“What is this?” she calls out from the bathroom.
Uh-oh. What did I do? Did I leave something out for her to see that she shouldn’t—
I rush into the bathroom without acting like I was rushing. She’s holding my toothbrush.
“Oh,” I say.
“What is this? This is, like, some fancy metal—”
“Titanium,” I say.
“You have a titanium toothbrush? And . . .” She looks through my medicine cabinet. “And nail clippers and . . . some trimmer and . . . What is this?”
“It holds dental floss,” I say, sheepishly, as if I’m a little bit embarrassed to have a toothbrush made of pure titanium, matte-black, with a protective, antibacterial coating in the socket, and matching titanium nail clippers, electric razor, nose-hair trimmer, and dental-floss holder.
“How much did this cost, Christian?”
Market value was more than $8,500, or so I discovered after looking it up. It was a gift, actually, from one of my targets—Number 4, in Santa Fe—before she knew she was a target.
At first, I was going to hide it, but Vicky needs to see a thing or two, small things, to show that some massively expensive, over-the-top item is merely chump change to me.
“Seriously,” she says. “This must have cost thousands.”
“Good return on investment,” I say. “They’re built well and last a long time. Amortize it over their life and the per-unit price—well, it’s expensive but much more reasonable.”
“I didn’t know people amortized toothbrushes.” She puts down the toothbrush and puts her hands on my bare chest. “Must be nice to be so rich and smart.”
She puts her lips against mine. I can feel her smile.
She wants more of me. This time, we’ll use the bed.
? ? ?
Afterward, Vicky looks over my apartment, lost in thought.
I don’t own this place. I’m renting, though I’d never tell Vicky that. When I moved back to Chicago last spring, I didn’t see the wisdom in buying. I knew I wouldn’t be staying too long, and besides, I only have about a million dollars saved up, and I want to keep as much of that liquid as possible. Rent a really nice place in an expensive neighborhood, I decided, and even though the rent will be exorbitant, it will be short-term.
Still, as nice as this place is, it doesn’t scream mega-wealthy. My bio suggests that I’ve made hundreds of millions of dollars in my bold investments, so this condo might not seem nice enough. My go-to line is that I tie up most of my money in my investments, so I’m putting my money where my mouth is, I’m in the same investments that I’m putting you in, which is a pretty nice sell job in itself.
On those occasions that my cover story is a man with money, like here, I try to make clear to the target that I grew up humbly （true）， learned to be frugal （sometimes true）， and those habits have remained. Yeah, I have all this dough, but I’m not going to plate everything in gold or buy more space than I need.
It’s a balance. Wealth is attractive to women. Uber-wealth, in my experience, can be intimidating. So I try to straddle the line, show her an occasional glimpse of my obnoxious wealth—see the titanium toothbrush—but otherwise try to keep a humble, low profile that downplays materialism.
“The condo’s temporary,” I say. “I like the neighborhood, and the property values are still rising around here. It’s a solid investment.”
“Everything’s an investment with you.” She puts on her bra and panties, then her skirt, then her top, in that order. “You think you’re going to settle here in Chicago?”
There it is. I knew she’d ask eventually. She’s wondering about my intentions. I think I know hers: She’s going to leave. I’d bet anything. When she takes that money from Simon after serving her ten-year marital sentence, she won’t want to stick around and see Simon’s sad face. She’s getting the hell out. But where, I don’t know.
New York? No, I don’t see it. I don’t see her as a Manhattan girl. I mean, she’d enjoy the buzz and nightlife, she’d fit right in there, but she doesn’t really strike me as big-city. She doesn’t seem to give one shit about the difference between a four hundred dollar bottle of Carruades de Lafite and some bottle of red I’d pick up for twenty bucks in a grocery store. When I’ve brought up theater and music, she doesn’t bite, hardly adds anything to the conversation. But then again, it’s hard to see her settling in some small town and having my babies and baking cookies, either.