The Sound of Broken Ribs(57)

Carl pulled the door open and let Belinda walk out first. The two murderers trudged along, as if through mud. Belinda had a moment of sheer panic when she looked up from her feet to see Monica passing their room and approaching Jack’s. She almost screamed out, “NO!”, but managed to contain herself just long enough to watch Monica stop, look around, shake her head, and turn back to them. “You said nine not ten—right?”

“Yeah,” Carl said. Belinda envied his cool demeanor. He smiled with such ease. Nothing about him was forced.

“Right. Right. Sorry.”

Belinda’s heart started again.

Monica let them in and Carl thanked her. He grabbed his wallet from where it lay beside their room key on the dresser. A more wonderful sight, Belinda was unlikely see. He handed Monica his driver’s license, and the woman gave it the most cursory of onceovers.

“Looks good. Thanks. If you need anything else, just let me know. You two have a good day.”

“You too,” Belinda said.

On her way past, Monica nudged Belinda with her elbow and whispered, “He’s cute. Is he yours?”

“He’s gay.”

“Oh.” Monica’s face flashed so quickly from disappointment to shock to disgust that it made Belinda a little dizzy. When the carousel of faces stopped, Monica said, “Too bad. Have a good one.”

The door closed behind Monica and Belinda collapsed onto her bed. “That was a fucking nightmare.”

“No doubt,” Carl said. He dropped onto the edge of his own bed and buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t crying. He seemed to be trying to rub the weariness from his soul.

Belinda was asleep before she could realize just how bone-tired she was.

*

Her charter landed at a private strip at Ontario Airport in Ontario, California, at exactly 6:45AM.

An hour later, she’d rented a car and was on Interstate 10, headed for Fontana. The GPS on the dash said her drive would take her twenty minutes. Due to traffic that turned the interstate into a parking lot for miles at a time, the trip took her another hour. She arrived at the Imperial Hotel on Valley Boulevard at a quarter to ten. She was about to make a left into the parking lot when her stomach spoke up. The angry gurgle was followed by a hunger cramp as severe as the cramps she suffered during her time of the month. She flicked off her blinker, and when the way was clear, merged back out of the turn lane and back into traffic.

She had no idea where she was going, but this was California, and you couldn’t go more than a few feet without running into a fast food restaurant, or, at the very least, a convenience store, what they called “liquor stores” out here. She’d learned that last bit of information while on the set of the film adaptation of her first book. That seemed another lifetime ago. When she’d been whole.

She ate soupy burritos at a Baker’s and washed them down with a too-sweet coke. When she was done, she figured she’d give Jack a call to see if she was up yet. The woman’s phone rang five times before her voicemail picked up.

“Hey, Jack. It’s Lei. I’m here. At the Baker’s down the street from the Imperial. Gimme a call when you get this. Thanks.” Lei pressed end, dropped the phone into her purse, and stretched. Her stomach gurgled again, only this time with digestion instead of hunger. She felt warm all over, the telltale sign that someone was staring.

It was the white girl at the register. She kept glancing over her current customer’s shoulder—an old man in plaid golf shorts and a green polo tee—to look at Lei. More accurately though, she was looking at Lei’s stump. Lei had left the prosthetic in the car to allow what was left of her arm to breathe. Not that it would have mattered though. People stared just as hard with or without the prosthetic attached.

The next time the cashier’s eyes fell on her, Lei waved. The girl didn’t look again.

Her phone rang. Harry’s name and the picture of him in full hockey regalia sans helmet—the helmet was under his arm, the same arm that held his hockey stick—popped to life on her smart phone’s display.

She slid her finger across the screen to answer her husband’s call. “Yo. What’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“Huh?”

“Where are you, Lei?”

“I’m in New York.”

“No you’re not. I just got up and checked my messages. Amex called, wanted to discuss recent charges.”

Lei couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Did you put an alert on my fucking card?”

“No. Don’t be crazy.”

“Watch it.”

“Should I watch it? Really, Lei? Should I? Because it seems you’re defensive. Why would that be, Lei? Huh?”

She took a deep breath and exhaled at length. “If you didn’t put alerts on my American Express card, why did they call you?”

“First off, it’s our American Express. For some reason, I’m listed as the first contact, even though both of our names are on the card. Anyway, they called to ask me if all the recent expenditures were correct because we hadn’t used the card in so long. The flights from Ohio to New York, and then—to my fucking surprise—from New York to California. So, I ask again, where are you, Lei?”

“You already know.”

“I want you to tell me.”