Wiseguys In Love (17 page)

Tears were running down Lisa's face as she stood staring at Andrew and the woman he'd brought over for dinner several times in the last two years.

Michael's eyes scanned the room and followed her stare to a man and woman across the floor. He watched them for a moment, then looked down at her.

“Who is that?”

She opened her mouth slightly, though no sound came out. She couldn't take her eyes off of them.

“That's Andrew,” she said mechanically, not even looking up at him. “He's the guy I live with.”

FIVE

Lisa slid down in the backseat of the car. All right, she was admitting it—she'd been playing this game of “see no evil” with Andrew for years. As long as it wasn't smacking her in the face, she didn't feel she had to do anything.

Well, she'd just gotten slapped.

She stared out the window at Michael, talking to Tony Mac, arguing with him. She didn't care. She didn't care about anyone or anything. She shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning.

What had she done wrong? She paid half the rent; she kept the place clean; she did his laundry; she cooked—used to—for him. Maybe that was it, maybe if she had cooked more, maybe if she'd been more like …

Her breathing became shallow and tears spilled down her face. She felt stupid and foolish.

Tony and Michael got into the car silently. Tony started it up and drove over to Tenth Avenue. In the rearview mirror was the flashing reflection of police lights, stopping in front of the club.

“Where you live at?” Tony said quietly.

“Why?” she whispered.

“You're goin' home.”

“Seventy-second.”

*   *   *

“I couldn't believe it when I heard. Someone actually was so desperate to get in here, they pulled a gun on Rodney?” Henry was asking as he leaned against the sink in the bathroom.

“That's right,” Morris said, sifting through a Baggie of gram and half-gram packets of coke. He dug in and handed Henry three.

He pocketed them immediately.

“Good God, you mean this place has been infected with the tread of a
nobody?
”

“And there were some other guys with him, huge guys, Rodney said.”

“And Rodney couldn't take care of him?” Henry said, and began to back toward the door.

“I heard the guy was about seven feet tall and—don't you owe me something, Henry?” he asked, holding out his hand.

“Really, Morris, how droll—” Henry began.

“No, no more of this shit. You're into me for fourteen hundred, and I want it.”

“The whole thing?”

“That's right. And I want it tonight, Henry.”

“Are you threatening me?” Henry asked, standing up as straight as he could.

“Yup,” Morris said, walking over near him and staring him in the face. “I don't do this out of the goodness of my heart.”

“You
know
I'm good for it.”

“Uh-huh. That why you stopped going to the Palladium?”

Henry stood still and watched Morris begin to circle him.

“Oh, I got a real rundown on you, Henry. There are beginning to be lots and lots of places you can't go back to, aren't there?”

“I don't know what—”

“There are a lot of people in New York who can tell me things.”

“What's the matter, Morris, have a bad week on the Street?” Henry said as Morris backed him into a sink.

“Naw, we're not going to play this game. You get me my money—tonight,” he said, and Henry made a move toward the door. Morris pulled a stiletto out of his pocket and clicked it open under Henry's jaw. He held it there while he dug the three gram packets out of Henry's coat pocket.

“Now, you go get me that money, or you won't be able to come back here to cover the ‘scene' for that sucky little magazine you pretend to publish.”

“But—”

“And if per chance you don't make it back here, or I wind up in a story? You're a dead man,” he said. “Now you have an hour.”

*   *   *

Tony pulled the car up in front of Lisa's building and Michael helped her out.

“I pick youse up around ten,” Tony said, and took off.

Lisa stared up at Michael.

“What?” she asked, tensely.

“I'm … supposed to keep an eye on you tonight, and then tomorrow we're going to his apartment,” Michael stammered.

“I don't need this,” she said, and walked into the building.

She opened the door to the apartment and turned on the lights. She walked away, into the bedroom, without even looking at Michael. It was as if he didn't even exist right now. He felt uncomfortable as hell here.

