Wiseguys In Love (19 page)

No, that would be rude. She got out of the tub and slipped her shoes back on. Well, if she was going to leave the city on Monday, at least she'd seen the inside of Maude's—and this shower.

“A bottle of champagne,” Michael said quickly, looking up at the ceiling. Jesus, what was he doing, he thought as he gave the room number and listened to the selections.

Well, she wouldn't drink scotch, after all. And what woman doesn't drink champagne? he speculated, trying to rationalize what he was doing.

He chose a decent bottle and hung up as Lisa came out of the bedroom. She looked a little flushed.

“Oh, Michael,” she said for the third time, pressing her hand to her chest. “I mean, when I said someplace safe, I thought, you know, we'd go to a friend's house.”

“I don't have any friends,” he said quietly, and threw his jacket on the couch.

“Well, this is so … expensive. You know, we could just go someplace cheaper. There's a Ramada Inn on Eighth Avenue—”

“I'm not checking out of here to go to a Ramada Inn,” he said, unbuckling his shoulder holster. “I've had a bad day. Have you had a bad day?”

She nodded emphatically.

“So where would you rather be? Here or at a Ramada Inn?”

“Here.”

He slipped the holster off his shoulder, carefully put it on a chair, and then covered it with his jacket. He swung his arms around in a circle and then moved his shoulders back and forth, trying to get some circulation back. He'd been tensed up all day. He looked at the lump in the jacket where his gun was. He hated that thing. He really hated it.

“Well, I'm going to have to owe you.…” she began.

“Owe me? For what?”

“For the room.”

“Don't worry about the room,” he said, staring at her.

“But really—” she said, and put a hand on his shoulder.

He stared down at her for a moment and she silently looked up at him. He cleared his throat and took a step away from her hand. “It's okay.”

“No it's not,” she continued. “I owe you—”

“You owe me nothing,” he said, annoyed. “For God's sake, Lisa, I kidnapped you today, remember? Tied you up, held a gun to your head? Threatened to kill you?”

“Oh, but you wouldn't have killed me.” She dismissed the thought and sat down on the couch.

“Yeah, but you didn't know that.”

“Sure I did—”

There was a knock at the door, and Lisa sprang off the couch and crossed her hands over her chest, staring at him, frightened.

“Oh my God, who's that?” She took a step toward the bedroom.

“Don't worry,” Michael said, and walked to the door as she ran into the bedroom.

After he paid the guy, he walked over to the coffee table in front of the couch and stared into the bedroom. He looked down at the champagne bucket and ice and felt truly embarrassed by it.

The nice hotel room, a bottle of champagne—what a bastard he was. He hadn't even been near a woman in the past two years. No woman had been near him, and this was not a good idea. He could see her on the stand after this was all over. Murder and rape, that's what she'd think of it as. He'd go for life.

If she'd just stop touching him.…

He was about to take the thing and throw it outside the door when Lisa walked back into the room. His eyes looked slowly over her body. He looked at what she was wearing, at the pair of white jeans and the white shirt with the small flowers on it. It accentuated her hips and made her waist look small. He felt himself swallow, and he looked up at her face. A small smile moved across her lips, and he looked away quickly.

She walked up beside him and looked down at the bucket.

“Champagne?”

“I didn't … I didn't know what you drink, and—”

She sat down.

“Are you going to open it?” she asked, and he looked down at her and breathed out a bit as she smiled.

Maybe this was all escaping her, he thought as he carefully held on to the cork and twisted the bottle. It gave a muffled pop as he held it against the rim of the bottle. He filled two glasses and handed her one, then sat next to her.

She kicked off her shoes and held the glass up and they both took a long drink. She finished hers and held her glass out. He downed his and refilled them both.

“So you're a lawyer?” she asked after awhile.

