to imagine that he’s thinking of her in his vulgar way arouses something primitive in me. I feel like I could kill someone again, but not in the heat of the moment; I could plan to kill him, like I did with the man who wanted to hurt my mother. Sharpen a weapon, prepare myself, position myself and strike. There is no other way. I have to leave soon, and I can’t leave Penny alone with this danger lurking.
I have to leave soon.
I can’t leave her alone.
Why do I have to leave?
I want to leave.
And in terms of her being alone . . . why does my leaving mean she has to be alone?
I’m too full of myself here. She’s not gonna be alone – I’m nobody to her.
But if I’m nobody, why does she offer herself to me in that way, why does she open her eyes and let me into her emotions? Why is it that when she does it she seems to be doing it for me, and not just for herself?
Damn it, maybe I have a brain tumour or something. There’s no other way to explain this insanity.
And it doesn’t explain why, whenever I think of Francisca, I can only think, I need to tell her; I have to talk to her.
What do I have to talk to her about?
We talk about us or we don’t talk at all. We’re about to find out how much we miss each other after four years of no sex. We’ll leave this shithole, and fuck Malkovich if he says otherwise.
Yeah, maybe Francisca is the cure for this unknown sickness . . .
I leave home early for that used car dealer. I buy an old Camaro on instalments. The guy trusts me because Malkovich vouched for me. If he knew I was leaving so soon, he’d sure be pissed.
Then I go to the Maraja. During the day the club is closed to the public, but not to the staff. I’m looking for Jason and I find him. It helps my case that he has a thing with Grace and made quick work of that asshole Grant when he bothered her. I ask if he remembers him and he immediately nods and swears. He knows him all right – Grant’s a shit who likes to hang around and insult the help. He lives in some snooty neighbourhood and is always bragging about it when he wants people to know he’s rich.
We talk about something else and I tell him that I won’t be able to work for a few nights, that I’m busy, and he doesn’t ask any questions.
I have shit to do, yes. If I wanna smash that piece of shit, I need to understand how he moves, where he goes and when would be the best time to smash his face in.
First, I’m going to find out where he lives. It’s even easier under the cover of the hailstorm. All this icy water hides stuff, and since I’m not the type that goes unnoticed, it helps me not to stand out like a bright splotch on the landscape.
Turns out, Grant lives in a snooty neighbourhood about a mile away. I pace the streets a few times over the course of an hour, trying to do long laps so no one notices. Suddenly I’m convinced that whatever god is up there – assuming there is someone – wants to see this asshole in pieces, because he passes right under my nose in a Mercedes SL, driving out of a gate that looks like it belongs to some mega-mansion. His nose is still swollen, and who knows how he explained that one. I’m sure he didn’t tell the whole truth or even part of it, considering that no one has come around yet to accuse me of anything. Maybe he knows that if he lets on where he lives, he’ll end up under the ground. Who knows how many other girls would come forward to accuse him of things if they weren’t so afraid to do it. He’s no fool, this guy – he’s a calculating monster.
I throw away my cigarette and follow him in my new wheels. He leaves his neighbourhood for another that I’m sure he thinks of as a slum. It’s similar to where Penny and I live, in fact. He’s going hunting again. He looks for his prey among women he considers inferior, women like Penny or Grace, or this one right here . . .
An assistant