He looked around the room. It was a pretty one, very neat, he thought. He dropped his raincoat on the gray couch and loosened his tie.

His eyes landed on a lace-covered side table. Under a Tiffany-type lamp were a phone and picture frames. His eyes darted back to the bedroom. It was shut. He walked over to the table, picked up the phone, and got a dial tone. He placed it silently back on the cradle. He turned on the lamp and picked up an oval silver frame.

The sandy-haired man he'd seen with the girl on his lap at the club was standing with his arm around Michigan—Lisa, he corrected himself. She was smiling; he had this odd expression on his face. Michael couldn't quite make it out. It wasn't exactly a smile.

He was good-looking … if you went in for that sort of Robert Redford thing.

“What are you doing?” Lisa's voice was choked, and he looked up in time to see her rush across the floor.

She grabbed the picture out of his hand and stared at it, red-eyed.

“My
boy
friend,” she said tartly, and looked back up at Michael. She began to move toward him, waving the frame at him. “The man I moved to New York to be with. The man I left my family for, because I
knew
deep down that he loved me and was going to marry me.”

“You must—”

“The man I was going have children with. Do you hear me?
Do you think this is funny?
I'll show you funny!” she said, and winged the thing against the wall behind him, nearly glomming Michael in the head.

He felt the color drain from his face.

“Hey, wait—”

“Men! You're all nothing but self-centered
idiots!
” she said, turning back to the table of photos. She snapped her arm out, sweeping it across the table. The lamp and photos smashed to the floor, and she held her arm in pain. Michael felt himself press against the wall. He noticed his reflection in the window and was a bit shocked at how frightened he looked on the outside. He tried closing his mouth and looking angry. He did not want to be here. This was scaring the hell out of him.

“Four years I've blown on this stupid … lying … dumb-head…” The words were getting tangled up in her throat as something snapped inside her. She no longer cared whether she had
done
something or
not done
something. Andrew had betrayed her. He had made her feel that all her suspicions were silly, just a figment of her imagination. He'd told her that what she was really upset about was her job. That her job was what was wrong with her life. Her job, not him. And, once he'd convinced her of that, she'd felt so foolish and doubtful about her own fears that she stopped asking questions. She'd stopped
herself
from bringing up the late hours and the missed weekends. He had played her for a jerk.

Suddenly, this feeling began at the base of her stomach. It rose up her spine, as if she was in some kind of vat that was quickly filling with water and in a moment would be over her head and she'd be drowning in it. Her entire body was hot and tight as this strange emotion overtook her for the first time in her life.

The flatness and the dull depression was gone. Lisa was enraged.

“Now, look, you gotta—”

“
Shut up.
I'm through listening! I'm through being some nice little woman who is lied to. DO YOU HEAR ME?” she yelled, and stooped down, grabbing the picture of them at Yellowstone National Park. “I've been kidnapped, tied up, I killed someone—I've had enough, do you hear me?” she screeched, and sent the picture hurling. The sound of smashing glass tinkled and chimed as the picture smashed through the shut window Michael had been looking at his reflection in. It did not even slow her down.

“Hey, wait a minute—” Michael began.

“I want a drink,” she said, storming away.

As she stomped into the kitchen, he dashed over to the broken window and opened it up. He stared down and breathed out. No one was lying on the sidewalk.

“Four years! Four miserable, rotten years!” he could hear her rant in the kitchen.

He stood for a brief second wondering what to do. She was like a crazy woman. This mild-mannered woman, with her freckled nose and her petit floral dress and little pom-pom socks, was like blasting putty that had been hit with a hammer.

He listened to her slam something against the counter, muttering incoherently.

He should go in there. His body leaned toward the kitchen, but his legs did not move.

No, he shouldn't.… He stared at his raincoat on the couch. He
did
have a gun, if it came down to it.

“GODDAMN IT.” The sound cut through the kitchen walls.

