The Hit

Chapter 18

As he was pulling out of his garage Robie heard his phone ring. He looked at the screen and groaned. She had called many times and he had never called back. He was hoping she would just stop phoning. But it didn’t seem she was getting the message.

On impulse he hit the answer button. “Yeah?”

“What the hell game are you playing, Robie?”

Julie Getty sounded just like she had the last time they had spoken. Slightly ticked off. Slightly mistrustful. Well, she actually sounded really pissed off and vastly mistrustful.

And he couldn’t really blame her.

“Not sure what you mean?”

“I mean, when someone leaves you twenty-six voice mails, it ‘might’ be a sign they want to talk to you.”

“So how’s life treating you?”

“Shitty.”

“Seriously?” Robie said cautiously.

“No, not seriously. Jerome’s been everything as advertised. In fact, maybe too good. I feel like I’m Huck Finn back living with the Widow Douglas.”

“I wouldn’t hold that against him. A normal, boring life is severely underrated.”

“But you’d know all about how I was doing if you’d called me back!”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You wimped out on me and you know it. I even went by your place, but you moved out. I waited for hours five separate times until I figured that out. Then I kept looking in the obits for your picture because I figured you were a man who kept his word. And if you didn’t contact me it was because you must be dead. I only tried to call one more time for the hell of it.”

“Look, Julie.”

She snapped, “You promised me. I normally discount shit like that, but I trusted you. I really trusted you. And you let me down.”

“You do not need someone like me in your life. I think past events showed you that was the case.”

“Past events showed me that you were a man who did what he said he would do. Only then you stopped.”

“It was for your own good,” Robie said.

“Why don’t you let me decide stuff like that?”

“You’re fourteen. You don’t get to make those sorts of choices.”

“So you say.”

“You can hate me and curse me and think I’m a pile of shit. But in the end it’s for the best.”

“No thinking needed. You are a pile of shit.”

The line went dead and Robie dropped the phone on the seat.

He shouldn’t feel bad about this, he really shouldn’t. Everything he had told Julie Getty was the truth.

So why do I feel like the world’s biggest asshole?

A half mile from his apartment he pulled to the curb and got out. He opened the door of the shop and went inside. He was instantly hit by a thick wall of scents. If he’d had allergies he would have started sneezing.

He walked to the counter where a young woman was working. He pulled out the tiny white fragments and set them on the counter as she turned to him.

“Strange question, I know,” he began. “Could you tell me what kind of flower this is?”

The young woman peered down at the fragments of petals. “That’s not really a flower, sir.”

“It’s all that was left.”

She poked it with a finger and held it up to her nose. She shook her head. “I’m not sure. I only work here part-time.”

“Is there anybody else who can help me?”

“Give me a sec.”

She stepped into a back room and a few moments later a woman wearing spectacles came out. She was older and heavier and for some reason Robie concluded that she was the owner of this florist shop.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely.

Robie repeated his question. The woman picked up what remained of the petal, held it close to her eyes, took off her glasses, examined it more closely, and then took a whiff.

“White rose,” she said decisively. “A Madame Alfred Carriere.” She pointed to a spot on the petal. “You can see just a hint of pink blush there. And the smell is strong spicy-sweet. The Madame Plantier by comparison is all white and the smell is quite different—at least it is to someone who knows roses. I’ve got some Carriere in stock if you’d like to see them.”

“Maybe another time.” Robie paused, thinking how best to phrase this. “What would you buy white flowers for? I mean, what sort of an occasion?”

“Oh, well, white roses are a traditional wedding flower. They symbolize innocence, purity, virginity, you know, those sorts of things.”

Robie glanced over at the young woman and found her rolling her eyes.

“Although it is interesting,” said the older woman.

Robie refocused on her. “What is?”

“Well, white roses are often used at funeral services too. They represent peacefulness, spiritual love, that sort of thing.” She glanced down at the petal Robie had brought in. She put her finger on the pinkish smudge. “Although that’s another sort of symbol that I wouldn’t associate with peace.”

“The pink part? What do you mean?”

“Well, some people associate it with something entirely different from peace and love.”

“What?”

“Blood.”