up about it as anybody—but I don’t feel guilty.”
Carr shakes his head. “No offense, Vee, but I’m not sure you’re the best yardstick.”
Valerie sits up and pulls a sheet over her breasts. “If I wasn’t such a cold-hearted bitch, I might take offense at that,” she says with a bitter laugh. “Maybe I didn’t know those guys as long as you, but I trusted them with my life more times than I can count. I trusted them to back me up, and they didn’t disappoint. Not ever. Ray was like a kid brother, for chrissakes, and Deke …”
She looks at the ceiling and breathes deeply—once, twice—to steady her voice. “We told Deke what we thought about that job—you and me both. We said everything there was to say about the planning, the intel,the risks—everything and then some. Maybe you remember, he was pretty pissed at us when he left. I thought the two of you were going to come to blows. You tell me, what else were we supposed to do?”
Carr shrugs. “We should’ve been more convincing.”
“Right—’cause Deke was always so open to suggestions.”
“He listened to me.”
“He listened when he felt like it, but he didn’t listen then. And really, how many ways can you say
bad idea
and
stupid fucking plan
? I think we tried them all.”
Carr runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe it wasn’t just the plan that was bad. Maybe something else was going on.”
Valerie sits up and looks at him. “What the
fuck
are you talking about?” Carr shrugs again, and Valerie’s hand is on his biceps. “
Something else
like what?”
“I don’t know. Bertolli might’ve gotten wind of something.”
Valerie shakes her head. “Are you for real with this? What was Bertolli going to get wind of? The only guy as insane about operational security as you are was Declan. You really think he got sloppy with that?”
“Maybe somebody got sloppy for him.”
“You’re not serious with this paranoid shit, are you? You think Bobby or Mike dimed him out? Or maybe you think it was me?” She slides her palm up his arm, over his shoulder, to his neck. The smell of honeysuckle is strong. Her voice softens. “Guilt does that, you know—it makes you paranoid. You feel bad, you feel responsible, so you feel like there’s a bill coming due. Then you’re looking over your shoulder every other minute, waiting for it to arrive. Paranoid.”
Carr rolls away from her, out of bed, and goes into the bathroom. He turns the water tap, drinks from a cupped hand, and looks in the mirror. The angular face, the cropped black hair, disheveled now, his mother’s hazel eyes, smudged with fatigue, the wiry frame, the white sketch marks of scars here and there, are somehow unfamiliar to him—pieces he can’t assemble into a working whole. He stands in the bathroom doorway. Valerie is sitting cross-legged, the sheet down around her waist.
“Our being down there wouldn’t have changed anything,” she says, “except maybe we’d be dead on the side of a road too. So we were someplace else—so what?”
“I know where we were,” Carr says, his voice rising suddenly above the drone of the air conditioner. “I know what we were doing.”
Valerie laughs, and there’s a note of satisfaction in it—a long-held theory finally confirmed. Jill’s twang reappears in her voice. “So you feel bad about that too—that we were in St. Barts, fucking, while it was going on. You sure you weren’t raised Catholic, or maybe Jewish? ’Cause, baby boy, you got the guilt down cold.”
“You and Bobby can talk it out in your next session. Compare notes.”
“That might be deep water for Bobby,” Valerie says, and throws off her sheet. She pushes past Carr into the bathroom and runs the shower.
Carr watches as she steps in—the muscles in her back, her brown ass, her skin flawless but for the ragged-edged dime on her scapula. “Why the hell are you talking to Bobby about this anyway?” he says.
Valerie works her fingers through
Carr shakes his head. “No offense, Vee, but I’m not sure you’re the best yardstick.”
Valerie sits up and pulls a sheet over her breasts. “If I wasn’t such a cold-hearted bitch, I might take offense at that,” she says with a bitter laugh. “Maybe I didn’t know those guys as long as you, but I trusted them with my life more times than I can count. I trusted them to back me up, and they didn’t disappoint. Not ever. Ray was like a kid brother, for chrissakes, and Deke …”
She looks at the ceiling and breathes deeply—once, twice—to steady her voice. “We told Deke what we thought about that job—you and me both. We said everything there was to say about the planning, the intel,the risks—everything and then some. Maybe you remember, he was pretty pissed at us when he left. I thought the two of you were going to come to blows. You tell me, what else were we supposed to do?”
Carr shrugs. “We should’ve been more convincing.”
“Right—’cause Deke was always so open to suggestions.”
“He listened to me.”
“He listened when he felt like it, but he didn’t listen then. And really, how many ways can you say
bad idea
and
stupid fucking plan
? I think we tried them all.”
Carr runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe it wasn’t just the plan that was bad. Maybe something else was going on.”
Valerie sits up and looks at him. “What the
fuck
are you talking about?” Carr shrugs again, and Valerie’s hand is on his biceps. “
Something else
like what?”
“I don’t know. Bertolli might’ve gotten wind of something.”
Valerie shakes her head. “Are you for real with this? What was Bertolli going to get wind of? The only guy as insane about operational security as you are was Declan. You really think he got sloppy with that?”
“Maybe somebody got sloppy for him.”
“You’re not serious with this paranoid shit, are you? You think Bobby or Mike dimed him out? Or maybe you think it was me?” She slides her palm up his arm, over his shoulder, to his neck. The smell of honeysuckle is strong. Her voice softens. “Guilt does that, you know—it makes you paranoid. You feel bad, you feel responsible, so you feel like there’s a bill coming due. Then you’re looking over your shoulder every other minute, waiting for it to arrive. Paranoid.”
Carr rolls away from her, out of bed, and goes into the bathroom. He turns the water tap, drinks from a cupped hand, and looks in the mirror. The angular face, the cropped black hair, disheveled now, his mother’s hazel eyes, smudged with fatigue, the wiry frame, the white sketch marks of scars here and there, are somehow unfamiliar to him—pieces he can’t assemble into a working whole. He stands in the bathroom doorway. Valerie is sitting cross-legged, the sheet down around her waist.
“Our being down there wouldn’t have changed anything,” she says, “except maybe we’d be dead on the side of a road too. So we were someplace else—so what?”
“I know where we were,” Carr says, his voice rising suddenly above the drone of the air conditioner. “I know what we were doing.”
Valerie laughs, and there’s a note of satisfaction in it—a long-held theory finally confirmed. Jill’s twang reappears in her voice. “So you feel bad about that too—that we were in St. Barts, fucking, while it was going on. You sure you weren’t raised Catholic, or maybe Jewish? ’Cause, baby boy, you got the guilt down cold.”
“You and Bobby can talk it out in your next session. Compare notes.”
“That might be deep water for Bobby,” Valerie says, and throws off her sheet. She pushes past Carr into the bathroom and runs the shower.
Carr watches as she steps in—the muscles in her back, her brown ass, her skin flawless but for the ragged-edged dime on her scapula. “Why the hell are you talking to Bobby about this anyway?” he says.
Valerie works her fingers through
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