He felt inadequate.
"We'd better get to the house," she said. "There'll be people."
"Have you heard from Tommy?" he asked.
"No," she said, and turned suddenly away.
He realized all at once that she was crying. Mistaking her tears as grief for his father, he started to say, "Honey, please, he wouldn't have wanted …" and then saw that she was shaking her head, telling him wordlessly that he did not understand the tears, did not know why she was crying, stood there in black in pregnancy in utter misery, shaking her head helplessly in the unrelenting sunlight.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"You told me you thought he was still in California …"
Shaking her head.
"You said he was trying to get back in time for the funeral …"
Still shaking her head, tears streaming down her face.
"Angela, what is it?"
"Nothing."
"Is Tommy in California?"
"I don't know."
"What do you mean, you don't know? He's your husband, where is he?"
"Steve, please … I don't know."
"Angela …"
"He's gone."
"Gone? Gone where?"
"Gone. He left me, Steve. He walked out."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying my husband walked out on me."
"No."
"For Christ's sake, do you think I'm making this up," she said fiercely, and burst into fresh tears.
He took her in his arms. He held her close, his pregnant sister in black, who too many years ago had been afraid to come out of her bedroom to join her future husband at the altar. She'd been wearing white that day, and he'd told her she was going to be the prettiest bride the neighborhood had ever seen. And then he'd said . . .
Oh Jesus, as if it were yesterday.
He'd said . . .
Angela, you have nothing to worry about. He loves you so much he's trembling. He loves you, honey. He's a good man. You chose well.
His sister was trembling in his arms now.
"Why?" he asked her.
"I think he has someone else," she said.
Carella held her at arm's length and looked into her face. She nodded. And nodded again. Her tears were gone now. She stood in bloated silhouette against the sky, her brother's hands clasping her shoulders.
"How do you know?" he asked.
"I just know."
"Angela …"
"We have to get back to the house," she said. "Please, it'll be a sin."
He had not heard that expression since he was a boy.
"I'll talk to him," he said.
"No, don't. Please."
"You're my sister," he said.
"Steve …"
"You're my sister," he said again. "And I love you."
Their eyes met. Chinese eyes meeting Chinese eyes, dark brown and slanting downward, the Carella heritage clearly evident, brother and sister reaffirming blood ties as powerful as life itself. Angela nodded.
"I'll talk to him," he whispered, and walked her pregnant down the grassy knoll to where Teddy and his mother stood waiting in black in the sunshine.
The gun had been a gift from him.
Everyone in this city should have a gun, he'd said, should know how to use a gun if and when the need arose. Said the police were worthless when it came to protecting the lives of ordinary citizens. The police were too busy tracking down prostitutes and drug addicts.
Where he'd bought the gun was anybody's guess.
He traveled a lot by car, he could have picked it up in any of the states that thought America was still the Wild West with hostile Indians massing to attack, better get those wagons in a circle and unholster the MAC-10s. Bought you something, he'd said. I'll teach you to use it.
That was the irony of it.
The gun was a .22-caliber Colt Cobra.
He'd explained that it was a part-aluminum version of the higher caliber Detective Special, but people shouldn't let the caliber of a gun fool them, a .22 could do as much damage -even more damage sometimes - than a higher-caliber gun. The reason for this was that the lower-caliber slug would bounce around inside the body without the power to exit, and it could wreak havoc with all the organs in there. Wreak havoc. Those had been his exact words. Wreak havoc. Which was exactly what was planned for tonight. The wreaking of a little more havoc.
The gun was a revolver with a six-shot capacity, it weighed only fifteen ounces, and he had chosen the one with the two-inch barrel, which made it nice in that it wouldn't snag on your clothing. A nice gun. It had been easy learning how to use it, too, he'd kept his promise. That was the irony.
This time, it would be deliberate.
Malice aforethought, wasn't that what they called it?
Tuesday afternoon had been different.
Tonight would be simpler.
Tonight there was the gun.
The building was tree-shaded, and so the sidewalks had not been baking under a merciless sun for hours on end; the street at nine o'clock was refreshingly cool. Cool here in the shadows across the street from the building. Cool waiting here under a big old tree with thick leaves, right hand wrapped around the butt of the Cobra, index finger inside the trigger guard. He would walk his dog at nine o'clock sharp. A creature of habit. Walk a dog at nine, fuck a mistress any chance he got. In ten minutes, he would be dead.
Waiting.
