The Deadliest Option (35 page)

“Are you kidding? They tore it out of my hands last night.”

“I’ll be right back. Just sit there and don’t get into any more trouble, Birdie, there’s a good girl.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. When had everyone started referring to her as “good girl?”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, feet dangling, she suddenly thought,
oh m’God, Smith!
She picked up the phone and called the office. How was she going to tell Smith? Smith would be—“Oh, hi, B.B. May I speak with Smith, please?”

Several seconds passed. “Who is this?” B.B. sounded cautious.

“B.B. it’s me—it’s I, Wetzon.” Was her voice that distorted?

“Oh gosh, Wetzon, I’m sorry. Hold on. She’s been trying to find you.”

“Wetzon!” Smith shrieked. “Where in hell have you been? I’ve been trying you—I heard what happened.”

“You heard? Who told you?”

“Destry. Where are you? We must talk.”

Destry?
“I’m in Bellevue.”

“Are you all right?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I was all right. “

“There’s no need to take that tone, sugar. I’ve been absolutely frantic since I heard. You might have had your Italian Dick Tracy call me.”

Smith made her weary. “I’m on my way home now. What did Destry tell you?”

“He said that Chris had had too much to drink and didn’t behave like a gentleman, that he got carried away.”

“A long way.”

“Well, is it true?”

“Smith, Chris punched me in the face and tried to rape me. Did Destry tell you that?”

“Oh my God, sweetie pie, how awful for you. But you’re okay, right? He didn’t rape you, did he? Destry said you shouldn’t press charges.”

“And what do you say, Smith?”

“Well, of course I can’t make those decisions for you, but—”

“You don’t have to. I am.”

“You are what? Pressing charges?”

“Yes.”

“Sweetie pie, I know you’re upset and hurt, but it will pass. You don’t want to hold on to it. You’ll have to go to court and everything will come out.”

“What do you mean everything will come out?”

“Oh, you know, your life ... it can get
so
personal ... Besides, Chris has agreed to go into therapy, so you just can’t.”

“I can’t?”

“Yes, you know what I mean. You can’t press charges.”

“What the fuck are you saying, Smith?” Anger, simmering on the surface, began to do a slow boil.

“You have to give him a chance to get treatment, not make things worse for him.”

“Since when do you care about Chris? Up till now you were always putting him down.”

“Sweetie, you’re not hearing me. You can’t press charges. It would be a terrible signal for us to send out.”

“What signal?” Wetzon heard her voice rise.

“Just calm down for a minute and let me speak. It will let everyone know that we’re women, sugar.”

“We
are
women!”

Smith rode over her. “It will call attention to us as women, after all the work I’ve done to separate us from—”

Wetzon hung up.

“I
DON’T KNOW
why that surprises you.” Carlos handed her a coldpack wrapped in a dish towel. “Keep this on the swelling.”

“Will you stop bustling around like a nanny? Settle somewhere and talk to me.” She flipped her braid forward over her breast. “Just toss me the afghan. I’m cold.” She was curled up on the sofa in her living room, sipping iced tea, which Carlos had prepared after he brought her home.

Her apartment with its wooden blinds, hanging quilts, and country furniture had never looked more beautiful. The colors of the quilts seemed vivid, even though she knew they weren’t. She touched the small geometric-patterned hooked rug, which she used as an accent piece on her brown sofa, tenderly, seeing the careful hand stitches someone had long ago sewn. The ice clinked in the tall glass as it melted, and the tea was dark and satiny with lemon.

If she could breathe through her nose, she was certain her sense of smell would be heightened. She’d had a terrifying brush with death, and the world seemed extra special to her.

Carlos dropped the afghan on her legs and studied her. “You’re looking better, Birdie. Keep the coldpack on.”

“Carlos, I love your dear pointed head.”

“And I yours.”

“You don’t think I should drop the charges, do you?”

“No. I’d like to see Chris Gorham tarred and feathered and ridden out of town on a rail. I think you should give it to the mother in spades.”

She dropped the coldpack on her lap and gingerly stretched her legs out in front of her. “In spades ...” she repeated. It triggered something. Spades ... cards ... her dream about the poker game. She shivered.

