Trust Me (2 page)

    "The gun," Karen said. "You don't have to point it at me. I'm not going to try anything."

    He was surprised she was so relaxed, like people broke in her house in the middle of the night on a regular basis.

    "Do you mind if I put something on? This thing itches," Karen said. She didn't wait for permission; let the afghan slide off her shoulder onto the floor. She grabbed a robe off a hanger and slipped it on, tying the sash around her waist.

    There was a framed sign hanging on the wall that read: "Everybody's a Star at Lou Starr's World Famous Parthenon." There was a photograph of a storefront and the word "Parthenon" in neon surrounded by a silver border of stars. He said, "What's that?"

    "It's from Lou's restaurants," Karen said. "You get one when you eat there. Lou thinks it makes people feel special."

    "He make you feel special?" Judging by the angry look on her face he would've guessed, no. "What the hell're those for?" He was staring at the wig stands, three of them on a shelf-two had salt-and-pepper hairpieces on them.

    "They're Lou's."

    "No kidding. I thought they were yours." He glanced at her and felt himself grin. He lifted one of the hairpieces off the stand and studied it. It looked like a furry little creature in his hands. He was going to try it on but didn't want to mess up his own hair. "Is it real?"

    "Yeah," Karen said. "It's hair from a fourteen-year-old Chinese girl."

    "Does he put it on, and get a yen for chop suey?" Bobby grinned big. He couldn't help it. He surprised himself sometimes.

    "He has them custom-made in London," Karen said. "The same place Burt Reynolds gets his."

    Bobby said, "Burt Reynolds wears a rug, come on?"

    "Are you kidding," Karen said, "his hair looks like it was made by Karastan."

    "What's a custom rug cost these days?" Bobby said.

    "They start at $700 and go up from there."

    "That's a lot of money to look like an idiot. Why's he have three?"

    "They're all different lengths so it looks like his hair's growing," Karen said.

    "Where's the third one?" Bobby said, eyeing the blank wig stand.

    "On his head," Karen said.

    "Duh," Bobby said. How'd he miss that?

    Lloyd was staring at a framed picture on the end table next to him. The guy across from him was in a safari outfit and there was a dead animal at his feet. Lloyd turned the frame toward him so he could see it. "Look at you. What is that, a lion?" Lloyd put it back on the end table. "What's a lion weigh?"

    "Three fifty, four hundred," Lou Starr said. "This one went four twenty-five."

    He finally got the grouch's attention. "Four twenty-five, whoa hoss, that's a big cat, ain't it?" Lloyd grinned at him. "You were in Africa, right?"

    "Botswana."

    "That's been a dream of mine," Lloyd said. "Get some sahibs to carry all the shit, go out every day and hunt. Smoke any of that homegrown they got over there?"

    He stared at Lloyd. Maybe he didn't know what homegrown was. Lloyd was just trying to be nice to the guy, making conversation, trying to pass the time and he was being a real dickhead. "Ever hunt whitetail?"

    Lou Starr said, "Uh-huh."

    He wasn't giving him much. "You prefer a tree stand or a blind?"

    "Who the fuck cares?"

    "Ever got yourself a trophy buck?" Lloyd said. "One that made book? I'm not talking about seeing it while you're up on a limb. I'm talking about nailing it, bringing it home."

    Lou Starr looked across the living room to the bedroom, glanced at his watch. "That's it," he said, standing now.

    Lloyd aimed the.45 at him. "Don't be a dumbass. Sit down."

    He dropped back on the couch, covered his face in his hands. He had a huge diamond ring set in gold on his little finger. Lloyd hadn't noticed it before, too busy looking at other stuff. "I like your ring," Lloyd said. "Always wanted one of those."

    "I got an idea," Lou Starr said grinning. "When you get out of prison, get yourself a job and start saving up."

    Bobby stared at a hanger-rack-ful of Lou's guayabera shirts: white and blue and yellow, reminding him of the shirts barbers wore, same style with the open collar and little vents on the tails. But these had a decorative quality to them and he imagined a roomful of short compact Latin men in the same kind of shirts, dancing and drinking wine.

    Bobby turned and looked at her. "What nationality is he?"

    "Take a guess," Karen said.

    "Something Mediterranean," he said. "Italian or Sardinian."

    "I'll give you a hint," Karen said. "Lou's real name is Starvos Loutra."

    She was sitting in a chair now, chiseled legs visible, sticking out of the bottom of the robe.

    "He doesn't have a brother named Spartacus, does he?" He smiled thinking he was funny and she smiled back telling him she did too. "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts," Bobby said, "and don't bend over and pick up the soap. That exhausts my knowledge of Greek heritage."

    "I'm impressed," Karen said. "I can see you're a real scholar."

    Bobby said, "Where's the money at?"

    "What're you talking about?" Karen said.

    "The $9,600 Lou won at the casino."

    Karen said, "It's locked in the safe at one of his restaurants."

    "I'm not walking out of here empty-handed," Bobby said.

    "Do you want to make some real money?" Karen said. "Two hundred fifty thousand, maybe more."

    "What do you think I just fell off the back of a turnip truck?

    Do I look that dumb?" She stared at him and he wondered what she was thinking. "Where's it at?"

    "In a house in West Bloomfield," Karen said.

    "Whose house?"

