All the Things You Are (20 page)

‘But that's exactly when you should be thinking about it, before reality lands in on top of you in the shape of two wailing kids. I mean, what—'

‘Jesus Christ Almighty, Angelique, do you think I've never done this before? Had to separate children from adults? Had to engineer a situation where the kids are confined somewhere, safe and secure, while the work is done? It's not always easy, and it's far from ideal, but it's what you do, even if you have to tie them up. I'd rather not let it get to that, upsetting for everyone, but your timeframe is not infinite, and sometimes you've got to. And then, as soon as you're clear, you alert the authorities, and they go in and release the kids.'

Angelique lets a hiss of air out loudly through her teeth.

‘Oh, Charlie. That is neither acceptable nor appropriate.'

‘Neither what nor what?'

‘You need … you need me with.'

‘I have you with.'

‘I mean, to look after the kids.'

Angelique reaches around and takes the photographs from a brown leather satchel Charlie's left on the back seat. She looks at the shot of the girls beneath the apple trees.

‘Barbara and Irene. Aw. Aren't they cute? I love those names, real old-style names, aren't they? Barbara and Irene. I had an Aunt Irene. Drank like a fish. Even as a kid, her name seemed like something from another time. Old Bing Crosby movies.
The Bells of St Mary's.
Barbara and Irene. I could look after them for you, Charlie.'

‘What do you mean, look after them?'

‘Well. This is an operation your boss is getting paid big money for, is that right?'

‘I guess.'

‘Well, maybe there are angles he hasn't considered. That you could.'

Charlie T looks at Angelique, and wonders if he sees something else in her eyes apart from mischief, and liveliness, and lust, and concern for children, something he has seen before when she spoke about one of her elderly patients who was really annoying the other nurses and the orderlies, a patient who, days later, has ceased to be a live issue. Charlie has done something very Irish with the knowledge he has about Angelique, which is, to pretend he doesn't know what he has maybe known all along.

‘Like what?'

‘I don't know. Just …'

‘Just what? We could snatch them? Hold them for ransom? We could harm them? Fuck, Angelique …'

‘Not
harm
them, Charlie, I would never harm them, never harm a
child
. Just, don't close yourself down to the possibilities. If there's something to be
gained
… you could take advantage. Don't miss out on that.

‘For the money?'

‘Well, that. And the control. I mean, do you know what's going on?'

‘I don't care what's going on. I do my work and I get paid, the end.'

‘But how much are you into your boss for? Do you want to owe that the rest of your life? Maybe there's a way out of that, you snatch the kids—'

‘Oh, you
are
talking about that? About kidnapping?'

‘And a woman living in a lakeside house in fucking Cambridge, Wisconsin. No recession up there, baby, those people are loaded, her brother is her only next of kin, he's gonna inherit, that's gotta be a lot of dough to get his darling daughters back, Charlie, nice for a couple who are just starting out. Clear some debt, maybe acquire some property. And you know me and kids, I'll treat them in an appropriate, holistic, child-centered manner.'

Charlie stares at her now in astonishment. One road trip and the sight of a gun, and his girlfriend the nurse has turned into Bonnie fucking Parker. And she's supposed to be the
normal
one, the refuge, the antidote to the strippers and hostesses and crystal meth queens. She's supposed to be his salvation.

‘And maybe then you won't need this guy, Mr Wilson, maybe you can set up in business on your own. Call it a side deal, call it initiative, call it what you like.'

And Angelique looks at the photo of the Brogan girls and smiles a little smile to herself. And before Charlie can say another word, or reflect that having a stable girlfriend is not now the bargain he had hoped it would be, seeing as the price he must pay is to acknowledge that she is completely fucking nuts, Ruby Tuesday's door swings open and two men appear, one of average height, dark hair in a gray suit, one very tall with a black suede coat and long silver-flecked blond hair and a cowboy look about him, older than Charlie but he likes the style, fair play to him.

