A Devil's Hand: A Billionaire Romantic

Suspense Novel (High Stakes Book 2)

Shilo West
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A Devil’s Hand: Monk
High Stakes Series
Book Two
Shilo West
 Contents

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40

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About the Author
A DEVIL’S HAND: Monk

Copyright © 2023 by Shilo West.

All rights reserved.

First Print Edition: March 2023

Crave Publishing
Kailua, HI 96734
www.cravepublishing.net

Formatting: Crave Publishing

ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-661-1

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not
participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of
this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
 One

MONK
Now

AS HE LOOKED out the window above the clouds, Monk was deep in thought retracing his steps. But
each time, he always ended up right back in the air, on this plane, alone, following a plan he didn’t
like very much. He laughed to himself, remembering how his mother used to say, “Don’t waste your
time worrying. You’ll pick the wrong worry every time!” Monk had a number of worries to choose
from. Too many to sleep. Too many to ignore.
It’s not like he hadn’t seen it coming. From the moment he saw Juno, he knew. There was no
loving her without loving danger. There was no way to separate the two. Had that been the attraction
all along? What did it matter now? He loved her, all of her. Her reckless spirit and her tremendous
heart. He knew she was out there somewhere. He knew she was in danger—but Juno lived in the
danger. She brought it with her to the table in Vegas where he saw her first. She brought it to Vermont,
to his family, though danger was nothing new to any of them. She brought it with them to the island
where they tried to escape. She would not set it down or she would stop being Juno. That wasn’t
anything Monk expected of her. This would be their life together. He smiled, considering how he was
running to rescue a woman who had never needed a rescue. But she could certainly show her
appreciation for one, especially a dramatic one, and he felt like he might be on the verge of just such
an entrance.
She’d packed in a hurry, throwing a pair of jeans and two black t-shirts in a carry-on bag. “You’re
not worried, are you? You know I’ve got this.” It took everything Monk had to nod yes. “I will text
you as soon as I land, and I’ll text you after the meeting. Monk, this could be it.” Juno jumped into his
arms, and he clasped her hard, his eyes closed tight, wishing he could keep her there without her
thinking he didn’t trust her. That he didn’t believe in her strength and intelligence. He believed in her
with all his heart. But he saw that she was being pulled toward something he did not trust, and that’s
what worried him.
He didn’t know when the texts started. When they came to Greece, to this remote island with more
goats than people, they agreed to keep a pair of cell phones in their postal box in town. If anyone—
meaning Mitchell, who remained at large—managed to track them through phone calls, they’d at least
have a day or so to get out and away. Over time, they’d both relaxed. Monk had a phone he secretly
kept in the kitchen in order to stay in touch with Sal. He had no doubt Juno also had a phone tucked
away as well in a flowerpot or behind the nightstand.
 Turns out she did have a phone, and she came clean about it reluctantly after the messages about
Jack, her missing brother, started to come through at regular intervals. “I’m sorry,” she said, with the
guiltiest look he’d ever seen from her. To stop her tears, he’d climbed the stool and fetched his own
phone from the high shelf in the kitchen. She’d punched him and laughed. “Outlaws,” she whispered
before kissing him. “We always have an escape plan.” She showed him the messages. They’d started
last fall, she told him, but she didn’t have to. Monk had known something was happening to Juno,
something far away from their secret island. The occasional distant smile, a pause while they were
walking. She always seemed to have reason, but Monk was relieved to know finally what had been
on her mind.
“I know you’re skeptical,” she said while he was still reading all the messages in reverse order.
“I only paid attention at first because I wanted to figure out who it was, how they got this number. I
was angry. You’ll see when you get to those. But whoever it is, they know Jack. They know things—I
know they may not be with him right now, but whoever this is texting me,” Juno pointed at the screen
and stared at it, as if she might see through it to find her lost brother, “Monk, they know something.”
Monk scrolled carefully. He glanced up at Juno for a half-second, and she began again. “I know, I
know. I know who you think it is.” She didn’t say Mitchell’s name. In some ways, Monk felt like this
whole time, he’d been running away from more than just Mitchell. Maybe Juno was, too. But until
Mitchell could be located, they would always feel like they were in the crosshairs. However,
Mitchell wasn’t like the people in Monk’s past. No matter what Juno said, Monk believed Mitchell
would eventually get bored and find another way to occupy his time. His biggest project for the
foreseeable future would be staying out of federal prison. If the United States government couldn’t
find him, Monk believed Mitchell would stay right wherever he was. It would be the smart move.
Mitchell’s pride might be wounded, but it was nothing compared to the generational grudges and
complicated sequences of retribution Monk grew up hearing about from Sal.
Which was exactly who Monk turned to when Juno’s texts stopped barely a week after she left.
Maybe he’d underestimated Mitchell’s attention span. Or maybe it was something else. But Monk
knew something was wrong when the last text came, a clip of Celine Dion singing “My Heart Will Go
On.” No message. Monk waited for the words to follow. He waited an entire day, thinking maybe the
clip was an affectionate nod to their Vegas hideaway. Looking out at the clouds below the plane,
Monk smiled, thinking about that crazy hotel suite, the diva smiling down at them while they fell in
love. When he found her, they’d go back for a visit. She’d think that was funny.
And he would find her. She was out there, maybe not even in danger, but somehow disconnected.
They’d clear it all up once they were together, and then they’d laugh like crazy. Both of them had
become restless on the island, though it was a testament to their devotion to each other that each one
of them had managed to stay so isolated for so long. Juno barely seemed to miss the tables, and Monk
hadn’t made a real estate deal in months. They spent their days swimming, walking the island,
growing vegetables, even going out with the old fisherman on his boat every few days. Sal would
start every conversation, “Bored yet?” And Monk would answer, “No. Safe.” And Sal would say, “I
don’t blame you. I’d keep her away from me, too. You’ve got the golden girl there. Don’t let her out of
your sight.”
But he had. He let her out of his sight, and he told himself it would be okay. Even though he knew
when he watched her waving from the ferry that morning that something was coming for them. He felt
the break from her when the ferry disappeared on the horizon; he felt the pang in his chest. By the time
her texts stopped, he’d already packed. He’d already called Sal.
And then there was Sal to worry about. All those years of living in danger caught up with Sal in
the form of a stroke. The man wouldn’t stay down long, though. The texts from his hospital bed
proved he was already rallying, already pushing Monk again. He looked at Sal’s most recent
message: “Play your hand. Play it smart.” He’d done better with worse hands, it was true. And if
there’s one thing it’s pointless to fret over, it’s the bad cards you’re holding. That seven-deuce curse
might have the lowest odds for winning. But the odds weren’t zero. Monk knew what Sal meant. They
had talked it to death, this plan. Sal wanted Monk to reach into his past, a place he didn’t like to
revisit. But without it, finding Juno would be like searching for a single fish in the ocean that
stretched in every direction below his jet, the jet that seemed to be traveling at the speed of a lame
horse across a hot desert. Monk put his head in his hands and searched for the words he’d need to say.
He steadied himself to place the call he had never imagined making.
First, he’d have to say: I need your help. I’ve lost someone.
 Two

SAL
Before

“GLORIA, I’ll find him. You’ve got to trust me. He’s a smart kid, but not that smart; I got a lead, and
it’s a matter of time. I’ll have him in hand by tonight. No, I will not bust his chops.” Sal shifted the
pay phone receiver to his other ear, muttering, “I used to be young myself,” though he wasn’t sure
Gloria heard him. He wasn’t really saying it to her, anyway. “Are you by yourself, Gloria? Call
Jeannie to sit with you. Well, one of the other girls. Wait for my call. It’s going to be good news,
you’ll see. I promise you.”
Monk had better be happy, Sal thought to himself, that Gloria sent me to find him instead of
coming herself. She was ready to beat the boy with his own shoe. It was bad enough to run away at
sixteen when you knew you’re already kind of in hiding. It was true; the word was out that Ray
Acosta’s mom and kid were in Vermont. But so was Sal, and nobody wanted to open up a war that
had quieted down after Ray’s death. Or disappearance, depending on which family you asked. That
was bad. One missing Ray Acosta was enough; now Gloria had to worry about where her son was.
What Gloria didn’t know, because Sal didn’t tell her, was that her boy Monk, previously known
as Ray Acosta, Junior, had run off with Enzo Scotto’s eldest child, Bennie. If Gloria found out who
Monk was with, Sal thought to himself, you’d hear the explosion clear down the Eastern seaboard. If
he could move fast enough, maybe she would never find out. But these kids, they’d made it all the way
across the border to Canada in less than twenty-four hours. Sal shook his head. “I was young, too. I
remember,” he said to the cup of coffee waiting for him at the diner counter when he got back from the
pay phone. “Not a care in the world. What was there to care about?” He lifted his thick eyebrows and
shrugged.
The waitress walked over, putting a hand on her hip. “Buddy,” she said, leaning across the
counter to Sal, “you got the weight of the world on you.”
“Ever been in love?”
The waitress shook her head and held the hand without the coffee pot in it. “Mister, let me tell
you.”
“I got a story. And three hours to kill.”
“Don’t we all?”
“I got a story that’ll curl your toes.” Sal was a few weeks short of his fiftieth birthday, with not
only the shaggy good looks of a Hollywood rascal, but the irresistible whiff of real danger.
 “I get off at four,” the waitress said, as if it were a question. Sal took a long drink of his coffee
and watched her walk the length of the counter.
Like most women he met, the waitress—Vonda, or Rhonda—had been less interested in the story
part of their improvised date. She lived close, like so many of them always did, just around the
corner. Her apartment had the same Van Gogh print on the wall and the same Frida Kahlo biography
on the bedside table, next to a Virgin of Guadeloupe prayer candle and package of clove cigarettes.
They fell into bed so quickly, a heated fluster after so much coffee and flirting and innuendo at the
diner. She took Sal into her mouth first and he caught his breath—she must have had a mint in her
mouth or something, because he felt a shudder like ice water running through his body all at once.
Soon he lifted her onto the bed and turned her gently, running his hands up her magnificent flanks until
he reached the ass he’d been watching sway for a good two hours. She had on a garter belt, which Sal
hadn’t seen on a woman in years, and it brought back a flood of memories of teenaged groping and
petting. Sal smiled, charmed and elated. He snapped one of the garters and she giggled, right up until
he thrust inside her and she cried out, shaking the bedpost with both hands and arching her back. Sal
grabbed her ass with both hands and moved her hips gently to one side and another; she was light and
flexible like a dancer. He bent across her back and reached one hand inside her blouse, unhooking her
lacy bra in front and cupping a breast. She called his name, commanded him to push harder, and he
did until the lights in his head pulsed and he felt all of his energy leave him and enter her. He fell to
the bed and she mounted him, her uniform still clinging to her hips, her upturned breasts exposed as
her bra slipped off her shoulders. She reached down to touch herself as she rocked against him,
smiling, looking into his eyes. He stared back through the thick locks of hair that had fallen from her
chignon, red spirals, and he noticed the freckles that covered her milky skin. When she came, the flush
rose along her whole body up her torso and neck. She flung her red hair wildly, and Sal felt himself
rising again at the sight of her pleasure. She pulled his cock inside her and he saw stars again almost
immediately, scattered like freckles, almost blinding him.
He watched her walk to the window and open it, wrapped in the fringe throw from the bed. She
propped against the frame, bent her knee, and put one naked foot on the frame as she lit a cigarette.
“Well,” she said, “if you’ve still got time, I’d love to hear the story.”
Sal had to think a minute before deciding which story to tell.
 Three

MONK
Before

MONK CRUMPLED up the piece of paper in his hand, then tore another one out of his composition book.
He traced the red line down the side, then veered off into curlicues and finally scribbles and angry
scratches. He thought leaving a note would help. But what could he say? Nothing made any sense.

Dear Mom,
I’m going away for a few days a week some time but don’t worry about me
That was useless. She was going to kill him. Not until she could find him, but there would be a
killing.

Dear Mom,
Don’t be mad at me but
That was a joke. He tried one more time.

Dear Mom,
Please don’t be scared. I’ll be back.
“Please don’t be scared. I’ll be back.” It wasn’t until he wrote the words that he remembered. His
father had put on a scarf, so it must have been winter. Everybody who talked about what happened
seemed to get some part of it wrong always. So Monk himself had started to doubt his memory about
the night his father left them for the last time.
Why had his mother been scared that night in particular? Ray Acosta lived in danger. That was the
way it was. Monk’s mother Gloria had grown up in a mob family; she used to say it was like military
brats—who else could you marry except somebody who knew the life? But that didn’t mean she
didn’t fear for her husband. Especially when Ray started rising, taking on more responsibility. Monk
thought for a long time she was afraid of his uncle Sal, Ray’s competition. But it was Sal who came
and protected them. Sal eventually left everything behind and followed them to Brattleboro. Monk
always wondered, after changing their names and moving to this small town, didn’t Sal give their
secrecy away when he moved there, too? By then, something must have changed. As always, Monk
came back to the idea that somebody knew what happened. Maybe Sal. Somebody knew what
happened to his father.
That night he reassured Gloria, it turned out that Gloria’s fears were founded. The door shut, and
Monk must have run to his room upstairs. He remembered watching his father all the way to the
corner, the first flakes of snow falling in the street light. Monk saw a car pick him up, a dark green
sedan he’d never seen before. He’d felt a tightness in his chest as the door shut and the car pulled
away.
What would his mother feel when she found this note? One thing was for sure: there was no point
in telling her not to be scared. Gloria Davies, once Acosta, knew when to be scared. He thought if he
told her he was going to be with Bennie, she’d feel better. But he couldn’t tell her. He didn’t want to
make any more trouble for Bennie than necessary. The farther they could get before people could
figure out what they were doing, the more chance the plan had for success.
He gathered every torn scrap of notebook paper and stuffed them into his jacket pockets. Better to
explain later. Bennie was waiting outside in the car, and they could be in Canada by tonight. Someone
would meet them with everything they needed. By the time everyone found out, it would be over and
done. In time, it would be a great story to tell their kids.
Monk fled down the steps and out the door before his mother got back from the store. This way,
she wouldn’t even be looking for him until dinner. Unless the school called, and she’d just think he
was cutting a pop quiz or gym class. Seeing the book she’d left on the bar, he stopped for a minute.
No, she would forgive him one day. It might be rough for a little while. But she’d understand. What
had it been like for her, Monk wondered, when she was seventeen?
He swung open the door to the bar. Bennie’s little red Mazda Miata sat idling at the curb, her
long, black hair fanning across her shoulders and shining in the sun. She smiled at Monk from behind
her dark Wayfarer sunglasses. He wondered if she’d driven all the way from Jersey with the top
down.
“What are you lookin’ at, golden boy? Please tell me that backpack isn’t full of math books.”
Monk smiled. He didn’t have any math books. Just a short history of Canada and a Toronto
visitor’s guide. He liked to be prepared.
 Four

Monk
Now

“IT ’ S BEEN A WHILE.”