“If you’re thinking about the Barracuda, forget it. She’d sell that kid of hers if the price was right. She’s laying a head trip on you.” He sat down on the sofa and put her feet in his lap, stroking them. “Listen, Birdie—”

“Uh-oh, he’s got that let’s-get-serious attitude.” She grinned at him crookedly, then winced. Even her teeth ached. The coldpack went back on her cheek. His eyes danced. He didn’t look much older than the day they’d met in a dance class. “Fifteen years,” she murmured.

“Fifteen years?”

“That’s how long we’ve known each other,” she said fondly.

“Well, good. I was worried.” He tickled the sole of her bare foot.

“Stop!” She tried to pull her foot away, but he held tight to her ankle.

“I’ll stop if you let me talk.”

“Speak.” She closed her eyes.

“I’m going to choreograph Mort Hornberg’s next show.”

“Oooooh, how lovely. What’s it about? When do you go into rehearsal?”

“No dates yet. Next year some time. Interesting subject, but you know how secretive Mort is. I want to ask you something serious, Birdie.”

“Okay, shoot. Whoops.” She clapped her hand over her mouth, wincing. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop torturing you. I’m a little hysterical, I guess.” She giggled, then hiccoughed.

“Mort’s all for it. Do you want to come back as my assistant choreographer?”

“Not in this life, dear heart.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

He looked so disappointed that she sat up and kissed his cheek. “I love you for asking, though.”

“Keep that icepack on,” he said sternly. “This would never have happened if you’d stayed in the theater.”

“Yeah, because most of the guys are gay.”

“That does it. I can take a hint.” He stood up.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!”

“I accept your apology, but I have to go. I’ve got a replacement going in tonight, and I’m late for rehearsal. Will you be all right?”

“Yes, Carlos. Thank you. I mean it with all my heart.”

“I know, my love. Let me kiss your crooked nose and take my leave. “

She followed him to the door. “Where’d you put my chocolate bar?”

“You mean the two-by-four?”

“Yup.”

“On the counter in the kitchen.”

“Okay, you may leave now.”

Hand on his heart, he said, “I’m really crushed.”

She pushed him out the door and closed it.

The doorbell rang. The sound seemed to reverberate up and down and around her. She opened the door.

“Almost forgot,” Carlos said. “Dwayne said you’d called him, but his machine ate your phone number, so I gave it to him.” He fluttered his fingers at her and got on the elevator.

“Thanks, pal.” She was feeling groggy. Maybe Dwayne wouldn’t call her until tomorrow. She padded into the kitchen and found the chocolate bar, breaking it into pieces before she unwrapped it. Then she placed a small brick of chocolate on her tongue and let it melt. She was going to be strong and not let what happened make her afraid of her own shadow. But her person had been invaded and she felt violated. “If you feel like a victim, old dear,” she said out loud, “you become one. Snap out of it.”

Her answering machine showed five messages. She pressed the playback mechanism.

Doug Culver. She’d forgotten all about him. She was supposed to have called him last night. Well, by this time he knew why she hadn’t.

Smith.

Laura Lee. The party for Anne was Sunday. She’d forgotten about that, too. What a picture she’d make. Even a veil wouldn’t help.
How about a nice sequined feedbag with breathing holes Wetzon?

Smith again.

Then, “Leslie Wetzon, this is Abby Gorham, Chris’s wife. I beg you not to press charges. Chris is terribly ashamed of what he did. He’s promised to go into therapy. Please. I have two children who need their father.”

God, charitable was just what she didn’t need to feel right now. First Smith—with a little push from Destry—now this. Wetzon wondered how Abby had gotten her home number. Maybe Chris had it in his address book. Or had it been Smith?

She sighed and called Laura Lee.

“Don’t you feel well? They told me you were out of the office today.” Wetzon could hear Laura Lee’s other phone buzzing in the background.

“I had a little accident, but I’m all right ... I think.”

“You don’t sound all right. What happened?”

“A difference of opinion with someone. I got a little banged up.”

“Smith?”

“Oh no.” Wetzon laughed. “All of Smith’s assaults are emotional, Laura Lee.”

“Was it someone in the business?”

“I don’t feel much like talking about it now. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Okay, then we’re still on for tomorrow?”

“Well, sure. But can you do the shopping? I look horrible. I’ll have to wear a disguise for the party.”

“Disguise?”

“I got punched in the face.”

She could hear Laura Lee’s quick intake of breath. “It was Chris Gorham, wasn’t it?”

