She shrugged. “You want a beer? I made sandwiches.”
They sat at her table, and Jack poured out his resentment against his now ex-girlfriend, Gloria. “God, her high-flown nobility. Homelessness, Christ, she kept bringing people in off the street.”
“Well, good for her,” murmured Annie.
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Are you still an art director?” she said, changing the subject, although as a rejected lover she couldn’t help rejoicing in the downfall of Gloria. “Where is it? Oh, I remember. It’s that big publishing house in Charlestown.”
“Art director, God.” Jack drained his beer, heaved himself up from the chair, walked heavily to the refrigerator, and helped himself to another bottle. “Whole department closed down. Bunch of shitheads anyhow. Matter of fact, I’m doing something else now. Insurance. I’m with Paul Revere.”
“No kidding? Well, congratulations.”
Jack sat down with his beer and looked at her slyly. It was at once apparent why he was there. “How’s your portfolio, by the way? Have you got a policy for personal injury? Suppose somebody slips and falls on that big stone in front of your door, they could take everything, every cent. And listen, Annie, how much fire insurance have you got on this place? Oh my God, is that all? Jesus, Annie.”
Partly because she was persuaded by his dire predictions and partly to get rid of him, Annie signed up for a huge personal-injury policy and a hefty increase in fire insurance.
She stood up, hoping he would take the hint and go away. Jack got to his feet, but instead of leaving he threw his arms around her in their old movie embrace. It was a private joke. He bent her backward and bowed over her like Rudolph Valentino.
“No, Jack,” she said, pushing him back and struggling to stand up.
“Annie, Annie, I made a mistake.” He clutched her. “I was a fool. Come back to me, Annie. I want you, I need you.”
“No, no.” But she was weakening. Triumphantly Jack heaved her off the floor. Her big feet dangled. She swore, “Oh, goddamnit, Jack,” but her fingers stopped pushing at him and her head lolled back. The doorbell rang.
The spell was broken. Annie burst out of Jack’s arms and ran to the door. “Shit,” said Jack.
It was Flimnap O’Dougherty. His cheery face looked at Annie, not seeming to notice the glowering presence of Jack behind her. “Sorry, I forgot my wrench. It’s in the bathroom.”
“Well, come on in,” said Annie, trying to catch her breath.
He glided past her, dodged into the bathroom, and came out again, flourishing the wrench. “Thanks,” he said, and was gone.
“Okay, Jack,” said Annie, “out with you. Come on. I mean it.”
Jack’s voice deepened. “You don’t mean it, Annie. You know you don’t.” He came closer and reached out.
She backed away. “No, Jack, stop.”
The doorbell rang again. Once more it was O’Dougherty, apologizing. “I forgot to tell you I can’t come Monday after all. But I could come tomorrow afternoon, how about that?”
Annie laughed. If Jack was Rudolph Valentino, Flimnap was Stan Laurel, the earnest simpleton. “Fine. Bring along your derby hat.”
“What?”
“Never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She closed the door, but when she opened it again for Jack, O’Dougherty was still there in the driveway, tinkering with his truck.
Jack hurled himself into his car and drove violently forward, narrowly missing O’Dougherty, who skipped out of the way. Jack’s horn blared, and he lunged down the driveway.
Flimnap too was leaving. He slapped down the hood of his truck, climbed into the cab, nodded mildly at Annie, and drove away.
She went indoors to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was frowsy, her eyes were wild.
Had there been a wrench in here this morning? No, surely not, or she would have noticed it. The wrench was an excuse to come back. Flimnap had brought it in just now, and then pretended to find it.
Unless of course it was an enchanted wrench. Flimnap the prestidigitator had simply plucked it out of the air.
Chapter 9
Fred Small had been out on the road again, searching for Pearl’s brother, because Pearl’s goddamned brother had tripped him up that day and then plunged down the stairs and cleared out. Where the hell was he? God, he had to be someplace. The man was dangerous, he was a loose cannon.
It was the first day of spring. For the last week Fred had been looking for the son of a bitch, but so far without success.
In the meantime, there was something else he had to do, and this time it was no problem, except that right now his hands were shaking. Small sat at a table in his bedroom, bowed over a piece of paper. Sunlight poured through the window and lay on the bed like a cloth. Looking up, he could see in the distance the towers of his failed sand-and-gravel company, and he frowned. Then he reminded himself that before long the towers would be obscured by twenty or thirty large and impressive houses. At this moment he could almost see them looming up here and there along the Pig Road, ghostly shapes outlined in air. Soon they would actually occupy the land, lining the curving drive that had been laid out on paper so cleverly by his friend the developer, maximizing the number of lots.