No, he thought. There was too much between them for chatter, for empty phrases. Besides, no
words would ease the awkwardness of this call. Monk could not help feeling he had no right to ask
Bennie Scotto for anything. They’d been wholeheartedly true to one another at a time when such
things mattered in your life. That was all he had asked. When he let her go, it was as unconditional as
his love had been. And as permanent. No words had been exchanged since, and their lives could not
have gone more differently. Things might have turned out another way, but it wasn’t in the cards.
Play your hand, Sal said.
Monk redialed for the third time. This time, he didn’t hang up. Almost immediately, a voice he’d
never forget dissolved the miles and years. “I don’t usually answer calls from unknown numbers.
Don’t make me regret it.” The grit and the gloss. She still had both. Monk’s heart sped up more than
he wanted, but suddenly he knew exactly what to say.
“Bennie, I made a mistake.”
There was no pause. It was as if she’d known this day would come. “More than one. And you
must still be making them, or I wouldn’t be hearing your voice right now.”
People thought Bennie Scotto manipulated and lied her way to power. Only those closest to her
knew that her most brutal weapon was the truth.
“I need your help. I’ve lost someone.”
“Are you writing an autobiography? Because it sounds like you’ve come up with the story of your
life.”
“All right. Fair. I’ll take it.” Monk finally heard an exhale across the line. He wondered if she
was still smoking. “Bennie, you know I got out. Except there is no out. And I may have brought
someone else in.”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s no flower of virtue, either. She went off to take care of one thing, but I’m not sure what’s
keeping her from coming back.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want to come back. Maybe she’s, whatever. Bored with you. Sick of you.
Needs a break. I’m not a relationship therapist.”
“I’m not eliminating any possibility. But I can tell you, if she was sick of me, she’d tell me to my
face and enjoy it. Haven’t you ever known someone who was like us, but not like us? She always has
an escape plan. She keeps a secret or two. But she’s loyal. I can’t walk away until I know she’s safe.”
“I’m still listening, but only because right now I like her better than you.” Bennie paused, and
Monk heard another deep inhale. “I’ll bet she’s very pretty.”
“Would you like me to send you a photo?”
Bennie chuckled. “Not because I need any proof, but yes. You always were smarter than the rest.
Practical. Calling me couldn’t have been easy, but it was smart. I can get that photo to a few well-
placed people. We’ll find her in no time. Then you can apologize for whatever you did to send her
away. I hope you’ve gotten better at that, though I see no evidence.”
“I’m sorry—”
“No, no,” Bennie cut him off with a jovial tone of mild rebuke. “Forget it, Monk. It’s Jersey.” He
could see her little off-kilter shrug of indifference as if he were in the room with her.
“It was no good at the time. But maybe the adults were right. You’re where you were always
going to be.”
“Stop dealing, Monk. I’ve decided I’m going to help you. Don’t talk me out of it.”
 Five

MONK and BENNIE

Before

“TONI ’ S GOING to meet us at the restaurant, and she’ll have all the papers to sign. Then we’ll go to the
church.” Bennie, in the passenger seat now, spoke slowly and leaned toward Monk with each
sentence so he could hear her over the wind and the engine as they drove west on I-90. She smiled
and slipped her arms around Monk’s waist, settling her head on his shoulder. “You’re not going to
change your mind, are you?”
Monk drove with one hand and stretched his other arm around Bennie, pulling her close and
bending down for a quick kiss. “Not a chance,” he called out, shaking his head. He drew in a deep
breath, letting the sense of excitement and freedom wash over him. No more sneaking around. No
more late-night long drives trying to get back to Brattleboro before he was missed. His mother would
calm down once she realized he would still go to college, only at Rutgers instead of Harvard. He
would have been leaving home in a few months, anyway. In the long run, it wouldn’t matter.
He tried not to think about what his mother’s real objection would be. She made it clear she
wouldn’t welcome Bennie the first time Monk tried to bring her home. It wasn’t fair of her, though, to
blame Bennie for her father and his business. She wasn’t a part of that. Not really. She did seem to
know a lot of people because of her family. The only reason they were going to Toronto was because
Bennie knew someone there who could help them with the paperwork and get them someone to do the
job. By the time his mother could send Sal after them, they’d be married already.
Monk made a face when he thought about Sal. Sal tried to act like a badass, but he did everything
Monk’s mother Gloria said. He’d tried to talk Monk out of dating Bennie more than once. Well, he
hadn’t tried to talk him out of having sex with Bennie and dumping her. He just thought Monk ought to
keep her a secret from his mother. Sal didn’t respect Bennie at all. But Monk was pretty sure Sal
didn’t respect any woman except Gloria. It was weird, Monk thought, Sal hanging around his
brother’s widow all this time. Monk’s mother, on the other hand, constantly told him he should be
grateful to Sal, that they wouldn’t have made it through the last few years without him. We’d have
made it, Monk thought to himself. We’d have made it just fine without Sal lurking around.
Monk looked down at Bennie. He smiled, full of love and hope for the future. This beautiful girl
loved him. And she was so smart, so confident. She might have been a year and a half younger than
him, but she had a way of always knowing exactly what to do, what the right move would be. Monk
second guessed himself all the time, but Bennie never did. She wouldn’t let him do it, either. She
backed him up no matter what, even if it turned out he was wrong. His heart felt like it was bursting at
the seams. Tears formed at the edges of his eyes, but he didn’t wipe them away. Instead he looked
back at the lines on the highway, the road that led them into their new life together. Behind her
glasses, he couldn’t see if Bennie was sleeping or not, but she didn’t move at all as he eased his other
hand back to the steering wheel to keep them safe. That would be his job now: keeping Bennie safe no
matter what.
Tears would come to his eyes again that day as they sat across from each other in the old wooden
booth at the Senator diner, drinking black coffee and holding hands over their signed marriage
documents. Toni would come back for them within the hour and take them to the priest who had
agreed to perform the ceremony.
“Don’t you love this place?” Bennie threw her head back and surveyed the diner. The sign on the
wall proclaimed it “Toronto’s Oldest Restaurant.” Monk grew up working in his mother’s bar, and he
knew places lied about things like that all the time. It was just marketing. But this place seemed like
the real thing for sure. “I just knew you’d love it. You love stuff like this. Old, weird stuff. Like Sal.
Sal is old and weird, and you love him.”
“I don’t know about that,” Monk mumbled, wondering if Sal might walk in the door at any
moment.
“Look at the bar. You can tell it’s been here a long time. Oooh, look at that girl’s root beer float.
What time is it? Maybe before Toni gets back, I’ll get a root beer float.” Bennie looked around for the
waiter.
Monk smiled. He loved those moments when he could still see the Bennie he remembered from
childhood, the little girl whose father owned the bakery his father visited every week. Monk’s father
Ray would take Monk along and let him pick out anything he wanted from the cannoli, sfogliatelle,
anise cookies, and tiny cheesecakes. Monk liked the cookies with the multicolored sprinkles. Bennie
would hear Ray’s voice and come running downstairs to see Monk, bringing a box of Playmobile
figures. While Ray and Enzo talked business, Monk and Bennie stormed castles, rescued spies, or
went on pirate adventures. It was like they were on a pirate adventure in real life now.
“It’s great,” Monk said, looking at the antique light fixture overhead. “How’d you find this
place?”
“Oh, Angela and I went here after the Depeche Mode concert last year. Breakfast before the drive
home.” Bennie laughed her deep, husky laugh. “That was a crazy night! Oh, man.”
Bennie thought back and a sly smile crossed her lips. She and Angela had met some French boys
—well, they were French Canadian. Angela tried to speak French to them but could only ask them
about food or what classes they took in school. But after the concert, they weren’t talking so much.
Bennie could hardly remember their names. One was a G name: Gareth, Gaston, Gaspar. Something
like that. She looked at Monk. He was the best-looking boy of all. And so devoted. She couldn’t wait
to be Monk’s wife. Ray’s wife. His real name was Ray, and one day that would matter again.
 Six

MONK
Now

MONK KNEW it wouldn’t help him, but he’d lost patience. Bennie called and said she’d made some
discoveries, but that they’d have to meet in person. Monk couldn’t help thinking Bennie might be
using his situation simply as a means to maneuver him back into her life. Not only her life, but the
life. Back into the family. If the family business had been bad when his father had wanted to change it,
the circumstances had only worsened over the last decades. Monk tried to sit back on the black
leather Barcelona chair. He took out his phone and looked at the last text from Sal. “Be casual. Let
her solve your problem for you. She loves that. But don’t let her see you’re desperate. She can’t help
herself when she sees weakness. She destroys it.”
That’s why she wanted him to come to her office. He knew the moves. He knew his father’s
moves, Sal’s moves. He remembered Bennie’s father Enzo—quiet, deliberate, and more powerful
than anybody had seen coming. The old man was alive still, giving orders from a hospital bed
installed in the family compound. Bennie carried those orders out swiftly and efficiently, and nobody
dared question her.
Not for long, anyway. Monk hadn’t exactly followed Bennie’s career, but Sal had. Keeping Monk
and Gloria safe meant holding onto old friendships. Sal had his informants, his eyes and ears in the
Scotto organization—what had been the Acosta organization.
“You can go in now, Mr. Acosta. I mean, Mr. Davies.” The handsome young man at the desk
touched his earpiece and smiled at Monk. Then he reached under the desk and pushed a button. The
sliding glass doors at the other end of the room opened. The man tilted his head in their direction,
turning his smile slowly into a leering smirk. Almost the same as Bennie’s expression, the way Monk
remembered it.
The hallway glowed with pearl-like marble walls and flooring, and the air seemed to be scented
with musky spices and rich florals. Lo-fi beats played softly through hidden speakers. Monk couldn’t
tell if it reminded him of a spa, a nightclub, or a stylish clothing store. A pair of large, gold-framed
portraits hung a few feet away from each other. The first was an almost life-size full-length painting
of Enzo and Denise Scotto, both formally dressed, frozen in time in their late fifties or early sixties.
The odd part was that Denise Scotto had only lived to age forty-two, and by then Enzo had abandoned
her for Marlene, his second wife. Marlene hadn’t lasted long; the rumors involved Bennie, of course.
It looked like Bennie had rewritten the past in a way that worked better. Monk felt a twinge of sorrow
for her, remembering how devoted she had been to her mother.
As Monk approached the next portrait, he could see it was Bennie. She wore a sheer golden robe
that left nothing to the imagination, only covering her breasts and torso with a shimmer. She held a
golden bowl above her head, but she did not look up. She stared out of the painting with a fierce
expression, chin down, her sly smile barely separating enough to see a glint of teeth. Monk paused,
wondering about the effect of a painting like this one in such a public place. Then he felt the door
behind him open. He turned, and there she was.
“Then they don’t look at me like they’re undressing me with their eyes. They can just stare at that
instead.” Bennie answered the question Monk wouldn’t ask out loud. He could never hold anything
back from her for long.
“Hey, Ben,” Monk said softly, blushing a little. He was willing to bet that very few men could
stare at that painting for long with the real-life Bennie in the room. She walked toward him, fastening
a button on her blouse.
A young man stepped out from behind her. “Pardon me,” he said, nodding, as he continued out of
Bennie’s office and down the hallway. Monk was certain the man had been zipping up his pants.
“Monk. Same cute boy I remember. Like a sweet puppy.” Bennie reached out to smooth Monk’s
hair away from his face. “More beautiful than ever. That you men get to age that way—it’s
ridiculously unfair.”
Monk tried not to glance down the hallway at the man on his way out. “Looks like you’re holding
up pretty well yourself.” She stood there, the adult fulfillment of all the promise he had seen in her
youthful form. Her eyes, once playful and animated, now shone with confidence and mature
amusement. Her glossy hair was pulled tightly into a thick braid that hung to the center of her back,
and her sun-kissed skin looked as if she’d just come back from the Italian Riviera, which she had.
“No hug?” She made a goofy face. Monk could feel it all slipping, but he gathered his resolve. He
stepped forward and enclosed her waist briefly with one arm, even planting a soft kiss on her cheek.
“There,” she said. “Was that so bad? Let’s be friends, Monk. Ray. We’ve known each other too long
not to be friends.”
“It’s Monk now. Nobody calls me Ray.” He scratched the back of his head and thought about
walking away for the third time since he came to the address she’d texted him. He reminded himself
that he had used every contact, pursued every avenue, only to find no trace of Juno. He took a deep
breath. “I guess I agree with you, Bennie. I appreciate your help. Sal insisted I—”
“Sal! Of course, there’s always Sal. How’s he doing? I was so, so sorry to hear about his
difficulty. Stroke? Heart attack? Poison?”
Monk followed Bennie into the office. The main room was dark, but he could see black leather
chairs and a long velvet sofa in gold. A heavy desk carved from dark wood sat at one end. At the
other end, a doorway led into a bright atrium with a dome of glass over another desk or table of white
marble and gold. Bennie led him to the chairs and sofa. She pushed a button on the bookshelf and a
panel slid to reveal a lighted bar full of glassware, bottles, cups, and silverware. “Let me make you
an espresso,” Bennie said, “and I’ll tell you what I was able to find out so far.”
The smell from the hallway. Monk remembered now. It was Bennie. Her hair, her coffee, her
cooking, her skin. No perfume could match it. She absorbed what she loved, and the effect was more
desire. Monk sank into the creaking leather of the chair, knowing he would not think of leaving again
until he knew where to find Juno. He only hoped he’d know soon.
 Seven

