One Night - Softcover

Dickey, Eric Jerome

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0451471717 ISBN 13: 9780451471710

Publisher: Dutton, 2016

Synopsis

From New York Times bestselling author Eric Jerome Dickey, a pair of strangers has twelve hours to relish the night of their lives in a novel that "has taken the anonymous one-night-stand relationship into the realm of art" (Publishers Weekly, starred review).

On a cold and rainy night during the Christmas season, a woman who has suffered great personal loss and a successful businessman from Orange County meet by chance at a gas station in Los Angeles County. They have nothing in common, but as they engage in conversation and move from con games to assault to robberies, within hours they end up sequestered in an upscale hotel room. During intimacy, they continue to confide in each other and try to come to grips with their problems and their seasonal loneliness. For one night, their passion is boundless, but with every tick of the clock, their separate pasts close in. They push the limits of time, devotion, and even the law as they attempt to catch a glimpse of the future. They need each other for a lifetime but will have only one night.

About this title

About the Author:

Eric Jerome Dickey is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty previous novels as well as a six-issue miniseries of graphic novels featuring Storm (X-Men) and the Black Panther. Originally from Memphis, Dickey now lives on the road and rests in whatever hotel will have him.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

6:31 P.M.

. . . and then sirens interrupted my unlawful transaction. Law enforcement sped in our direction. I winced, cursed, and shivered. The Hawaiian Gardens Police Department and the sheriff’s department were coming to arrest me. The abruptness of the sound of so many sirens caused my body to shake, caused adrenaline to rush, triggered my fight-or-flight mode. The prolonged scream of sirens became louder. Came closer.

The darkness that had arrived long before five o’clock in the afternoon deepened as a perpetual winter rain, cold as ice cubes, intensified the misery on this frigid, colorless night.

I turned and confronted the man in the expensive gray suit. He was tense, twitching as if he had also experienced the sudden heat that comes from fear, from fight-or-flight, but a man dressed like he was would never have anything to run from. He looked like he knew the cops were coming here.

I snapped, “Are you with the police? Are you a friggin’ cop?”

Winter rain was being spat from the miserable skies, traffic was bumper to bumper; there was no way I could get to the truck that fast, nowhere to run, and the sirens called my name as they sped closer.

Closer.

The truck. They were coming for me because of the goddamn truck.

Brow furrowed, the well-dressed man made fists and turned toward the incessant wails.

I wasn’t ready for this. I didn’t have an exit plan, not under these conditions.

A winter storm had been going since morning and had caused at least six hundred traffic accidents in three hours; at least five of those were within spitting distance. Traffic was a bitch with PMS, and all the diehards were out Christmas shopping. Cars, SUVs, pickup trucks, minivans, and hearses clogged the entrance to the Long Beach Towne Center, Hawaiian Gardens Casino, and every strip mall that made up this waterlogged city. That made it impossible for me to get back in my ride and speed away. And if I did manage to get to the truck, the world before me crept toward the 605 at three miles per hour, and traffic heading in the opposite direction on Carson Boulevard couldn’t be breaking five.

And as the sirens sang, my frustration was like a slow ride to hell in a flooding dystopia.

Closer. Closer.

He remained tense, his jaw tight, not blinking, his body language speaking of nothing but trouble.

This was unexpected. Fear arrested me. I almost let my weapon slide down to my hand.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

Patrol cars sped by with their fiery lights flashing, raced toward Lakewood, toward Long Beach. We were underneath the shelter between two gas pumps. Behind us was a nonstop line of traffic, a line that stretched both in the direction of the 605 freeway and deeper into Hawaiian Gardens.

The man in the suit took a hard breath, opened and closed his right hand, his face thunderous

Voice trembling, feeling my fear, I asked, “Now, where were we?”

“You parked your truck and came to me with an interesting proposition.”

“I can let the MacBook Pro I have go for seven hundred. Cash.”

He said, “Really? Seven hundred dollars for a stolen MacBook Pro?”

“Once again, it’s the fifteen-inch, and this sells at the Apple Store for over two thousand dollars. If you get it for seven hundred, you’ve saved at least thirteen hundred.”

“You don’t save money by spending money.”

“Well, that’ll never be on a billboard on Sunset Boulevard. Saving is bad for the economy.”

“Really? You’re expecting to get that much for a stolen computer that has no warranty?”

“Well, how much are you willing to give me?”

“One hundred dollars.”

“Dude, you’re crazy. This has the latest-generation Intel processors, all-new graphics, faster flash storage, and retina display. This bad boy has over five million pixels. That’s better than HDTV. The battery lasts up to eight hours. Don’t tell me you’re a PC guy? You look too hip to be a PC guy.”

His left eye was bruised. Maybe he had been mugged, or involved in a Christmas brawl. Customers throw hard blows for two-dollar holiday sales at Walmart, and there was one up the street, its lot packed—but his suit and car were made for Rodeo Drive. He considered something beyond me, glanced at the battered old white Nissan truck I was driving.

