Spying on a loved one was not something Gloria did often—never, to be more precise—and she was scared. But Stan was in trouble, big trouble. Every part of her knew it. Her body kept shaking as the familiar, unsettling cravings knocked on her door like an old friend.
Come on, Gloria, the cravings would say. Just take a little snort and you’ll be free. A little high never hurt anyone. You can control it now. Come on. Heck, you should have no trouble finding a little something to get you nice and high in this neighborhood. Just stop the car near that park over there.
She could almost feel her hands listening to the cravings, turning the wheel toward the park. But she fought it off. Most people thought that drug addiction was a disease that could be cured. But that was wrong. Gloria had learned the painful truth: you are never fully cured. You may think everything is okay for a day or a week or even a month, but then something will happen. Something will go wrong with your life and you will feel all alone. That is when the addict in you strikes—not when you’re strong and prepared to do battle, but when your defenses are down. Drugs, your addict reminds you, are your only real friends. They’re there when you need them. They never disappoint or let you down. They make you feel good. They let you forget about the rest of the world.
The traffic light in front of her turned yellow. Gloria accelerated. She did not want to get caught at a red light and lose him now. The feeling that had swept over her all day—the feeling that Stan was in imminent danger—had grown stronger with each mile. She had to stay with him.
Her car sped through the intersection, still keeping a safe distance between herself and Stan Baskin. Why was she so worried? She could not say for sure. Stan had been acting strangely all day, more on edge than usual, more contemplative. Something was bothering him. More than that, something was terrifying him.
Oh, Stan, what are you up to now?
He could be so foolish sometimes. In many ways, Stan was more insecure than she had ever been. He felt the only way he could get anywhere—the only way he could get people to like him or love him—was to use treachery and deceit. Everything was a scam to him, a con. Even emotions. Love was a tool to control or be controlled. But Stan was learning. He was beginning to trust, beginning to feel. Gloria could tell. They had come a long way since Stan had ripped off one hundred thousand from her at the Deerfield Inn.
She made a right turn. The sun had set, and even with the heaters on full blast, Gloria felt a chill in the air. Yes, she knew all about Stan’s little con game with the B Man. Not at first perhaps. At first she had been legitimately terrified and fooled by the whole charade, but when Stan had developed no contusions or even minor injuries, she became suspicious. Later that evening, when Gloria was cleaning up the bathroom, she found the remnants of the blood capsules in a waste basket. It did not take a genius to figure out the rest: fake blood meant a fake beating.
Her first response was to strike back, to have it out with him, to throw him out of her life. But something held her back. Stan had been thrown out by everyone close to him all his life. Maybe she was being naive, but Gloria wondered if that was the reason Stan was so self- destructive, if that was why he chose to squander every chance at real happiness. She did not know for sure. She only knew he needed help.
And God help her, she loved him.
So Gloria decided to never say a word about the money. She would just love him the best she could. And it was working. Slowly, layer by layer, the Stan of phony charms fell away and the real Stan began to emerge. The phony Stan was still there, still strong, but its grip on his soul was weakening.
Up ahead, Stan turned down a one-way street and parked his car in front of an alley. Gloria stayed back. The whole area looked like the ruins of a futuristic battlefield. There were no lights, no other cars on the road except for abandoned wrecks. Broken cinder blocks and shards of glass were scattered everywhere. The window holes in the buildings were boarded up with rotted planks.
What was he doing here?
Gloria watched the door on his driver’s side open. Stan got out and looked both ways, his eyes somehow missing her car. Then he disappeared down the narrow alleyway. Gloria’s car crept down the street. She pulled in behind his car, made sure her doors were locked, and waited.
“YOU did what?” Mark shouted.
“Just calm down a second,” T.C. said. “I was just trying to scare Laura off.”
“So you broke into her apartment?”
“Listen to me, Mark. She sneaked over to Australia. She was positive David had been murdered. She had stopped trusting me completely. I had to knock her off the track.”
“What the hell is wrong with you, T.C.? First you threaten Corsel and his kids and then you threaten Laura’s family?”
“I did what I thought best.”
“You were wrong. Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“You would have stopped me.”
“Damn straight I would have stopped you. I would have punched your goddamn lights out. So what exactly did you do to scare her off—besides leaving the VCR on?”
“I left a threatening note,” T.C. replied, “and David’s ring.”
“What ring?”
“The championship ring he was wearing when he drowned. I put it under her pillow.”
“Are you crazy?”
“Try to understand what I was trying to accomplish. I wanted to convince her that David’s killers were men who played for keeps. Threatening her alone would do no good. But if I threatened her family, if I convinced her that these hoodlums who had David’s ring were going to kill her sister or her mother or her father, then she might back off. I used the ring for its shock value. It added authenticity to threat. It dazed her long enough for me to win back her trust and—”
Rage overcame Mark. He grabbed T.C. by the lapels and threw him up against the wall. “You son of a bitch.”
“Easy, Mark.”
“This is Laura we’re talking about, not some drug dealer you can abuse with self-justification.”
“I was trying to protect her . . . and you.”
Mark held on to T.C.’s shirt for another moment. Then he let go, spun away, and grabbed his heavy overcoat.
“Where are you going?” T.C. called out.
Mark did not reply. He stormed out the door and into the cold winter night.
STAN looked at his watch, shivering in the bitter cold of the early morning. The killer was already five minutes late. The narrow ghetto alley worked as a wind tunnel, making the weather unbearably raw. Stan paced nervously, trying to keep himself warm. Where the hell is the asshole? Stan wondered. And why the hell does the scumbag want to meet here of all places?