A Wanted Woman Part 30

"Twenty-plus kids. Hope they know each other before they end up dating each other."

I said, "He should've been broke, on the city bus, not rocking a brand-new Corvette."

"The laws here, if they put him in court, they'd be lucky to get fifty Bajan dollars a month."

"That wouldn't cover the bare necessities. Not even a decent pair of shoes from Payless."

"This ain't the US or England. In the UK they pay fifteen percent of their pay for one child, twenty percent for two, and twenty-five percent for three. But in the US, getting pregnant by a baller is a sport that can pay better than having an education, a job, and a sponsor. That's the lottery. Charlie Sheen pays over one hundred thousand Bajan a month. Nas pays almost the same. Russell Simmons pays eighty-thousand Bajan. Martin Brodeur pays over a quarter million Bajan dollars a year. Britney Spears pays the fat loser she married and bred for forty thousand Bajan a month. Tax-free money."

"Turn off the idiot box. You're minding other people's business too much."

"Most women don't bother putting the man in court because it's a joke. A rich man pays very little here. Man can be rich here, nice house, rocking Mercedes, and his child living like he or she homeless."

"I'm surprised they haven't killed the men for insurance."

"Most are uninsured. But at the same time, much men down here are paying for children they have no idea is not theirs. So there are more than a few reasons why some women don't take a man to court. On another note, since we're on that page, a big-time soca man down here has at least six illegitimate kids, not as bad as the cricketer, but he's out of control."

"Uh-huh. What's the point of this conversation? What's the business?"

"A contract is coming on him. If they want him handled in L.A., New York, Toronto, Atlanta, or Miami, I will shop the job over to you. If he's here, I can handle it, sniper-style."

I asked, "You have a kid and issues? That's why you know so much about maintenance issues?"

"No kid. Not pregnant. I have neighbors. Miserable, chatty, malicious women who have maintenance-support issues. They come over from time to time. That's all they complain about."

"How can so many women have babies by so many men who already have so many babies, babies they do nothing for? Women ignore history. Always think it will be different for them."

"It will be different for me. I'm married. We're in love."

"He has kids?"

"He takes care of them."

"Don't a.s.sume he will take care of yours."

"He's not like that."

"Don't a.s.sume he will take care of yours."

"He's not like that."

"Don't a.s.sume-"

"Stop it."

"Just don't a.s.sume he will take care of yours."

For a moment I wondered what would have happened if I had become pregnant by Parker. Maybe it was good we had split before it had become that complicated.

She said, "You're stressed. Every time I see you, you look so d.a.m.n tense."

"Always stressed. Always have a headache. The incessant heat is torturous."

"Up to you if you want me to make that call and get you some relief."

"Is that what you do, call in an order and have it delivered?"

"I'm married now. I just stroke it, roll over, suck it if I want, and ride it."

"Whatever. You're faking a marriage."

"You faked a relations.h.i.+p."

"I didn't fake a marriage. That's a different level. Don't forget that."

"Reaper, I'm faking a marriage and doing it well. Well, I'm married, but I'm not really legally married, but my husband and the court system down here think we are, and I really feel like I am."

"He's Bajan?"

"Yeah. He worked hard, went to UWI, and now he owns an insurance company and has a window-tinting business up in St. Michael. I did my due diligence and ran a background check."

"I did the same with Johnny Parker."

"My husband is the best. While I clean, he washes my Toyota by hand every Sat.u.r.day morning. When he's done, he comes and helps me finish cleaning. He goes to church. I don't go. He doesn't make it an issue. I stay home and cook dinner. I'm traditional. I cook almost every day of the week, unless we go to Chicken Barn or Bubba's or Just Grillin' or TGI Friday."

"You mention him and don't stop smiling. Miss hardcore, you really love that guy."

"I have never been like this with any other man, and there have been more than a few. We love being together. Sometimes we get up early and play road tennis before we go to work in the morning. Road tennis is like a playing a combination of Ping-Pong and tennis on asphalt."

"You've made yourself over and turned into a true Bajan."

"But this is what gets me."

"What?"

"Sometimes, the way he looks at me, I always feel like my husband knows something."

