Инкассатор. Однажды преступив закон. Андрей Воронин
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Vivian was pretty sure he was amused with himself for his offerings.
“Thank you.” She’d hoped for a mystery or thriller, but lying in bed with one of these books would help her fall right to sleep. “I’m sure I’ll learn something.”
* * *
KARL WOKE EARLY the next morning to a dark, silent apartment. Not even the ridiculous bird was making any noise. He pulled his boxers on and went into the kitchen to make coffee. When he didn’t hear any noise in his guest bedroom after the coffee grinder whirled, he cracked the door open to check on his guest. She was lying on her side, facing the door, the Keegan book on World War I flopped over her hand. The down comforter covered any rise and fall of her chest and he was about to check her pulse when she snorted and twitched before settling down again. Vivian wasn’t dead, and she hadn’t run off.
It looked like she’d made it halfway through the book before finally falling asleep. Despite its appearance, the Keegan book was unlikely to bore someone to sleep. He eased the door shut and went to get himself a cup of coffee. In the kitchen, he found a travel mug for Vivian to keep her coffee warm and poured her a cup, as well. Last night, before bed, he’d read a little about pregnancy—he was glad he’d had decaf in the freezer—and he remembered how grateful she’d been when he brought her coffee that one time in their Vegas hotel room. But when he went back into the guest bedroom to put the coffee on the nightstand, she still didn’t stir.
When he had awoken in the hotel room a month ago to find himself married, he’d assumed her deathlike sleep had been due to alcohol. She hadn’t seemed hungover—God knew he’d been too bleary-eyed and angry to notice if she had been—but she’d slept until he’d yelled her name and shaken her awake. This morning she seemed on course to do much the same. The bird stirred in its cage behind a cover, but Karl ignored it. Even if the bird was awake, he had no idea what to do with it unless it also wanted a cup of coffee.
It. The bird had a name. Luck, only not luck. Whatever was Chinese for luck. He still didn’t know if the bird was male or female.
And the bird was probably easier than a baby. Not that he hadn’t planned on having children. He had. One day. He’d just expected a little warning and time to read every baby book the Harold Washington Library had on its shelves before hearing the words, “I’m pregnant.”
He turned his attention back to the mother of his child. Though he believed she was telling the truth about who the father was, he’d still insist on a DNA test. He believed her, but he wasn’t stupid. Yet looking at her sleeping, the test felt like a formality. The mother of his child slept on her side and snorted in her sleep.
Karl was surprised how much her sleeping in his guest bed pleased him. He thought he’d been pleased when his divorce lawyer had confirmed she didn’t protest the divorce or the terms. That feeling was nothing like the warmth in his heart at seeing the contrast of her black hair against the primary colors of the duvet cover.
Before he left for the gym and office—both to work and to investigate his wife—Karl checked his laptop to make sure she wouldn’t find anything personal on it, and then he wrote her a note.
* * *
VIVIAN WOKE UP to sunlight, though the west-facing room wasn’t as bright as she’d expected with the lack of curtains. The gray clouds pressed as heavily on Chicago today as they had yesterday. The travel mug on the nightstand next to a note that said “decaf” was full of lukewarm, black coffee, which she drank anyway. At the sound of the mug hitting the table, Xìnyùn started shuffling his feet and whistling, “Deal, deal, deal.” When he finally squeaked out, “Deal, goddammit,” Vivian swung her feet out of bed to face the day and her father’s parrot.
In the kitchen she found a laptop and another note. Karl’s first two suggestions seemed reasonable, the third she was going to ignore completely. After showering and eating a small breakfast of leftover egg roll and cold, hard rice topped with honey, she opened the laptop and prepared to look for a job. A résumé was something she’d always planned to create, once she finally graduated from college. Middle Kingdom had only required a desperately prepared job application when it had opened in grandeur before the big economic downturn.
Her job history was easy enough to write, but what name should she put at the top? There were riverboat casinos around Chicago, but they would call Vegas and learn Vivian Yap was unemployable. Yet, as Vivian Milek, she didn’t have ID.
When Karl got home, Vivian had prepared a draft of her résumé and notes of jobs to apply for—none of them at a casino. She was also ready with her arguments about the third point on his note. “You are not going to buy me a winter coat.”
“Do you have a winter coat?” He unloaded take-out containers of Middle Eastern food on the counter without turning to face her.
“No.”
“Do you have money to buy a winter coat?”
He knew the answer. Did he have to make her admit to it? “No.”
“It is February in Chicago. I can buy you a winter coat or you can sit in my apartment until spring. If you’re lucky, spring will come early this year.” He handed her two plates, as tranquil as if they were talking about the weather and not how increasingly indebted to him she was.
Of course, they were talking about the weather. Next time she married a stranger, she was going to pick one from Florida or San Diego—someplace that didn’t require a winter coat.
She took the plates and flatware to the table, her back stiff with the worry of what accepting a winter coat from a stranger implied. “I feel like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, and I don’t like it.”
“Are you a prostitute?”
The hair on the back of her neck prickled. The other thing she was going to keep in mind the next time she married a stranger was to pick a man who didn’t feel the need to ask her if she was a prostitute more than once. “The first time you asked me that question was one too many times.” In case he didn’t get the point, she let the plates drop to the table with a clang.
He waited until he’d filled his plate with hummus and tabbouleh before responding. “Stop implying I’m a john and I’ll stop wondering if you’re a prostitute.”
“I don’t want you to spend money on me.”
“Vivian,” he said, setting his fork on his plate without making a clink like she would have. “A winter coat won’t cost me anything near your health insurance and child support. Take the damn coat.”
“I wasn’t—”
“The only one in the hotel room, I know. We share equal responsibility for everything that happened. But you are the only one without a winter coat. Unless you count the baby.”
She didn’t miss that he’d used the word baby this time. Baby and not fetus. He chose his words carefully enough for it to be deliberate.
“Pregnant women aren’t supposed to allow themselves to get overly hot.” Arguing with him was stupid. She needed a winter coat. She knew she needed a winter coat. She just didn’t want him to buy one for her.
“Then we’ll get you a jacket, as well.”
“It gets cold in Las Vegas, you know.”
“The low there yesterday was forty-four. Today’s high in Chicago will be thirty-two. Do you want to continue arguing about this?”
“No.”
“You’re a poor liar.”
Vivian was too irritated to talk to him for the rest of the meal.
* * *
KARL HAILED A cab to take them to Macy’s. The department store was close enough that he’d normally walk, but the cherry-red fleece Vivian came out of the guest room wearing wouldn’t keep her warm for a mere walk across the street. Fortunately, she didn’t argue about the coat once they were in the store, even when he bought