BENNIE
Now

“YES , baby, yes—oooooh, right there. That’s right, you gorgeous lion. Shake your head a little so I
can feel your hair against—ahhhh. Mmmmm. That’s so nice, baby.” Bennie held onto the young man’s
thick, shining locks and moaned as the curls caressed her inner thighs. She liked this one, Brad?
Brian? She tried not to break her concentration by thinking of his name. Instead, she thought of his
tongue and the way it felt like a hummingbird inside her, dancing impossibly faster and faster. She
rocked her hips and pictured a golden glowing bird shining in sunlight, bobbing and dodging any net
that tried to catch it. She unbuttoned her blouse as she felt the man’s hands grasp her hips and rock
them gently, making little circles with each hip bone. Oh god, she thought, letting go of her blouse and
grasping the back of his head again. The glowing bird in her vision began to bounce up and down and
then to sing out with her own voice, Bennie’s, as she came right to the edge of ecstasy. She pulled him
up to her by his hair and he laughed, unzipping his fly. She liked uncircumcised men, and asking that
question during a job interview usually got a few other questions out of the way as well. Bennie
placed her palm in the middle of his chest and pushed him against the back of the sofa, lifting her skirt
and lowering herself onto his thick cock. He groaned, and now Bennie laughed, lifting first one of his
hands and the other. She ran her tongue along his right thumb and then placed it into her mouth,
sucking vigorously, while she placed his left hand on her breast, the thumb against her nipple. At first,
she moved her hips in a slow circle, feeling his cock stiffen and jolt inside of her. When his hands
would move to her hips, she’d place them back on her breasts until he was trembling. Finally she
wrapped her arms around his head and pulled his face between her breasts as she raised herself
suddenly all the way upward, almost sliding off his cock entirely, then lowering all the way back. He
whimpered as she bounced up and down, the golden bird hovering in the air, the music exploding
from them both. Her back arched, her head thrown back, her braid swinging from side to side, the man
held her by the waist and kissed her neck, down to each nipple where he stayed, licking and
massaging them with his fingers. Circles of pleasure emanated from her clit, her nipples, her entire
body. She rocked until the bird inside her settled down, until it rested.
She stepped away to her private bathroom. Looking in the mirror as she washed, she decided not
to reapply any makeup. She liked the excited flush on her skin. There was no need for Monk to think
she had prepared for his arrival. But she had, the best way she knew how. She’d been satisfied by one
of her favorite new proteges, a man whose name she made a note to remember for next time.
 She’d also prepared by doing what she promised. Bennie liked to think that she always kept her
promises, and mostly that was true. Sometimes the promises were misunderstood by the other party,
that was all. When Sal called, she hid a little something from him. He didn’t need to know how well-
timed his request had been. It was a beautiful thing, Bennie thought, when a situation worked out for
everybody. She was doing Sal a favor. She was doing Monk a favor. Surely it was only more
fortunate for all of them that she’d get exactly what she wanted as well.
“Brad, darling.” Bennie waited a second for a response, watching herself in the mirror.
“Um.”
“Oh god, Brandon,” she corrected herself, suddenly seeing the right answer in her own eyes. She
turned the corner and faced him with her best smile. “Brandon, can you come to the house tonight?
Late. I’ll be working until late.” She walked toward him, slowly starting to button her blouse from the
bottom. Brandon smiled and caressed her breasts once more. Bennie removed his hands and kissed
each of them. “More for you later, my hungry lion.” She reached down and cupped his perfect ass
with both hands, drawing him to her for a long kiss. “Right now, I have to go answer the door and talk
to an old friend who’s a little down and out.”
 Eight

BENNIE and MONK

Before

“S AL, WE’ RE NOT GOING BACK.”

Sal moved the suitcase out of the way and sat down on the one chair in the hotel room. “I’m not
here to argue with the two of you. We’re going to talk this out, and when we finish, you’ll decide to go
back. It’s not going to be a hard decision. You don’t see it yet, but you will, and it’s going to take a
minute, but that’s fine.” Years of wet work had left Sal with some chronic injuries and he didn’t
intend to stand there while these two kids came to an understanding of what they had done. His knee
popped hard when he sat down, and he must have made a face because Bennie laughed at him. “They
must have thought it was an easy job if they sent you,” she snorted. Sal’s afternoon with the waitress
had left him with a pain in his lower back as well. He didn’t mind that so much, though.
Monk’s mind raced. This situation was his worst-case scenario. Bennie’s contacts must have sold
them out, because waiting for them at the chapel was no priest, only Sal, who had definitely not taken
holy orders. Unless you counted the orders he had from Monk’s mother. Everything was ruined.
“Ben,” he said, as if Sal wasn’t sitting right there, “we can just go. We can get married someplace
else.” Bennie stood beside the bed where Monk sat cross-legged. She folded her arms across her
chest and stared at Sal. “It’s not like you’re going to shoot us, Sal,” Monk said, turning.
“No, that’s accurate.” Sal sighed. “Nobody’s getting shot today. But I don’t think I’ve ever had a
job I hated worse than this one.”
Monk stole a look at Bennie, who kept her gaze on Sal. Sal looked like he was about to say more,
but he just settled back in the chair and picked up the daily newspaper from the table. Monk watched
Sal with a mixture of emotions, remembering how last night Bennie had straddled him in that chair,
naked, wet from the shower, her glowing skin the brightest light in the room. They’d been having sex
for a few months, but when they arrived at the hotel last night, Monk saw a side of Bennie he’d never
really known before.
They’d found each other again by accident. Monk didn’t leave Brattleboro very often and almost
never on his own. Gloria had given permission for him to go on a senior trip to Boston right after the
holidays. Monk thought it was because she wanted so much for him to go to Harvard. Monk wanted to
stay closer, and even with the scholarship money, Harvard would have been a lot of money, he
thought. Back then, there was so much he didn’t know. So much Sal and Gloria left out so that maybe
he could live safely.
 On New Year’s Eve, they walked across Boston Common. Snow wasn’t falling yet, but the ponds
had frozen. Monk’s friends coaxed him out onto the ice; even though they were all in sneakers, they
slid around the surface of the pond, improvising a hockey game with some fallen limbs and rocks.
Pretty soon, they slid over toward some girls figure skating, doing single spins and axels. One missed
a landing near Monk and he slid awkwardly to where she fell.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m totally fine. You’re the one staggering around out here with no—” She looked up at him and
her eyes shone, maybe with tears, but only for a second. She squinted. “Ray?”
“Monk,” he said, offering a hand. She stood up alone. “But it’s funny you called me Ray because
when I was a little kid—” She hugged him. Monk took a deep breath. “Bennie!” he called out, hugging
her back.
For months, they drove back and forth to see each other, explaining their absences as school trips,
projects, or other necessary activities. Bennie, it turned out, was only visiting Boston. She still lived
outside Newark, where Monk had grown up. Where he had been Ray. But instead of the bakery, the
Scottos now lived in a mansion outside of town.
Sometimes Bennie would arrive with her friend Angela, who helped her sneak out of the house.
Or they’d go to Angela’s house when her parents weren’t home. Never to the Scotto house, which had
security cameras everywhere. Bennie had one more year of high school, and Monk had wanted to
wait. But the arguments about college continued. His mother filled out the paperwork for Harvard and
paid the tuition advance. Monk didn’t see how he could live as a Harvard freshman and still see
Bennie. And as much as they believed they were meant to be, Monk feared Bennie wouldn’t wait for
him for a whole year.
Bennie had been his first, but Monk was almost certain Bennie wasn’t a virgin. The first time they
saw each other after Boston, Monk drove to see Bennie. She’d managed to get a hotel room that time,
Monk still wasn’t sure how. But she told him she wanted everything to be perfect for their first time.
When Monk knocked on the door, Bennie had answered wearing a red silk teddy with fishnet
stockings. He had been afraid to touch her at first, afraid he would break a string or take something off
the wrong way. She had sat him down on the bed, slowly removing his shoes, his socks, his jeans, his
flannel shirt, and then his boxers. When she took him into her mouth, he thought he would not be able
to breathe. The air against his skin felt like light; everything was electric. He thought he would not be
able to hold back the torrent of pleasure building from his thighs, his spine. But every time he cried
out, she would slow down. Then finally she stepped back from him and slowly peeled off each
stocking. She dropped the strings of the teddy from her shoulders, and her perfect, round breasts were
there in front of him. The wisp of silk fell to the floor, and Bennie stood there, smooth and glowing,
without any shame or concern.
She had climbed onto the bed with him, taking his cock into her hands as she knelt on her knees.
Slowly, she guided him exactly where she wanted him, and he felt them lock together like missing
pieces. He felt her hands on his ass, her fingers digging into his flesh, pulling and pushing him. He
found his arms around her waist, and she slowly wrapped one leg and then the other around him. They
stayed that way, rocking slowly, for what seemed like hours. When he would nearly be overcome,
Bennie would slow down, kiss his neck, whisper to him. Finally Bennie grabbed the headboard of the
bed with both hands and steadied herself with both feet. She lifted herself up and down, slowly at
first. Her flesh so wet, his cock so slick, she began to rock faster. Monk grasped the headboard sides
behind him and pushed upward in one long thrust, with Bennie grinding her hips madly. “Give me,”
she panted, “give it to me.” Monk came, then collapsed beneath her. She fell on top of him, and they
held onto one another, laughing and crying.
Bennie was not a girl who would wait a year for a boy, Monk knew. He saw Sal staring at him as
if he knew where Monk’s mind had been.
“You could have picked anyone,” Sal said. But when Monk looked back, Sal was looking at
Bennie, not him. He meant she could have picked anyone. Monk looked between the two of them.
Suddenly, he felt like he was the odd man out in the room. Monk savored the last seconds of not
knowing whatever it was he was about to find out.
 Nine

BENNIE
Before

ANGELA MUTTERED in her restless sleep. She had drifted off an hour ago, right in the middle of 90210,
and Bennie was bored. Since Angela had started dating Carlo Donato, she wasn’t nearly as much fun.
She wouldn’t sneak out anymore to go dancing in the city. She wouldn’t even tell Bennie anything
about sex with Carlo, even though Bennie knew Carlo was telling anybody who’d listen. She knew
why Angela was so sleepy. Carlo could be a real animal. Bennie sighed. She wished they could
compare notes, but if Angela knew Bennie had slept with Carlo, that would be the end of their
friendship. Bennie opened the dresser drawer to see if she could find a diary. She shoved the pink
lacquered drawer closed, a little too loudly, disappointed. Of course not, Bennie thought. No
imagination.
She thought back to earlier in the evening when they were setting the table.
“Come on, Angie. Is it…you know. Is it big?” They giggled. Bennie knew the answer; Carlo’s
penis was huge, and it bent a little to the left. Bennie liked that little bend. She hoped Angie was
finding it useful, too.
But Angie just kept shoving her away and blushing. Until Mrs. Rinzi came in, shushing them. “I
can’t give you girls one simple thing—Angela, there’s no fork at your father’s plate and these napkins
are dirty. Get the clean ones from the line.”
“Yes, Ma.” Angela shot Bennie a look on her way out of the dining room. Mrs. Rinzi turned to
Bennie. She looked like one of those women who might have been a cheerleader in high school but
now just wore a lot of makeup. Bennie looked at the big diamond on her hand as she gestured at her.
“Listen, you. I don’t care whose daughter you are. You’re a dirty girl. But that’s your father’s
problem, and Sister Margaret’s problem, but it’s not my problem. Don’t you smirk at me, Benedetta
Scotto. You keep your filthy mouth under control in my house and around my Angela.” Bennie took the
fork in her hand, the one she was about to set at Mr. Rinzi’s place at the head of the table. Instead, she
stuck out her tongue and licked the tines, staring at Mrs. Rinzi. The woman crossed her arms and
leveled her gaze. “Thank God,” she began, rolling the words out slowly in English, “thank God your
poor mother didn’t live—”
She hadn’t finished the sentence, because Mr. Rinzi had stepped into the room. “Connie,” he said
to his wife, “what the hell, Connie? She’s just a kid.”
“She’s eighteen years old. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”
 Bennie had sat through dinner at the Rinzis’ without saying much. Angela kept staring at the phone
on the wall, waiting for the call from Carlo that was not going to come on a Wednesday night, because
on Wednesdays, Carlo and his boys drove over to see the girls they all had in Montclair. College
girls. Bennie had seen the redhead Carlo liked once or twice. Tall, kind of a hippie chick, not Italian.
She was a dancer or something, but not a stripper. Like modern dance. Bennie had asked her to be
sure. Before that, she didn’t know you could actually go to college and study dancing. One more
reason school made no sense.
Mr. Rinzi kept looking at her. He had big, sweet eyes like a Basset Hound, and she liked the way
his jaw cracked when he ate. He had to be at least forty years old, she thought, but his hair was thick
and black, and he looked a little bit like an actor playing a gangster in a Hollywood movie. Angela’s
father, Bennie thought as he looked at her with sorrow and maybe some sympathy, was a little bit
dreamy.
She thought about Mr. Rinzi while she listened to Angela snoring. And mumbling, Oh, Carlo. She
could climb out the window and walk home. Her father Enzo would be on the phone or at the dining
room table with the ledgers spread out, tallying the numbers for the day. Sure, he had people who took
care of the books. But Enzo Scotto kept his own ledgers. If a discrepancy arose, he’d find the source
of the error. And it had better be an honest error.
No, she didn’t feel at all like a business lesson tonight. She felt like teaching a lesson, maybe. She
was bored and a little lonely. Maybe she was just feeling generous. Sometimes she felt like her life
had cut off, slipped out into unknown territory ever since she ran away with Monk and then had to
come back home alone. And then sometimes, she felt like the universe had put her exactly where she
was supposed to be.
She opened the door to Angela’s bedroom and peered down the hallway. She made her way
downstairs in the dark, following the stucco walls with her fingertips, then padded into the kitchen,
the white of her striped knee socks glowing in the dark. By the light of the refrigerator, she filled a tall
glass with milk and drank half of it down in one gulp. At the other end of the kitchen, the blue glow of
a television flickered just past the half-open basement door. Maybe Angela’s brother was up. Bennie
slid her feel along the linoleum and eased through the cracked door.
The stairs to the basement were covered in soft, shaggy carpet, so she made no sound at all as she
descended. It wasn’t Angela’s brother at all; it was Mr. Rinzi. Leaned back in the recliner, she could
see the top of his wavy black hair. He was watching the late night sports report. Was he asleep?
Bennie inched closer. She crept step by step until she stood in front of him. Only then did she realize
she was wearing nothing but her football jersey and her knee socks. He must be asleep, she thought,
and started to leave. But without seeming to open his eyes, Mr. Rinzi spoke to her.
“Deion Sanders? Pretty girl like you gonna wear a football jersey and it’s Deion Sanders?”
Bennie felt a rush of heat from her legs to her ears. She smiled and tugged at the edge of the jersey
just a little, biting her lip. “Prime Time,” she said. “They underestimate him, but they’ll see.”
“Bennie, Connie didn’t mean—”
“I don’t care about Connie,” Bennie said, taking two slow steps toward Mr. Rinzi. “Besides,
she’s right.” He looked confused for a second, until Bennie leaned closer. “I’m nineteen,” she
whispered. “I know what I’m doing.”
A lock of her hair brushed his face as she straightened back up to her full height. She grasped the
edge of the jersey again, but this time, she slid it up toward her hips. Rinzi leaned back, putting his
hands behind his head, as if he could not think of anything else to do with them. Bennie turned slowly,
swinging her hips ever so slightly, and when her back turned completely, she raised the jersey to
show the curve of her perfect ass. She heard Rinzi exhale, and she laughed. She turned sharply and
pulled the jersey over her head in one move, standing in only her knee socks in front of him. Now
Rinzi knitted his eyebrows together and made a face as if to whistle, but no sound came.
Bennie cupped her breasts in her hands and walked slowly, one foot directly in front of the other.
Some people saw their futures in cards. Some saw it in business ventures, in books, in a mentor.
Bennie saw her future in Chris Renzi’s face that night. She was Enzo Scotto’s daughter. She was
beautiful. But most of all, she was powerful. She could have anything or anyone she wanted. In that
moment, she wanted Chris Renzi. She wanted to thank him for his loyalty. She wanted to feel a real
man inside her. And for the icing on the cake, she wanted Chris Renzi’s wife to know her place
forever.
Bennie reached his chair and climbed onto the arms, a knee on each side of his lap. She put her
finger on his full lower lip and pulled it further out; it felt like velvet, like a cushion. She leaned over
him and placed her nipple on his soft lips, and Renzi exhaled deeply before taking her into his mouth
and sucking hard. Bennie felt as though his mouth pulled tight a string that ran all the way from her
nipples to her clit. She shuddered a little but did not pause as she unbuckled his pants and pulled out
his cock. She saw the look of sincerity on his face, but she laughed. She was no virgin. She bent down
and put his beautiful cock into the mouth Connie Renzi had called filthy. Renzi exclaimed something
in Italian as Bennie drew the tip of her tongue along the thick vein running the length of his penis.
Then she sat up and pulled him inside her, laughing, her hair falling across her face. She heard Chris
laugh, too, so she bent down so he could kiss her. And he kissed her, hungrily, starving. She rocked
her hips, making little circles. He rocked, too, a complementary motion that seemed to unknot
something deep inside her. Warmth expanded uncontrolled and with such momentum she raised her
arms and arched her back involuntarily, as if on a roller coaster. A rocket ran up her spine as the
explosion came inside her, first her own, accompanied by her cascading laughter. Then his, like she
was a star too hot to stay in one piece, fragments of heat and light scattering inside her. And she
laughed louder as he rocked himself against her hips and covered her breasts with tiny, breathy
kisses.
Of course she had not been a virgin, but Bennie would always consider Chris Renzi her first real
man. She knew Connie saw them that night, and Connie never spoke to Enzo Scotto’s daughter again.
Not at breakfast the next morning, and not a decade later, when she handed Bennie the urn full of
ashes at Chris’s funeral.
 Ten

