The Dismantling by Brian Deleeuw Read Free Book Online Page B

on the envelope.
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    T HE next morning Simon sat waiting at a table by the window of the café, a sun-drenched place not far from his high school, St. Edmund’s, which was the only reason he knew it existed. He’d arrived early and found the café still sitting smugly in its plum spot two blocks from the Metropolitan Museum. He’d peered through the window at the diners, neighborhood types and tourists visiting the museum. The former were mostly women and mostly bottle blond, all knobby wrists and severe clavicles, gold bracelets heavy as manacles. He’d never been inside before, only walked past, and so when he sat down and looked at the menu, he was not prepared for the appearance of an eighteen-dollar goat cheese omelet.
    He couldn’t afford this place, but the café’s expensiveness was part of the point. It was the same reason he’d chosen this neighborhood, with its air of sobriety and permanence; he wanted Maria to feel confident in the people to whom she was leasing the use of her body. He had the strong impulse, stronger than with any of his prior donors, to set her at ease, to make her as comfortable as the situation allowed. Part of it was that she’d traveled to New York alone; the donors almost never did that. Another part of it, probably, was that she was young, very near his own age, which he supposed made it easier for him to identify with her and with what she was going through. The remainder of his motivation he couldn’t quite account for yet, which bothered him perhaps less than it should have.
    At quarter after ten, he spotted her hurrying across the street in a battered black leather jacket, half of her face hidden behind the same bulbous purple sunglasses. She rushed by the window without seeing him, then stopped inside the door, scanning the room. He waved, and she sat down opposite him, sweat glistening on her forehead.
    â€œThe subway,” she said. “I messed up the transfer.” She glanced around the restaurant. “This is where you do business?”
    â€œI thought it would be more pleasant than my office.”
    â€œSo you’re making an exception for me?”
    â€œMost donors don’t show up alone,” he said carefully. “They bring their mom, their husband, whoever. Since you’re here by yourself, I thought it might be nice to make things a little less impersonal.”
    She frowned. “I don’t want your pity.”
    â€œThat’s not how I meant it.”
    They sat in uncomfortable silence until the waiter stopped by and rescued them. Simon ordered coffee and a croissant while Maria flitted around the menu, finally settling on a cheddar and ham omelet with a side of sausage, white toast, and strawberry jam. Their orders in, Simon asked what she was planning to do that afternoon.
    â€œWalk,” she said. “I can’t do that at home. If I want to go for a walk there, I have to drive somewhere else first.”
    â€œWhere’s home?”
    â€œLos Angeles.”
    â€œYeah, but where?”
    â€œTorrance.”
    â€œWhat’s it like there?”
    â€œIt’s a place to live. I don’t hate it. I don’t love it either.”
    He reminded himself to be careful, not to ask too many questions. “I’ve never been to California.”
    â€œI’ve lived in every Los Angeles neighborhood you’ve never heard about,” she said. “I say LA, what do you think of?”
    â€œHollywood. Beverly Hills.”
    â€œWhat else? The other side of the coin.”
    â€œI don’t know. South Central? Watts. Compton.”
    â€œIt depends on what movies you’ve been watching, right? What music you’ve been listening to. They don’t make movies or songs about the neighborhoods I grew up in. Not because they’re so bad, but because they’re so boring. Shabby, but mostly homicide-free. Nobody wants to hear