We wrapped up our conversation. On the way back to our table I flagged down our waiter and asked him to deliver a bottle of champagne to Joe and Mildred. Then we took our seats and looked at each other.
“Well,
“You were great back there, by the way.”
“Whatever. It’s not my first rodeo. So,” she said, “will you talk to Darwin for me?”
“I think not,” I said. “He’ll want to know why I’m asking, and believe me, he’ll find out. When he does, he’ll end your affair with a bullet. So if you want to keep this going—and you obviously do—you can’t let Darwin know you’re involved with her. By the way,” I added, “how were you able to keep the affair going without Chavez finding out?”
“Easier than you might think. Remember, he’s following Eva. Since I know where she’s going before he does, I’m already there.”
“So if Eva’s going to a party at someone’s house you’re already there?”
“A better example is when she goes out of town to visit her parents, and stays at a hotel room that happens to adjoin mine.”
I thought about the logistics of Callie falling for her, approaching her, wooing her, the time involved to build this type of relationship.
“You couldn’t have set this up after you passed her off to Chavez,” I said.
Callie said nothing.
“This had to have started years ago, when you were guarding her.”
Callie remained silent.
“And it’s continued all this time,” I said. “So why now?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve always known her life was in danger. Why the sudden urgency?”
“I think Tara’s in the middle of an operation that could turn sour.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Chavez got a call. Darwin told him to be ready, just in case.”
“And you know this because?”
“Chavez and I talk sometimes.”
“You’ve been keeping him on a string to see what he knows?”
“Something like that.”
I had a sudden thought.
“You’re not sleeping with Chavez, too, are you?”
“Fuck you!”
“All right, simmer down,” I said. “I’m just trying to figure out how complicated this is.”
“As far as Chavez is concerned, he and I are colleagues, nothing more. When he worked Atlanta, we met twice a year for drinks. I was careful when asking about Eva.”
“I believe you. Otherwise, she’d be dead.”
Callie eyed me carefully, as if trying to read something in my face. Finally, she said, “If you can’t talk to Darwin, what’s left?”
“I can try to talk Tara into quitting.”
“What?”
“Like you said, she’s a mess. Maybe she’s had enough.”
“If she has, she’d already be retired.”
“Sometimes people need a nudge.”
“Would you even know how to find her without Darwin’s help?”
“I think so,” I said. “We’ve got some history.”
“I heard that ended badly,” Callie said, lifting her index finger to the side of her cheek to mimic the angry scar that runs from the top of my cheek to the middle of my neck.
I shrugged. “Some people wear tattoos.”
Callie laughed. “Boston’s a pretty big city,” she said.
“It is.”
“But you know something about Tara, something you learned when you were sleeping with her?”
I nodded.
Callie mulled that over. “What if she says no?”
“Then we go to plan B,” I said.
“Which is?”
“Kill her.”
Callie leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. The one with the scar.
“Thanks, Donovan,” she said. “Once again, you’ve saved my life.”
Chapter 22
“The walls moved?” Kathleen said. “How?”
“It was like a Hollywood movie set,” I said. “There are five different scenes, with three sets of walls and two ceilings. One of the ceilings has crystal chandeliers.”
“But how does everything switch?” she said.
“They just quietly slide into place.”
“And dinner was good?” she said.
“You’d love it!” I said. “I’ll take you there sometime.”
“Tell me about it now, though.”
“Okay. There was a seafood tower with a sculpture of a seahorse. There were three levels of oysters on the half shell, and some of the display shells had real pearls in them!”
“And the lady you had dinner with?”
“How old is she?”
I scrunched up my face. “Hard to tell.”
This was one of those times you had to weigh the benefits of honesty versus happiness. There wasn’t much incentive to tell the truth, since first of all, I wasn’t having an affair, and secondly, Callie and Kathleen would probably never meet. And even if they did meet, Callie would never rat me out. Our secrets were safe. We had each others’ backs.
I looked Kathleen right in the eye, the way President Clinton taught me, and I said, “Honey, Mrs. Calloway has to be at least sixty.”
“Sixty,” she said.
“At least. Maybe sixty-five.”
“And why did she need you to fly all the way to Vegas to take her to dinner and a show?”
“I told you that already. Her husband got sick. They had tickets for the show and dinner reservations. He’s one of my bosses. I felt obligated.”
“Hmm,” she said. “But it does sound as though you had a good time.”
“I put on a brave face,” I said.
Kathleen had trust issues, courtesy of her first husband, Ken Chapman. I could tell she was struggling with my explanation. I figured it was time to put her out of her misery.
