Blood Money

11

Jane brought the clothes into Rita’s room and began laying each hanger on the bed without speaking. She held Rita’s face in the corner of her eye. At first Rita appeared unaware, then indifferent, then intrigued. Jane laid the fourth outfit across the bed and went into the hallway to get the fifth, then returned to find Rita slowly running her hand along the crease of a new pair of pants.

Rita quickly withdrew her hand, then conceded, “I always wished that I was the kind of person who had clothes like this.”

“It doesn’t take anything important,” said Jane. “Courage, intelligence, even taste. If you don’t know what to buy, go to the best store in town, then pick out a clerk who looks terrific. She’ll tell you. All you need is enough money to feed the cash register.”

“Am I supposed to be rich?”

Jane said, “Not rich. Just a single working woman who’s too young to care about saving, and has nothing to spend it on but herself, like the rest of the girls in this complex.”

Rita’s eyes stayed on the clothes, but they had a soft focus. “At the hotel, I would sometimes look.”

“Look at what?”

“I would be cleaning a room, and it would be late enough so the people weren’t just downstairs having breakfast, so I figured they’d be gone at least until lunch. I would open a suitcase and look at everything inside. Not to take anything, just to look.”

“Did you see anything interesting?”

“Rich people are old-fashioned. They don’t want to own anything that’s plastic, unless it’s the kind that looks like ivory. Or maybe it was ivory. I probably wouldn’t know. Everything is leather, wool, silk, silver, wood. I would look at it, especially the clothes, and wonder about the women who owned it. When people travel, they always have a lot of new clothes. I would find something, and half the time the tags would still be on it.” She looked up at Jane in wonder. “I remember one time it was just a pair of jeans, and I saw the price and swallowed my gum. They cost more than I took home in a week. Just jeans.” She frowned, and her shoulders crept up as though she were preparing to endure a blow. “I got caught once.”

“Somebody came back while you were in her suitcase?”

“Not that. It was my boss, the housekeeping supervisor. She was real cold and nasty at first. But I asked her to search my pockets, my cart, everything so she would know I didn’t take anything. So she did. Then she kind of took my arm and gave me a little smile. She said she used to do the same thing. But she made me promise never to do it again. She said that after you looked in a hundred, they were all pretty much the same stuff as the first one, and if you got caught you’d get fired and go to jail.”

“Did that cure you of it?”

“Not completely, but I forced myself just to look at the clothes while the women were wearing them. I still liked clothes, but I never thought I would ever have anything like these.” She petted a sweater as though it were alive.

Jane said, “I did buy clothes that were more expensive than average. That was because I’m trying to make a change. Anyone looking for an eighteen-year-old runaway maid will expect her to have less money—to sleep in bus stations and carry her things in a backpack. So we take a step in the other direction. We give you an apartment that costs more than you used to make, and dress you better. Nothing here will draw attention to you, it just puts you into a cubbyhole where they’re not looking.” She walked toward the door. “I know it’s kind of a pain, but try them on for me, will you? Let me know if I need to exchange anything.”

Jane went downstairs to the kitchen and made a simple dinner of salad and capellini marinara while she waited.

When she was sure that the smells had risen and penetrated the second floor, she heard Rita coming down the stairs. Rita stopped in the doorway and watched Jane for a few seconds, then set the table. She said, “I don’t know how to thank you for the clothes. They’re the best clothes anybody I know has.”

“Do they fit?”

Rita shrugged. “Close enough. They’re all a little on the loose side, but I can take them in a little.”

Jane stopped stirring and poured the pasta into a strainer in the sink, then put down the pot. “Do the waistbands fit, and the pant legs fall to the right place?”

“Yeah,” said Rita.

“Then they’re probably the way they’re designed to be.”

“It’s not exactly my style.”

“I hope not, or I’ve wasted a lot of time and effort,” said Jane. “I’m trying to make changes. Examine anything that’s a habit, anything you could say that about—that it’s your style—and lose it if you can.”

“That’s how you hide? Do everything the opposite of what you like?”

Jane assembled the plates of food and carried them to the table. “Identity is a slippery concept. We think that any time anyone sees our faces, they know us. They’ll be able to pick us out of a crowd forever. Sometimes that’s true, but other times it’s not. The person who sees you forms a picture of you in his memory. In a way, it’s more than a picture. It’s like a movie. It includes our bodies, our posture, the way we walk, our faces showing the whole sequence of expressions we had when they saw us, our voices, and whatever else came to their attention. What we have to do is manipulate it, and a lot can be accomplished without doing much.”

“Doing much?” Rita was suspicious.

“Here’s a simple example. Private detectives spend a lot of time following people. They don’t want to be noticed. One of the tricks they use is to carry a few hats in their cars on the passenger seat. After they’ve followed somebody for a time, they put a hat on. A little later, they’ll take it off, and maybe put another one on.”

“That works? You’re telling me people are that stupid?”

