by Patricia Correll

It was the nicest car he’d ever driven, a black vintage Rolls, sleek and deadly as a hunting cat. He’d never stolen anything half so swank.

The driver looked away as she walked up, heels clicking on the pavement. He held the back door of the Rolls open, as he had nearly every day for four years. She slipped past him in a rustle of silk and a hint of fruity perfume. Silk and citrus, always the same. He liked that about her.

Her hair was getting dark again, the way it did when she hadn’t dyed it for a while. He liked it this way, the rich red color of polished cherry wood. He closed the door behind her and slid into the driver’s seat. The leather sank under his body, long familiar with his weight. He knew the route. They drove it three, maybe four times a year, the long dusty road that led to Ray’s desert villa two hundred miles outside of Vegas.

She talked to him sometimes on this drive, about how she’d come to Vegas to be a showgirl and ended up dancing burlesque, how Ray had seen her and made her his woman. Sometimes she asked the driver questions about himself.

“My dad was a sheep herder or something back in Greece. He came to America to find a better job and met my mom. They tried to raise me right but I guess I just went
bad somewhere along the way. I was stealing cars when Ray found me and gave me a job. That was eight years ago. Now I’m his driver.”

She’d smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “That’s the most words you ever said to me, you know?”

The driver had to grin because she was right. She said, “Oh! You have a sweet smile. Like a little boy.”

He wondered if she watched him as much as he watched her. Better not to think about it.

The first time he’d driven her anywhere he looked her over in the rearview, hoping she didn’t notice him looking. Pale skin like china. Little freckles on her nose the makeup couldn’t quite hide. Manicured nails. Hair a shade of auburn that could only come out of a bottle, but it suited her. A real knockout.

She’d leaned her head in her hand like a bored kid, watching the rain streak down the glass. At a stoplight downtown she suddenly spoke. “I don’t love him. I used to, back when we first met. But not anymore. Not for a long time.”

Everyone said Ray was crazy about this chick. Why would she say something like that to a total stranger? It had to be a test. Ray told her to say that, to test his loyalty. The driver said nothing in reply. She watched him for a moment, then sighed and looked away. Her eyes were sad.

He almost always drove her alone. Ray liked to drive himself in flashy sports cars. The driver sometimes took Ray to meetings where he had to make an impression. Every once in a while he drove them both, if they were leaving a party and Ray was drunk. It didn’t happen often, but when it did he kept his eyes glued to the road. He tried not to see Ray huffing and pawing, his clumsy hand pushing her skirt up to reveal killer legs, mascara running into raccoon circles around her eyes.

Dreaming about the boss’ woman was a bad idea. But what the hell. Every guy who ever saw her probably had at least one dirty thought about her. Some nights he woke with a gasp, skin still tingling from the brush of her hair as she leaned down to kiss him. After a while there were other dreams too, dreams where they sat in the park, watching the swans, or held hands as they walked down the street. Her hair shining like a new penny in the sun. He brought home other women, a long list of them, but when he woke up next to them he felt disappointed.

Ray had a nasty temper but the driver had only seen her beat up once. He’d picked her up at Ray’s place and when she glanced up to thank him for holding the door he saw her split lip, cracked red and angry. Before he put the Rolls in gear he dumped some ice from his Coke into his handkerchief. As she took it from him their fingers brushed, just the slightest touch of skin, but the driver felt it like a punch in the stomach. Her face wasn’t really that bad. His dad had given his mom black eyes when she mouthed off. He’d never hit a woman himself but he could see why you’d want to sometimes.

“I lost my lighter,” She said, the wrapped ice in one hand and a cigarette in the other. That was his cue to lean over the seat, Zippo in hand. She took a long draw off the cigarette. Her hair was golden-red. She must have just dyed it. “Your hand is shaking.”

“It’s cold. Forgot my gloves.” He lied.

Then there was the night Lenny the Rat got killed at Kelso’s.

The driver had parked at the curb in front of the restaurant, waiting for them to finish dinner. Barely an hour passed before two of Ray’s bodyguards came crashing out the front, holding her between them. Before he could even get out of the car one of them was shoving her in the backseat.

“Mac finally wasted Lenny the Rat.” The other guy told him. “Right over dinner and all. Ray’s pissed as hell. Take her home.”