He said, “Best Buy sent you to do deliveries in that truck?”

“I had to drive my own vehicle tonight. Company cutbacks.”

A few minutes earlier I had driven from my resting spot by the Towne Center and the Edwards Cinema into a Chevron station. There were seventeen gas pumps, all but three occupied, and the twenty-four-hour Subway attached to the gas station was just as busy. I had pulled up to pump number 17, stopping opposite pump number 12 and a brother in a modern gray suit. When I eased out of the truck, he was holding his gas hose, his shoulders hunched like he’d never been rained on in his life. I put on a cheerleader smile, walked halfway to him—bouncy and perky like Katie Couric—told him that his whip was very nice—used that praise as an opener—then engaged him with a flirty smile and started a conversation. I eased closer, whispered that I had a MacBook to sell, asked him if he might be interested in a deal. He had paused, inspected me. My wig was long and loose, like a bad-hair day, and I wore a stolen yellow polo shirt and Dockers that had come at the same five-finger discount, both too big, and a stolen Best Buy badge on my jean jacket. He stepped closer and asked me to repeat what I had said. I told him I had a new laptop in the truck, asked him if he wanted to buy it before I sold it to someone else. I told him the price. Then sirens had echoed and passed. Now we were back to haggling in the rain.

He evaluated me from shoes to eyes and asked, “Are you Egyptian?”

“Am I Egyptian? Are we in Egypt?”

“You look Egyptian.”

“I’m part broke and part black, all mixed with hard times and frustration.”

He looked down his nose at my uniform, my face. “Your tongue is pierced.”

“Yeah. So what?”

“What do you do at Best Buy?”

“That’s not important. You want to buy the MacBook or not?”

A frigid breeze kicked in and chilled his condescending attitude.

His phone buzzed. He held it up, read a message, then scowled at the traffic.

I asked, “Need to go so soon?”

“A long text message from my wife.”

“You okay? Look like you just received bad news.”

“She’s just arrived at a hospital.”

“Is she okay?”

“Distraught. Family friend had an accident. Someone close to both our families.”

“Do you need to go to her?”

“I’m not a doctor. Nothing I can do but watch her break down and cry.”

“Need to text her back?”

“She’s type-A, not a woman that many men can date, let alone marry, because she is always stressed out. She will have a fit if I don’t respond right away. For her, everything’s urgent. So I won’t.”

“Type-A. She’s the type of person who loves to win at everything.”

“She is.”

“You know how she is, and you’re going to leave her anxious. That’s cold.”

“Cold like winter in Siberia.”

“So do you want the computer or not? You’re making me miss out on other customers.”

“Tell me again, how did you manage to get a brand-new MacBook Pro?”

I turned up my jacket collar, shivered, shifted from one hard-toe shoe to the other, and told him I worked the stockroom over in Hawthorne, just east of the 405. It was a rainy Wednesday night and I had been sent on deliveries. Despite Amazon running the world, I told him, Best Buy still did drop-offs.

The man in the gray suit asked, “How’d you manage to come across that . . . that laptop?”

“Told you. They had an extra one. I went over the electronic invoice and it wasn’t listed. So it fell into a black hole. I never signed for this one. It won’t be reported. It will simply vanish from the database. My dilemma is trying to decide if I am going to take it back and get somebody in trouble for the screwup, or see this as a sign and sell it and make enough money to pay my rent this month.”

“You’re short on your rent.”

“Most of my income goes to paying frickin’ rent. Like everybody else in L.A., I’m always short.”

I had said too much. That admission gave him bargaining power.

Another police car zoomed by, forced angry people to pull to the right, made a bad traffic evening a lot more frustrating. The siren was so loud I had to wait for the downside of the noise to go on talking.

He asked, “How much is your rent?”

“Dude, it’s cold out here, and it’s raining. Half the people in L.A. are coughing and the other half have the flu. So before I end up getting sick as a dog, do you want to buy the MacBook Pro or not?”

“Might be a way that I could help you out.”

“I’m only bargaining with the laptop. Nothing else is for sale.”

He said, “Three hundred. Take it or leave it.”

“Six. That’s my bottom line.”

“So you better take that stolen computer to eBay.”

I was about to curse him, but he pulled his wallet out and let me see a fresh row of greenbacks inside. Couldn’t remember when I’d had that much cash and it wasn’t being used to pay a bill.

I said, “You can afford the six. This laptop cost over two grand. Don’t rip me off.”

“I could afford to go the Apple Store and buy one brand-new with a full warranty.”

“Do better than three hundred. Three hundred is below Black Friday prices.”

“You’re a pretty woman.”

“I’m almost as pretty as that silver wedding ring on your left hand.”

“You’re wearing a pretty nice ring as well.”

“On my right hand.”

“Why is it on your right hand?”

“Because it won’t fit on the middle finger of my left hand.”

“But that is a wedding righty, right?”

“Your ring is on your left hand. That means you bought the cow.”