*   *   *

“And then ve hear over radio. General Jaruselski has declared military law all around Poland.…”

Henry groaned and sank lower in the seat. Out of all the cabbies in New York, the thousands and thousands of them, he had to get a new, enthused immigrant. He could just scream. He tried to focus in on his watch but couldn't see it in the darkness. He couldn't figure out how long he'd been in the cab. His eyes darted to the meter.

Ninety-eight fifty.

“Lorenya, ve must flee, flee to America, I tell my wife. But she does not vant to go. She vants to stay in Poland. So I say—”

Henry fell supine across the entire backseat and tried closing his eyes. If he could just get out there, he could go to his mother's house and hide out till the wedding.

*   *   *

Tony walked down the ramp of the parking garage underneath Angela's building. In his left hand, he swung a crowbar. There was a bulge from a sack of sugar in his jacket pocket. The sounds of his footsteps echoed and he watched his shadow stretch longer before him and then shorter as he walked under the wide slats of fluorescents. He'd made it here in thirty-eight minutes flat from his house. He could still taste the sauce in his mouth.

He got to the lowest level and turned right, over to the G section, down two long rows. Across the floor, in the distance, he heard a motor start and rev up. He continued walking, not speeding up his pace but just walking like he belonged there. Behind him, he heard the car pull out and he watched the beams from the car headlights move along the white brick garage wall in front of him.

Section One Hundred G. He stood, breathing deeply until he heard the car pull up the ramp. He stared at the car sitting in his old spot and listened until the sound of the car behind him faded away into nothing and only his deep, angry breathing could be heard.

He stood in front of the black Porsche, parked in Angela's spot, the spot he used to park in. He raised the crowbar like a baseball bat and swung as hard as he could, feeling the pull across his shoulders and then the shock back through his arms as the crowbar shattered the windshield. He walked around the car, swinging again and again, feeling the shock to his upper arms as, one by one, every window in the car was broken.

He walked along to the gas tank's top and opened it with ease. He took the sack of sugar out and neatly poured it into the tank, screwed the top back on, and slowly walked back up to the main aisle. He stood in front of the car, looked over what he'd down, and exhaled.

He turned and walked back to the center, toward the ramp.

He could eat now.

He'd been reasonable about this. He felt light, as if he'd had a weight lifted off of him.

Now he could microwave the meatballs.

*   *   *

“So that's what happened,” Michael said as he poured the last drops of champagne into her glass. He spilled a small amount on the rug and bent down to wipe it up, then sat back up, realizing that he didn't have a napkin. He was feeling pretty relaxed and he leaned back on the couch, slipped his shoes off, and looked over at her, sipping on her drink.

She was lovely. Her high cheeks were flushed from the champagne, and her lips were wet, and the freckles dotting her nose gave her this clean, girl-next-door innocence. She reminded him of the girls in college—girls who would spend the evenings discussing classes and professors and politics, not hairdressers and hits. That's what most of the women he'd come in contact with in the past two years seemed to talk about. She wouldn't have fake-looking hair, teased three feet above her head, or wear several layers too many of makeup, he thought. She didn't have large clawlike nails painted blood red or wear jeans two sizes too tight and sweatshirts that for some reason someone had spent hours embroidering with pearls and lace.

His nose felt itchy. He rubbed it and sat farther up. He really had to get a grip. He'd already talked too much. It was the booze. The triple Glenlivet he'd poured at the apartment, and now the half a bottle of champagne he'd sucked back in the last twenty minutes.

“And you couldn't get her to tell the truth? Tha's terrible. I think that's the most terrible thing I've heard,” Lisa said, and finished off her glass.

She leaned over unevenly and put her glass on the table. Then she sat back, curling her slim legs alongside of her on the couch.

“You want me to get another bottle?” he asked.

She sat still for a couple of moments, thinking about it.

“No, I'm fine, but if you want some more,” she said, leaning over to him and placing her chin on his shoulder, “you can order more.”

He found himself gazing at her for God knows how long, and he watched her look up at him, at his lips, his face, and he began to get lost somewhere, imagining taking her and kissing her all over slowly. He sat up suddenly and then got to his feet.

