“Okay, so what am I—as a wise businessperson—what am I supposed to do? I can’t let the debt go unpaid, of course. In my line of work, that’s professional suicide. Someone owes my employer money, they have to pay. No way around that. The problem here is, Jimmy doesn’t have a cent to his name but”—Lydia stopped and widened her smile—“but he does have a wife and three kids. And he used to be in the insurance business. Do you see where I’m going with this, Wendy?”
Wendy was afraid to breathe.
“Oh, I think you do, but again I’ll say it for you. Insurance. More specifically,life insurance. Jimmy had a policy. He didn’t admit it right away, but eventually, well, Heshy can be persuasive.” Wendy’s eyes drifted toward the window. Lydia saw the shiver and hid a smile. “Jimmy told us he had two policies, in fact, with a total payout of nearly a million dollars.”
“So you”—Wendy was struggling to comprehend—“you killed Jimmy for the insurance money?”
Lydia snapped her fingers. “You go, girlfriend.”
Wendy opened her mouth but nothing came out.
“And, Wendy? Let me make this crystal clear. Jimmy’s debts don’t die with him. We both know that. The bank still wants you to pay the mortgage, am I right? The credit-card companies don’t stop mounting the interest.” Lydia shrugged her small shoulders, palms to the sky. “Why should my employer be any different?”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Your first insurance check should come in about a week. By that time, your husband’s debt will be two hundred eighty thousand dollars. I’ll expect a check for that amount on that day.”
“But the bills he left alone—”
“Shhh.” Again Lydia silenced her with a finger to her lips. Her voice dropped to an intimate whisper. “That doesn’t really concern me, Wendy. I have given you the rare opportunity to get out from under. Declare bankruptcy, if you must. You live in a ritzy area. Move out. Have Jack—that’s your eleven-year-old, correct?”
Wendy jolted at the sound of her son’s name.
“Well, no summer camp for Jack this year. Have him get a job after school. Whatever. None of that concerns me. You, Wendy, will pay what you owe, and that will be the end of this. You will never see or hear from me again. If you don’t pay, however, well, take a good look at Heshy over there.” She paused, letting Wendy do just that. It had the desired effect.
“We’ll kill little Jack first. Then, two days later, we’ll kill Lila. If you report this conversation to the police, we’ll kill Jack and Lila and Darlene. All three, in age order. And then, after you bury your children—please listen, Wendy, because this is key—I’ll still make you pay.”
Wendy couldn’t speak.
Lydia followed up a deep, caffeinated sip with an “Ahh” of satisfaction. “Dee-lightful,” she said, rising from her seat. “I really enjoyed our little girl chat, Wendy. We should get together again soon. Say, your house at noon on Friday the sixteenth?”
Wendy kept her head down.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to pay the debt,” Wendy said.
Lydia smiled at her. “Again, my sincerest condolences.”
Lydia headed outside and breathed in the fresh air. She looked behind her. Wendy Burnet had not moved. Lydia waved good-bye and met up with Heshy. He was nearly six six. She was five one. He weighed 275 pounds. She was 105. He had a head like a misshapen pumpkin. Her features seemed to have been made in the Orient out of porcelain.
“Problems?” Heshy asked.
“Please,” she said with a dismissive wave. “On to more profitable ventures. Did you find our man?”
“Yes.”
“And the package is already out?”
“Sure, Lydia.”
“Very good.” She frowned, felt a gnawing.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I have a funny feeling, that’s all.”
“You want to back out?”
Lydia smiled at him. “Not on your life, Pooh Bear.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
She thought about it. “Let’s just see how Dr. Seidman reacts.”
Chapter 9
“Don’t drink anymore apple juice,” Cheryl told her two-year-old, Conner.
I stood on the sidelines with my arms folded. It was a bit nippy, the frosty, damp chill of late New Jersey autumn, so I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt over my Yankee cap. I also had on a pair of Ray-Bans. Sunglasses and hood. I looked very much like the police sketch of the Unabomber.
We were at a soccer game for eight-year-old boys. Lenny was the head coach. He needed an assistant and recruited me because, I assume, I am the only one who knows even less about soccer than he does. Still our team was winning. I think the score was about eighty-three to two, but I am not certain.
“Why can’t I have more juice?” Conner asked.
“Because,” Cheryl answered with the patience of a mother, “apple juice gives you diarrhea.”
“It does?”
“Yes.”
To my right, Lenny drowned the kids in a steady stream of encouragement. “You’re the best, Ricky.” “Way to go, Petey.” “Nowthat’s what I call hustle, Davey.” He always added ay to the end of their names. And yes, it is annoying. Once, in a pitch of overexcitement, he called me Marky. Once.
“Uncle Marc?”
I feel a tug at my leg. I look down at Conner, who is twenty-six months old. “What’s up, pal?”
“Apple juice gives me a diarrhea.”
“Good to know,” I said.
“Uncle Marc?”
“Yeah?”
Conner gave me his gravest look. “Diarrhea,” he said, “is not my friend.”
I glanced at Cheryl. She smothered a smile, but I saw the concern there too. I looked back at Conner. “Words to live by, kid.”
Conner nodded, pleased by my response. I love him. He breaks my heart and brings me joy in equal measure and at exactly the same time. Twenty-six months old. Two months older than Tara. I watch his development with awe and a longing that could heat a furnace.
He turned back to his mother. Littered about Cheryl was the product of her mommy-as-pack-mule harvest. There were Minute Maid juice boxes and Nutri-Grain bars. There were Pampers Baby-Dry diapers (as opposed to Baby-Wet?) and Huggies wipes containing aloe vera for the discriminating buttock. There were angled baby bottles from Evenflo. There were cinnamon Teddy Grahams and well-scrubbed baby carrots and sectioned oranges and cut-up grapes (sliced the long way so as to make them chokeproof) and cubes of what I hoped was cheese, all hermetically sealed in their own Ziploc bags.