MONK
Then

“HE’ S HERE. He’s upstairs studying. Hang on a second, Justin. I’ll go see.”
Monk heard his mother’s boots thumping up the stairs. He took off his glasses and rubbed his
eyes. The fat LSAT practice book lay open, held down by another thick book, The Pocket Aristotle.
He’d left the door open a crack, and he could see her brightly colored sweater out of the corner of his
eye. He spoke softly without looking up. “Not interested. You can tell him anything you like.”
His mother sighed and trotted back downstairs. He couldn’t hear exactly what she said, only the
downcast cadence, the “you take care, Justin,” and the clack of the receiver back into its cradle. Monk
calculated his score for the last three sections, then turned the page to start a new test. He’d be
graduating in a few weeks from Harvard, but he showed no interest in the celebration his mother
planned for him. He would have nixed the idea altogether, except that it seemed to mean a lot to the
bar regulars. He remembered the party and the cake when he got in to Harvard. He hadn’t been able
to focus. All he thought about that night was Bennie.
Monk twirled the pencil in his hand. He’d wasted so much time on her. Not again. After that trip
to Canada, Monk came home and reimagined his life. Well, not at first. At first, he sulked. Another
waste of time. Then one Monday morning he woke up from a dream about his father, a dream in which
his father was still alive. He waved at Monk, sitting at a table in a blue hazy room, like it was lit only
by a television. These dreams never consoled Monk all that much, who wanted to believe his father
was living out there, escaped from the violence and the crime, someplace quiet and normal. Mowing
the lawn, feeding a tank full of exotic fish. Maybe he had a new family; maybe Monk had brothers and
sisters someplace. It struck Monk that whether or not his father might be dead or alive, whether or not
the dream meant he was communicating to him from the other side, it was time to think about a
different life.
Law school was only a step in the plan, Monk’s map to independence. When completed, he could
live a relatively free life. Money, a lot of money, constituted the core of the plan, and he’d already
made progress toward that goal. A law degree would protect him should he ever run into trouble with
any kind of institution that abided by laws. Early on, he began to forge a network of alliances, favors,
and personal debts among influential people on all sides of the law, from one end of the country to the
other. A piece of wisdom Monk brought from his father’s world.
Five years after, Monk barely recognized himself as the kid whose world ended in a tacky hotel
room in Toronto. He kept nothing to remind him of that time. Nothing but a memory that lived in his
mind as a warning.
“Monk.” When had his mother come back up the stairs? He pushed the door a little more open
with his foot. She had a beer in one hand and a bowl of beef stew in the other. He put down his
pencil, and she set both items on the end of the desk so she could bend over and hug him. He sighed
deeply, breathing in the leather of her boots, the aroma of the beef stew, even the familiar bitter scent
of her hairspray. “I’ll go out later,” he said, patting her back, “after a few more hours.”
“You know I love you. You don’t have to prove anything to me. You don’t have to prove anything
to anyone.”
“It’s not that,” he said, turning back to the book. “You know it’s not about that.”
Gloria studied him as hard as he studied the problem on the page. “As long as this ends with you
getting what you want.”
“I’m almost there, Ma.”
“So you think you know what you want?”
Monk looked up at her again. “It’s not like before. I do know. And I’m earning it.”
She unfolded her arms and turned toward the doorway. “That,” she said, shaking a finger at him,
“that much I know. I hope it’s worth it.”
“Already is,” he said, and she laughed.

He picked up his pea coat from the back of the chair and shrugged it on in one motion. “Ma,” he
called as he took the stairs two at a time, “I think I will step out for a bit.”
He heard her call, “Be safe,” just as he got to the sidewalk. At the corner, he made a right toward
the library, cutting across its frozen lawn onto a tree-lined side street. The wood frame houses with
plastic slides and trampolines in their yards slowly gave way to brick and stone, landscaping,
carriage houses.
Monk turned at a row of high hedges and shoved his hands into the pea coat side pockets. He’d
forgotten his gloves; his knuckles burned red and his wrists ached from typing. He followed the
cobblestone path up to the portico of a Georgian mansion, hopped up the three steps to the screen
door, and let himself in. He pulled up short when a tall man with silver hair in a black cashmere car
coat stepped in front of him, pulling on a pair of tan leather gloves.
“Monk! A delight to see you, as always. If you’re looking for Justin, I’m afraid he’s out already. I
don’t think I’ve seen him since yesterday, come to think of it. I can’t keep up with you young people.
How was the concert?”
Monk avoided the lie. “As you might imagine,” he laughed. Justin had called him three times, and
he’d promised to meet them, but he’d stayed up late reading Cicero instead. A night of trance music,
throbbing lights, and Justin’s trust fund girls looking for husbands and mushrooms didn’t fit into his
life plan.
“Well, better you than me, that’s what I say!”
“I’m sure, Mr. Dennison!”
“Marjorie’s inside. Be sure to say hi before you go. I’m off to the club for a dinner meeting. Be
nice to her and she’ll whip you up something before you’re off again.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to be any trouble,” Monk ventured.
 “Nonsense. You know she loves you.”
Monk smiled as Mr. Dennison patted him on the back and trotted off along the cobblestones
toward the garage. He opened the French doors to the breakfast room slowly, looking right and left.
Justin, the youngest, was the last Dennison living at home, but his sisters visited often. The place was
almost quiet except for the distant sound of a stereo playing what sounded like something from Mrs.
Dennison’s Dixieland jazz and blues catalogue. She’d married Mr. Dennison when he had been in
medical school at Duke University, and nearly forty years later, she remained a Southern girl in
matters of food and music.
Monk followed the sinuous clarinet up the stairs, the soft Turkish rugs absorbing his footfalls. He
didn’t knock. Inside her dressing room, Marjorie Dennison lay across a chaise, her kimono open to
her waist, her long, perfect legs perched on either side of the sofa in black silk stockings held up by
satin garters.
“I hope your hands are just freezing. Are they freezing?”
“Just like you like them,” Monk said, dropping to his knees in front of her. He placed his hands on
the inside of each of her thighs. She cooed, arching her back with a faint giggle.
“Good boy,” she whispered. “You know what to do.” Monk slid his hands up until he reached her
small, velvety thicket of hair, then plunged his index and middle fingers inside her. She tensed and
relaxed over and over, and with each pulse, he wriggled gently, watching her muscular, lithe torso
ripple with enjoyment. She’d been a dancer; sometimes she would improvise an exotic routine for
Monk, dressed only in her Ferragamo pumps.
She liked for him to keep his coat on, the prickly wool against her skin. Monk slid on top of her,
pinching her nipples lightly. “Ice bucket,” she whispered, and Monk plunged his hand into the ice
bucket she kept on the side table during his visits. Then he returned his hand, grazing her nipples with
his wet, frigid palm. Marjorie registered approval with her own warm hand, ripping his belt out of its
loops with a commanding sweep. Monk sighed as he thrust into her, ready to be embraced in her
warmth, ready to come in from of the cold.
 Eleven

MONK and BENNIE

Now

BENNIE’ S FACE remained impossible to read. Monk watched as she scrolled, scanning the collection
of text messages and emails that made up the entire body of information Monk had collected about
Jack and Juno, from the research he and Juno had completed before her disappearance to the scant
texts of reassurance he had received from Juno’s phone over the last few weeks.
“These last few texts.”
“I don’t think they’re from Juno. They don’t sound like her. Don’t…” Monk waved his hand and
shook his head at Bennie. “I mean, I hear you. I promise if the answer here is that she left on her own,
I can accept that. I swear, that’s not what’s happening. She’d have called me a bastard and walked out
if that’s what this was. She’s not afraid of me.”
“She’s not afraid of you? Then she doesn’t know?”
“She knows everything about me. I told her everything.”
“And that didn’t scare her? Impressive. Okay, for the sake of argument, we’ll assume she didn’t
leave you. This brother, he’s been gone…what, twenty years, almost? Monk, you and I know…”
Monk nodded vigorously. “It’s her weakness. She’s a crushing realist. It’s the one fantasy she
allows herself.”
Monk avoided Bennie’s eyes, but he saw the leering smile on her lips. He refused to let her see
anything beyond his seriousness about finding Juno.
“Like you,” she said, and Monk realized she was smiling about something else entirely. “Like you
and your father.”
Monk let out a shortened, choked laugh. “I set that down a long time ago. He’s gone.” He waved a
hand as if to keep the thought away from his mind.
Bennie’s face darkened for a moment. “That’s the first time you’ve disappointed me, Monk.
Maybe ever. I never saw you as a quitter.”
She stood up and smoothed her skirt, even though it wasn’t wrinkled. Her hands traveled from her
hips to the shapely ridge of her behind, then almost absentmindedly over her pelvic bones, coming
together as if she were naked and covering herself. Still seated, Monk could not help noticing the ring
on her right hand, a slender reworking of her father’s massive signet ring.
“I had it made,” she said, watching Monk’s eyes. She held her hand toward him, and he recoiled
slightly, abashed she had caught him looking.
 She smirked, then turned and walked over to her desk. “Monk, if I’m going to help you, you have
to stop acting like I’m going to reach over and bite you with my pussy.”
Monk flushed bright red and clenched his jaw. He could think of only one way to knock her down.
“I guess you’ve been to see Sal at the hospital.”
If it stung, she didn’t show it. The thud of her address book dropping onto the desk a little harder
than necessary gave him the only sign he might have hit the mark. “So, based on what you told me, I
did some reaching out.” She removed a folder from the chrome rack behind her desk and laid it open
in front of her. “I started with my East Coast connections, since your last verified sighting can only be
hers, the last time she saw him at home. Everything else, your research—”
“I know. It’s all rumor. Vague, possible sightings. A faint paper trail.”
“Right. It’s not bad, what you’ve found. I guess what I’m saying is the only reason I’ve done any
better is that I’m willing to have my name spoken in places you aren’t.”
Monk sat up on the edge of the chair, trying to decide whether to stand or not. “I’ve never
regretted that decision.”
“Not even now?”
“I wouldn’t have her if I hadn’t made the choices I made.”
“Fair enough. And what if you have to make different choices to get her back?”
“I’ll do what I have to do to save her.”
Bennie straightened up and tilted her head. “Even if it means losing her?”
“Whatever it means. Look, something has happened to her. She’s more than capable of taking care
of herself, but going off line completely isn’t her style. She’s in danger, or worse. I’m a realist, and
I’ve prepared myself. I won’t stop until I know what happened to her, one way or another. I can’t look
beyond that right now. Finding her is everything. Anything else is unthinkable until I know what
happened.”
Bennie nodded. She pulled out a piece of paper from the folder. “Thank you,” she said to Monk.
He held up his hands as if to ask. “For not making me say it. For not making me say the most obvious
explanation, if you’re sure she didn’t leave you.”
Monk nodded. “I know,” he said. “And if we’re right, if she’s…”
“Say the word,” Bennie said, lifting one shoulder. “Or don’t, because I have nothing for a man
who will hurt a woman. I will take him down on principle.”
“Can we agree not to get ahead of this? Until we know.”
“Until we know.” Bennie looked down at the paper. “You said the trail ended in Canada. Well,
that’s where mine starts. If you’re ready. Now, there’s nothing about her. This is about Jack.”
Monk scratched the back of his head and finally stood up. “I don’t think we’ll find her any other
way. I think the way to Juno is through Jack. That’s the path she took. We can only follow. We can
only hope we’ll find what she found. And eventually, we’ll find her.”
“One way or another.”
Monk felt the sting behind his eyes, but it wasn’t time for tears. “One way or another,” he agreed.
“Okay, then. I have a breadcrumb trail. It’s not much. We’re going to need to travel. Monk, it’s
Toronto. I don’t know what else to tell you. Of all cities.”
Monk searched her face. She seemed genuinely distressed at the prospect. Of all cities, indeed.
“Whatever it takes,” he whispered.
“You must really like her,” Bennie said, picking up her cell phone and dialing. “Mark, prepare the
helicopter. I need to be in Toronto for a couple of days. Move anything that needs moving.”
Monk chuckled despite the tightness in his chest.
 “What’s so funny? You weren’t expecting to get there in an old red Miata, were you?”
“How’s your father? Still in prison?” It came out harsher than Monk meant, and it felt beneath
him.
“Yes. Yours? Still dead?”
That’s right, Monk remembered. Feeling sorry for Bennie was never a good idea.
 Twelve

MONK
Now

BENNIE, behind her sunglasses, talked on her phone from the heliport to the hotel, mostly about things
that seemed to have no relation to Monk’s problem. He checked his own messages, looking for word
from any of his own Toronto connections. He’d been out of touch for a while, but a few loyal friends
chased down the thin leads Monk passed to them.