Charlie is out of the car now and training the scope of the Barrett M82 on the men as they cross the Clock Tower parking lot, Jesus, they're moving at some clip, he'll only get one chance, can't afford to slip up, steady boy, steady. The gray suit, that's Brogan, he stumbles, and Cowboy catches his arm and keeps him upright. Drinking at lunchtime, that's what Charlie T will be up for when this job is through. He hears a noise from the car, looks down quickly, sees Angelique scooshing over, ready for a quick getaway. Nice work babe. Bonnie and Clyde, how are you! Eyes front, and the scope hovers over the Mustang now as the boys stand outside the drivers' door, what the fuck … ah, brilliant, they're having the old drunks' quarrel about who's driving, Brogan is waving the keys and trying to get in and Cowboy won't let him, he holds him by the shoulders and talks at his face, and Brogan stares back, then nods, and grins, and surrenders the keys and goes round the passenger side, and Cowboy walks back around the red Mustang and looks over the Mustang's roof at Brogan, and then lets his eyes drift up in Charlie T's direction as if he can see him, which he can't, too many trees, too far away, and Charlie trains the scope on the Cowboy's face, full frontal, and squeezes gently but firmly, and puts a bullet through the Cowboy's nose.

‘I
think there's one thing I should probably make clear,' says Paul Casey, waves of anxiety emanating from him like heat haze on a city street. As soon as Claire set eyes on him, in the tan polyester suit with the pens and propelling pencil set in the top pocket and the thick-soled shoes and the rayon tie, she thought there was probably going to be something he would want to make clear all right. That he had worn a cheap suit for a bet, say, because he got such good odds he would be able to front up for lunch. But the longer she looked at him, the more she realized that the suit was right; it was she who had been wrong. Where last week she had seen the sunken cheeks and dark haunted gaze she remembered from twenty years ago, today, in the crush of the Twin Anchors, she sees dry, pasty skin and tired, watery eyes, and that mouth she had thought delicate, but had come to know as weak by the end of their relationship first time round. What had she been
thinking
? Had last week been spent entirely in the dark? Counting the number of bars and restaurants, parties and clubs, the answer was probably yes. And the hotel room, Claire – don't forget that, she was going to say, but that's the problem, isn't it, or one of them: she can't remember exactly what happened in the hotel room.

‘Couple of things, in fact,' Paul says, and he does his half-laugh, the one which is supposed to be ironic, all isn't-life-strange, but simply comes across as nervous. ‘When I said I was divorced …'

Claire, who has been in a hurry to get to her stuff, is almost relieved by the diversion, the simple human relief of knowing that someone is a greater idiot than she is.

‘When you said you were divorced, what? You forgot that you weren't?'

‘Kind of. Thing of it is—'

Claire can contain herself no longer. ‘Paul, what are you
wearing
?'

Blotches of red appear on Paul Casey's cheeks and he looks down into his Diet Coke.

‘I'm wearing … well, my dad likes to keep things traditional, and he insists everyone wear a collar and tie, all the guys on the floor included. And he has his preferences. “No one wants to buy nails from some dude in a fancy East Coast sissy suit,” is how he puts it.'

‘Your dad.'

‘Sixty-seven and no sign of lying down.'

‘Your dad … runs a
hardware
store.'

‘That's right. On West Montana, remember. You can see the Biograph Theater from—'

‘Your dad runs a hardware store.'

‘Well. I'm glad we've got that straight.'

‘You're working for your father?'

‘I'm not ashamed of it.'

‘I never said you should be.'

‘Your tone said just that.'

‘I'm sorry, I didn't mean … I just … I'm surprised, I guess I thought you were still …'

‘Flying the flag.'

‘But last week … I mean, we hung out with all the old crowd, a lot of them are still acting, or directing, they're on the scene one way or another, I thought …'

‘I see them very seldom, Claire. I … the whole scene is pretty insular, obsessed with itself. That's not a criticism, it has to be like that, it's a … a parallel world, its own private eco-system: The Theater! I don't really—'

‘Weren't you running that acting school on Schiller?'

