“Great,” I said.
“Great,” she echoed.
Theo looked down at his phone as if waiting for another call. Or maybe thinking of the one he just took. His forehead creased with what appeared to be deep concern. His mom was right. Theo was grown-up. And that grown-up person was worried about something. Was it his talk with Eric? Or was he not as happy with me as his mom thought? His silences and moodiness over the past few days seemed directly related to the mortgage situation and the break-in, but I couldn’t help worrying it was something else. Something having to do with us.
His phone dinged, the tone telling him he had a text. He read it, frowned. “I have to get to work.”
“On a Sunday? Anything wrong?” his mom asked. But she asked in the way people do when they’re sure the answer is no.
Theo cleared his throat. “Just some things I want to deal with.”
My phone chimed, too, and I looked down. Christopher McNeil, the display said. My dad. I noticed he’d called a few times. Since he didn’t text much, I was waiting for an open time to call him back and have a real chat with him. For now, I hit the ignore button.
We stood from the table. “Izzy,” his mom said, giving me a hug, “I’d love to meet up for coffee or tea sometime.”
“I’d love that, too.”
We smiled at each other. Although she was much more carefree and casual than my mom, they had a similar elegance.
We said goodbye to Anna outside the restaurant in the midst of a colorless, snowy day.
When she was gone, I turned to Theo. He wore a navy blue wool coat with a mandarin collar, a masculine design with a subtle flair.
“What’s going on with Eric?” I asked.
“He told me something that has me worried.”
“What’s that?”
“He said the company’s books are messed up.”
“Messed up how?”
“Look, Iz, I don’t know, okay?” His voice held more of a bite than I’d ever heard. He moved back as a bus lumbered down State Street. “I don’t know anything, all right?” he said, his voice loud, which I suppose was to compensate for the bus, but it jarred me a little.
I tried not to feel hurt. “All right.”
I started to turn away, but his voice, kinder now, stopped me.
“Wait,” he said. I turned back to him. He sighed, looked down as if gathering his thoughts. “What he knows is that we defaulted on a loan. A big commercial loan.”
“Whoa,” I said.
“Yeah, I know.”
“How did that happen?”
He shook his head. “Eric’s trying to analyze the situation. He keeps the books, right? So he should know. But I’m sure that’s why I didn’t get the mortgage. It was a loan we applied for when we first started the company, and we personally guaranteed it.”
“Oh, no, that’s not good.” Immediately, I regretted my words. “What can I do to help?” I asked quickly.
“Nothing.” He was shutting down. I could see it, even though I’d never witnessed such a thing before. I could see him distance himself from me. “I’ll figure it out by myself,” he said as if confirming my suspicion.
He kissed me and hailed a cab, its yellow sides spattered gray with slush. I watched it drive away, then I turned away and began to walk west down Washington. Mentally, I ran through the events of the past few days—from the mortgage denial, the break-in, now the troubles at HeadFirst. I thought the world of Theo. But I had serious doubts that he could figure it out alone. Maybe he would turn to his dad? Or his mom, with whom he clearly had a strong bond.
Later, I would think how it was the last time Theo’s mom saw him before everything started to truly crumble.
11
His cell phone vibrated again. Then again.
“Hold on a sec.” José Ramon shifted the woman who sat astride him and grabbed his cell phone. The woman, Lucia, was dressed. But just barely. And not for much longer. He would turn off the damn phone.
But then his eyes grazed the text messages appearing on his screen. Saw those messages were about Theodore Jameson. He scanned them. The last one read, He just left lunch.
“Give me a minute, baby.”
A woman like Lucia didn’t pout. It was beneath her. She simply stood, her lavender panties, sown through with tiny black ribbons, stretching across her hipbones as she did so. With a few elegant movements, she’d adjusted her breasts back inside the matching bra, and she strode quietly, confidently, from the room.
He almost moaned, watching the way the muscles in her ass moved, the purple thong tucked between her tanned cheeks.
He made himself look back at his cell phone, and he typed, What restaurant?
Walnut Room. He’s heading to work.
Why do you think he’s going to work on a Sunday? Don’t assume anything. Even though he was only typing, not speaking, he knew his underling would hear the snarl in his tone. How many times had he told his people not to assume? Never assume.
I assume nothing, the next text read. I got close enough to hear them.
Them?
T and his GF and his mom.
He let out a grudging exhale, impressed at the level of skill. The kid was good. Had proven that time and again.
He kept his people—the ones outside the legit businesses, like the restaurant—working in solitude. That way no one could collude with another. A coup would be hard, if not impossible, to stage. But often, forcing people into a lone-wolf situation made them paranoid, especially the type of people he had on the hook.
Yet every so often, someone like this went above and beyond. Sometimes the ones he’d strong-armed recognized the uselessness of resistance, had the sense and intelligence to not only join him, but also to stand up and be a soldier in his army. Incrementally, they assumed more responsibility. Slowly, without pissing him off, they thought outside the box. And this kid was one of them.
The girlfriend is the lawyer? he wrote.
Yeah.
We need to find out more about her. His face began to curl in a snarl again, but then he got the next text.
Way ahead of you, it read.
He gave a short laugh. The only kind of laugh he knew. Good work, he typed into his phone. He didn’t say such things often.
He was a little surprised at the slight gap in time it took to get a reply. But then, Thank you. I appreciate it.
He put his phone back on the nightstand and thought for a moment. Yes, suddenly he could imagine allowing this one into the next level of his business, might be told why they were keeping an eye on Theo Jameson.
Lucia was back. In the doorway. Her dark hair, turned copper on top from the sun—she had just been on a friend’s yacht in the Caribbean, she’d said—fell over her shoulders in rivulets, covering her breasts, which were bare now.
She locked his eyes in with hers. Then she hooked one finger through one of the black ribbons that ran through her panties. Then the other hand on the ribbons on the other side. Slowly, rhythmically, she undulated her hips, letting ribbons untie, then smoothly unfurl themselves until the flap of purple silk covering her in the front fell away. Nothing remained except two scraps of silk