“Not if they’re paying attention. But most of the time, they’re not. They might happen to look behind them and see the man. No big deal. He’s just one of many elements—people, objects, cars, birds, buildings. There’s no reason to consciously single him out for attention or thought unless he’s too close. The next time they happen to look is the one that counts. If they see him a second time, then he’s the only element that hasn’t been replaced. He’s following them. But if they happen to look and see that this time there’s a man with a hat on, he’s not the same man. What the detective is trying to do is keep them from bringing the whole issue up to the level of conscious thought. That’s all I’m trying to do for you. If we change some of the things about you that stand out, then any person who doesn’t have an extremely clear idea of who he’s looking for might not notice you. Probably what each searcher will have is a photograph. He’ll look at lots of girls, trying to find the one who matches it. It’s likely he won’t even notice that you do, because you don’t match it exactly.”

“It doesn’t sound like it can work,” said Rita.

“It’s not a sure thing,” said Jane. “But there are easy ways to make yourself safer, and there are hard ways. This is one of the easy ways.” Jane prepared herself, then said, “I bought some hair dye.”

Rita’s hand went involuntarily to her shoulder, and began fiddling with one of the long strands. Her eyes lowered to see it. “My hair?” she asked doubtfully.

“It’s the easiest part of you to notice from a distance. It’s something people can see even better when you’re looking away from them. They’re looking for blond hair, so we’d make it brown. I’ve picked out a chestnut color that would go well with your light skin. It would take some getting used to, but in the end I think you’d like it.” She paused. “We could do it tonight, before people around here get a look at you.”

Rita looked down at her plate and returned to her dinner.

Jane waited for a few minutes, then said, “You can take a day or two to think about it if you want.”

“No,” she said. “I’ll do it. I’m just waiting to hear what else is wrong with me.”

“Nothing. We’re not correcting things, just changing them. You’re thin, and you wear your clothes tight. So I bought styles that are worn loose. They have vertical lines: sweaters and blouses that hang shoulder to hip, and pants that hang hip to ankle. There’s no disguising the fact that you’re thin, but we change your silhouette. They also make you look older and more sophisticated.” Jane hated herself for using those arguments, even though they were true.

“I like them. Don’t get me wrong. I like them a lot. I just don’t usually dress that way. They’re all one look, like they were made for a particular person I don’t know.”

“You have special requirements right now. There are lots of pants. I bought the right pair of shoes for each outfit. ‘Right’ doesn’t just mean they don’t clash. It means there are no high heels, no stacked heels, not even any slip-ons. If something goes wrong, your only chance will be to run.”

Rita kept eating methodically. She seemed to be listening, but she was not ready to divulge what she was thinking.

Jane finished her dinner, got up, and went around the corner of the counter to bring back two more big shopping bags. She caught Rita staring. “Accessories,” she explained. She lifted an eyeglass case and opened it. “These are photosensitive lenses with no prescription. When you’re in the sun they’re as dark as most sunglasses, but when you’re inside, they’re nearly clear.”

“Sunglasses?” Rita put them on and studied Jane’s face for a reaction.

“Perfect. You look good in glasses, and they change the shape of your face a bit. Wear them when you’re out.” She picked out a small silver box and opened it.

Rita’s eyes widened, and she kept her eyes on Jane as though she didn’t dare look. “Jewelry?”

“People wear it, so if you never do, you’re different. You don’t want to be different.”

Rita stared at the necklace and earrings on their cotton bed. “They’re so beautiful.”

“Glad you approve,” said Jane. She lifted the necklace out, put it around Rita’s neck, and clasped it. “You’ll notice the chain is very thin. That’s because if a man is trying to grab you, sometimes he’ll get his fingers around a necklace and pull. This one will break, and you’ll be gone.”

“But the stone … it looks real.”

“That’s another part of the image. You’re a woman like the ones in the hotel. You don’t want anything that’s not real. But this is a peridot, and they’re cheap. This one’s the size of your thumbnail and it cost a couple of hundred dollars. It adds to your cover. Your papers say you were born in August, and it’s your birthstone.”

Rita carefully lifted the earrings to her ears.

“Those too,” said Jane. “If somebody spots you, don’t forget to take them off.”

Rita stared at Jane sullenly. “You try to make everything sound practical and cold, like some kind of trick. But you’re giving me presents. Why are you pretending?”

Jane avoided her eyes. “I didn’t say you couldn’t enjoy them, I’m just teaching you things.” She pulled out the next jeweler’s box and opened it with a click. “Here’s something else. Most people wear watches.”

Rita took the watch off its holder. “What a great watch!” She put it on and held out her arm to gaze at it, then looked at Jane. “It’s all so … pretty, so much better than anything I’ve ever had before.”

“I’m glad. But if you lose any of it, or have to duck out without stopping for it, don’t give any of it a second thought. Never compromise your safety for things.” She added, “If it bothers you, let me know afterward and I’ll replace them.”

Rita looked confused. Her eyes were glistening. “Why would you do all of this for me?”

“I admit that I might have overdone things a little this time, because we could both use a bit of pleasure right now. But the idea is always the same. A shopping trip takes a day, and it doesn’t involve risking my life or yours.”