‘For a while. But eventually, it began to feel like a scam, you know, taking money from deluded people without enough talent or determination to make it in the business. It felt like we were exploiting their haplessness. So I quit. School's still going, I might add, and every so often, someone goes on from there to have a career, or at least, to get a part somewhere. So maybe I overreacted. Maybe I just wanted to be done with the theater once and for all. I was gonna say I don't really have what it takes, but I'm not gonna run myself down like that. Truth is, I didn't
want
to be involved, except the way we were. You know, doing it for real. We gave it a shot, and then we—'

‘Gave up. I gave up. But still, I teach. Sometimes, I feel like I'm still involved, still doing it. More often it's like I'm taunting myself every day with my own failure.'

Claire holds Paul Casey's gaze now, wanting him to say something, although she doesn't know exactly what. To tell her she didn't fail, and make her believe it? To tell her he wants them to be together, so she can kindly and gently reject him? There's nothing he can say, nothing she wants him to say, really. She looks away. This is how it is, twenty years on: disappointment and regret, and the worst thing is, they don't even hurt that bad.

Their lunches arrive. They've both ordered ribs, because that's what you do in Twin Anchors. The restaurant is not usually open for lunch on weekdays, but they've made an exception because it's Halloween, and judging by the fact that the place is still jumping at three-fifteen, it looks like they made the right call. The nautical theme of the decor is offset by Halloween lanterns and witches on broomsticks, giving the room an eerie, Ship-of-Fools aspect. Voyage of the Damned. Claire looks toward the street, notes the yellow flare of autumn light outside, the last blaze before nightfall.
I should be getting the girls ready for Trick or Treat
, she thinks.
I so should not be here
.

‘I'm happy enough not to be involved any more,' Paul says. ‘At least, I think I am. Most of the time.'

‘I don't understand … why didn't I find this out last week? What were we talking about?' Claire says.

‘Well … about old times. And about, of course, The Theater. How good is Tracy Letts, really, or Tony Kushner, or Martin McDonagh. Who the new voices are, is Broadway fucked, what about London, what about Dublin. You were pretty high most of the time.'

‘I was out of my mind.'

‘Yeah, but not, like, drunk, or not necessarily. More like, like someone who'd just got out of jail, total adrenaline surge. And you were kind of seeing and hearing what you wanted to see and hear.'

‘So what, it was all my fault?'

‘No. That's why I said—'

‘Because I have this card here, Paul, this card you put in my bag, with some pretty heavy stuff written on it.'

‘Which is why I said, I needed to … hey, I was pretty high myself. Seeing you … all our yesterdays. I took so much time off work I nearly got fired. By my own dad. Had to explain to him, you were in town, first time in fifteen years. He always had a soft spot for you.'

‘Does he think you're divorced as well?'

‘That's funny.'

‘But seriously. Do you remember how divorced you are? A little? A lot?'

Paul Casey frowns, and purses his lips until they disappear. He looks around the room, catches the bartender's eye, fits his hands one above the other to the height of a pint glass.

‘Honkers Pale,' he calls, and turns back to Claire.

‘I'm separated. Have been separated. But we're trying to get it back on track. Of course, bouncing round the Old Town with your ex-girlfriend probably doesn't help on that score.'

‘Probably not. Neither does writing that I was the love of your life on a card, or that no one has ever made you feel the way I did,' Claire says, the words coming out shriller and more recriminatory than she intends.

‘Well. It's the truth. But then again, you didn't strike me yourself as a brochure for the joys of married life last week. “Let's not talk about Danny.” If you said that once, you said that, uh, more than once. Thank you.'

A pint of pale ale has arrived in front of Paul Casey, and he takes a deep draft of it. The waiter checks on Claire and her empty greyhound glass, but she shakes her head. Jesus, what is she doing here? She wants to retort to Paul's crack, but she has no right to the moral high ground.

‘Look, I wrote what I wrote,' Paul says. ‘It was kind of a wild night. I … well, I didn't know what to make of it. But I certainly didn't expect you to be back here within the – is it even a day? I mean, I only dropped you at O'Hare—'

‘
Oh
. Do you think that's why I'm here?'