…record of a Jack Cooper as late as 2012 living in Sault Ste. Marie. Not sure the age
works.

He scrolled to the next message.

…remembers a guy named Jack who worked with a timber crew in Northern Ontario
but says he lost track of him. Thought he might have gone back to the States.

A new message banner fell across his screen. Derek, an old PI friend. Monk had been waiting to
hear from him. He tapped the screen.

Okay, I hope I’m right about this. Maybe next time try to find a more common name, why
don’t you? I’m pretending all the John Coopers and Jon Coopers are beside the point.
But this is a name that hides in plain sight. He disappeared like a rock dropping into a
lake. Here’s what I found, though.
Jack Cooper, mid-thirties, Southern accent, lived in Elora in the 2010s. He came when
the Grand River Raceway opened, rented a studio apartment on David Street. There’s a
record of his registration in a couple of 10k races, some attendance at meetings of a
local land conservancy organization. No warrants, no arrests. No evidence after 2015.
Doesn’t mean he left. I’ve got some calls out. I’ll get back to you.

Monk rested the phone on his lap, and then another text from Derek.

Somebody else is looking. A woman, they said.

Monk waited for more but then realized Derek might be looking for his reaction. He thought for a
moment.

I have a couple of people working on it.

 Maybe Bennie’s people had already made the rounds, and it was Bennie who was the woman
looking for Jack. But he asked, and then he closed his eyes until he felt the phone vibrate.

No, there was a woman here. Few weeks back, maybe a month, they say.

Juno. She had been there. That was something.

A woman here in Toronto?

Monk typed. He watched the three dots.

You in town? Yeah, here. But if she talked to the same people, she’s on the same trail.
You think that’s maybe your girl?

If it had been Juno, why hadn’t she told him where she was? Monk sank into the seat and stared
out the window. Yonge Street used to be the longest street in the world. It was in the record books, he
remembered. It sure felt like the longest street in the world today.
Bennie chatted on, with intermittent Italian phrases. She’d taken out a laptop and seemed to be
putting figures into a spreadsheet. She’d always been able to multitask shamelessly, Monk smirked to
himself.
What if she was out there, walking down the longest street in the world, looking for him? Monk
wondered if she’d feel it, if she’d know he had come for her. He’d missed his chance when Juno
disappeared the last time. He couldn’t forgive himself for believing she’d left him, for not realizing
sooner that Mitchell had threatened not only Juno, but him, his family, everything Juno loved. She’d
made him promise not to follow her when she went looking for Jack, but that wasn’t a fair thing for
her to ask. He agreed, but only as long as she stayed in touch. Another mistake. Please let me find her
one more time, Monk thought to himself. Let me find her again, and I will not leave her side.
Bennie’s conversation became suddenly animated, and Monk realized she was arguing in
Mandarin but gesturing in Italian, waving her arms so hard her laptop slid off into the seat between
them. Monk held it toward her and she took it back with a quick nod, never breaking the stream of
commandments she issued to the person on the line.
“Five Sisters,” Bennie whispered to him, holding the phone away from her face. She saw Monk’s
confusion. “You didn’t think we’d stay at that same rat hole? We’re here; this is the Five Sisters hotel.
There’s no sign. It’s a private club.”
Monk looked out just as the car passed under a stone archway and down into an underground
garage. “Used to be a convent,” Bennie said. “It’s under a very different sort of management now.”
Her laughter in the dark sent a chill down Monk’s spine. What a marvel she was, a kind of fire-
breathing dragon, with red nails and stilettos. Hadn’t he seen it when they were kids? Surely it had
always been there. Authority, an all-consuming drive. She was incapable of hearing the word “no.”
Coming to her might have been a mistake, Monk thought. But he was running out of time. It was like he
had a couple of hammers, and what he needed was a wrecking ball. He had one now. There would be
wreckage. And there would be a price to pay.
 Thirteen

BENNIE
Now

S HE DIDN ’ T WANT to get Monk’s hopes up. The way she saw it, there were two explanations for his
girlfriend’s disappearance. That is, assuming she hadn’t tired of him. And Bennie still hadn’t
eliminated that possibility. The more she studied Juno in the photos and descriptions, the woman’s
history as her informants produced it, Bennie became increasingly intrigued. She was beautiful—
elegant, even. Not what Bennie had pictured when she had heard “professional poker.” Bennie pulled
up one of the photos on her laptop: Juno, reclined in a casino chair behind her signature Wayfarer
dark glasses. In the photo, Juno’s lower lip jutted out in determination, or deep thought. Bennie traced
the red half-moon, wondering if she was wearing the same deep crimson she preferred, Guerlain’s
Rouge Diabolique. Bennie once heard the shade was Marilyn Monroe’s favorite. Her olive skin and
long, glossy, black curls starkly contrasted Marilyn’s, but she adopted the shade anyway, and it had
served her well. Juno looked more like Monroe: hourglass figure and short, platinum locks that
looked like a modern version of the queen of glamor. Yes, Bennie thought, we could be friends. Close
friends. Monk wouldn’t like that. Or would he?
At any rate, she wondered how long Monk could keep a woman like Juno satisfied. Maybe she’d
still return on her own. But Bennie had admitted to Monk that if he had any hope of a life with this
woman, it was time to look for her. A month without word—it would seem like the end. Bennie
would have taken the hint. As tiresome as it might have been, Monk seemed to be in love.
Bennie brought Monk with her to Toronto to follow the angle that Monk seemed to prefer: that
Juno, looking for her brother Jack, had somehow fallen out of communication and might need help. It
struck Bennie that this option was the most hopeless one. The more Bennie’s associates told her about
Jack—his last known jobs, friends, movements of all kinds—Bennie believed he had found his way
into the most dangerous circles. No doubt the trail ended because somebody put an end to Jack. If
Juno had made her way along the same path Bennie had uncovered, she was as dead now as Jack, no
doubt, and had been for some time.
“What a waste,” Bennie mumbled, pulling up another photo of Juno, this time in a sheer minidress
covered with paillettes as if to create the effect of a chandelier. Glass girl, silver angel. She had no
business crossing the kind of people Bennie had grown up with. Bennie clicked on another photo of a
man, almost as blond as Juno, with the same pointed chin and high cheekbones. He wore a blue plaid
flannel shirt and had a short, stubbly beard. The message that came with the photo read: “Last known
photo of Jack Cooper. Elora, 2012. Unverified.” That face. Maybe the photo was unverified, but
Bennie saw the same curve of cheek and lip. The Coopers had a magnetic appeal. The photo had to be
Jack.
Bennie sighed and closed her laptop. She believed something else entirely had happened to Juno,
even though Monk didn’t want to consider it. Bennie sent her best investigator to search for Juno’s
former boyfriend, the eccentric billionaire Mitchell Byron. XK3, he insisted on calling himself. If he
was such a genius, Bennie wondered, how did he manage to get caught swindling the government? He
had been slippery to find. But Bennie had people everywhere. This Mitchell, he didn’t like losing.
Mitchell had made a move to trap Juno. Bennie had the evidence. It was too soon to tell Monk
anything, but she bet Juno had taken the bait. She was certain Mitchell was too weak to eliminate Juno
simply. He would want to drag it out. And they say women are too emotional to run things, Bennie
thought, chuckling. She poured herself a glass of champagne and sent a text to Monk.

I’m having dinner with some friends. Call Devon at this number and she can get you
anything you need.

Bennie smiled and let the silk kimono fall from her shoulders. She stood in the window naked,
surveying the old abbey’s interior courtyard, full of lush tropical foliage and exotic orchids. A man in
the north corner stopped to examine a small bush covered in violently orange blossoms. Bennie let
her nipples graze the cold glass as she watched him traverse the courtyard on one of its cobblestone
paths. His salt-and-pepper gray hair was gathered into a slick, tight ponytail at the nape of his neck.
Bennie felt a warmth grow between her thighs, a flush that ran across her taut, brown stomach and her
sumptuous breasts. She pulled the pin from her hair and let the tresses fall around her neck as she
waited until he looked up at her.
 Fourteen

MONK
Now

MONK TURNED DOWN THE NARROW, oak-lined hall still hung with heavy, richly colored portraits of
female saints. He hadn’t expected a place like this, part spa, part spiritual retreat, part exclusive
country club. He didn’t have time to figure out what it was. And he hadn’t come to Toronto for Bennie
to visit friends. He knew she had information, and he decided to come and get it himself. If she didn’t
feel like looking for Juno, he’d start without her.
He raised his hand to knock on the door marked “Teresa of Avila,” right where Devon had
directed him. But the door opened before he could move. Bennie stood before him wearing an
enormous red cloak, black platform pumps, and a delicate red lace thong. Her lips were deep
crimson, and she wore a lace mask over her eyes.
“Well,” she said, matter-of-factly, “come in.”
“I don’t know what you think you have planned,” Monk began, “but I am here for one reason: to
find Juno. This was a mistake, coming here with you.”
Bennie pushed her mask up to reveal her face, but she made no attempt to gather the cloak around
her exposed breasts. She put a hand on her hip, even, and stuck her shapely leg out in front of her. “I’d
say, ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ but I loathe a cliché,” she began. She stepped aside, reaching for a
leather folio, which she tucked under her arm. “I have plans, as I told you. You might have noticed
this isn’t what you’d call a typical hotel. Get some sleep, have a massage, order yourself a bedtime
companion—I don’t care what you do with your evening. I will have more complete information for
you in the morning. You don’t seem to realize that the kind of detail you need to move forward
requires accuracy and patience. Run around in the streets if you want looking for your lost love. Or
get some rest and be ready for what you will need to do tomorrow.”
Monk’s mind raced. “I guess,” he started, backing up the hallway, then stopping. “I guess you
know what you’re doing here. You’ve always known what you’re doing.”
“It’s just sex, Monk. I like sex. Does that still freak you out? I assume Juno likes sex.”
Monk winced at the idea of Bennie mentioning Juno and sex in the same sentence. He looked over
his shoulder and saw Bennie leaning in the doorway. In the amber light of the sconces in the great
stone hall, her dark body glistened all over. Monk felt an old urge he barely recognized flicker inside
him. He turned before the blood reached his face, before she could see. “I can’t say, however,” she
said softly, “that I’m not touched by your concern for my virtue. After everything we’ve been
through.”
He shut his eyes. But when he did, the years fell away and Monk found himself in another hotel
across town, rolling in a tangle of arms and legs, locked in a kiss so deep and long that once they
could hear the knocking, they had no idea how long it had been going on. When he pulled away, there
was Bennie’s face, her full lips wet and parted, her black curls framing her head like a fierce cloud
before a storm. Monk tried to shake the memory away before the knocking went on, before he
wrapped Bennie in the sheet and himself in a towel. Before he looked through the peephole to see
who was there.
“I’m sure you don’t need it, Bennie. You never needed anything from me.”
“Ah, yes. The real reason you left. Did you ever think you might have been wrong about that,
Monk?”
“About leaving? No. I never thought I was wrong about that.”
“I meant, did you ever think maybe I did need something from you?”
Monk straightened his coat and started walking away. Before he turned the corner, he muttered,
just loud enough that she might hear, “That’s what I fear the most from you, Bennie.”
 Fifteen

BENNIE
Now

BENNIE REPLACED her black opera glove after placing her palm on the scanner located discretely
inside the elevator. In the mirrored wall, she checked her mask and adjusted the ruby and onyx inlaid
clasp on her cloak. The pattern echoed one seen in portraits of the Borgias, and Bennie had adopted it
as her own insignia. Not that anyone at the Five Sisters would mistake Bennie for anyone else. The
mask only heightened the intrigue, but there was no mystery.
The satin lining of her cloak swirled coolly over her skin as she left the elevator and stepped into
the first room, one the members called the Priory. The evening well begun, Bennie still strode through
slowly, as if the room were empty. She seemed to take no notice of the various tableau: couples,
threesomes, other arrangements including a nude woman posed on a pedestal like a Roman sculpture
who remained motionless while two men in tuxedos painted intricate designs across her body using
tiny brushes.
The luxurious seating in the Priory seemed to be designed for specific purposes. A ghostly pale,
red-haired woman sat ensconced in a throne-like dark green velvet chair, her skin translucent in the
contrast. Two upholstered bars supported her legs as a figure in a dark green velvet cloak knelt on the
soft bench before her, clasping her writhing hips, head buried between her glowing thighs. A muscular
young man with glossy, tanned skin lay across a wide, black leather bench straddled by a small-
framed woman in the throes of ecstasy. Her moans drew the attention of another cloaked man who
came and stood behind her, clutching her small breasts as she climaxed dramatically.
Each figure wore a mask, even if very little else. Most of the masks were simple, covering just the
eye area. But at the far end of the room in an alcove, a tall, shapely man with flowing black hair wore
a large headdress in the shape of a bull. Two women seemed to attend him, caressing his horns and
chest, while another knelt on a kind of plush ottoman in front of him. She was facing Bennie, away
from the Bull Man, and Bennie watched her delight as the Bull Man leaned slowly against her and
then thrust inside her. Bennie stopped briefly in front of them before continuing into the next room.
Harp music contrasted with the thumping bass in the Priory. Bennie passed a series of private
alcoves. One pair of masked figures played chess; another group of six enjoyed an elaborate tea
service administered by a nude figure wearing a rabbit mask. In another alcove, a woman lay beneath
a mirror caressing her breasts and slowly parting her labia with her fingers to reveal a rather large
ruby, all while a man in a tuxedo read to her from a large leatherbound book.
 Bennie considered each tableau, occasionally walking into an alcove to look closer. She began to
feel the urgency, her clit juicy and ripe. Her nipples strained against the satin, and she released the
clasp of her cloak. A man in a tuxedo with a black feathered eye mask stepped from the shadows and
took the cloak. Bennie smiled at him, and he circled her, placing his white gloved hands just shy of
touching her stomach, her breasts, her ass, her sex. Bennie arched her back, reveling in the proximity
of a stranger, the heat of his hands never touching her. He placed the cloak coolly back on Bennie’s
shoulders and disappeared again into the shadows, touching her only with a light flick of his tongue
into her lips.
Bennie walked past the last few alcoves, removing her glove again to place her palm on another
screen. A panel in the wall slid aside, and Bennie entered a dark library. A man in a business suit sat
on a red velvet sofa reading a newspaper. When he saw Bennie, he put down the paper and smiled,
his salt-and-pepper ponytail shining in the candlelight.
“My darling Benedetta. Come here.”
Bennie shed her cloak and ran, dropping to his feet.
“You are mine, you understand? You will do as I say now.” Bennie grasped his calves and
nodded. He removed his wire-rimmed reading glasses and set them aside, his handsome face
wrinkling only slightly when he smiled again at her. “Lie back. On the rug this time.” Bennie leaned
back onto the soft fur rug, a smile spreading across her face. “I have wanted you for so long. I’ve
thought of nothing but your smell for months, the taste of your wetness on my lips. No, don’t touch
yourself yet.”
Bennie wriggled on the rug just to feel its caress on her backside. “No cheating,” the man said,
standing up from the sofa and looking down at Bennie below him on the floor.
“Well?” he said, holding his hands toward her.
“Please,” she begged.
“Ah, that’s a start,” the man said.
 Sixteen

