Look Closer

“She was a hooker, Nicky. Or a porn actress. Something in the sex trade. She had to be.”

I grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Does she fuck like a hooker?”

“I said shut up!” I throw down the bottle of water, the top coming off, the water splashing everywhere.

“Jesus.” Gavin steps back. “What the fuck, pal?”

I grab a towel and mop up the water on the floor. Meanwhile, Gavin goes into the living room and flips on the flat-screen TV.

I toss the wet rag in the sink, pour myself a bourbon, and walk out onto the patio. The nightlife around here is as full throttle as the city gets. I love it here. I always figured I’d end up in Chicago after I’d collected enough from my scams, if things worked out that way. But I’ve always been prepared to leave the country, if that’s what it takes to stay safe. I think I’ve done everything I need to do to stay ahead of the law. Most of these women don’t even bother to chase me after I take them for everything, the sheer embarrassment of what they’d have to admit, and their ex-husbands couldn’t give one shit about them, after they cheated and left them for another man and took lump-sum divorce settlements.

And what could they do, even if they tracked me down? I was their paramour, their dirty hidden secret, so it’s not like their friends met me or anything. And I used a different alias every time—Collin Daniels, Richard Nantz, David Jenner—so all I have to do is deny, deny, deny. Nope, that’s not me. What money? They can’t trace anything. They can’t prove anything.

Vicky? I’m not sure what she’ll do after I take her money. She’s basically going to take her husband for everything, and I’m going to take her for everything. How far can she complain? Can a thief complain about another thief? Oh, probably so. She might try. Vicky seems like the type who doesn’t let go of a grudge. But as I keep telling myself, I don’t really know her.

No, she’ll come after me. That’s what I’d do. And she’s like me.

I make my way into the living room, where Gavin is slouched on the sofa, watching a movie and drinking my bourbon. He points at the screen.

“Spy Game,” he says. “You seen this movie?”

“No.”

“Old movie. Redford, Pitt. Redford, he’s the old-school CIA agent, right? He’s teaching Pitt the ropes. He’s like, don’t ever get attached to anything or anybody, stash away money for retirement and don’t ever spend it, look out for yourself first, right? Then it turns out, for all his tough talk, he has a heart of gold. You know what you and Redford have in common?”

I sit down on the couch. “No, what do we have in common?”

He kills the TV, leaving us in silence.

“Nothing,” he says. “Because that’s a fucking movie, a work of fiction, a fairy tale. And you, Nicky, this is your real life. So do yourself and, more importantly, me a favor, all right?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t grow a conscience,” he says. “And do not, absolutely do not fall for this woman. Take her fucking money and be done with it. Then go find your princess.”

—

“All right, one more,” says Gavin, “then we’re getting a steak.”

“I don’t feel like it.”

We’re out on my patio now, the second story, overlooking an alley and nightlife.

“What about there, at least?” Gavin says.

“Where?”

“Right across the alley, Einstein. That patio down there where everyone’s drinking and enjoying themselves, unlike us? The patio with about twenty different hotties that would probably have their legs in the air for you if you so much as winked at them. I mean, if you weren’t in love with Number 7 already.”

“Would you shut up with that?”

“I’ll shut up after November third, when Number 7 takes that money from her husband and you take it from her. Then, I’ll take my cut and shut up. Until then, you’re worrying me.”

“I’m not falling for her, and I won’t fall for her.”

“Good, now how about we have dinner at that place down there? They got any steak?”

“I don’t think so. I’ve got a menu somewhere.”

“We’re not ordering, sunshine, we’re going there. Tell me what they have, if they don’t have steak, for Christ’s sake.”

“The chicken shawarma’s pretty good—”

“Chicken what?”

“—and the kofta kebabs aren’t bad.”

“Kaf-what? Kafka? Jesus, Nicky, what is happening to you?”

I lean forward and lower my voice. “Would you stop fucking calling me Nick? For a guy who’s so worried about me pulling this off without a hitch, you’re shouting ‘Nick’ from this balcony? How about you take out an ad in the Chicago fucking Tribune and announce to the world that my name isn’t Christian Newsome?”

He nods, takes a drink. “Fair point, Christian. I humbly apologize. And I realize that you have to eat frou-frou food to keep that attractive figure of yours. So I will withdraw my previous objection and humbly request that you join me at . . .” He looks down at the patio across the alley. “What’s the name of that place?”

“Viva,” I say. “Viva Mediterránea.”

39 Simon