Ginnie tucked her daughter into the crib, nearly--
but not quite--smiling that the girl had managed to sleep through the excitement. She pulled off the thousand-dollar dress and angrily flung it into the corner of the room. Then she climbed into bed without moisturizing her face or brushing her teeth. She shut out the light, knowing that, unlike for her daughter, sleep would be a long time in coming tonight. If at all.
But that was okay. She had lots to think about. Most important: what she would say to the lawyer tomorrow, the one she'd talked to a couple of times about the possibility of divorce. Until tonight she'd waffled. Tomorrow she would be telling him to proceed as quickly and as relentlessly and brutally as he could.
CHAPTER 38
Unprofessional, I guess.
But sometimes you do things for yourself. Because you have to.
I'm walking away from the Upper East Side coffee shop, near Henry and Virginia Sutter's apartment. I was across the street. It was some building, I'll tell you. Can't imagine living in a place like that. Wouldn't want to, probably. Beautiful people live there. I wouldn't be welcome. A den of Shoppers.
Doing things for yourself.
It was all pretty easy, visiting vengeance on the Shopper. I'd simply followed Henry home from the Starbucks in Times Square where we'd collided that afternoon.
You'd spilled this on me, it would've cost you big time, you Walking Dead asshole. This shirt cost more'n you make in a month. I'm a lawyer...
Once I found his address, I cross-referenced deeds with DMV pictures. And got his ID. Mr. Henry Sutter. Married to Virginia. I was stymied briefly--data mining records didn't show they own anything with a CIR DataWise5000 inside. But then I peeked at Facebook. Henry and Ginnie, her preferred nic, had actually posted pictures of two-year-old Trudy? Fools... but good for me. Babies in the city equal baby monitors. And, yep, a simple scan of the house revealed the IP address and a brand name. I executed a handshake exploit with the network then ran Pass Breaker on my tablet and in no time at all, I was in. Listening to Trudy's soft breath and coming up with a script for my conversation with the young 'un that was sure to destroy Mom's and Dad's peace of mind for the immediate future.
(Opens up a world of possibilities. After all, I'm not wedded to the DataWise5000 idea. Other options are good too.) I keep walking, loping really. I pass by the subway entrance. It's a long way to Chelsea but I have to use shank's mare (my mother's mother's expression, even though I don't think she ever saw a mare in the flesh or walked more than a few hundred feet from car to her Indiana Piggly Wiggly); I'm worried about getting recognized. Those damn CCTVs. Everywhere.
What about dinner? I wonder. Two, no three sandwiches tonight. Then I'll work on my new miniature project, a boat. I don't usually make them. There's a whole world of seafaring model makers (like airplane and train people--this obsession with transportation has bloated the field). But Peter said he liked boats. So I'm making a Warren skiff for him. A classic rowboat with reciprocating oars.
Then maybe Alicia will come over. She's been upset lately, the past returning. The scars--the inside scars--aching. I'm doing what I can to make it better. But sometimes I just don't know.
Then I'm thinking again of the fun I've just had, recalling his face earlier in the day, all sneery and handsome, after we collided outside of Starbucks.
Walking Dead...
Well, Henry, that's a good line. Clever. But I'm thinking of a better one: It has to do with the last laugh.
"Hey."
Amelia Sachs walked inside Nick Carelli's apartment.
Sparse, but clean, ordered.
"You got a TV."
When they were together, Sachs recalled, they'd never owned one. Too much else to do.
"I've been watching some of the cop shows. You watch those?"
"No."
Too much to do now too.
"They ought to do a show about you and Lincoln."
"He's been approached. He's said no."
She handed him the big cardboard moving box she'd brought. It contained some of his personal effects from when they lived together: yearbooks, postcards, letters, hundreds of family photos. She'd called him to say she'd found these things in her basement, thought he'd want them.
"Thanks." He opened it up, rifled through the contents. "I thought this stuff was gone for good. Hey, look." Nick held up a photo. "Our first family vacation. Niagara Falls."
The family of four, the classic cascade behind them and a rainbow from the particles of water. Nick was about ten, Donnie seven.