“I think I'll order another bottle,” he announced, and walked over to the phone.

He picked up the receiver and watched her jump up unsteadily and walk over next to him. He began to shake slightly as she stood so close, he could feel her against his chest.

“No,” she said, pulling the receiver out of his hand.

“No?” he repeated, barely above a squeak.

She dropped it back on the hook, looked up at him, and pressed herself against him.

“I'm a real loser, Lisa.”

“I don't think so.”

“You're just doing this to get back at the guy you're living with,” he said, and took a step away from her.

“Would that make you feel better?”

“No,” he said honestly.

She took a step toward him and he backed away again. She stopped and her eyes dropped. “I'm sorry. This isn't right. I just thought maybe. It's just been so long since anyone … even seemed to look after me, you know? I mean, I've been here for four years. I don't have any real friends. Andrew hasn't introduced me to anyone, except for…” Her voice faded away as a flash of pain showed in her eyes, and Michael saw again the woman on the man's lap in the club. He knew exactly what she was thinking.

She came out of it, and their eyes met as she continued. “We haven't gone to the clubs or out, and I just…” Her eyes began to turn red, and she looked away. “… sit at home each night, Michael, waiting for him to come in. This is the first night in a year I've been out to dinner, the first night I've had a glass of champagne or just sat and talked to someone. And look at me—this has been my life.” Her voice began to get stronger. “And if I'm crowding you, it's because you, a guy who kidnapped me and tied me up, has shown me more compassion and respect than I've even shown myself in all this time.”

She walked over to him and looked up.

“And,” she said, staring at him as if something had gone off in her head, “I want you … to kiss me and … and hold me and look at me the way you've been looking at me, because I'm … lonely. Do you know what it's like to be lonely?”

God, it sounded like his life.

He stood there for a moment and then grabbed her, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her. She rubbed her hands up and down his back, pressing herself as close to him as she could. He stooped over her and began kissing her neck and face, quick and hard, then slowed down and pulled himself back, shaking a bit.

“What?”

He caught his breath.

“I haven't done this in awhile. I need to slow down,” he said.

She nodded and backed away, and he watched her walk over to the light next to the couch and turn it off. She shut off the other one.

“Do you have something?” she asked quickly.

He looked over at her, puzzled for a brief second, and then quickly walked over to his wallet.

He dug around inside and found one condom, which he had put in there almost a year ago. He stopped for a moment. The foil was still intact.

He saw her outline walk over to the bedroom door. She stood there, leaning against the wall, staring at him, until he straightened up. He walked over and took her by the hand and walked into the bedroom and over to the bed. He lowered her down onto it, staring at her face in the light from the window.

Outside, over the hum of the air conditioner, he could hear the pinging sounds of raindrops on the metal box as a light rain began to fall.

He slowly began unbuttoning her blouse, feeling her loosen his tie and pull it off, then struggle with the top button of his shirt. He kissed her slowly, working his way down her neck, pulling her shirt open gently and letting it fall to her sides on the bed.

She pulled his shirt open as he continued to work his way down. He was kissing her breasts and she couldn't reach his shirt anymore. He looked up at her for a moment.

“I think you're really beautiful, Lisa, and I have been looking at you like that all day and it's been driving me crazy, 'cause … I'm lonely, too,” he whispered, then continued to caress her body.

*   *   *

It was noon. Tony Mac was standing in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully shaving his wide, flat face, when he heard the phone ring in the living room. He rinsed off the spots that still had the cream on them, then opened up the medicine chest. His eyes roamed over the two shelves of after-shave.

Every Christmas, all the women in the family gave him the same stuff—shaving lotions and after-shave. Normally, he wouldn't be caught dead wearing perfume—he didn't care what they called it, it was still perfume as far as he was concerned—but today was gonna be different. Today, he was going to ask Michigan for a date.