“But why are you doing any of it—anything at all?”

“Because it works. And I do like you. There’s no reason to lie about that. But I also have calculated, practical reasons for everything I do. If you look different, you’re harder to spot. If you’re happy, you won’t do anything foolish to make yourself happy. But if you’re found, then I’m in danger too.”

Rita’s face looked suddenly brittle. “I would never tell them anything.”

Jane said only, “Thanks.” There was no reason to go into all of the reasons why feeling that way wasn’t sufficient. She reached into the other shopping bag. “I got you a new purse.”

It was a large black leather shoulder bag with a thick strap. Rita took it into her hands and felt the soft, smooth leather, then reached inside and took out the tissue paper that the manufacturer had stuffed inside to make it hold its shape.

Jane could read her mind as she ran her hands along the inner surfaces and measured each of the big compartments. She was checking to verify that it would hold the small collection of treasures that she arranged around her body at night.

Suddenly Rita stood up, threw her arms around Jane, and hugged her. Rita’s head rested on Jane’s shoulder, and she swayed almost imperceptibly from side to side, as though she were rocking in her mother’s arms.

The next day, Jane brought home the car. She parked it close to the apartment, went inside, and led Rita to the window. “That’s yours,” she said.

“Mine?”

“You can’t live here without a car. It’s a Honda Accord, because it has the right look and price for your new personality. They sell over three hundred thousand of them a year, and I doubt if the owners can tell one year from another. The temporary registration is in the glove compartment, and the final one will come in the mail.” She handed Rita the keys.

“Can I try it?”

“You’ll have to,” said Jane. “I left my rented one near the dealer’s lot, so I need a ride back. After that, park it in your space in the lot.”

Jane studied Rita’s driving habits with the critical eye of a licensing examiner. She was relieved. Rita was competent, and she was cautious enough to keep Jane from having nightmares, but she wasn’t timid. Jane followed Rita home, and detected no uncertainty in Rita’s ability to remember the route.

When they were home, Jane said, “Leave the car there for now. You’ll have to drive it a little about once a week to charge the battery and keep oil on the moving parts. Keep the tank full.”

She sat at the kitchen table, took a road map out of her purse, and unfolded it. “When you drive the car, there’s something else you can do. I’ve marked a couple of routes. Study them.”

Rita leaned over her and looked. “They’re pretty complicated.”

“When you’ve memorized them, take the car out and drive them over and over. Practice until you could do it fast at midnight with your headlights off. Then destroy the map.”

“They don’t seem to go anywhere.”

“They go out of town. They take you out in ways that most people wouldn’t expect you to know, and a person from out of town would have a hard time following. There are lots of twists and turns and, in each one, a place where you backtrack.”

“Why?”

“Most people who are running drive straight to the nearest freeway entrance ramp and push the pedal to the floor. That’s a bad idea. These routes take you past a few entrances for freeways going in different directions, then send you off instead on roads that aren’t as well known, but where you can go nearly as fast. At rush hours, the freeways jam up, but these roads don’t, so they’re actually faster.”

“I guess I meant why am I doing this now? Did you see somebody following us?”

“No. You take all the precautions at the beginning, so if you see anything suspicious, you don’t have to waste time making plans. You see it, and you go.”

“Out of town. What then?”

Jane said, “Find me again, and I’ll help you start over.”

“I get a lifetime guarantee?”

“My lifetime,” said Jane. “That’s not so good. I’ve been doing this a long time. Every time I do it again—probably every time I leave my house—the odds against my coming back get worse. You don’t have to remember all my tricks if you just remember the attitude. Be premeditated. Always know what your response will be if something happens. The plan doesn’t have to be perfect if you move instantly, without hesitation.”

Jane got up several times each night, stood at the upper window, and stared out across the lot and along the nearby streets to satisfy herself that there was nothing worrisome that went on after dark. A few times she went out and walked the neighborhood to search for signs she had missed. The only unusual activity she detected was other tenants of the building coming home late from parties or dates.

During the days she worked at the details of Rita’s life. She bought car insurance as Diane Arthur’s mother, then opened a checking account and a savings account for her, subscribed to magazines so she would receive mail, activated the telephone. One morning, Rita awoke to find Jane sitting at the kitchen table with her car keys beside her coffee cup.

“Are you going out again?” asked Rita.

“It’s time.”

“Oh,” said Rita. She kept looking at her hands as though she had just noticed them and didn’t know what to do with them. “It’s not that I don’t want you to go. I want to go too.”

Jane shook her head. “We’ve been through this.”

“I know,” said Rita.

Jane stood and hugged Rita. “The best thing for you to do is stay here and build a life for yourself. You have all the pieces. Put them together.”

“I want to do something.”

“Someday, when someone else needs it, help them.”

Rita nodded. Jane walked to the door, took a look back, and said, “Good luck.” Then she stepped out, locked the door behind herself, and walked to her car. She drove around the neighborhood one more time, looking for a sign that her leaving had interested someone. If nothing else she did worked out, this part had to. When she was sure that she had missed nothing, she drove toward the airport.