MONK
Now

MONK TOSSED AND TURNED , unable to set aside the questions that seemed to multiply faster than he
could dismiss them. He got out of bed and went over to the table where he had set the dinner that
came earlier. A knock had come at the door to reveal twin French maids, each wearing a different
color bobbed wig, one platinum and one black. Monk had taken the tray from their cart but declined to
invite them in. Now he lifted the silver domes one by one, considering the ripe, full strawberries and
cream, the fried potatoes, the thick steak. He started with the steak, and only after the first bite did he
realize how hungry he was. He ate with vigor, finishing every bite, even the last of the cream in the
bowl, licking it like a stray cat. He drank the small carafe of water, then opened the small refrigerator
by the bed and took out a beer, a brand he didn’t recognize, probably local. Maybe now sleep would
come.
Monk stretched out on the sofa. He knew what he needed. He needed Juno. This strange place had
awakened his body, and the insistent need for release began to inhibit his ability to think. Tears came
to his eyes, tears of frustration, regret, and grief. I can’t give in to despair, he thought. At least I have
one more night of hope. One more night that she might still be out there. One more night I can
resolve to find her.
Desire overwhelming him, Monk thought back to the night Juno seemed to visit him in his room at
home in Vermont, even though she was Mitchell’s captive, half a world away. He woke that next day,
terrified that she might be gone, that he had seen a ghost. But he hadn’t lost hope then. Could he still
feel her now? He closed his eyes and pictured her walking up the path from the sea to their house in
Greece. Distress and longing took over, and he imagined stopping her on the path and carrying her to
patio, laying her across the tile bench. He could feel her ass in his hands, the tight curve of her
bottom, and he felt his hand reach into her bikini and push it aside, entering her from behind. Monk
exhaled with a whimper, feeling Juno’s warmth, her scent, the sharp smell of the bougainvillea that
grew along the walls of their home. He rocked to sleep in the hammock they hung in the trees just off
the patio, holding Juno tightly in his arms.
Monk woke when the hammock stopped swinging. The sun had gone down and his head was
splitting. No; there had been no sun. He wasn’t in Greece at all. He was in Toronto. He couldn’t find
Juno; that’s why he had come to Toronto. His head ached more when he tried to move. Juno was
missing, and he had to find her. But how could she be missing? She was here. She was in bed next to
him. Was he dreaming? No! She was right here in Toronto. She was here with him.
Monk shot up and pulled aside the window curtain just enough to see. Her back was turned to
him, but daylight caressed the curve of her hip where the sheet began. Her blond tousled locks lay
against the pillow. He reached out and traced the nape of her neck down her spine, smiling.
She turned, and Monk leapt from the bed. “Hello there,” the woman said, pulling the sheet around
her. Monk cast his eyes around the room. He’d never seen her before. She did look a bit like Juno, but
where had she come from. His ears rang and floaters filled his vision.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “Who are you? How did you get in here?”
The girl laughed and rolled out of bed. “You’re hilarious. You should be an actor.” She waved her
hand at him and picked up some items from the floor that must have been her clothing. On her way to
the door, she paused and kissed him on the cheek. “See you next time, Monk. I like how you play.”
Monk stood frozen for a long time after she left. When he did move, he scrambled to find his
phone, which was ringing. He dropped to his knees and found it under the sofa, still ringing. The
screen said “B.” Bennie. He wasn’t ready, but he didn’t have any choice.
“Hey, did you get what I sent you? I hope you’re rested now. I’ve got new information and we
need to move—”
“I knew it was a mistake coming here! You’ve…you’ve got your revenge, I guess. Even though
I’m the one who should have wanted revenge! You’ve ruined my life again!”
“Monk… MONK…” Bennie tried to break in, but Monk was inconsolable.
“It’s my own fault. Why would I listen to Sal about you? Sal, of all people. You two. You’re came
out of the same cave, and you want to drag me down into it.”
“MONK! LISTEN! I have no idea, seriously, what you’re talking about. But it sounds like you are
really upset. I’m truly sorry, but I don’t know what’s happened.”
“What you sent me. That’s what happened.”
“I sent you dinner, Monk. Dinner. I had them make you a steak. Are you vegan now? What is
happening?”
Monk put his head in his hand and dropped the phone to his side, letting out a choked sob. He
could hear Bennie’s voice, in turn pleading and mildly scolding. He thought he heard her say, “Never
mind. Stay there. I’ll be right there.”
 Seventeen

BENNIE and MONK

Now

“MONK, open the door. I need to tell you what I found out last night, and I don’t feel like shouting it in
the hallway. Please.”
The door opened a crack. Bennie waited for a second, then pushed it a little more open. She
didn’t see Monk until she stepped inside. He sat in one of the straight-backed chairs, his elbows on
his knees and his head bent down. She looked around the room at the scattered clothing, including a
lacy mask caught on the bedstead. She took a deep inhale.
“Look, it’s none of my business,” she said calmly.
Monk looked up and studied her expression. “You really don’t know, do you? You didn’t set me
up?”
Bennie tilted her head. “Wait a minute. Maybe you should tell me what you think happened.”
Monk stared, but Bennie didn’t blink. “I don’t remember it all. But it’s coming back in pieces.”
“Let’s get you some coffee. I’ll call—”
“Can we get out of here?”
Bennie looked at Monk. She’d seen that expression before. “Sure,” she said. “Let’s get out of
here. I know a place.”
Monk had finished two cups of coffee and started a third by the time he could bring himself to
start telling Bennie the story of the previous night, as best as he could put it together. It came to him
like a movie he’d slept through, only he was the star. And, from his perspective, both the victim and
the villain.
It started with a text message from a Toronto number. “I thought it was you, or a friend of yours,”
he told Bennie. “There were directions to follow.”
“So you followed.”
“I did what the message said.” Monk shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d talked to your friends and
that I was going—we were going—”
“You knew I said we needed to go someplace soon, and you thought this was it.”
Bennie reached over the diner counter and picked up the coffee pot from its burner, pouring more
for herself and for Monk. She sat back down on the stool and folded her hands on the counter. Monk
stared into the heavy mug emblazoned with green cursive letters. “I followed the hallway to the
elevator, and I put my palm on the scanner, like the instructions said to do.” Bennie’s eyebrow raised
slightly, but Monk didn’t see it.
“I don’t remember getting out of the elevator. Not very clearly I do get these flashes—I think there
was a movie playing or something. There was a statue of a goddess, like a Roman statue, but it was
covered in painted scenes of animals, hunting scenes. But then the statue moved. It walked down from
its pedestal and it climbed onto this…onto a man wearing a tuxedo sitting in a huge chair. The man
just sat there while the statue twisted in his lap. She sat facing him and then away, grinding her hips
against him. Finally she unzipped the man’s trousers and she…she lowered herself onto his cock and
he stood, holding her around the waist. Then he grabbed her ass and she shook, the statue, as if she
were vibrating. I couldn’t look away. Then the statue—the woman—turned and looked at me. She
threw her head back. She could see me.”
Monk stopped and looked at Bennie. “It wasn’t a movie, was it?” he asked. Bennie didn’t move.
He went on.
“I kept going, looking for you still. I remember thinking you were testing me somehow, that I had
to get through this, had to find the way through. I went through a kind of tunnel with these offshoots,
rooms where people—there were people doing all kinds of things. I looked for you in some of them. I
was turning from a room full of white feathers where a man chased a flock of women in swan masks
when I ran into a tall woman, over six feet, wearing a peacock headdress and mask.”
“Oh,” Bennie whispered under her breath.
“She opened her robe and her entire body was blue. She started toward me, and I turned. I walked
into the first room I saw. In it, there was a poker table. A game was in progress.”
Bennie leaned forward a little, her eyebrows tightening. She opened her mouth to speak but
stopped herself.
“The dealer was a petite brunette, dressed only in a ruffled collar and a waist chain made of the
four suits, alternating red and black: hearts, spades, diamonds, and clubs. She had on thigh-high red
leather boots. Four players sat at the table, one dressed as each suit. Two black-cloaked men wore
masks shaped like a club and a spade. A woman in a red cloak wore a mask made of diamond shapes.
She even had a red diamond pattern painted over her body. And then…” Monk paused. “The fourth
player. The fourth player was Juno. I don’t know how else to say it. I saw her. I know it was Juno.
The woman in my room this morning—that wasn’t her. I saw Juno at the table last night. I thought I
had dreamed it or hallucinated it, but I know it was her, Bennie. What is going on?”
“Monk, finish telling me. I want to help, and, trust me, Five Sisters is my safe space and I am one
of its founders. Someone has infiltrated my home. But that’s an issue I’ll handle later. Finish telling
me, and we will decide what to do next.”
“I don’t think she saw me at first. I watched her win two hands, just like she did the night I met
her. Instead of a mask, she wore dark Wayfarer glasses, just as always. Her hair was shorter again,
newly platinum, almost white. She reached in to gather the chips with that same flick of the wrist, the
half-smile.
“Another hand was going. The club man tapped for a card, then signaled to hold. Betting started,
and Juno’s face turned stern when she looked at her cards. She stood and flipped them over, seven-
deuce, the ‘devil’s hand.’ The other players stood up, and a man in a red robe wearing a devil’s mask
came into the room from behind a curtain.”
Monk paused again and took a long gulp of coffee. “I guess I was frozen. I didn’t think… it was
real. The man in the devil mask crawled across the table to Juno, and she held the cheeks of the mask
in her hands. She unbuttoned her black shirt with red hearts on it and let the mask’s exaggerated
papier mâché tongue lick her nipples. The other players pet the devil figure like a big cat, and Juno
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 —Maide, nou in de stoomdroaimole.. dâ hier is d’r
debies! dubbel debies! je braikt d’r hier je allemenak!..
inne de stoommole.. doar kâ je ’n stuk van de toart
happe.. daa’s puur veul fainer.. de rais!

—Ikke rais d’r alletait eereste klas, moar ’t mot d’r drie
moal opstoan vat je! lolde Piet.

—Neenet pinkebul! drong Dirk op, en Willem méé,

eerest hier wa fraite.… poone! aiêres!.… hee maid!
stal uit! wa hai je d’r veur lekkers!

Dientje schrok. Ze hoorde de dronken stemmen van

oom Dirk en Piet, en de andere Hassels. Maar Dirk
herkende ’t dochtertje van Kees niet, zag alleen
vreetwaar, vettig en glimmig. Bij stapels rukten Dirk en
Willem de poonen en scharren uit ’t kinderknuistje, en
de reuzige klauw van Rink stopte ’t kind ’n rijksdaalder
in de hand. Gerekend werd er niet.

—Dá’ mot moar net an weuse.. bi jai besuikerd,

bromde Rink.—En ’t wàs goed, dat voelde Dientje ook
wel.

Vóór ’t stalletje brokkelden de kerels en meiden de

poonen open, en hapten in ’t blanke vet en vleesch.
[314]

Zoetig broeide de bakolie rond in walmstanken.

—Hee Dirk! waa’s dat! frait jai d’r puur op ’n droogie!

jai kakkerlak! woar is ’t kind? wie wiegt d’r ’t klaintje?
jai Hoasewind?
 Piet uit ’n hoek, kwam aanzwaaien met de
jeneverkruik, dwars door ’n warreltroep die langs hen
hoste.—En in koeterwaalsche uitstottering van
vleinaampjes tegen den drank, sputterde ie naar de
meiden:

—Enne liefe makraile.… lekkere pokhoagels..

dottesnolle.. waa’t sel ’t weuse op haide veur de
doàmes.

—Nou! wai suipe d’r vast nie op de keie, bitste Guurt.

—Daa’s jou maines, moar maines nie, want ikke leg

d’r ’n urretje, schaterde Marie Pijler, de
kasteleinsdochter, die net bij ’t troepje aangeland was.

—Daa’s toal mestvarke! jai bint d’r gain snaiboon, sien

maide! sloan jullie d’r ’n gat in de kruik, hitste Rink.

—Jai bint d’r vast gain kalf mi ’t natte neus, lodderde

Piet na.

—Joà, proeste de furiënde blonde, op dâ terrain bi’k

deurpokt en deurmoaselt.… wâ jou Hoasefind? Moar
wâ selle wai doen mi sonders woafels en oliebolle..
main aiêrs motte sakke.. ikke hep d’r al drie en dertig
bikkelharde in main pins.

—Alloo maa’ne! hoale.. hoale! schaterde Trijn.

—Doar mo’k niks van heefte, bazuinde Rink, jelie mot

d’r nog soo veul, langsaampies maid.. dan braikt ’t
laintje nie!
 —Kaik daa’s sneu! set jai nou us de kat bai ’t spek!
hee wâ?

—Wa sneu! bulderde Rink weer, jou kakkerlak! sing

mee.. sing mee:

Heb jai sommes trek in ’n oliebol

Je kop roakt d’r vast nie van op hol!
Je loâ je waige of suipt ’n bier
Je host, je lach..igt, je haift pelsier..