“Yours on the right hand means?”

“It means I’m no one’s cow. So where’s your cow? Where’s the woman you make go moo?”

He said, “We’re estranged. I guess that would be the best way to put it at the moment.”

“At the moment? What, you’re estranged until you get home? Then you make her go moo?”

“It’s been a long day for me; a long day with lots of driving and lots of stress, and anger, and too much drama. This traffic is starting to look like they’re evacuating Los Angeles. We’re both going to be trapped in this dull city. Let’s go somewhere warm and dry and grab a bite to eat and talk about it.”

I said, “Buy your wife this laptop, maybe stop by 7-Eleven and pick up a hot dog, find her some crotchless lingerie at the ninety-nine-cent store, go to redtube.com and look at some hot porn by Belle Knox or Lisa Ann, role-play, and I guarantee you that by tomorrow evening you two will be tight.”

“Mind if I take a look at the merchandise first?”

“It’s hot off the press and still factory-sealed. So, yeah, I mind the box being opened.”

“Mind if I check out the five million pixels and retina display that’s better than HDTV?”

“I’m in a rush. You can open the box when you get home.”

“I can’t do it now? I can’t open what you’re selling me from Best Buy now?”

His tone darkened, sent a chill up my spine.

He repeated, “Open the box. Let me turn the computer on.”

6:36 P.M.

I didn’t back down. “Open your wallet.”

“Show me what you’re selling.”

“Show me the money.”

“Let’s see the laptop that Best Buy lost in the system.”

“I’m not opening the box for you until I have the money in my hand.”

“Two thousand. I’ll give you top dollar for a stolen laptop.”

I paused, nose wanting to run, shivering, hunger pangs gripping my belly. “What’s the catch?”

“If I open that box and there is actually a laptop in there, a brand-new MacBook Pro, and it has the paperwork, and it turns on, you get the two grand. If it doesn’t power up, or if you’re trying to do a version of the old rocks-in-a-box scam, then it’s a new game. So, who’s zooming who here?”

“Nobody is trying to run game.”

He said, “But if it’s not a laptop, two hundred for a blow job.”

“You’re disgusting. And someone married your ass?”

“You’re leaving? I thought we had a transaction going on here.”

“Have a good life, and tell the cow you make go moo I send my sympathies.”

“Hold up.”

I said, “Don’t come any closer.”

He put his hand on my jacket. I thought he was attacking me, but he just stuck something in my jacket pocket. His hand felt my breast when he did it. I went ballistic.

I snapped, “Don’t touch me. I don’t friggin’ know you like that.”

I allowed what I had in my jacket sleeve to slide down to my hand. The box cutter.

If so many people hadn’t been around, if it had been only him, I would’ve cut him deep.

There was a camera. Traffic wouldn’t allow me to escape. I wasn’t much of a runner.

I snapped, “This is America, asshole, and touching me like that is sexual harassment.”

He said, “Look, I might have come at you wrong.”

“Might have? Really? Your disgusting ass tries to get a blow job for two hundred and you grabbed my breast and you might have come at me wrong?”

“By accident. I touched the tits by accident.”

“What is your issue? I’m not a whore. Go screw your goddamn mother, asshole.”

I reached into my pocket and looked at what he had crammed inside. It could have been scraps of paper with less value than shinplaster, as worthless as a Canadian twenty-five-cent bill. But it was American money; hundred-dollar bills. I counted them quickly. Twenty one-hundred-dollar bills.

My hands and voice shook. “What the hell are you expecting for this much money?”

“Merry Christmas.”

“You’re serious?”

“And I hope you have a happier New Year than I’m going to have.”

This was a setup. I knew this was a setup, but I didn’t know what kind of setup this was.

I said, “Damn. I knew it. You’re an undercover cop.”

He reached into his pocket, and I waited for him to flash his badge and ask me to turn around so he could put me under arrest. But he took out a gray business card and handed it to me.

He loosened his tie, took the box, said, “Sure this isn’t a MacBook Pro?”

“Disgusting. You’re disgusting. You should drop to your knees and apologize.”

“For what? Looks like you came out on the winning end of this con game.”

“You insulted me. Suck your pathetic dick for two hundred? I don’t care how much money you give me—that was the most insulting thing you can say to a woman, besides calling her a cunt.”

He barked, “You insulted me first.”

I barked back at him, “How did I insult you?”

“I saw you across the street. You watched me. You picked me to be your target.”

“You saw me?”

“You pulled up into the gas station, eyes on me. Twenty other people here buying gas, and you looked at my car, jumped out of your pickup, came right to me, hurried to get to me before I left, came to me smiling like an innocent little girl, all fake, trying to be a sweet, sweet, sweet grifter. You picked me. So give me a goddamn break. You tried to con me. You insulted me first. Act like a con, and then expect to be treated like wha...

About this edition

• Publisher: Dutton
• Publication date: 2016
• ISBN 10: 0451471717
• ISBN 13: 9780451471710
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 368