Locust Lane(26)
He staggered to his feet and examined his bite wound. The two-inch-long bruise had settled into various shades of yellow and brown. The dog had really done a number on him. He supposed he was lucky it hadn’t broken the skin. He recalled boyhood myths about rabies, long needles jammed into your stomach, zombified dads chained to radiators to keep them from harming loved ones.
His phone was dead so he went through to the kitchen to check the microwave clock: 2:43 p.m. Not good. At least there was still plenty of time to make his five o’clock with Ann Nichols. It was the only thing on his calendar for the day. He didn’t particularly want to go to the office, but dared not cancel, given his recent track record. Last time he checked, he was looking after eighty million dollars of client wealth, from which he drew a base fee of just under a million. It might be worthwhile to show his face every now and then.
He showered, brushed his teeth to rid himself of the rotted citrus taste, then downed a cup of coffee. For reasons he did not care to examine, he wasn’t hungover. Nor was he hungry. Still, he should eat something, since the last time he’d had food—if you discounted last night’s fistful of pistachios, whose shells were currently scattered around his recliner—was the breakfast croissant he’d microwaved before work yesterday.
He drove to Whole Foods and parked in a remote corner of the lot, beyond the delivery trucks and dinged employee Hondas. He had to keep his eyes open as he walked to the store. There was often a demolition derby atmosphere out here, destroyer-class Suburbans and Escalades heedlessly backing out of tight spaces and barreling toward the exit like they were fleeing hunter-killer subs. The end might be nigh for him, but not like that.
The store was busy. Nearly everyone was on a phone, which reminded him that he’d left his own charging on his kitchen table. There was no reason to go back for it. There was a landline in his office for no one to call him on. He went straight to the deli section and grabbed a sectioned container. The choices were abundant beneath the scrupulously polished spit shields. Orzo salad and shrimp fried rice and cauliflower cheese. Meat loaf or turkey meat loaf or vegetarian meat loaf. Honey-braised carrots and ratatouille. Pizza. Wraps.
He chose chicken tikka masala with saffron rice, toasted-almond broccoli, and a cube of corn bread. The sugar cookie went into one side pocket of his suit jacket, a plastic knife and fork into the other. He closed the container, then headed toward the front of the store, pausing to pick up a bottle of spring water. He bypassed the registers, exiting instead directly in front of the service desk. The woman working there—her badge read Soo—looked up and smiled. Patrick smiled back. Just after he passed, he realized that he’d forgotten napkins. He turned back to Soo.
“How can I help you today?” she asked.
“Do you have any napkins?”
She looked over Patrick’s shoulder.
“Daniel, could you go get this gentleman some napkins, please.”
She spoke to a slim young man, Central American by the looks of him, who’d just finished filling a bag at the closest register. Off he went.
“How is it out there?” Soo asked.
“Warming up.”
“Springs are getting so much shorter.”
“Tell me about it. It’s April and I’m using my car’s AC.”
She shook her head in affable commiseration. Shame about the planet dying. The odor from the food he was in the process of stealing filled the air between them. Soo’s phone rang. Patrick stepped back a little to give her privacy. Daniel returned. He handed over a one-inch stack of recycled paper and nodded shyly when Patrick thanked him.
“Take care,” he mouthed at Soo.
She cupped her phone’s speaker.
“You too,” she mouthed back, warmly.
He walked out of the store without further ado. Free and clear, once again. In the unlikely event someone had challenged him, he would have simply said he’d paid at the café. Nobody would have doubted it. The thought of him shoplifting was inconceivable. He was a white man with a hundred-dollar haircut and a two-thousand-dollar Italian suit who walked with his chin up and his spine stiffened. People like him didn’t shoplift.
There was an unopened fifth of Suntory in the trunk, but he decided to let that continue aging for the time being. After he set himself up in the driver’s seat, he put on Mozart’s clarinet quintet and spread napkins in a symmetrical grid on his lap. When he opened the container, the BMW’s interior immediately filled with the smell of spices from the other side of the world. The chicken was still warm. He took a bite, washing it down with a three-dollar bottle of water.
He sometimes thought what a strange sight he must make, dining contentedly in his car like a first-class passenger jetting above the Atlantic. Although there was little chance of him being seen back here. Occasionally, there might be an employee who’d just clocked out, but they only wanted to get away. Once, a father and daughter had come to practice parallel parking in a sporty little Jetta. Patrick had provided an appreciative audience as he picked over his chicken parm, throwing a big thumbs-up the kid’s way when she nailed it on the third try.
Now, sitting alone, eating a meal he didn’t really want, his leg still aching, he thought about the voice he’d heard last night. It had been a while since Gabi had spoken to him. A few weeks, anyway. In the days following her death two years ago, he used to hear her all the time, often for several nights in a row. He supposed one day the voice would vanish altogether. He’d need to watch an old video if he wanted to hear it. But that wouldn’t be the same. Not the same at all.