En heel de stoet bralde mee voor ’n tentje, in walmig

bleek oranjeschijnsel: [315]

—Je host, je lach-igt, je haif pelsier

Je loâ je waige, je suipt je bier!

Voor den stoomdraaimolen gierde juichende

menschendrom.

Zondagavondsche kermisjoel was in verpletterend

uitbarstenden zwier aangestormd. Van alle
kermishoeken uit, brandden lampions, rood-oranje,
geel-groene gloor, tusschen flambouwengoud en
brandstapelig vonkgevlam van poffertjeskraam-ovens,
waarop ’t vuur knapperde en tonglikte, rood
ommistend de gloeikleurige tenten.

’t Zigzagde in de brandroode lucht van lampions-

kronkels en vlammige boogpoorten boven de oranjige
walmkoppen.

De stoomdraaimolen raasde in wenteling en

verroffelde vernielende geruchten rond, onder den hel-
paarsen brand van elektriek. Van binnen uit, achter
 barokstijl van zuilen en tempelbogen, kringden òm in
rutschbaangolving, venetiaansche gondels, vurig
beboegd, met gondeliers in tomaatroode gewaden,
sloepen en baldakijnen, hermelijn-blank oversneeuwd
in ’t helle licht, tusschen flakkerenden duizel van
spiegels en ruiten. Moorsche kioskjes, fel in vlam van
heete kleuren, zwalkten op baren van schitterige
glansen, avondzonnende sfeer van elektriek.

En telkens, andere sloepen en gondels draaiden vóór,

in roffelend gerucht; gondels, die de grof-koppige
gondeliers als Graal-karikaturen, op zwaanhalzige
bootjes, met hun zilverende schubbenkleedij, in hellen
gloed gevangen hielden. Als ’n zondvloedstorm
zwalpte de infernale roffel van den stoommolen
tusschen de saamgestampte licht-overschroeide
kijkmassa. Gekraak en gekreun kermde er neer uit de
sloepjes, brallend geschater uit heesche strotten. En
als Satanssignaal verschalde de stoomfluit van den
molen, angstgegil van ’n misthoorn, door den
brandenden woel heen, spiraal van demonisch
gerucht over de daverende en jammerende drommen
snerpend, verstervend in klagelijk geloei langs de
duisterende polderzee.—

Broeisfeer van kermis smeulde rook-rooder en

goudmistiger [316]òp in den zomer-zwoelen avond. Om
en achter de tenten en spellen in ’t duister, doken
kerels áán met meiden, in rauwe genotskreun, zat en
lijflog van uitgedierlijkten zwijmel. Politie deed
schuchteren rondgang daartusschen, waagde zich
nauw onder de mesklare vechters. Uit de bont-
gloeiende poffertjeskramen, langs ’t duisterend
 plankwerk, plofte plots ’n rij korte, lallende boertjes,
vetbuikige-ingedrongen gestaltetjes, begoudschemerd
van ovengloed. Hun koppen grijnsden dronken, bietig-
purper; hun bezopen oogen verfonkelden lol, en hun
glanzende pofpetten reepten ’n zwarte lijn boven hun
tronies. In hun midden herkuulde ’n paal-lange reus,
slungel met smallen zeehondenkop, wreed loerend uit
loensche oogen. Donker bonkten z’n schonken boven
de lage rij pofpetten uit.—Boerbuikjes spanden,
armpjes wrongen, beentjes, breed gezakt in
klepbroekenplooien, zwommen en trampelden rond in
den oranje lichtmist, en vóórt sliertte de met armen-
ingehaakte slingerrij, van den vuurschijn uit, ’t duister
in.—

Pal in de flakkerende flambouwing van de

luchtschommels doemden ze weer òp, begloeiend de
tronies, zwammig geel neerbrandend op monden,
kaaklijnen, woelend woest in oogholten. Telkens gleed
wisselenden lichtglans over den boertjesstoet als vóór
hen, een dolle dans van dwars voorbij rennende
kerels en wijven, okerenden rosglans van ovens en
lampen opslurpte.

Vlak voor de kleine boertjes uit, met den reuzigen

slungel in ’t midden die meedonkerde als gemoerde
lantaarnpaal waarop pofpet piekte, kankaneerden vier
woest-dronken Kerkervaartsche meiden, in flappering
van rokken en kanaljeuse lijfontblooting, zwierig
zwirrelend omschuimd van witte onderplunje, kolkend
tusschen hun dans-duivelige kuiten. Ze draaiden en
raasden in hun eigen kolkender rokkenschuim als
dolle kollen.—Met opene zangmonden, in keelbrand
roodgeslagen door ’t licht, koppen hemelwaarts, gilden
ze rond, tamboerijnend met de woeste knuisten op
kindertrommeltjes, kannibalige geruchten verroffelend.
Ze spuwden in den kermiswoel, horlepijpten [317]de
beenen in wilde harlekinade, en d’r kleurige
zondagsche plunje, oranjerood met d’r vieren,
vervlamde in ’t fakkelgoud, overal waar hun hos langs
schoot.

Donk’re kerelsstoet zeilde schuin àf op kleine

boertjesrij, haakte zich vast aan armstompjes en snel
in kringloop cirkelden ze zich wijd om de dronken
gillende meiden, die schaterend-woest zich plots
ingesloten voelden.—

Boerenkoppen glunderden zinlijk en wreed van passie

in gloedwalmend roodgeel schijnsel van ovens en
lampetten. Boerenbeentjes klein en zwaar van
krachtspanning, trampelden weer stuipend. De groote
slungel, schonkig en donker boven de pofpetten
uitreuzend, gierde en pagaaide z’n beenen in dronken
spartel voor zich uit. Z’n zeehondenkop met puntige
kinnespits, was beschuimd van uitgebrald spog, en z’n
karikatuurhanden, knepen krampig van pret in de
schouders van twee boertjes waar ie tusschen
gekneld waggelde.—

Politie had ’t duivelende meidenstel in hun jool van

rokken-lawaai, in hun stem-bezetenheid en
hysterischen waanzinroes zien steigeren, en met
schrik de boertjes zich zien storten op de dronken
furies, die heftig terugbonkten. Een van de vier
dronken vrijsters, lang en schraal, stond waggelend
 neusklankerig te stoethaspelen, drukte d’r hoofd in
den nek na wat wezenloozen woordenstamel, zoog de
flesch aan den mond en klokkerde ’r drankje in, knie-
ingezakt van passie. Aan haar arm ingehaakt, al de
rokken opgesjord, gilde ’n klein blondje, krijscherig als
’n zuigeling:

—Aooaau-uw! waa’t ’n ska-ande!

De twee andere meiden slingerden mee met de

dansschokken van de hysterische blonde, die lach-
hinnekend, in polderkerelkracht d’r dronken
vriendinnen, dàn naar zich toesleurde, dàn weer van
zich afstootte.

En rond hen, de tronies-wreede boertjeskring,

buikzwaar en kortbeenig, met den paljaslach van den
schonkigen donk’ren herkuul er boven uitrochelend.—
[318]

Boerenstoet, nu in kring met vreemde kerels rond

geschakeld, aarzelde met nieuwen aanval op de
meiden. Toen plots drongen de vreemde knapen
vooruit en smakten zich woest op de vier bezetenen,
hel in hun oranje-roode blouses en rokken. Hun
zangekerm brak even àf, en in spuwende verachting
spogen ze de kerels ’n stroom kleurige confettis in de
tronies, hun lijven in wilden woel, ruisch en druisch,
rondspiralend in eindlooze serpentiens.—

De meiden, hoonend in hun woeste kracht,

trampelden rond dat de serpentiens knapten op hun
lijven. Twee kerels mikten hun de slangelinten in de
zanglallende monden, kronkelden ze tusschen hun
 ontbloote beenen, en de boertjes in wreeden
zinneschater, kringden nauwer áán. De meiden, doller
in al engeren krans zich voelend, haakten zich armlos,
trampelden de boertjes op de tonnige korpulente
buikjes, mokerden vuisthevig in de gloed-geschroeide
kerelstronies. En haveloozer overkolkt van
rokkenschuim, kankaneerden ze zich los tegen den
boertjes-muur, die de bezetenen weer met woesten
smak den kring inwaggelden.

Besefloos en òp hijgden twee meiden uit, met

bloederig gevlek van karmijn-valen schijn op de
kaken.

Politiemannetjes onrustiger, rukten áán, sloegen zich

nu gemaakt-driftig door den boerenkring heen, botsten
de dronken kerels wèg, verkneuzend hun papieren
ruikerpracht op borst, hoofd, rug en dijen.

Maar de kerels waggelden in nijdigen haast bijéén met

hun afgezakte kleeren, losgerukte broeken en jassen,
in dronken gier harlekineerend met kleurigen flapper
van linten en mutsen. Al dichter verschuifelden ze
naar bakovenbrand van grootste wafelenkraam, zwaar
gebarend in protest, om ’t weggeduw der politie;—
daar groeiend tegen den rossigen vulkanischen
lichtschroei als waggelende titanen. Vermanend-
schuchter drongen de wetsmannen áán, de dol-
gierende meiden praaiend naar kalmte.

Maar de furiën overmoediger raasden òp, stotterden

van dronken drift, spogen, vloekten en scholden op de
agenten, mokerden [319]plots tegelijk als op bevel, met
woeste beukvuisten op de koperende gloedhelmen in.
De lange schrale meid met ’t „hápje” in ’r hand, kwijlde
en zoop slurperig-lang tot den laatsten drup, zwierde
toen plots de flesch op de keien dat ’r
schervengedruisch kletterde rond de helmmannen.
Dan greep ze, met twee handen bijéen haar
roodhellen rok, knoopte de punten hoog op de heupen
vast, en stormde, de vuisten tot mokers gekneld, in
dronken draf op een klein agentje àf.

Fakkelgloed goot rood-gele verglijende schijnsels op

de gouden helmen, die standjesachtig-puntig bòven
de pofpetten van weer aangedrongen boertjes,
verdeukte hoeden en losharige meidkoppen
weerlichtten in schramperig geglans.

De meiden bijeenstrompelend in de haveloozen gier

van hun ontbloote lijven en den driftbeef van hun
passiemonden, woelden nog in kraak en slinger van
afgeknapten serpentiens, kleurlinten, konfetti’s en
losgebladerde ruikers. Als ’n kleurig netwerk zat hun
verflodderde haartooi met konfetti’s en lintslippen
volgekroest, als had avondhemel vurigen hagelslag
over hun uitgestort. Twee meiden hadden hun
trommels met de vuist in ’t perkament doorstooten, en
bonkten er mee rond. ’t Blondje en de schrale, rukten
zich de konfetti’s en lintslippen uit de haren,
verkauwden de serpentiens en ruikers, en in
steigerende razernij spogen ze kleurige fluimen de
agent-bakkessen in.—Huilerige woedeklanken
schorden ze uit, in wezenloozen zwijmel van gebaren.
Vloeken, spuwden ze rond in liederlijke rauwheid, en
straatdeunig schreiden hun dronken stemmen tegen
elkaar in.
 —Lies, krijschte de magere, jai stoan d’r op de
valraip.. kom kerlinike.. kom- ker.… linike.… kom!.…
ikke seg … da d’r ’n hap is!—en ’n nieuwe flesch
zwierde ze in hoonenden jool boven hun kleurig-
behagelde koppen, heete beestschaters uitproestend
voor verblufte agenten en kijkers. De boertjes
sprongen weer brutaler bij, aangelokt door de stoute
furiën, trappelden en ranselden klappen en boffen
rond, in snauwende vloeken.

—Toe, hitste Lies, in hysterischen krijsch, met ’n stem

van ’n [320]straatorgelbas, zelf doller met ’r vuistmokers
rondzwaaiend dat ’r niemand te na kwam,—toe! gaif
jai d’r die klebak ’n handskoen da s’n bofedeurtje deur
de muur hainskiet!

—Gain groasje! gain groasje, dood an die swaine, trek

jullie.. d’r ’n poar kiese! roggelde de schrale weer,
kwijlspuwend en trappend de rokken tot d’r borsten
opgesjord.—

—Gain proatjes op d’r laif! sloan hullie.… achter ’t

tessie, hinnikte ’t sterke blondje, die worstelde in
zenuwroetige en stuipende kracht met ’n agentje, van
wien ze de sabel had losgerukt.—

Toen hadden de helmmannen er genoeg van. Ze

vreesden de razernij der kerels rond om niet meer. ’n
Signaal snerpte door den rochelenden bral van
stemmen en in draf stormden helpers áán.

Met vijf zwaaien van de blink-helle sabels schoot

boertjeskrans uitéén, waggelde ontdane kerelsstoet
wèg, in krolschen krijsch, stonden de meiden alleen
 tusschen den helmendrom, die hoogkoperde en
lichtflitste in rood-gelen walmgloed.

Half dood van zenuwuitputtenden worstel zonken de

dronken furies op elkaar wèg, half ontbloot, de
havelooze plunje morsig vertrapt, de gekneusde
beenen dooréén gewarreld. Ze hijgden, en de lange
schrale onderaan, die in den struikel, d’r drie
vriendinnen boven zich kreeg gesmakt, lag plat op ’r
buik, grabbelde nog, zenuwspartelend naar haar
flesch die onder de kreunende borst van ’t blondje
uithalsde.

Raak stootten de agenten ze als gestruikelde paarden

op de beenen, en hoshos in boei, sleepten ze de
geschonden furies naar ’t stadhuis. De schrale Lies
liet zich sleuren langs de keien, half op ’r buik, waar
de geboeide handen onder krampten als korte vinnen.
In modder sleepte ze voort, tot eindelijk twee
helmmannen ’r bij de beenen en losharige kop
oplichtten, haar brankarig voortsjokkerden onder
woest gegier, schel gefluit en geschater van
meeschuifelenden menschendrom.—

’t Blondje, trapte en spoog dat de helmmannen ’r

mepten in de verwoede tronie, stompten op de
hijgende borsten, sterker haar knuisten bijeenknellend
in de boeien. Maar ze [321]trapte zich naakt dat de
helmmannen ’r telkens den vuurrooien rok, en ’t
schuimende ondergoed moesten neerslaan. Achter
den dronken stoet áán, in trein-woesten daver,
trampelden kijkers in joelkring, en voorbij ging ’t in den
 oranjigen walmgloed van fakkels, gaspitten en
lampetten.

