White Ivy(81)

“Is this the Italian guy from the mob?”

“He was Romanian.”

Ivy’s neck snapped toward Sylvia. “Who is this?”

Sylvia said, “This guy I used to date, Roux Roman. Oh, right, you’ve met him… Ivy came to Cattahasset last summer,” she explained to Jeremy. She seemed to have completely forgotten that Ivy and Roux had known each other long before Sylvia had met him. “Anyway, my cousin Francis works at the DEA and looked into him. He works for a bunch of loan sharks. They own some restaurants—a cheese shop in the North End, some sandwich shops—as a front. They have those casinos in Vegas, too. I was surprised at first they’d let in an outsider like him, but I suppose the family line is thinning… then there was the thing he did with those old warehouses, buying them out and converting them to bodegas—oh shit, here he comes again… Do you think he’s stalking me?”

Indeed, Sylvia’s sharp amber eyes had spotted Roux standing near the clusters of yellow and white balloons on the periphery of a small crowd.

“You think he’s here for you?” Ivy asked, unable to hide her disbelief.

“Why else is he here?” said Sylvia, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve had to file restraining orders before.”

“Has he approached you?”

“Not yet,” Sylvia conceded. “I saw him come in a while ago. But I know he never goes to these things… and he knew I’d be here tonight to support Gideon.”

“You’re making me jealous,” said Jeremy, kissing Sylvia’s hair. Sylvia scratched under his chin.

Jeremy’s green eyes widened with glee. “Do you think the guy’s ever killed anyone?”

“I’m sure he did,” said Sylvia. “The one time I visited his house in Evansville, there were these workers, two of them, only they were dressed in suits and ties, pouring concrete onto the basement floor. Underneath the cement was dirt, nothing else. At least nothing that hadn’t already been buried…” Her eyes bored into Roux’s back, as if challenging him to come over and contradict her, but he didn’t turn their way, though Ivy was certain he’d seen them the moment he entered the room.

“The Boston mafia world would be interesting to film,” said Jeremy. “If I could get access somehow—to the head boss. You think this guy would want to talk to me? For an interview?”

“I doubt it, puppy,” said Sylvia. She fanned her face with her hands. “I’m boiling alive. Let’s get out.”



* * *




IVY FELT SHE had to keep moving, like a shark that would die the moment it rested. She remembered that Gideon would be looking for her on the platform where she’d been dancing with Liana. How long had it been since they’d separated? She went back to the dance floor, but Liana was gone and in her place a gaggle of women wearing the free swimsuits was dancing wildly, barefoot, droplets of pool water spraying from their long hair onto the chanting crowd.

Gideon was not part of the crowd. She made a beeline for one corner of the room, then another, to maintain her air of purpose. She glimpsed Andrea on one of the inflated sofa beds beside the scrawny young man from before. Sitting down cross-legged, he looked like Andrea’s little brother or teenage son. A fleshy woman with lavender hair barreled into Ivy. They struck up a conversation about the dangers of indoor pools. The woman held out her weed pen. Ivy took two long puffs before handing it back. “Love the hair. My roommate would dub you a ‘dashing winter.’?” The woman grinned. “Come on.” Ivy followed her into the stairwell. They climbed and climbed, holding on to the wrought-iron railings that seemed to spiral forever beneath the domed glass ceiling. “Ivy-girl!” a man’s voice boomed from overhead. Dave Finley stood on the top step in a tangerine-colored suit, the collar open to reveal his speckled, old-man skin.

“So happy to see you, my dear! I haven’t congratulated you yet on your engagement.”

He had, multiple times, but she thanked him anyway. She looked over her shoulder. The lavender-haired woman had abandoned her.

“Have you seen Gideon?” she asked.

“I told Gideon last summer, I said, ‘You’ve caught yourself a unicorn, Gideon. A woman with beauty, brains, and common sense. An absolute rarity.’?” He raised a yellow toy gun—it shot out streams of soap bubbles—and aimed it at Ivy’s hair.

“Stop it,” she said, inhaling a bubble.

He pressed the trigger again and again and again.

“Stop.”

He grabbed her and mashed their mouths together. “How beautiful you are,” he breathed. “I have a suite here on the eighth floor if you’d like a tour.”

“You’re so drunk.” Ivy laughed, attempting to treat the entire thing like a joke. “Have you seen your wife’s feather boa? It’s fabulous.”

“What?”

“Is it made of fur or bird feathers? People don’t like to wear fur these days, they say it’s inhumane. Anyway, Liana looks like a beautiful ostrich. That long neck and small, sleek head—”

As expected, Dave could not stand a talkative woman when he was this drunk into the evening, and he interrupted Ivy by shooting his gun into the ceiling and calling his wife’s name.

Ivy fled. She finally reached the rooftop. There, sitting on cushioned lawn chairs underneath a heating lamp, were Gideon and Tom. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she said breathlessly, feeling as if she might, at any second, burst into violent laughter.