That was it, he was not going to spend the night ducking furniture.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” he screamed, walking into the kitchen.

She turned around with a large carving knife, and his hands immediately raised. She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face.

“I can't reach the liquor.”

“Okay, let me do it,” he said, and calmly took the knife from her. “Where is it?”

She pointed up into a built-in shelf above the refrigerator. “What do you want?”

“I want the most expensive thing he's got,” she answered, and dumped ice into a glass.

Michael shoved the Stolichnaya bottle aside and hunted around. The cabinet was very impressive—Chivas Regal, several bottles of cognac he recognized as good. A bottle of twenty-seven-year-old Glenlivet caught his eye. He could use a drink, too. He took the bottle down.

“You sure this is the best stuff?” she demanded.

“Well…”

“I want the best—I—no, I want you to bring down everything.”

He stared at her.

“Can I have a drink?” he asked, gazing at her steadily.

“Will you bring down the bottles?”

“Are you gonna throw more stuff out the window?”

“No … I'm going to pour it down the drain.”

He exhaled. “Fine.” He turned and began taking down the bottles. She uncapped the Stoly and he watched it splash down the drain. He quickly grabbed the Glenlivet and began hunting for a glass.

As she finished pouring the cognacs down the drain, he put a couple of ice cubes into a glass and poured himself a stiff drink. He sipped it, feeling it warm his tongue slightly, then turn peppery and smoky at the back of his throat. He watched a 1961 Armagnac splash down the drain, and at the last minute grabbed the bottle from her. She glared at him, and he looked at her and gave a weak smile.

“I gotta taste this one,” he apologized.

He took a swig, and then a second, and swirled it around his tongue. It tasted like liquid velvet. He gave it back to her and stood in the doorway, sipping his Glenlivet.

“There any particular reason you're destroying this stuff?” he asked.

“I've had a bad day,” she replied tersely, and they both watched the Armagnac splash down, turning the white porcelain maroon in the sink.

“This is his. All his. I wasn't even allowed to go into his goddammed liquor cabinet. It was too good for
me
to drink,” she said, and stood very still for a moment, holding the empty bottle.

She dropped it and stared at the stained sink and the broken glass and began to cry. He put down his drink and came up behind her. She spun around and began to cry into his chest. He raised his arms to put them around her, then dropped them. She continued to cry until he wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

“She came over to dinner.
I
tried to make friends with her.… They were laughing at me,” she mumbled. “I've never done anything wrong to anybody, you know? God, my life wasn't supposed to turn out like this.”

He stood there gently rocking her in his arms. She felt nice there, and he began to feel guilty as his mind wandered about her body.

God, he was lonely. He hadn't felt it until today. Back over the Brooklyn Bridge, then again at the restaurant, and now …

He brought himself back and gently pushed her shoulders away.

“Look, let's go into the living room and take it easy for a moment, okay?”

She nodded and he led her out into the living room and sat her down on the couch. He walked back into the kitchen and grabbed both their drinks and a paper towel. He handed her the paper towel and she blew her nose. Then he sat next to her and handed her the drink. She took a sip of his and coughed. The cut on her lower lip burned.

“This stuff's vile,” she said, her mouth puckering. “Isn't there anything sweet in there?”

Michael went back into the kitchen and brought down a bottle of Chambord and poured her a snifter, filling it generously.

He watched her sipping on the drink and drying the tears with the paper towel.

“I guess I knew he had women on the side, you know? But I really thought I'd … I don't know, grow on him or something. If I loved him enough, he'd come around sooner or later. Jesus, I've never admitted that before.”

Michael sat across from her and winced.

“Grow on him? You make yourself sound like some kind of pet dog or something.”

She stood up angrily. “Well,
excuse
me! I'm not one of your sophisticated New York women. I don't want to be the head of AT&T—I wanted to be a wife and a mother, and maybe an editor. Now it's all over. Don't you understand?”