R Is for Ricochet

was telling the truth. Beck always made a point of keeping me in the thick of it. Like she says, could be he's setting me up."
    "Who else is in on it?"
    "On what?"
    "The money laundering."
    "Who says anyone? I never said that."
    "Oh come on, Marty. You can't launder that much money without help."
    "I'm not a snitch," he said, his tone indignant.
    "But other people are involved, right?"
    "I don't know, maybe. A few, but you're never going to get me to name names."
    "Fair enough. So what's in it for you?"
    "Same as everyone else. We're paid to keep our mouths shut. We help Beck now and he'll see that we're set up for life."
    "Life in a federal pen. That'll be a treat," I said.
    Marty ignored that, saying, "Truth is, I got plenty and I'd skedaddle right now if I could figure out how. If Customs is in on the deal, I can't leave the country without getting my ass nailed. They flag my name in the computer, minute I check in for my flight, boom, I'm done for."
    "I'm telling you, you better throw in your lot with the guys who count. Beck isn't looking after you. He's got himself to protect."
    "Yeah, I'm getting that. I mean, sure he may need us, but how far is he willing to go? Beck's about Beck. Comes right down to it, he'd throw us to the wolves."
    "Probably so." I nearly confided the rumor I'd heard, that Beck was on the move and likely to disappear within the next few days, but the likelihood hadn't been confirmed and the information wasn't mine to pass on. "Of course, it's always possible the phone company story is on the up and up…"
    "Nuh-uhn. Don't think so."
    "Well, I'm sorry I can't help."
    "What about Reba? I've been trying to reach her all day."
    "Probably at the house. She had a meeting with her parole officer earlier so you might try her again."
    "You talk to her, tell her to give me a call. This is making my stomach hurt. I'm anxious as hell."
    "Look, let me talk to a friend of mine and see what I can find out."
    "I'd appreciate that. You call back, you be careful what you say. Meantime, you hear from Reba, tell her the two of us gotta talk. I don't like workin' with a noose around my neck."
    "Hang in there," I said, and then winced at my choice of words.
    Once he disconnected, I dialed both Cheney's home and work numbers and left messages. I tried his pager, punching in my home number in hopes he'd call back. Marty was moving into panic mode, which made him as unpredictable as Reba, though more vulnerable.

    I spent the evening stretched out on the couch, book propped in front of me pretending to read while I waited for Cheney's call. I wondered where he was and whether he was still pissed off at me. I needed to talk to him about Marty, but more than that, I craved the physical contact. My body was remembering his with a low-level yearning disruptive to concentration. Before he arrived on the scene, I'd lived in a dead zone – not exactly buzzing with joy, but certainly not discontent. Now I felt like a pup just coming into heat.
    One of the problems with being celibate is that once sexual feelings resurface, they're almost impossible to repress. I found myself remembering what had happened between us and fantasizing about what might come next. Cheney had a laziness about him, a natural tempo half the speed of mine. I was beginning to see that operating in high gear was a means of protecting myself. Living at an accelerated pace allowed me to feel only half as much because there wasn't time to feel more. I made love the same way I ate – eager to satisfy the immediate hunger without acknowledging the deeper desire, which was to feel connected at the core. Avoiding the truth was easier if I was on the run. With quick sex, as with fast food, there was no savoring the moment. There was only the headlong rush to be done with it and move on.
    At 10:00, when the phone rang, I knew it was him. I turned my head, listening until the machine began recording the sound of his voice. I reached over and picked up, saying, "Hey."
    "Hey, yourself. You called."
    "Hours ago. I thought you were ignoring me. Are you still mad?"
    "About what?"
    "Good."
    "How about you? Are you pissed off?"
    "Not my nature," I said. "Not with you at any rate. Listen, we need to talk about Marty. Where are you?"
    "Rosie's. Come join me."
    "You trust me to walk half a block by myself? It's pitchy dark outside."
    "I was going to meet you halfway."
    "Why don't you go the whole distance and meet me here."
    "We can do that later. For now, I think we