Mahal or Eiffel Tower, where they’d had their pictures taken.
A commotion in the lobby caught our attention as a burly guy brushed aside the doorman, spun through the revolving door into the bar, and headed our way. Something told me she had called the Tumbled Stone King about today’s mishap.
“Oh.” With one finger she slid the champagne bottle a tiny bit closer to me, to suggest it was all mine.
“Did I not tell you? What did I tell you?” he said. Connie shrank a bit as the man lumbered toward us. Towering over our booth, his hands on his bulky hips, he took a deep breath, then let it out in a blast of air that carried traces of Scotch and cigar smoke. He made a smoothing motion with his thick paws. “I don’t mean to yell at you.” He wiped his forehead with the heels of both hands. Then he motioned Connie out of the booth. “C’mon. We’re going home.”
She licked her lips, producing a pout I imagined she used whenever she wanted something. I felt like I should be taking notes.
“I just don’t want you to get your feelings hurt, baby.”
“For goodness sakes, Guy, all my things are upstairs. I overreacted. It was just a prank. Paula says there’ve been other incidents. It wasn’t just me. They’re calling it the Javits Curse. It has nothing to do with you.”
I felt uncomfortable and got up to leave.
“Sit.” He pointed, as if I were a dog he was training. I sat. What was next, rolling over?
“Look, I’m sorry. Please, don’t go. I’m Connie’s husband.”
As if I couldn’t tell.
Guy Anzalone motioned for the waiter, ordered a Famous Grouse, and squeezed into the booth. I was sandwiched in between a woman dressed like Ariel and a Damon Runyon character from
Twenty
It was simple. Anything that made Connie unhappy made Guy unhappy. Unhappiness was not a condition he handled well. All this was made clear over more drinks and a feisty exchange that was both comical and a little unsettling. Unlike Nikki, I didn’t think Anzalone was a criminal just because he was rough around the edges, but there was something in his manner that screamed short fuse. And in Connie’s, too.
“My girl needs looking after.” He patted her hand. “She’s a tough cupcake in her own milieu, but she’s in a different world here. At the show, I mean. I don’t want anyone to take advantage of her … naivete.”
“What’s gonna happen to me at a flower show—I’m gonna get attacked by a man-eating plant?”
“Nothing’s gonna happen. I’ve made sure of that. I sent Fat Frank and Cookie to look out for you.”
“Don’t you dare. I’ll be mortified.”
He put his fingers to his lips the way you’d silence a child. “It’s already done. See, you didn’t even know they were there. And this girl, this woman, is gonna help, too. What’s your name again, hon?”
We’d already told him twice. Clearly I wasn’t making much of an impression. Insult aside, did I want to be on a tag team with two guys named Fat Frank and Cookie? Were they the men I’d seen? But neither of them was fat. Would I be required to adopt a nickname, like “the Chin” or “Lips”? I felt the urge to get up again but suppressed it, since Guy weighed around 230 pounds, roughly double my size. Trying to muscle past him would be ridiculous.
I shook my head—dumb move since it magnified the buzz I was getting from the combination of champagne and no food except the nuts.
“I’m sure I can’t improve on anything Fat Frank and Cookie can do.” I struggled to keep a straight face when I said their names.
“My boys will make sure she’s safe, but I want you to keep an eye on her. Make sure she’s not lonely. That, you know, she’s included in all the reindeer games.” Connie protested, but Guy made it sound like a perfectly reasonable request. A big sister program.
Though I could have used their advice, Michelangelo, Leonardo, and the dead relatives were strangely silent on this issue. Perhaps I was channeling my inner cugine, or my inner Brooklyn girl, but I found myself agreeing. The show lasted just a few days and I didn’t know many people there myself. Why not spend time with her? Everyone I knew in Springfield, apart from Babe and Caroline Sturgis, were so beige. It could be fun.
“I like Connie. You don’t need to
“Good, well, that’s settled,” she said. “You’ll help me decide what to wear to the reception. We can go shopping.”
“No money to go shopping,” I said. “Besides, I have to finish setting up. And don’t you have last-minute primping to do?”
“Go shopping. Have a good time.” He whipped out a roll of bills and left a stack on the table.
Connie said nothing, confident there’d be no serious objection to her shopping excursion, from either of us. “I have to go tinkle. Guy, make her say yes.”
She playfully knocked Guy’s elbow off the table on her way to the ladies’ room, and his hand accidentally brushed my knee. At least, I hoped it was an accident, but it lingered longer than it needed to and unless I imagined it, Guy’s pinkie finger trailed a good three inches up my thigh before he threw a pretend punch in Connie’s direction and said, “Yeah, sure.”
When Connie was safely out of earshot, he gave me his full attention. “So tell me what it is you’re selling, hon.”
My first sale. Maybe that old house detective knew something I didn’t. I convinced myself playing kneesies with Guy Anzalone was an offer I couldn’t refuse and was a small price to pay for the sizable purchase I’d pressure him to make. I’d take one for the team. Primo would sell a piece, Babe would be pleased, and I’d earn a commission. What could happen in a public place while his wife was in the ladies’ room?
To keep the conversation professional I’d flipped open my laptop as soon as Connie left. Tactical error. Guy took that as an excuse to squeeze closer and reacquaint his hand with my knee. His thigh pressed against mine and it was surprisingly warm. I can’t say I was aroused, but it was hard to ignore the heat. I repositioned the computer screen and crossed my legs to avoid contact.
By the time Connie returned, Guy’s head was inclined a little too close to mine and he had to pretend to be interested in a large wind device Primo had constructed out of two rusted lawn mowers. Served him right for hitting on a woman while his wife was twenty feet away and getting closer.
She peered over my other shoulder. “Ooohh, I like that one.”
How much could I milk this? I clicked on another image. “Of course, if you have the space, you could go with this one, constructed from vintage tractor parts. It’s much more impressive.” And twice the cost. I shamelessly played to his vanity and her eagerness to impress. Say yes, please, I thought. I’ll even go shopping with you if you buy this one.
Guy looked like a man who’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Connie and I were about to deliver a five-thousand-dollar slap on that hand. Her lower lip started to quiver. His eyes softened. The checkbook was produced. Good grief. I didn’t want to think about what I could have sold them if I’d actually let him cop a feel. I agreed to meet her the next morning for a fashion consultation and left the two lovebirds canoodling—or maybe it was arguing—in the hotel bar.
Twenty-one
As I recalled, that’s what relationships were like—blowups, followed by makeups—though I imagined few were as animated or as expensive as the Anzalones’.
My last relationship ended when I was accused of being married to my job. Ironic, since I was fired soon after. It never occurred to me to call the man and tell him what happened. Some relationships have an expiration date, like milk, and that one had no longer passed the sniff test.
I’d been on my own for a while and, apart from the semiannual fix-up orchestrated by Babe or Lucy, I was
