Things We Do in the Dark(11)

The three of them were in the kitchen. Paris was leaving for Vancouver soon and hoping to have a quiet lunch with her husband before the long drive. But Zoe was still talking to her boss at the kitchen table as Paris reheated leftovers on the stove. Pork adobo, Jimmy’s favorite.

“Right now, enough for half, maybe two-thirds of a show,” Jimmy answered.

“Can you stretch it to an hour?”

“Not if you want it to be funny.”

“That’s fine,” Zoe said. “We’ve got time. I can tell them you’ll be ready to film a third in, say, six months? You could do it in Las Vegas. The Venetian is interested, but MGM wants you pretty bad. I think it should be the Venetian, since it was built where the Sands used to be.”

The Sands was where Jimmy did a five-year residency back in the late eighties, before he became a sitcom superstar. It’s also where he overdosed. The first time.

“Thanks for the history lesson, kid.” Jimmy’s voice was dry. “But if there’s going to be a third, it’s gotta be next month, here in Seattle. The Showbox.”

Paris brought two plates of food over to the table and sat down. Jimmy leaned over and gave her a kiss.

“Jimmy.” Zoe sounded frustrated. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “You said before that you were open to a Las Vegas show. Your original Vegas run was your heyday as a stand-up comic, and they want to see you back there. I already spoke with the entertainment director at the Venetian. They can start promotion immediately with billboards—”

“Is it my heyday if I was too bombed every night to remember it? I have no intention of setting foot in a Vegas casino. Nowhere in the original contract did it say that I would.” Jimmy spooned a mouthful of adobo and rice, and gave Paris a thumbs-up.

“We agreed in good faith—”

“Fuck that,” he said, chewing. “Good faith means letting me do my show where I’m comfortable. I nearly died in Vegas.”

A long silence.

“I’m sorry,” Zoe said. “I understand. But it can’t be the Showbox.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“Jimmy. You know Quan wants a minimum seating capacity of eighteen hundred. They want the show to have energy. They don’t want a tiny audience and a brick wall behind you. They want you on a big stage, with big laughs.”

“Then I’ll do the Paramount. What is that, two thousand seats?”

Zoe typed in her laptop. “Twenty-eight hundred and seven. Perfect. But it looks like they’re booked up for the next two months, and we need at least three nights to tape.”

Paris learned that most hour-long comedy specials recorded for HBO, Netflix, Quan, and the like are actually a blend of several live performances. That way if a joke falls flat one night or the comedian doesn’t deliver a certain segment perfectly, the best of each performance can be used.

“Call them. I’m a hometown kid. They’ll make it work. Any day next month is fine. The sooner, the better.”

“But you don’t have enough material—”

“I’ll be ready.”

Paris looked at her husband. “Jimmy,” she said quietly. “That’s a lot of pressure.”

“I’ll be fine.” He gave her a pointed look, and she shut up.

After they finished eating, Zoe remained in the kitchen while Jimmy carried Paris’s weekend bag to the car.

“I don’t have to go to Vancouver, you know,” she said to him. “I can stay.”

“No, I want you to go.” Jimmy spoke decisively as he put the bag in the trunk. “I know you’ve been looking forward to getting out of here for a few days. Don’t worry, I got stuff to keep me busy. I got that charity thing on Saturday night, and I’m going to try out some of the new jokes.”

“Jimmy,” she said, “I don’t feel right leaving you alone.”

He lifted her chin and looked right into her eyes. “I’ll be here when you get back. I promise. I love you. Drive safe, okay?”

They looked at each other a while longer. Jimmy wasn’t handsome, not exactly. He looked his age, his face full of the lines and creases that told the stories of his life. But it never mattered. She was attracted to his kindness, and his acceptance. Unlike every other man Paris had known, Jimmy Peralta had never asked her for anything.

Except, of course, to sign that airtight, nonnegotiable prenup. Whatever the police are thinking she did, at least they can’t say she did it for the money.





CHAPTER FIVE


Dinner in the holding cell is a sandwich and an apple. The small Honeycrisp is fine. The sandwich is two slices of white Wonder Bread, a slice of ham, a Kraft single, and a swipe of mustard.

Paris examines it. No mold, no strange spots; it’s safe to eat. If she learned one thing growing up, it was to never, ever take food for granted. As a kid, a sandwich like this would have been a treat. She takes a bite. It tastes like her childhood.

Her new cellmates, however, are less than thrilled with their meal.

“What is this?” one of them says, poking through the brown paper bag. “I wouldn’t feed this shit to my dog.”

“Disgusting,” the other one agrees. “I can’t eat this.”

Oh, the privilege of being a picky eater. Jimmy liked aged tenderloin, hand-picked truffles, and sushi so fresh the hook was still in it. Paris, on the other hand, was considerably less discerning. Cheddar in the fridge too long? Scrape off the green bits. Bread’s gone stale? Toast it. If you were hungry as a child, you never really get over it. The idea of wasting food makes Paris feel physically ill.