The front door swung shut, and Arlo spied Judy's long, dark hair sweep back and forth across her waist. As soon as she'd made it down the cobblestone walk to her car, he slipped across the rich Berber carpeting to the back bedroom. She was off to her first case of the day at the downtown courthouse. He always knew her schedule, though she never asked about his.
    In her bottom drawer under a yellow angora sweater, Arlo knew she kept her checks, photos of skylines, and cactus imprinted on them in inoffensive pastels. He seized a book from the bottom and ripped out a single check from the middle. In no time, he'd pushed everything back inside, even stopped to refold a silk scarf that smelled of her musk.
    He took the jacket she'd bought him out from his fourth of the closet. They'd laughed that day at the mall when she'd raised an eyebrow and said the cut was flattering. It was nice enough, certainly better than what the others wore down at the card room.
    On the front stoop, Arlo turned to lock and set the alarm, like every day,. On the leather seat of his Benz, used though nobody knew, he made the check out to "cash" and signed Judy's name. The Card Shark would be serving lunch in twenty minutes, all you can eat.
    Pushing through the mako-shaped handles of the big wooden door, he walked directly to the cage to trade for chips, so many they had to give him a tray. As soon as he'd plunked himself down in front of an expanse of green felt to play some Texas Hold 'Em—on an end chair so he had enough room—he was set up with beer, lobster bisque, and a Shrimp Louie, free.
    "You in?" said one of the regulars, who Arlo supposed he could call a friend.
    "Damn straight."
    "No need to get hot about it.
    "Lay off," Arlo said, getting more comfortable by the minute.
    The dealer, hair in ringlets, nails unreasonably long, a ribbon shaped into a cowboy tie like this was the Wild West, shuffled, had someone cut, then shoved the cards into the shoe and started flying them around the table. Velvet curtains kept the place dark.
    Arlo spent the day losing everything and got himself out of the Shark just in time to beat Judy home. Not thirty minutes had gone by before the rumbling sound of the garage door opener penetrated the house. Quickly, she preferred no evidence, he lost himself under the covers and listened to her stalk through the house until she reached the bedroom, hair healthy and cut off center, a feminine suit with Norman Hector pumps, her monogrammed briefcase, a stack of bills in her hand.
    "There you are, toots," she said, throwing the bills on her bureau. "Went to dinner with the guys on defense. Good PR when you win, and all that. I'm so glad you're here, chickadee—someone from the real world."
    She picked up his guitar leaning against the wall. "Gonna play for me tonight? It'd be nice to hear some soul after my day."
    Sighing, she turned and lifted the bank statement. "Here's another one of these."
    She stooped to open the drawer, holding up the bank statement. "Another one of these," she said, removing the yellow angora and rubbing it against her cheek. She smiled at him while burying the paperwork under everything, then refolded the sweaters the way she liked them.
    Shimmying out of her skirt in a hurry, she kicked her pumps across the room, and climbed in beside him wearing nothing but sheets against her pale, well-moisturized skin. "Come here to Mama," she said, arms stretched out to embrace him.
    He might have felt lucky but for his sense that something had been taken from him. He missed the evenings when she used to want to know how he'd spent his day.



About the author:
Bonnie ZoBell has received an NEA and a PEN Syndicated Fiction Award and won the Capricorn Novel Award. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in such print magazines as American Fiction, The Bellingham Review, and The Greensboro Review, and online at SmokeLong Quarterly, FRiGG, and Hobart. She received an MFA from Columbia and teaches at San Diego Mesa College.

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