise to look at all avenues, Michael. It’s not every day someone from history shows up.”
“Duly noted,” I said, “and still, no.”
I went back to eating my yogurt and thinking about how to un-swallow Bruce’s problems. Fiona went back to reading her magazine, presumably thinking about the fashion shoots she’d missed in Bora Bora all these years. But Sam wasn’t doing anything. That was troubling, particularly since he’d finished his beer and hadn’t gone foraging in my fridge for another.
“Is he really from history?” Sam asked.
“The Safe-Deposit Bandit,” Fiona said. “There are probably textbooks about him.”
“As a kid, I always thought it was ‘safety’ deposit box,” Sam said.
“That’s because your American education never put the proper emphasis on enunciation. Both of you sound like you learned to speak with dirt in your mouth.”
Sam gave me a look that said, basically, What the hell?
“Something else troubling you, Fiona?”
“If you must know,” she said, “I’d like it if you found a way to describe me that didn’t make me sound like the help.”
“That’s my cue,” Sam said and headed for the door.
“Wait,” I said. “We haven’t figured out what we’re going to do with Bruce.”
“I can’t stand to hear you two fight,” Sam said, already halfway out the door of my loft. “It just breaks my heart.”
“Sam,” I said.
All that was left was his waving arm. “Call me later,” he shouted. “We’ll do some covert stuff together and it will be a great time.”
And then he was gone completely, leaving me alone with Fiona, who, in the last year or so, had become an inconsistent emotional concern. One minute she loved me, the next minute she hated me, a minute after that she was kissing me, two minutes later she was punching me in the head, five minutes later we were in bed . . . and always, always, there was some guilt on both ends.
And now this.
“If we’re going to talk about
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