Lunch
Lola’s in the driveway again, and she’s not budging. This is typical of her, though it’s a bit unusual now, as she’s not supposed to be outside anymore. Sprawled out, cleaning one of her paws, she looks up at my approaching car with as much alarm as she’d display to a passing cloud’s shadow. I consider tapping the car’s horn, hoping to let it be known I mean business, but I know it’ll do no good. I already feel I’ve made my presence known enough as it is.
I ease on the parking brake and exit the car, leaving the engine on and the door open. This of all things rouses Lola. She greets me with a babbling mixture of meows and purrs, a catlike language that says she’s now granting me passage. On most days I’d consider this cute. I know already that this isn’t most days. Still, I throw her a bit of sashimi from the take-out bag, because God knows I need her to shut up.
The front door isn’t quite wide open, though just enough I can squeeze through. The smell of cigar smoke is everywhere. This both puts me on edge and infuriates me. Jennifer would never smoke. And I can’t stand cigars.
I make sure the first floor is clear, then make my way upstairs to where, on most days, Jennifer would be working. My ears ring with coursing blood. The sweat of my clenched hand dampens the paper take-out bag, and I’m wishing I left the damn thing downstairs. Or with Lola.
Just outside Jennifer’s office, the reek of cigar is assaulting. My eyes burn. From the smoke? Stress? Sweat? Could be all three. Could be nothing. I don’t know.
“Come on in, Chuck.” The voice is calm, not overly assertive, though confident on every word.
I push the door open with the bagged hand. He sits at Jennifer’s desk, a cloud nearly obscuring him to the point of being a mere silhouette. The cigar I assume he’d been smoking for the past half-hour smolders in a highball glass, consumed to the size of a thumb. The silenced Beretta, aimed squarely at me, is plain to see.
“Hey, Chuck,” he says. He motions with the pistol. “What you got there? Aww. Did you bring lunch? Y’see, now that is how you win over a lady. Bringing lunch to the office.”
I don’t move. I say nothing.
“Where ya been, Chuck? You realize I’ve been here for …” He checks his watch. “Four. Weeks?”
My fists are trembling. I’m not sure he notices. I keep my eyes forward, giving nothing away.
“Where is she, Chuck? That bitch is supposed to be here, like I know she always is, and I come to find the place empty. I’m sick of hanging around here eating your crap food. Who has so many goddamn pretzels, huh?”
“How the hell should I know?” I manage to grunt. “I’ve been in New Mexico for the past month. We’re … separated. She wouldn’t even return my calls. Please. I don’t know.”
“Yeah. I know.” He taps a finger from his free hand onto the desk, onto Jen’s cellphone. “You’re a persistent bastard, I’ll give you that. Kept me up all night. Now. Where. Is. She? I won’t ask again.”
“I told you. I don’t know. Look, I thought she’d be here too.”
The creep shakes his head and sighs. “Chuck. You know what I have to do now, don’t you? You know, right?”
My eyes momentarily glance to the left. He catches this. Damn it. Now he knows.
My gun is drawn from my back waistband before he puts it all together. The window at his back shatters as my bullet cleanly exits his head.
I approach the left wall. The bookcase. The hidden panic room door.
“Jennifer!” I call out, my voice hoarse from the smoke. “Open up! It’s me, baby. It’s Chuck. I … I’m sorry. I brought you lunch.”