    "We can get into all that," Karen said. "Does this sound like something you might be interested in?"

    A quarter mill and a shot at her, hell yes he was interested. But he didn't trust her. How could he? You didn't break into someone's house in the middle of the night and expect to get propositioned. He fixed his gaze on her and said, "Are you scamming me?"

    "No," Karen said. "I've been waiting for you."

    The guy from the dressing room, who looked like he belonged to a fraternity, tied them back to back on the bed, grinning and winking at her while he did it, like they were buds. Lou started twisting and turning as soon as he left the room, trying to untie the ropes that bound them at the ankles, wrists and shoulders. He was pulling at the knots and the rope cutting into her. "Lou," Karen said, "take it easy, will you? You're hurting me."

    "What do you want me to do, lay here till Carol and Betty come to clean?"

    "Let me help you," Karen said. "If we work together, it'll be easier."

    "How do you know?" Lou said. "Are you into bondage now like your freak sister?"

    "Lou, don't take this out on me, okay?" Karen said. "It isn't my fault."

    "How'd they know I won money?"

    "Maybe they saw you cashing out." Like it was a big mystery. Karen pressed the tip of a fingernail into the knot at her wrist, trying to loosen it.

    "I didn't see anyone watching me," Lou said.

    So if he didn't see anyone then no one could've seen him. He was in his Lou mood now. And when he was like this, you couldn't talk to him.

    "I'm going to get those assholes," Lou said. "The ring's irreplaceable."

    "It's insured, isn't it?" Karen thought it was a blessing in disguise. It might've been the ugliest ring she'd ever seen in her life.

    "You're not listening," Lou said. "It's custom, one of a kind."

    She thought it was odd that he didn't ask her what happened in the dressing room. Did the guy molest her or try to hurt her? All Lou cared about was the ring. He cared about it more than her, obviously. She slid a fingernail in the knot and felt it move. She slid the short end of the rope through the knot and freed their hands.

    Lou said, "How'd you do that?"

    "I've got nails."

    Karen undid the rope around their shoulders and sat up and untied their feet. Lou got up and looked at her.

    "I'm calling the police."

    "It's three-thirty in the morning. Do you really think they're going to get your ring back tonight?" He gave her a dirty look and she got in bed and turned her back to him.

    Karen woke up thinking about the scene in the dressing room. She pictured the expression on Fratboy's face. She could see he wanted to believe her, but he wasn't sure. He'd need time to get comfortable with the idea. He sure didn't look like the kind of guy who'd break into somebody's house in the middle of the night, wearing his J. Crew outfit: green button-down-collar shirt and khakis.

    They agreed to meet the next morning in Eastern Market. Karen didn't think it made sense. Why drive all the way to downtown

    Detroit? She'd suggested 220 Merrill in Birmingham, sit at the bar have a couple of drinks, see if there was interest from both parties. But Fratboy didn't like it. She could have the cops there, he said. Karen wanted to tell him she could have the cops at Eastern Market too, but the cops weren't part of the plan.

    Karen took 1-75 south to the Mack exit and saw the skyline of Detroit spread out in the distance. She took a left over the freeway and a right on Russell, and drove slowly through the bustling, congested streets of the market. Hi-Los were zigzagging, vendors were stocking their stalls: icing down fish, hanging sides of meat, filling bins with fruit and vegetables and flowers. Karen steered around trucks that were double-parked on Market Street, dodging workers that suddenly appeared in front of her, looking for R. Hirt, the wine and cheese place. She saw it at the end of the street, a red-brick building built in the twenties.

    Karen wondered if he'd still be there. She was late because there was an accident, traffic had stopped in the four southbound lanes for twenty minutes, while a wrecker towed a jackknifed semi off the road. She parked in the R. Hirt lot, and got out of the Audi and looked around, but didn't see the fratboy or his sidekick, who reminded her of a Russian that played for the Red Wings. He was a stocky guy with frizzy blond hair and a goatee. She took a cigarette out of her purse, and lit it and smoked, watching the action at the market, crowded now at eleven in the morning.

    Karen finished the cigarette and dropped it on the asphalt and stepped on it. She looked at her watch, it was 11:05. She'd give it a few more minutes and if he didn't show, she'd assume he wasn't interested. She watched a vendor pull a huge iced-down snapper out of a plastic tub, and fillet it on a wooden cutting board for a customer. She watched a butcher French and chine racks of lamb. She checked her watch and took a final look around the parking lot and opened her car door and got in. Her phone was ringing.

    She reached for her purse, grabbed the phone and pressed it to her ear.

    "Hey," Fratboy said, "where're you going?"

    They went to a place called the Boar's Head, a small dark bar in the market area, and sat in the back, Karen across the table from Fratboy and Goatee, the only people in the place who weren't wearing long white coats with bloodstains on them. Four meat cutters at a table next to them were staring at Karen like she was a side of Angus prime.

    Fratboy noticed them and turned in his chair. He got their attention and said, "Something we can do for you?"

    The butchers all glanced over, but none of them said anything.

    He said, "Then quit staring at us like a bunch of fucking morons."

    Fratboy didn't look tough at all but he delivered the line with such confidence it sounded like he could take them all on. They met his gaze and looked away. Karen lit a cigarette, inhaled, and turned her head and blew out the smoke and said, "You're making this way more difficult than it has to be."