Duister gegier, getrampel en fluiterig-oproerig geraas

brasten in donk’re hoeken, en voort rukten de
agenten, recht uit naar ’t Stadhuis.

—D’r goan d’r vier Kerkfoarters de bak in, krijschten

jochies, kerels en meiden dooreen, met angstklank
van politieverzet in de ontstelde toch oproerige
stemmen, vechtlustig doortrild van haat tegen ’t
helmstoetje.

Dwars door de kermishitte, in ’t demonengoud en

pralig gefonkel, rukten ze voort de ordemannen, en
plots zwenkten ze steegje door, op ’t stadhuis áán.
Toen, met ’n sleur rukten ze de meiden stoep-end òp,
en stootten ze waggelend de gang in. Dof gekrijsch uit
de dronken meidenkelen heeschte nà, verward,
rochelend als uit moordkelen, klam en verwurgd, en
met slag van baas-zijn, smakten de agenten de
deuren voor de neuzen van kijkers en meeloopers
dicht, dat ’n rouw gejoel uit den menschendrom
opraasde, in ’n woeste alliteratie van wraak, al was ’t
maar in hoongeluid alleen.

Stom en strompelend waren de geboeide furiën de

bak ingeduwd.

Even verbluft maar, braste en bruiste de stoet weer

voort, satanisch d’r woelzangen verkrijschend in
oproerigen vechtlustigen jubel, rennend naar
Baanwijk, of daar wat gebeuren ging.
 [Inhoud]

VI.

In zwierige herrie hosten de Hassels en Grintjes,

Hazewind en Rink vóórop, door ’t korte Klooster-
steegje van Haven naar Baanwijk.

Telkens kleurvlammend in warmer tintenbrand, fel, in

de duisterende avondvergouding, schoten lijven van
prachtige [322]meiden door ’t licht, parkietig,
groenroode rokken en jakken; paarszilverig bekraalde
japonnen, geel gouden en bronzen manteltjes,
pronkerig dooreenschuifelend in ballettigen warrel.

Wild hosten de goud bekapte boerinnen, hun

hoofdtooi in fonkelende cier uitblinkend onder ’t fijne
mutsengaas, met de glanzende kurketrekkers bij de
slapen, naast hoed-bepluimde, slank-prachtige
meiden in den warmen wasem en damp van ’t
lichtgevloei.

Rauwe krijsch, zwirrelde achter de Hassels en Grint’s

áán in ’t steegje, en schimmige rompen met bangen
schaduwsleep stortten plots in ’n vlaag van
kraamgloeilicht, vlak voor hen uit weer vervlammend.
Oranje helle gloed sloeg daar tegen de tronies áán, de
monding van kloostersteeg uitgolvend. In gril en kras
streepvlamde de gloed op voorhoofden, dwars over
neuzen en monden, vrat hel in op kleeren en
schouders; beschminkte in wond’ren brand
oranjevlammig, wild en huiverend-woest, kaken en
wangbrokken, soms plots in warrel van wind
 verschemerend naar roodgeel, rossig oranje en
bleekgoud.—

Omzoomd in beverig rosgeel schuifelden de Hassels

en Grintjes voort, en ver achter hen aan, in
schemerrood dromden al meer romp-donk’re dringers,
verklonk hijgend rauw gejoel van nieuwe stoeten, zich
stortend en wringend in den steegdrang, ineengeperst
tusschen engen kronkel van huisjes, karren en hekjes,
als ’n benauwende bent z’n duistere opstanding
beworstelend.

Uit donk’re kroegjes in ’t steegje, verraasde getier en

misbaar achter groene gordijntjes, schor-rumoer en
dreunig zanggezeur. Schunnige muzikanten
trombonden daar uit, schel-valsche zangscheuren,
basdiep en dreunend.

Telkens ritsten groene gordijnen weg van de roe en

rossigden de kroegholletjes goudrookig open, met hun
bedompten petroleumwalm, verstikkende
danszaaltjes, kermissnel ingericht voor sprong en
zuip.

Kerels met oranje doeken, boevige kroegtypen en

zweetende meiden zwelgden daar in dollen warrel, en
tusschen de moffenblazers [323]zanikte ’n valsche
harmonika zuchtenden zang, waarom heen, in
kanaljeuzen kankan, handen tot poorten geheven, de
heete meiden, grinnikend en zinnerauw, verwoelden in
kring.—Door ’t steegje heen verklonk in getemperd
gerucht, bachanaal van de geel-dampige dansholen.
 Tegen donkeren inham bij lage kaduke krottenrij,
waarvan de gevellijnen in nachtzwart schimden, en
kronkelpad slingerde naar doodsche huisjes, buiten
den kermiswoel verstillend als leeggemoord,—zat ’n
blinde in schemer van droef-lichtende nachtkaars. Z’n
kale kop, tegen verweerden roestmuur, vermurmelde
ie nederige smeekende bedelwoordjes, één
uitgemagerde beefhand vooruitgekromd met bakje.—
Schimmig stààrde z’n blinde tronie, even beschemerd
in bleek wasschijnsel en reuzig silhouetten rug en
hoofdschaduw op ’t verweerde baksteen van den
roestmuur. Langs ’m wrongen en drongen de
kermisgangers, nijdig uitvallend tegen den
schooierigen blinde, dat hij zich zoo maar, met z’n
ellende en duistere droefnis, dwars door hun pret te
kijk kwam stellen.

Op Baanwijk brandde ’t avond-goud gas door rossigen

nevel van reuzelige stanken. De bont-stralende
kramen stonden er als gigantisch speelgoed in ’n
ravijn van toortsgloed. Ze flonkerden in gondelierige à-
giornopraal en spiraligen kleurenbrand. En alkleurig
licht ademde uit, zengde den paars-duisteren nacht
rondom.

Door boterige oliestanken, zoetig, ranzig en

prikkelend, nevelde de lichtval, en de wisselglanzige
kraamruitjes, in hun doorvlamd rood en kobalt,
verschoten in kleurige spiegeling, weerkaatst geel en
amber-diep schijnsel, glissend en spelend over glas-
glanzingen, in brekenden klater van prismabrand en
avondvonkenden luister. En tegen overal wijkende
achtergronden van rood-rossigen damp, vlamden de
 bakovens van verre, als ’n smidsestad in smokerig
oranje-helle omgloeiing; in uitdonkerende verwaaiing
en oplichting van likkend vuur en zwarten walm; dàn
weer als altaren waarop takkenbosjes knetterden en
uitrookten. Waar, achter begloeiden mist, de koperen
warm-vlammende [324]meelpotten, tempelig in glorie
van amber en goudgeel uitlaaiden, glimmerenden
brand van hel-gepoetst koper.—En achter en tusschen
de vlammende altaren en gouden meelpotten, in
flakkerenden damp, de blank-beservette
wafelentafeltjes, omflonkerd van vuur-glans
uitschietende karafjes en glazen, alles in blank-
zilverende sfeer, gloeiend in rijtjes, tusschen de
rooddonkere overgordijnen, stoeltjes en knussige
salonnetjespracht. Rij aan rij, achter de ovens,
troonden de dikke baksters op de hooge zetels, als
vervette mythe-godinnen, in de blonde wreedheid van
hun geblankette tronies, scheppend uit de meelpotten,
den druipenden lepel uitstortend over de
poffertjesplaten, waarop ’t knetterde, siste en
babbelde.—Er boven uit vergeurde ’n helsche
lekkerheid van boterig zoet, tusschen prikkeligen
bakoliestank. De takkenbossen knetter-vlamden;
flakkerende smookgloed karnavalde allegorische
lichtgroepen in een duizelenden schroei, en
angsthellig ’t oranjig demonengoud van de
ovenvlammen vèrdampte walmen over de vloekzang-
geruchten. Rond den knetter en rook-rooden bak van
poffers en wafels; rond de klepperende geluiden van
tangen, sis-roosters en ijzeren platen, dreunden de
helsche orgelkelen tegen elkaar in, in schellen tingel;
en rauw van verslempende misère schreide de
menschenzang rond, van de lichthoeken
 neerjammerend in den duisteren nacht, overal om ’t
stedeke, ontzet en dreigstil.—

En heller de avondgouden lampenbrand van kramen

en olieboltentjes, met hun kleurige dekzeilen en
kakelenden lichtwarrel, vlamden, goudden, rossigden
en barnsteenig-geelden in flonkerige sfeer, als
speelgoed van reuzen.—

Drom na drom schoot er langs, en de boomen voor de

tenten, tusschen de dolle hossers, als levende van
schrik verstarde wezens, knokelden en knoestten in
hun gekerfde schors, half belicht, de donkere kruinen
angstiglijk verruischend hoog in ’t nachtzwart.

Op Baanwijk stonden armelijk verlicht, tusschen

sjofele oliekoektentjes, roetig omwalmd van
lampetten, de palingstalletjes in geel-schichtig
lichtwaaisel, omhuifd van nachtzwart; de zuur- en
[325]eierkraampjes in nog valeren pittengloei. Achter de
zuurtonnetjes in walmig geelrood, wonderbronzig
verbangden tronies van kerels die schreeuwden tegen
’t beverig getoorts en gewaai van licht, dat rosgeel
schemerleven op de zondige zorgmommen rookte.—

Telkens wat schooierige stelletjes, waggelend en

brallend, bleven strompelen voor de kraampjes en
vraatzuchtige monden hapten lever, verkwijlden zuur;
gretige handen pelden stinkende eieren, en
ontvleesden paling. Broeirige vischstank borrelde
tusschen de bakolielucht.—
 Kerels en wijven lalden áán, bebonkerden de wrakke
kraampjes met hun vloeken en razernijen, de tronies
gedoopt in den wond’ren bronsgouden flakkergloed,
en omkropen van schaduwleven, dat meesloop wen
menschen zich tusschen de lichtdamp drongen;
schimmen als zwart-walmige nagenieters van
kermisjool. Schaduwkoppen monsterlijk doorhakt,
verdeukt en misvormd spookten donker onder en òver
’t laag gespannen zeildoek, dwars tegen bakken en
tonnen òp, warrel van schimmen, plots bij verschuif
van stoetjes raadselachtig stil verdwijnend dòor de
wrakken heen, of neerstortend in lichtval van voorbij-
kruisend licht.

Achter de armelijke kar-kraampjes, in hun droeve

prachtsfeer van geelrood en bronsros lichtgetril, half
omdampt in ’t nacht-duister, lichtten de hooge
roodbehangen speelgoedtenten, minachtend de
donk’re ruggen naar de wrakstalletjes gekeerd. Ze
schitterden in hun fel-kleurigen ballonnetjesgloei,
illuminatieachtig-hel, gegierlandeerd langs de lijnen
van vensters en gevels, doorvonkt van lichtjes.—

Het rood-gouden, rood-gele en dampig-bronzige licht

stortte, druischte neèr op den verblindenden flonker
van poppetjes, gegarneerd in prachtbonte kleeren,
omstrooid van kleurtjes, geflikker en geschitter;
omgloeide woelige snuisterijen, paardjes, schaapjes,
met vurige keelbandjes; karretjes, tooverbekertjes,
ringspellen, alles geurend in den lokkenden reuk van
nieuw speelgoed. En overal in de tenten, wond’re
fonkel en tintel van koperen belletjes en kralen, als
indische gordijnen neerhangend, [326]doorvlamd van
 licht. Overal kleurige doozen, speelgoed-geurig en
houtvervig, vol zilveren kraaltjes, goudbronzen,
melkwitte en aluminium-blanke snoertjes. Overal in
lichtdruisch, toov’rige slinger van brandend malakiet
en wijnrood geparel, onder den fellen stangboogglans
òpflitsend tusschen geurig zaagsel, als sprookjes-
schatten rondgestrooid op goud en zilverpapier;
fonkelende parels en snoeren paars en geel, vurig
groen, karmijn en wonder glanzend blauw,
opeengehoopt als ’n vlammend wereldje van zonnig
kindergeluk.

Zoò, hevig gloeide de lange laan van

speelgoedtenten, met d’r lokkende en tokkelende
kleurtjes, hun flonkerigen lichtzang, verproestend hun
glansjubel, verlachend hun rood en groen, hun
gouden zevenklapperenden gloed, hun vlammige
zonnetjes van parels en kralen. Hevig lokten ze de
kermisgangers aan, lokkend en tokkelend d’r
lichtmelodie, dat ze verbluft stand hielden voor ’t front,
uìt razenden hoswarrel.

Tusschen de Jutskoppen schreeuwden wat

spullebazen „bezienenswaardigheden” uit; rauwe
kermisspeech met angstigen suggestieklank in d’r
melodramatieke moordstemmen afgedreund.—

—Hier is te sie-en ’t gruufelijke seemonster.. met drie-

dubbele rij tande.. geschote deur een Inlans metroos,
tèrfijl dit gruufelijke monster, besig was een lèfendig
mins te verslinde!..

Moordhol timbreerde z’n stem, en vlak naast ’m klonk

’n andere zang.…
 —Hierr staat te kijk.. ’n meisje uit de binnelande van
Suid-Aùstralië.. dewelleke leefendige konijne eet,
alsmede.. tabak en gras.… Uw lieden zult haar hoore
in heur gebed aan de maan!.… En hoe sij de
bleekgesichte bloedig skalpeert.… Tien cents slechts
per persoon en per lid.—

Angstig en zwaar melodramatiekte z’n schorre stem

van de estrade àf en in valen schemer geelde z’n
gezicht even òp in den flakkerschijn van ’n kleine
flambouw boven de tenttrap. Bij elken
aandrommenden hosstoet, herhaalde ie z’n bange
woorden-vracht,.… dat ze de leefendige konijne..
verslindt met d’r slagtande, glas kouwt en brandende
sigare freet. [327]

Hossers uithijgend, bleven staan en luisterden. Naar

rechts werd z’n stem overschreeuwd door ’n buurman
die opriep de massa om te kijken naar de Zuid-
Afrikaansche Boerenworsteling, leefendig voorgesteld
in beelde.… Met ’n ècht slachtveld waar de lijke,
bloedend en onthoofd op neerlegge.…

Rond den krijsch der spullebazen, paf-knalden,

knetterden en mokerdreunden de Jutskoppen. Stel
voor stel stoette vóór de reklameplaat van ’t wilde
meisje en suggestiever huivergriezelde stem van den
omroeper.

—Verslind leèfendige konijne.… veur de ooge van ’t

publiek, eet glas en brandende sigare.… skalpeert de
bloedige menscheschedels.… Over twee minute sal
de nieuwe voorstelling een aanvang neme.… Bereids
zijn er duizende en duizende mensche reeds