"I know that look. I would be doing something, in Jennifer mode, and catch Parker looking at me and I would wonder if he knew, if he had found out, if he gone through my e-mails, or if the Barbarians had contacted him, if I had f.u.c.ked up and used the wrong accent. I know that look. Know it well."

"This morning, it was like he was trying to sort something out in his mind."

"They know something is wrong. We're not normal. Women like us aren't normal."

At the same moment we both looked down at the briefcase that had been left behind, a reminder of what we were. She was curious, but she didn't ask. We were in the business of not asking. She raised her black umbrella. Not until then did I notice that it was branded a.r.s.eNAL.

She said, "We've never talked that long, Reaper. Never had a real conversation."

I shrugged. "Sorry for being vexed. You've had my back. Thanks for the Hilton, too."

"You're welcome. So, that was Black Jack who was all over you."

"It wasn't like that."

"Looked like that. I'm not judging you."

"Wasn't like that."

Again I looked toward the smoke rising in the distance.

The skies here reminded me of the smog over Los Angeles.

Petrichor said, "Sent you a goodie box to your holding cell."

"What did you send?"

"No more questions. Let me know if you need me for anything."

"Okay. Thanks in advance."

"And I love the T-s.h.i.+rt you have on."

"Understand the message?"

"I love chemistry."

"The message the elements spell?"

"I already put them together."

"Profound message."

"'f.u.c.k b.i.t.c.hes, get money.' Brilliant, using the elements' abbreviations to spell that."

"Yup. If I had followed Jessica Lee's favorite rule, I would've been better off."

"That's why I'm a GDI."

"You really like this tee?"

"I want that T-s.h.i.+rt."

"It's yours. Will hand-wash it."

"I want to wear it to church one Sunday."

"You don't go to church."

"I will if I can wear that tee."

"You'll get struck by lightning."

"I believe in the Almighty, but I wouldn't call myself a Christian. I'm churchgoing if I have to-weddings, funerals. Well, funerals if I didn't have anything to do with the sad occasion."

"I'm sure that FBGM is already a Bible verse."

"Probably covered under 'do unto others.'"

"Probably is."

"Yup. f.u.c.k b.i.t.c.hes. Get money. FBGM. Amen."

"Amen."

"Jessica Lee is a genius. A f.u.c.kin' genius."

Again Petrichor's slow and deliberate high-heeled wukkup-walk brought heat to the day.

THIRTY-ONE.

Back at the safe house, I went around the back way, climbed in through the rear window again. Once inside, I checked every room, each closet, my loaded gun leading the way.

I went to the front door. Moved the sofa I had put up as a barricade, opened the front door, the breeze feeling good on my skin. The package Petrichor had sent was there.

Neighbors were outside in the blaze playing road tennis. A woman was walking with her little girl. Boys were home from school, riding bikes like Evel Knievel. They saw me. They stared.

I pulled the box inside, closed the door, put the barricade back in place.

It was a box of Agent Provocateur goodies, the Regina Baptiste collection. Four sets of panties and bras. Petrichor's note said that everything was brand new and had been washed.

The box was heavy for what was inside. I pulled back the false bottom.

Underneath the lingerie was the true gift. Two pistol-grip Pepperblasters. Four blades, two like I had used on the philandering cricketer down in the Gap. Two more handguns, another supply of ammo, plus concealment clothing, all black; a tank top that would allow my.38 to rest underneath my left arm, Spanx that would accommodate a Glock on my right hip, a crew neck that would accommodate another gun on my right side, a belt-clip holder for a.380 or a Ruger. I could travel five handguns deep, and a blade could be fit on each calf and thigh. Five guns, four blades. Still wouldn't be enough.

She was looking out for me. Had been since I'd landed. I didn't know how to take that.

Never had anybody looking out for me before.

Drenched in sweat, I showered again, cold water and the rattling fan from my air-conditioning.

I'd never had Agent Provocateur panties and bras before. All I had were the two-dollar panties and bras that they sold on the side of the road here, the kind you wash, wear, and toss.

The panties and bras made it feel like my birthday.