“Maybe I could get a job,” Kim said. “Like you suggested.”
“Hey, I was only kidding,” Marsha said. “I was just trying to make a point.”
“I’m willing to do what I have to do,” Kim said.
“Listen,” Marsha said, “what if I take my cellular phone with me and call you every fifteen or twenty minutes? Then you won’t have to worry, and I can keep you posted about what I’m finding. How’s that?”
“It’s something, I guess,” Kim said without a lot of enthusiasm. But the more he thought of the idea, the better it began to sound. The concept of his getting a job in a slaughterhouse was far from appealing. But most important was Marsha’s adamant assurances about the lack of risk.
“I’ll tell you what,” Marsha added. ‘This visit won’t take me that long, and after I’m done, I’ll come back and have that drink you offered. That is, if the invitation is still open.”
“Of course,” Kim said. He nodded as he went over the plan one last time. Then he gave Marsha’s forearm a quick squeeze before getting out of the car. Instead of closing the door, he leaned back in. “You better take my phone number,” he said.
“Good thinking,” Marsha said. She fumbled for a pen and a piece of paper.
Kim gave her the number. “I’m going to be waiting right by the phone, so you’d better call.”
“No need to worry,” Marsha said.
“Good luck,” Kim said.
“I’ll be talking with you soon,” Marsha said.
Kim slammed the car door. He watched as she backed up, turned, and accelerated down the street. He watched until the red taillights and their reflection in the rain-slicked street were swallowed by the night.
Kim turned and looked up at his dark, deserted house. Not a single light relieved its somber silhouette. He shuddered. Suddenly left by himself, the reality of Becky’s loss descended. The crushing melancholy he’d felt earlier flooded back. Kim shook his head in despair at how tenuous his world had been. His family and his career had seemed so substantial, and yet within a relative blink of the eye, it had all disintegrated.
. . .
Bobby Bo Mason’s house was lit up like a Las Vegas casino. To provide the proper gala atmosphere for his inaugural dinner celebration, he’d retained a theatrical lighting specialist to do the job. And to make the scene even more festive, he’d hired a mariachi band to play under a tent on the front lawn. A little rain certainly wasn’t going to dampen his affair.
Bobby Bo was one of the largest cattle barons in the country. In keeping with his image of himself as well as his position in the industry, he’d built a house whose flamboyant style was a monument to Roman Empire kitsch. Columned porticos stretched off in bewildering directions. Plaster-cast, life-sized, imitation Roman and Greek statues dotted the grounds. Some were even painted in realistic skin tones.
Liveried valet parkers lined up at the head of the circular drive to await the arrival of the guests. Six-foot-high torches bordering the drive sputtered in the light rain.
Everett Sorenson’s Mercedes beat Daryl Webster’s Lexus but only by less than a minute. It was as if they’d planned it. As they exited their cars they embraced as did their wives.
The cars were whisked away by the valets, while other staff protected the guests with large golf umbrellas. The foursome started up the grand staircase leading to the double front doors.
“I trust you called your security,” Everett said.
“The moment after I spoke with you,” Daryl said.
“Good,” Everett said. “We can’t be too careful, especially now that the beef business is back to being relatively healthy.”
They reached the front door and rang. While they waited, Gladys reached over and straightened Everett’s clip-on tie.
The double doors were whisked open. The light from within was enough to make the newly arrived guests squint as it reflected off the white marble foyer. In front of them stood Bobby Bo framed by the massive granite jambs and lintel.
Bobby Bo was heavyset, similar to Everett and Daryl, and, like his colleagues, he believed in his product enough to eat staggeringly large steaks. He had a lantern jaw and a barrel chest. He was impressively attired in a custom-tailored tuxedo, a hand-tied bowtie edged with gold thread, and diamond studs and cuff links. His fashion idol had been the “Dapper Don” prior to his conviction and incarceration.