No, she’ll come after me. That’s what I’d do. And she’s like me.
I make my way into the living room, where Gavin is slouched on the sofa, watching a movie and drinking my bourbon. He points with his remote at the screen.
“Spy Game,” he says. “You seen this movie?”
“No.”
“Old movie. Redford, Pitt. Redford, he’s the old-school CIA agent, right? He’s teaching Pitt the ropes. He’s like, don’t ever get attached to anything or anybody, stash away money for retirement and don’t ever spend it, look out for yourself first, right? Then it turns out, for all his tough talk, he has a heart of gold. You know what you and Redford have in common?”
I sit down on the couch. “No, what do we have in common?”
He kills the TV, leaving us in silence.
“Nothing,” he says. “Because that’s a fucking movie, a work of fiction, a fairy tale. And you, Nicky, this is your real life. So do yourself and, more importantly, me a favor, all right?”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t grow a conscience,” he says. “And do not, absolutely do not fall for this woman. Take her fucking money and be done with it. Then go find your princess.”
? ? ?
“All right, one more,” says Gavin, “then we’re getting a steak.”
“I don’t feel like it.”
We’re out on my patio now, the second story, overlooking an alley and nightlife.
“What about there, at least?” Gavin says.
“Where?”
“Right across the alley, Einstein. That patio down there where everyone’s drinking and enjoying themselves, unlike us? The patio with about twenty different hotties that would probably have their legs in the air for you if you so much as winked at them. I mean, if you weren’t in love with Number 7 already.”
“Would you shut up with that?”
“I’ll shut up after November third, when Number 7 takes that money from her husband and you take it from her. Then, I’ll take my cut and shut up. Until then, you’re worrying me.”
“I’m not falling for her, and I won’t fall for her.”
“Good, now how about we have dinner at that place down there? They got any steak?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve got a menu somewhere.”
“We’re not ordering, Sunshine, we’re going there. Tell me what they have, if they don’t have steak, for Christ’s sake.”
“The chicken shawarma’s pretty good—”
“Chicken what?”
“—and the kofta kebabs aren’t bad.”
“Kaf-what? Kafka? Jesus, Nicky, what is happening to you?”
I lean forward and lower my voice. “Would you stop fucking calling me Nick? For a guy who’s so worried about me pulling this off without a hitch, you’re shouting ‘Nick’ from this balcony? How about you take out an ad in the Chicago fucking Tribune and announce to the world that my name isn’t Christian Newsome?”
He nods, takes a drink. “Fair point, Christian. I humbly apologize. And I realize that you have to eat frou-frou food to keep that attractive figure of yours. So I will withdraw my previous objection and humbly request that you join me at . . .” He looks down at the patio across the alley. “What’s the name of that place?”
“Viva,” I say. “Viva Mediterránea.”
39
Simon
Monday morning. I wake up alone. Vicky went to Elm Grove for the weekend again to see her nieces. The older one, Mariah, got her first period a few weeks ago and freaked about it, probably more than anything because her mother isn’t there for her, so it was sort of a one-two punch of emotions. Vicky, who clings to the idea that she could have prevented her sister’s suicide had she been more proactive, has been spending a lot of weekends with them lately.
Hey, that’s one of the reasons I love her.
My mother would have liked her. She wouldn’t have minded Vicky’s rough edges. She would have admired her bluntness. Mom always said what she thought, sometimes to a fault, often to her disadvantage. My dad told the story of my mother at the law firm she joined out of law school in 1979, some silk-stocking firm of nine hundred lawyers, only six of whom were women. Mom would organize events for the women—lunches, drinks after work, an unofficial support group. One time early on, the firm’s senior partner held up one of the flyers she had printed out and mused aloud, “‘Women’s Night Out’？ Why no men’s night out?” （At this point in the telling, my mother would interject that it was no accident that this comment was made while she was standing nearby in the hallway.） To the surprise of no one who knew my mother, she replied that “Every night is men’s night out.”