The Dismantling by Brian Deleeuw Read Free Book Online

“Would you like me to leave?”
    Lenny rocked onto the balls of his feet, leaning across the table. Simon could see competing emotions rush across his face, see his mind spinning. The lid of his left eye fluttered; his breath smelled of whiskey and coffee. For a moment, Simon was sure he was going to be punched, that his jaw would be broken. Then, as suddenly as it had seized him, the tension left Lenny. He went limp, slumping against the wall.
    â€œDo whatever you want,” he said dully.
    â€œI’ll leave. That’s enough for now.” Simon ripped the top page off the pad and pushed it across the table. “The day after tomorrow?”
    Lenny shrugged, his hair falling over his eyes. He didn’t look up as Simon stood and backed slowly into the kitchen doorway. Simon waited there for a moment, and when Lenny still said nothing, he turned and crossed the living room to the screen door and the porch beyond, his pulse twitching in the hollow of his neck.
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    T WO weeks later Simon waited for Maria Campos in one of JFK’s shabby baggage claim areas. It was eight thirty in the morning; she was due any minute, off the last red-eye from LAX. As the waiting limo drivers checked their phones and sipped their scalding coffees, a new load of passengers slogged down the hallway from the arrival gates, and he saw her then, walking slightly apart from the main flow of passengers, dragging a small roller bag. Her long, dark hair was crazy with static electricity; a pair of large purple sunglasses covered half her face. She stopped near the baggage carousel and looked around. Simon moved to greet her, but then something held him back. She had no way of recognizing him, and he wondered how he would appear to her. A bland, starched white guy of average height and average build, hair a desiccated blond nearly the same tone as his skin; a face lacking specificity, his overall physical appearance an act of collaboration with whomever was doing the viewing.
    She frowned, set down her rolling bag, checked her watch.
    He wondered what would happen if he just left, if he slipped out of the terminal and never answered her calls or e-mails. She would eventually take a taxi to the hotel near Times Square and sit in her room and wait. She had no one else to call; he hadn’t even told her where the operation was going to take place. Maybe she’d be furious about wasting her time; maybe she’d be relieved not to have been forced to go through with it. Maybe she’d take it as a sign and stop seeking the quick, radical fix to her money problems, whatever they were. Or maybe she’d just find another broker.
    He let go of the fantasy and approached her. She saw him coming and offered a speculative, noncommittal smile, pushing her sunglasses up onto her forehead. Her eyes were slick black pebbles, dark enough to show no difference between pupil and iris, heavy purple half circles anchoring them into place above her cheekbones. Her fingers picked at the cuffs of her baggy sweatshirt, the nails unpainted, bitten low. Despite the smile, her body seemed coiled, ready to run.
    He stopped a few feet in front of her, at what he hoped was an unthreatening distance.
    â€œMaria Campos, right?”
    â€œWho are you?”
    â€œSimon Worth,” he said. “From Health Solutions. I’m here to pick you up.”
    The black eyes stared at him, as though weighing the reality not just of this statement, but of the proposition of his entire existence. Then her smile softened, even as her fingers continued to worry the sweatshirt cuffs. “For a moment I was afraid this was a trap.” Her voice was sandpapery, her cadences stoner slow. “Like, just kidding! You’re under arrest!”
    â€œNo trap. Just a guy who should’ve taken a cab instead of the AirTrain.” She stared at him blankly. “What I mean is sorry I’m late. Ready to go?”
    They