“I have my doubts,” he said, just this side of playful. He didn’t want to give the wrong impression, but it had been so long since he had a genuine conversation with anyone but Boris.
“Listen, I can wine and dine a man,” said Carla. “But I have to give Ronnie pointers. He’s got all this money, and he can’t even light a fucking candle.” She tipped her head back and groaned. Long hair cascaded over her shoulders like a caramel waterfall. “At least he knows how to pick a good restaurant.”
Jack considered all of this and shrugged. “I’m sorry about that.” He’d disappointed everyone he’d ever dated in some way or another. Lighting a candle wasn’t going to change his financial prospects, make him any more likable, educated, or suave.
He wondered what Carla would think if he admitted that he usually ate off a TV tray with his cat munching away on her food beside him, then decided that he didnotwant to know what she would think and kept that little fact to himself.
“It’s not your fault,” said Carla, slumping forward. “Honestly, that’s not even the real problem.” She blew a strand of hair from her face. “But that’s not why we’re here, huh?”
“I don’t mind,” said Jack quickly. “I don’t have anything else to do today.”
“You’re sweet,” she said, sitting up again. Her smile was soft and sad, disappearing as quickly as it came. “But we’ve got shit to do.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I was thinking we could make a list, for starters. What you’ve tried, what I’ve tried. Maybe we can come up with something.”
Jack reached for his satchel. “That’s a good idea.” He’d thought of something similar but hoped that Carla might have a white board, or even a blank wall. Something large enough that they could really outline their thoughts, see them written out in one place.
She reached to stop him. Slender fingers brushed against his arm, just firmly enough to be felt through his jacket sleeve. “Not here,” she said. “There are too many servants. We gotta go downstairs. Nobody will bother us.”
Rumors of mafia dungeons and torture chambers jumped to the forefront of Jack’s mind. He doubted Carla meant to hurt him, but he was already afraid of this place, of the people who could be lurking down long hallways and inside empty rooms. “I think I’d rather stay where the servants are,” he admitted, glancing anxiously around the kitchen.
No sign of anyone else. If he screamed, would anyone hear? Would they care?
Carla wrinkled her nose. “Why? They’re busybodies. Besides, I don’t want any of the family to hear."
“The, uh, family? Like Ronnie’s family?”
A laugh. “You’re cute,” said Carla. “And sure. It’s whatever kind of family you want it to be.”
“That is not reassuring.” Jack crossed his arms. “That actually makes it worse.”
“How many times do I need to promise that nobody’s gonna hurt you?”
“At least another ten or twenty. Look, I’m not stupid?—”
“I never said you were?—”
“Youknowwhy I’m nervous?—”
Carla gave an exasperated groan and stood. “No, I don’t.” She carried her plate to the sink, turned and leaned her hip against the counter. Jack very purposefully did not notice the outline of her body. Not at all. “I promise you’re safe here. Whatever you think is going on, you’re wrong. I’ve been living the same day over and over again. Nothing’s gonna fucking happen. I only see Ronnie in the mornings. Nobody comes by until late, and they aren’t even looking for me. It’s gonna be fine.” She jerked her chin toward the hallway. “Come on.”
“I really don’t like this,” Jack said, but he followed her anyway, relieved when she paused to grab a bottle of wine from the rack.
“It’s gonna be OK,” said Carla. “Jeez, you’re like a stray dog, or something. Why the fuck would I hurt you?”
“It’s the mob,” he hissed, sticking close to her. “Nobody trusts the mob.”
She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re with an expert navigator. You don’t need to trust them. You just need to know how to deal with them.”
They passed the living room, complete with a huge television that spanned halfway from floor to ceiling (Rainy would havelovedto nap on top of it, Jack thought with a pang), another office, a bathroom bigger than his entire apartment, and a supply closet that reeked of chemicals. Plush carpet cushioned his every step, and a breeze from an open window sent a chill down his back. A guest room featured a colossal oil painting of a nude woman—Jack did a double take to confirm that someone had indeed stuck a dart between her rounded butt cheeks.
Dread settled in his stomach. He was comically out of place here—like a door-to-door vacuum salesman who somehow found himself inside Buckingham Palace.
Jack was accustomed to the occasional stare. Knew he barely met anyone’s expectations despite his best efforts, especially in the office. Everything he owned was secondhand. Holes dottedhis sleeves. Occasionally, the sole of his shoe would come loose and flap about like an open mouth. He hemorrhaged papers and pens. At least once a day, he lost his calculator, and—occasionally, inexplicably—his typewriter.
Things were better outside of work. The bar, the library, the grocery store—wherever he might go, he was just another working class man. He didn’t stand out.
