Chuck Hogan - Devils in Exile

She moved fast, Maven a step or two behind, watching her calf muscles work, her hemline riding up along her left thigh. That their relationship had formed into a brother-sister thing frustrated him. Calling him Gridley was equal parts affection and put-down.

Maven was still occasionally amazed to be in the orbit of the once unreachable Danielle Vetti. Beyond that, his fealty to Royce superseded all. It was enough just to exist in this alternative reality where he had connected with the girl of his high school dreams. She hadn’t demonstrated any true interest in him, and anyway he would never cross that line.

Except in his mind. She once alluded to some questionable photo shoots she had done in pursuit of her New York modeling career, and Maven had spent way too many night hours on the Internet searching for the pictures.

She rounded the corner, not slowing down. Maven said, “Something wrong?”

“Yes, something’s wrong. I’m fucking cold.”

“How about your coat here?”

She didn’t answer. That solution made too much sense.

“Every week, the same goddamn thing,” she said. “Week after week after week. How does he not get sick of that place?”

“He likes what he likes.”

“Admit it, you’re sick of it too. I mean, it wears on you. It’s like partying inside a bug zapper in there, those swirling blue lights. No — they should actually do that. That would be so worthwhile. Every fifteen minutes or so, just randomly zap somebody on the dance floor. Put them out of their misery.”

She unfolded her arms to go into her bag, bringing out a cigarette and a butane lighter. Danielle only smoked when she drank.

Maven stayed to her left, out of the smoke stream, ears still ringing from the club.

“He is the control freak of all control freaks.” She made a wild gesture with her cigarette before pointing it at Maven. “You want to drive a girl crazy, Gridley? Insist on only tantric sex.”

Maven’s face widened. Too much information.

“And then—” She smoked. “And then there are these tenants of his. The four fucking Musketeers living below us. Running around at his beck and call... doing God knows what. I mean, what am I here, a kept woman?”

“A very well-kept woman.”

She glared back at him, and Maven realized maybe “a kept woman” wasn’t a compliment after all.

“I work for what I have,” she said. “Believe me — believe me .”

She was smoking the hell out of that Camel. It was almost gone.

“Boston,” she said, looking at the buildings overhead, enunciating it like a curse. She turned into an open-air parking lot — and Maven stopped.

She realized he was no longer with her and turned.

“Huh,” she said, flicking her cigarette away after one last puff, talking smoke. “You haven’t been back here?”

Maven stood in his old parking lot. He looked at the cars, and up at the familiar buildings. The acoustics of the lot came back to him, the cars rolling by, the nightlife blaring one street over.

Nothing had changed. Except him.

He looked to the gate booth and saw a new guard sitting on a stool inside, arms crossed, headset buds in his ears.

Danielle tapped her foot. “You are drunk, aren’t you.”

Maven followed her to a black Range Rover with twin chrome exhaust pipes. Inside, he settled into a seat fleshed in white leather with smooth black pores.

How far he had come was obvious: from the guy checking cars to the guy riding in the Range Rover with Danielle Vetti. More startling to him was how staggeringly fast it had all happened.

He felt elated suddenly and turned to share a revelation with Danielle. “Do you know that life is just a dream?”

She handed him the car keys. “Could have fucking fooled me.”

He started up the Rover, the heat vents coming on, and she immediately went to work on the radio.

Maven backed out and rolled to the gate, the attendant stepping out of the booth in jeans, work boots, and an olive-drab field jacket. Hard to tell if the army coat was just warm and fashionable or really his. He raised the gate arm, watching them pull through. Maven checked the guy’s face, imagining a moment of solidarity between two guys on opposite ends of the spectrum. But the guard never even looked at Maven. He was too busy trying to sneak a look down Danielle’s dress.

Maven pulled away, revving the engine a bit, actually pissed. Danielle squirmed in her seat like someone trying to get comfortable in bed. “Let’s not go back yet. What do you say? The night’s not over yet. Let’s drive around a little.”

Maven looked over, her perfect bare knees twinned beneath the dash, her chest swelling against the confines of her dress. At a red light before Tremont Street, he turned and reached across her, past her shoulder, grasping the seat belt there and drawing the strap down across her body, clasping it between the seats. She laughed at his attending to her, then the light turned green and he drove on.

He took them north under the sails of the Zakim Bridge, starting to feel good again. The luxury vehicle at his command, his just right blood-alcohol mix, slinky music on the radio. He didn’t mind playing chauffeur because he was with her, she was feeling loose, and for once they were alone.

“So what’s with this headache?” she said.

“Nothing. Gone now.”

“Really? Been kind of a mope lately.”

“I — what?”

“A mope. A drip. A bummer.”

“Look who’s saying this to me.”

“Where were you Musketeers all last week?”

“We were... away.”

“Cape Cod.” Maven looked at her, and she smiled. “Brad said so, on the phone to Termino.”

“So?”

“Do anything fun?”

“Not really.”

“Little early for beach weather. You guys go antiquing?”

“A little.”

“Catch up on your reading?”

“Exactly. Caught up on all my reading.”

“See? Sourpuss. What’s the matter, poor baby? Has it been a while? I find that hard to believe.”

She slipped her left hand over his thigh, faking a grab for his crotch. He kicked up and swerved the Rover, not a good maneuver at seventy miles an hour.

She pulled her hand back, laughing. “The look on your face.”

Did she do these things to be funny or provocative? “I’m just saying — don’t reach down there unless you mean it.”

“Oh? You want me to mean it?”

“I’m just saying.”

He didn’t need to look over to know that she enjoyed her effect on him. She turned up the radio and went fishing inside her clutch for another cigarette. “Hey, Gridley.” She held something toward him. “Gridley,” she said again. “What do you say?”

“I don’t smoke,” he said, still not looking.

“I know that.” She pulled it back, holding her hand to her nose as though fighting off a sneeze. “I’m asking if you want to hit up.”

Maven turned and saw the silver-capped amber vial in her hand. “What the fuck is that?”

“Artificial sweetener.”

“Are you fucking offering me blow?”

“Oka-ay. I guess that’s a no.”

She hadn’t been fighting off a sneeze. She had been snorting a bump off the webbing between her thumb and forefinger.

Maven caught her wrist as she was pulling back the vial. “Who gave this to you?”

“Christ, Gridley, relax. Eyes on the road.”

He shook her wrist. “What are you doing with this?”

“What do you mean, what am I doing with this? What’s the big fucking—”

“The big deal?” He was incredulous. “The big deal?”

“Mother of Christ, all right, already.”

“What about Royce?”

“Royce?” She swung her head around to look. “Gee, I don’t know. Is he here now?”