“Winnie,” he says. “How long have we known each other.”
“Fifteen years.”
“I always said James was a lucky bastard.”
The Big Apple town car pulls up in front of a corrugated metal warehouse. Amber and James get out of the car.
“What if we get caught?” James says. (God, Winnie’s right. He sounds like a girl. He should be in charge here. But he isn’t.)
“So? They’ll arrest us. I’ve got a great lawyer. We’ll be out in twenty-four hours,” Amber says.
“I don’t think my wife is going to like it if I end up in jail,” James says.
“Who gives a fuck about your wife?” she says.
Do you know her? James wants to say. Instead, he says, “It’s just that the last twenty-four hours have been a bit . . . trying for her.”
“By the way, exactly what has happened to you in the last twenty-four hours? You haven’t explained this to me yet,” Amber says.
“I’ve already been in the hospital,” James says, picking his way over the broken sidewalk.
“Ambulatory surgery? Liposuction? That stuff?”
“No, not exactly.”
Amber pulls open the door to the warehouse.
“Are you just going to walk right in?” James asks.
Amber turns. “Excuse me, James, but I think that’s what doors are for?”
The warehouse is empty.
Was he really expecting anything else?
(Why is he here? He hopes he knows.)
“Christ. We’re too late,” Amber says. She lights up a cigarette. “They moved the fuckers. I should have known I couldn’t trust Danny Pico’s driver.”
She throws down the cigarette and stomps out.
“What do we do now?” James says.
“We go back. To Manhattan. What else?” she says over her shoulder.
They get back into the town car. “My house, please,” Amber says. She looks out the window. Bites her lower lip. “Fuck it,” she says. “Now I’m just going to have to make it up. Pretend I saw monkeys.”
“Make it up?” James says.
“Everybody makes shit up. Who’s going to know?” Her expression changes. She looks like a scared little girl. “James,” she says. “You don’t think . . . I’m a liar, do you? I’m the most honest person you’ll ever meet in your life. This was the address Danny Pico’s driver gave me. It’s not my fault they moved the monkeys.”
“No, of course not,” James says.
“People always think I’m lying. It’s because I’m beautiful and smart. And I actually go out and get these stories. They sit around in their offices, you know. They’re jealous. I can’t help it if they’re jealous. It’s not my fault.”
Holy shit, James thinks. She’s going to cry.
“Hey,” he says. “It’s not that bad.”