“Laura Lee, you heard.”

“No, I hadn’t heard. What I heard was that someone at Luwisher Brothers had been arrested for domestic violence, or whatever the hell the male establishment labels beatin’ up women. I didn’t know it was you.”

“Then how did you guess?”

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Laura Lee said in a tight voice.

“A
ND NOW, TO
introduce our honored guest, Ms. Leslie Wetzon.”

She rose and floated to the lectern as if she were lighter than air. The band played “What’s New, Pussycat.”

She looked out at the field of faces on the floor of the Exchange, watching them dip and bend like wheat in the wind. Who was the honored guest, she wondered, panicked. Her hand, clutching a sheet of paper, trembled violently. She unfolded the paper and read the names and numbers from the photocopied list.

Waiters in black tuxedos and surgical masks snaked around and up the platform in a conga line, singing the “What’s New, Pussycat” refrain. The lead waiter balanced a Coca-Cola tray, holding a single drink, on his fingertips. Perrier and lime. He offered it to Wetzon, who shook her head and backed away, but the tail of the conga line came around and held her in place, a human barrier.

“Drink!” the lead waiter cried, his voice muffled by the surgical mask.

“Drink it!” Smith called.

“Drink!” Hoffritz shouted.

“Yes, do,” Destry said, bringing up the rear.

“You might as well, Wetzon,” Dougie Culver said, shrugging and extending his palms. “I like you very much ... I respect you ... but you have no option.”

“No option, no option,” they all chanted.

The waiter thrust the Perrier at her, his eyes like onyx, flat and black.
Help
, she thought. He pressed the edge of the glass to her lips while the others held her, and she swallowed the putrid liquid and gagged. The shafts of wheat closed in around her, raising a choking dust. Her eyes burned and teared. She broke away from her captors and with her last ounce of strength pulled the surgical mask from the lead waiter’s face. Charlie Chan.

He stretched his lips and stared at her without blinking. “Ancient ancestors say it is a wise man who can separate smoke from fire.”

“But I’m a woman,” she cried, feeling herself sinking into the wheat.

“Then trust intuition,” the Asian voice said as the closing bell on the days trading sounded.

And sounded.

She rolled over on her left side, liberating a dull, throbbing pain, and woke herself up. On her back again, she took inventory slowly. She felt as if she’d been pummeled. Which she had. She opened her eyes and let her fingers explore the damage. Wonders of wonders, her left eye was working again. A mere slit, but it was working. A crusty layer of gook clung to her lashes. The scuffed skin on her cheek had formed a scab as thick as a carpet. Her jaw ached. She rotated it warily, opened and closed her mouth, testing. The soft rumble of Silvestri’s voice in the next room drifted in, reassuring her. Dozing, the sound of the shower sent her rabbiting back to the night before, and she lay cringing under the light cover until she realized she was safe and the shaking stopped.

Her clock said ten-twelve, and the air-conditioner hummed. The closed blinds shut away the outside world—daylight, heat, people—and that was all right with her. She’d had about all she could stand of them right now. Except for Carlos and Silvestri, she wanted to surround herself with women, her friends. Fluffy cotton clouds floated across her mind’s eye.
Blue skies smiling at me.
And she slept.

“Good morning.” Silvestri woke her by sitting on her side of the bed, making it slope.

The inside of her mouth was dry and crinkly as a fall leaf, and her lips were chapped. She’d been sleeping on her back with her mouth open. Semi-dried drool crept from the right side of her mouth. She opened her eyes. “You’re dressed. Are you working today?” Silvestri had his shoulder rig on. She pulled herself slowly into a sitting position and took the glass of orange juice he held out to her. It was fresh and thick with pulp, the way she liked it. She gave him an unintentionally crooked smile. “Take off your clothes,” she said.

He studied her with serious eyes, then nodded, satisfied. “I’m going to get a haircut.” He brushed his hair back past his receding hairline as if he had a full head of hair. “Then I’m going out to Forest Hills.”

“Oh.” His mother lived in Forest Hills. She was a lawyer with a reputation in women’s issues. She’d been widowed young and had gone to Fordham and gotten a law degree. Wetzon had never met Rita Silvestri, although she had spoken with her on the phone. Silvestri seemed inclined to keep the two women in his life separated, which was okay with Wetzon. If he brought them together, it would mean he wanted a commitment from her.