Tim Green: Exact Revenge

“Being part Native American isn’t the reason,” Dan said. “It doesn’t hurt, but that’s not why.”

Rangle recovered his wits, rose, and walked down along the conference table. His breathing was shallow, but he extended his hand. I took it.

“Congratulations, Raymond,” he said, wrapping those long fingers around my hand.

“Thank you.”

The leather doors swung behind him. Dan picked up a Mont Blanc pen off the table and twisted it open and shut. He shook his head.

“What are you going to do?” he said. “His old man was an asshole.”

“Dan,” I said, “we like to do favors for people who help us, right?”

“The world is round,” he said. “We both know that.”

“Dan, you know me,” I said. “Do I want this? Of course I do. It would be incredible. Part of me knows I don’t even deserve it, but if I do it, I want to be careful.”

“Careful? Of course.”

“I mean, I can’t just run around making decisions based on favors,” I said. “I have to represent the area. Do what I think is best.”

“Well, there are two sides to every issue,” he said.

“Exactly,” I said. “And I don’t want to choose the wrong side just because someone did me a favor.”

“You can’t forget your friends,” Dan said. His smile was big now, but in an angry way.

“I don’t mean that,” I said. “I just want to be my own man.”

The smile stayed, but the scowl left.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “We both will. Go see that girl and get her a new dress or something for tomorrow night, will you? I’ve got a conference call with the Chicago office, and if you don’t mind, I want to be the one to tell them about Iroquois. Trout’s been all over my ass for sending a kid. That’s what he calls you. But I told him. The hotter it is, the cooler you get.”

Outside, Rangle sat on the low wall by the entrance to the circle. His long legs were crossed and his arms were folded. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his lips as he squinted at the fountain and the reflecting pool across the street. The fingers of his left hand were clutched in the right. I eased shut the door of my Supra and took Roger Williamson’s letter out of the inside pocket of my blazer. Pretending to study it, I walked quickly for the front of the circle. If I could make it to the sidewalk, I could lose myself in the swarm of office workers milling their way toward the bars. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rangle jump up.

“Raymond,” he said, pitching the cigarette to the ground and pumping his arms to catch up. “Wait up.”

The light was against me. I had to wait. Rangle grinned and held out his hand again.

“I meant it,” he said.

“What?”

“Congratulations.”

“Thanks, Bob. I appreciate it.”

The light changed and I started to walk, feigning interest in the envelope.

“Celeste Oliver?” Rangle said, his nose poking around my shoulder, his big close-set eyes blinking.

“It’s for a friend,” I said, stuffing the envelope back into my jacket. “Do you know what end of Lodi Street is 1870?”

“The wrong end,” Rangle said. “I’m meeting Paul Russo at the Tusk. Have a drink with us.”

“Maybe later. I have someone I have to see first.”

“Before the wrong end?”

I nodded.

He smiled back in that sharp-toothed smile.

THE DOOR THAT LED up to the second-floor condo complex where Lexis lived was just down the wide brick alley that bordered one side of the Tusk. I stepped into the shadow of the alleyway, leaving Rangle to search the crowd that had spilled out from the bar and into the railed-off section of tables and chairs.

The condos were high-rent, and I had to punch in a code just to get into the common area. As I started up the steps, my heart began to thump. I hadn’t seen Lexis in four weeks. We hadn’t even spoken on the phone.

On New Year’s Eve, she threw a drink in the face of a partner’s wife. The next day we took a long walk and I tried to hint around that maybe she should get some help to stop drinking.

When she figured where it was I was going, she got hot and started to yell. I tried to keep cool, but pretty soon we both said some things we shouldn’t have. Stupid things neither of us meant. Then I got tabbed to go down to the city and salvage the Iroquois deal and we agreed to take a break and see how we really felt about each other. A test.

I knew how I felt. I felt like shit. Going up those steps, I suddenly didn’t care about the Iroquois deal. I didn’t even care about the United States Congress.

I stood there thinking about how to say I was sorry. Then I heard a voice through the door, deep and rumbling. My gut knotted up. It was her old boyfriend. A guy I knew whose dad was head of the Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association. No surprise he was the youngest detective in the department.

My hands clenched into fists and I hammered on the door.

“Son of a bitch,” I said between my teeth.

There was a pause, then footsteps, and the door swung open.

“Raymond?”

It was Lexis. I wanted to punch my fist through the wall. My face burned and my stomach felt sick.

Her dark hair hung in long smooth sheets that only made her blue eyes more striking. Her skin was from another age, a Victorian painting. China skin with a straight nose and high cheekbones. The hair around the fringes of her face was damp.

She wore a white cotton dress with a blue flower print that matched those eyes. Her legs were long and lean. Her waist was narrow.

“What are you doing?” she said.

I said, “What are you doing?”

“I didn’t even know you were back,” she said. “Frank is here. His mother is sick.”

“Right,” I said. My hands were jammed in my pockets and I stood glowering at her with my attention fixed on the interior of the apartment.

Lexis stepped toward me. She put a hand on my cheek and kissed me lightly on the lips. Her lips were full and soft, she smelled of strawberries.

“Missed you,” she said. Her voice was hushed, tender.

I didn’t kiss her back.

She sighed as if to say it was nothing more than she expected out of me and said, “Come in here.”

She turned and walked down a narrow hallway into the towering loft that served as both living room and studio. Frank was standing by the glass doors next to an unfinished canvas. Outside was a balcony overlooking the hickory trees that lined the street below. The sunlight streaming in through the leaves dappled the scarlet silk of his shirt. It hung loose around his waist, but I could still see the bulge of his police-issued Smith amp; Wesson.

I despised him. He was like a giant from a children’s story, with a mop of dark curly hair, flaring nostrils, and hands like slabs of meat. Most women thought he was handsome. So did Frank. He had this shiny olive skin, small fat red lips, and pale blue eyes with lashes like a girl.

“Sorry to hear about your mom,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“Heart attack,” he said. “She’ll be okay. She’s pretty tough.”

“Yeah,” I said, “they say those aren’t as serious as they used to be.”

I circled toward the kitchen, keeping my body sideways to him the way I did when I was sparring.

“Still working on that kung-fu stuff, Big Chief?” he said.

“Some people might be offended by a stupid comment like that,” I said. “But they might not understand about people who are mentally challenged.”

Frank laughed.

“You gotta be careful out there,” he said. “It’s a dangerous world.”

“Same for you, Frank. Don’t try to walk and chew gum at the same time.”

“Tell your mom I send my best,” Lexis said, taking Frank by the arm.