CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
He’s been preparing for tonight all day.
First thing this morning he went to the local butcher and purchased two top-grade sirloin steaks, the kind restaurants always classify as New York cut, although he has no idea why. He could look it up online, he supposes, find a way to toss such knowledge casually into tonight’s conversation. It’s the type of useless information that women always find both charming and impressive. (“How do you know such things?” they invariably ask.)
The steaks were very pricey. Even more expensive than they were the last time he made a similar purchase. He probably could have picked them up for half the price at the grocery store in the mall. But as his mother always used to say, you get what you pay for.
Not that she knew anything about quality. She, who considered flank steak a delicacy. Which was just as well, he thinks, recalling her propensity for overcooking everything, for broiling a piece of meat until it resembled the leather insole of a shoe.“I don’t like seeing any blood,”he recalls her saying.“It reminds me that the piece of meat was once a living thing.”
He laughs. This is exactly what appeals to him.
Still, for his purposes, a cheaper cut of meat would have been more than sufficient. The women never eat very much. Not more than one or two bites, and always under protest. And they never think to compliment him on his efforts, his skill as a chef. But that’s okay. The meat rarely goes to waste. He generally saves what they don’t eat for his lunch the next day.
He overpaid for the vegetables as well. The small specialty shops where he prefers to buy his groceries—there are four such shops in a row along Summer Street that the locals affectionately refer to as “the four thieves”—take an almost perverse pride in gouging their customers, as if they are doing their clientele a favor by even allowing them inside the premises.Soon they’ll be charging an entry fee,he thinks with a laugh.
He doesn’t mind overpaying. He can’t help that he likes nice things. After years of being fed bruised fruit and anemic-looking vegetables—he’ll never understand the popularity of the adjective “wilted” that the better restaurants seem so fond of—he can’t bring himself to buy anything but the ripest-looking watermelon for his watermelon and feta cheese salad, or the largest, healthiest-looking Idaho potatoes for the requisite side starch. He uses only the best ingredients and wine for his marinade, and only real butter and the richest of sour creams will do as toppings for his potatoes. He even buys the most expensive foil in which to wrap them.
Of course, all this is lost on the women he entertains.
Oh, they’re impressed enough at first. That first glimpse of his immaculately clean apartment is always a turn-on, and the white linen tablecloth hiding the cheap glass table beneath, along with the delicate floral china, they love that. They admire his taste in art, wax ecstatic over the cheap prints on the wall. Nadia, poor thing, even asked if he’d painted the obvious reproduction of Van Gogh’sStarry Night.It was a print, for God’s sake. A photograph on a piece of paper. Not a real brushstroke in sight. He’d had to struggle to keep a straight face.
The so-called art isn’t even his. The prints—by Van Gogh, Renoir, Degas, Monet—came with the unit. He’d thought of replacing them at first, just as he’d replaced the cheap Melmac dishes and plastic placemats Imogene Lebowski had supplied, then thought better of it. Some things were best left the way they were, and he didn’t want to chance insulting Mrs. Lebowski, who’d proved to be such an ideal landlady: old, partially deaf, more than half-senile. What more could he have asked for?
And now she’s gone, off to her daughter’s house to await being carted off to an institution. The second-floor tenant departed two days ago, which leaves him the home’s sole remaining occupant.
Could things have worked out any better?
He was planning to leave soon anyway, and now he can take his time, relish his remaining conquests. He doesn’t have to worry about making too much noise. The women can scream their fool heads off. No one will hear them. He can indulge his most lurid fantasies without the fear of disturbing his downstairs neighbor or waking poor Imogene. His last two kills will be his best.
First up is Audrey. Audrey, who likes sappy movies and working out.
He pokes at his marinating steaks with a fork, imagines doing the same thing to Audrey’s pliant flesh. He’ll give her a workout she won’t soon forget.
Except, of course, she will. The dead don’t remember anything. He laughs. That’s all right. He’s more than happy to keep the memories alive.
His phone signals the arrival of a text message, and he smiles. Wildflower, he thinks. Taking him up on his offer to call him anytime, to inquire after his mother, to make arrangements to meet him in person. Women are so predictable, he thinks, extricating his cell from the side pocket of his jeans. Even Wildflower has fallen into line.
But the message isn’t from Wildflower, which both annoys and delights him.
Still on for tonight?comes Audrey’s text.
Of course,he texts back, his shoulders stiffening.Is there a problem?
I was worried you might have had to go back to Wisconsin.
Wisconsin?What the hell is she talking about?
You said you might have to go back. To see your father.
His father? Shit. Of course. His sick father in Wisconsin. Not his sick mother in Florida. Shit.
How’s he doing?
He’s much better, thanks. Sorry. I forgot I told you about my father.
Looks like my prayers worked.
Looks like they did.