Slugfest

“I didn’t know there still were pay phones.”

“Yeah. And there are still people who don’t have E-Z-Pass and know how to parallel park. Where are you from?” I wasn’t in the mood for that discussion again, especially since I had started the evening feeling like a savvy New Yorker and now felt like a rube.

“Even if someone saw me, how would anyone out there know this number?” I asked.

“Not hard to check the names on the mailboxes downstairs and figure out who lives where,” his partner said. “You said this wasn’t your place. Your friend in the habit of walking around in her … skivvies?”

Lucy and I had been roommates some years back. I still cringe remembering the time she signed for a FedEx package in a teddy, cowboy boots, and a hat Garth Brooks would have been proud to wear. No doubt the FedEx guy remembered, too. I grew defensive on my friend’s behalf. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“We’re just asking. That’s what we do. We’ll check to see if she’s ever filed a complaint. Technically, this is aggravated harassment.” He rattled off the rule book definition.

“Off the record, there’s not much we can do. Your friend might consider curtains. Do you want us to file a complaint?”

If I said no and there was a repeat performance, no report would exist of it ever having happened before so I said yes. It was a sharp reminder I no longer lived in the city. In Springfield, I could dance around buck naked and do nothing more than annoy the barred owl that lived in the hemlock forty feet from my deck. And if anything did happen, Mike O’Malley would be there in a flash. He’d probably station an armed guard in my driveway. I wouldn’t say I had my way with the Springfield police, but after three years and as many adventures, we took each other seriously. More seriously than these guys were taking me.

The cops finished their report. By the time we pulled up to the St. George, it was close to eleven o’clock. J. C. had called ahead to book the room for me, and I assured her I’d be back the following night for reheated ziti—which everyone knows is better the second day anyway.

Climbing out of a police cruiser, slightly disheveled, in a red spandex dress, leather jacket, and flats, I worried I looked like the paid entertainment at a precinct retirement party, but times had changed and the doorman had obviously seen worse, so he held the door as if I were the First Lady arriving for a charity function. I wheeled my suitcase toward the check-in desk.

The hotel lobby was more crowded than I expected it to be at that hour, and I had to weave in and out of a few clusters of people I was sure were staring at me. Then I heard a familiar voice.

“Not crazy about the shoes, but I like the red dress.”

I shoved the extended handle on the wheelie down, grabbed the bag with both hands, spun around, and slugged the speaker on the side of his head with the full weight of my suitcase and all the torque in my body. People scattered in fear and the man staggered and dropped to his knees holding his head.

“What the…”

There was no blood, but Guy Anzalone was clearly shaken up.

Twenty-five

The doorman helped Guy to his feet. He no longer treated me as if I were the First Lady but possibly the deranged ex-lover of the man who was still shaking off a nasty blow to the temple.

“You like the red dress, hunh?” I was still seething with the thought that Guy or one of his flunkies had been spying on me, and I was getting ready to deliver the coup de grace directly to his knees with my sensibly clad tight foot. He saw it coming and sidestepped the blow.

“Wait a minute. I’m sorry! The shoes are fine. It’s an interesting … look.”

A suitcase to the head was clearly not the response Guy Anzalone expected to what he thought was a compliment. He seemed sincere. Could I have been wrong? I held up on my swing.

He continued rubbing the side of his head. “Last time I make any comment about a woman’s shoes,” he muttered.

The doorman quietly asked Guy if he “should call someone,” probably meaning the police. I closed my eyes and willed him to say no. Not three times in one night. I was starting to feel like a streetwalker rounded up every couple of hours. This couldn’t be happening.

“Not if the lady agrees to have a drink with me to explain what just happened.” I had given more statements that night than a presidential press secretary. I looked at my watch. In twenty-three minutes the day would be over and I could start fresh all over again.

I nodded and let him lead me to a booth not far from where we’d had drinks with Connie earlier this evening.

“I’m surprised you’re still here. Where’s your wife?” I asked, once we sat down.

“Now, that’s a mood killer. I was hoping you’d start with something like Gee, Guy, I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else or Thank you, I’m glad you like the dress.” He called the waiter over. I ordered a light beer and he asked for a single malt. “No champagne?” he asked, when the waiter left.

“I’ve had a rough day. I don’t feel very celebratory. So where is Connie?”

“She’s upstairs, trying on outfits for tomorrow. There’s a club I like, near the river. Gentlemen’s club. I had a few drinks there and then came back here to tuck Connie in. I got an early appointment in Brooklyn, so I’m not staying in Manhattan tonight.” He eyed me from top to bottom, and even without his saying it, I could tell he really did like the red dress. Someone once told me all women should own one and I was considering a future purchase. “I could change my mind and stay in town if I had a compelling reason to do so.”

Having just “tucked his wife in,” the man had stamina.

“Wanna tell me why you gave me the love tap?”

Unless Guy was a better actor than Ben Kingsley, he genuinely didn’t know about the anonymous call to Lucy’s. In fact, he was curious when I told him about it.

“What exactly did the caller say? His specific words.” For the third time that night I repeated what had happened.

“Why are you so interested?” I asked. I thought about Fat Frank and Cookie. Was watching me part of their assignment in looking after Mrs. Anzalone? “Did you have me followed?”

“Why would I do that?”

That was not a satisfactory answer. He finished his drink and the waiter hovered. I was suddenly conscious of not having eaten dinner and my growling stomach gave me away, but the hotel’s kitchen was closed. Guy offered to take me to Mulberry Street to a place he claimed made the best gnocchi in the city, but I didn’t see myself explaining to Connie the next day how I happened to go out for a midnight snack with her husband who should have been on his way to Brooklyn. I declined and continued plowing through the nuts.

“So did you?”

“Have you followed? That’s ridiculous. You’re a nice girl. Woman. Bit of a violent streak, but that’s not a deal breaker.” He was still flirting, but it was a soft sell. Not enough to make me nervous.

“So what does the Tumbled Stone King do when he’s not tumbling stone?” I asked.

He had other interests and investments, as Connie had said, but he was vague and that contributed to the feeling that some of what Guy Anzalone did wasn’t on the up-and-up.

After ninety minutes, half a beer, and two bowls of nuts, Guy convinced me that he and no one in his employ had called Lucy’s, and I eventually apologized for braining him with my suitcase. The weapon in question, sitting on the floor next to our table, reminded me I still hadn’t checked in.

“Listen, I’m exhausted. I am extremely sorry for striking you with my bag. As bizarre as this sounds, I have a date to go shopping with your wife tomorrow, so I really should get to bed. Alone.” That got a rise out of the couple at the next table who clearly found our conversation more interesting than their own.

“You sure I can’t tuck you in, too?”

By this time I didn’t even think he was serious. It seemed to be the only way he knew to speak to a woman. I stood up to leave and had to pull down the hem of the red dress, which had ridden up to midthigh. “Let me call Connie. If she says yes, I’ll go.” I fished around in my jacket pocket looking for my cell, even though I knew I wouldn’t be making the call.