Hot Stuff

“Tell Marty I’m not waiting forever.”

“Great. You want to leave a name or number?”

“Marty knows who I am.” And he disconnected.

“Some guy isn’t waiting forever,” Cate said to Marty. “You’re such a heartbreaker.”

Marty Longfellow lived in a building that had at one time been a dress factory. The exterior was red brick and sturdy. The interior had been gutted and remade into four floors of midrange, two-bedroom, two-bath condos. It was a South End address, and the inhabitants were a reflection of the eclectic mix of people found in that neighborhood… young professionals, gay men, and a smattering of senior citizens.

Marty’s condo was on the fourth floor and was a candidate for Architectural Digest. The carpet was white plush. The furniture was black leather and chrome. The walls held original art. The chandelier was Murano art glass. Very beautiful. Very expensive.

Cate’s single, small room to the rear of the unit was a candidate for Yard Sale Digest. After paying tuition, buying books, and paying a token amount for rent, there wasn’t a lot of money left for interior design. Cate had taken the yellow-and-white flowered quilt that had been on her bed when she’d moved out of her parents’ house and coordinated it with Martha Stewart sheets, pillows, towels, and bath mat.

Cate’s room was cheery, but not fabulous by Marty’s standards. Marty had a sheared mink throw on his bed and thousand-thread-count sheets. And he deserved all of that luxury, Cate thought. After all, the man shaved off acres of hair every day. Plus, he moisturized, he conditioned, he worked out, he tweezed, and he lasered, peeled, and Botoxed.

It was midmorning and Cate was alone in the kitchen, frosting a cake. The phone rang and Cate gave it the fish eye. The phone was ringing on the hour, every hour. Three calls so far. All had hung up when Cate answered. She suspected it was the guy who was tired of waiting.

Cate snatched the phone and gave a curt “Hello.”

“Yikes,” Sharon Vizzalini said. “You sound cranky.”

Cate had two best friends in the building. Sharon Vizzalini was one of them. Sharon was a realtor who lived one floor down in a condo crammed chock full of a former life. Four years ago, Sharon caught her husband bare-assed in the minivan with the babysitter. The very next day Sharon backed a U-Haul up to her four-bedroom, four-bath colonial in Newton. When the U-Haul couldn’t hold any more Sharon drove it to Boston’s South End, parked it in a lot, ran her finger down her listing sheet, and went condo hunting. Three weeks later she moved into Marty’s building.

Sharon was older than Cate, and three inches shorter. She had curly black hair cut into a bob, a constant tan, a body toned in the local Pilates studio, and enough energy to make coffee nervous. Sharon favored animal prints for upholstery and clothes. She accessorized with big, clunky jewelry and didn’t own sneakers. Sharon was total Dolce & Gabbana in slingback heels. Sharon wore heels to the Pilates studio.

“Not cranky. Just distracted,” Cate said. “What’s up?”

“I was hoping you could bring me a sandwich. I’m watching 2B. I think this is the day. I think he’s finally going to walk out of his condo and show himself.”

Cate swallowed a groan. Sharon was fixated on learning the identity of the mysterious resident in 2B. The unit had been bought by a holding company three months ago, and while occasional sounds and cooking smells oozed under the condo door, no one had seen the occupant.

“I love you, but you’re sounding a little psycho,” Cate said.

“It was bought by a holding company,” Sharon said. “Only celebrities and mobsters do that sort of thing. Aren’t you curious?”

“Curious, yes. Obsessed, no.”

“That’s because you don’t have the realtor personality. We need to know these things. We worry about property value.”

“I’m frosting a cake. I can bring you a sandwich as soon as I’m done.”

“Cake?”

“Does that interest you?”

“Can I have some?”

“If you’re willing to help me sing happy birthday to Mrs. Ramirez in 3C.”

“The hell with 2B. I’ll be right there.”

Minutes later, Cate answered Sharon’s knock.

“Wow, I could smell the cake from the hall,” Sharon said. “Fresh-baked cake. From scratch. With frosting.”

“From a mix,” Cate said, returning to the kitchen and sticking a single candle into the middle of the cake. “But you got the rest right.”

“I think it’s great that you make everyone birthday cakes.”

“It’s my thing,” Cate said. “I love making cakes. If I wasn’t going to teach school, I’d be a baker. And I like Mrs. Ramirez. She’s a good person, and I think she’s lonely. Her kids have all grown up and moved away, and now it’s just Mrs. Ramirez and her cat.”

Sharon wandered into the living room while Cate tossed a handful of rainbow-colored sprinkles onto the cake top.

“Have you every wondered how Marty can afford this apartment?” Sharon asked Cate.

Cate pocketed her key and carried the cake out to Sharon. “Marty sings at the bar and at private parties.”

“Yes, but look at this place. The furnishings are expensive and the artwork is signed. He has two Andy Warhol endangered species prints in this room. There’s a Picasso series in the hall, and I remember when you took me on a tour… there’s a Miro in the master bath! He has a Porsche parked in the underground garage. He wears designer clothes, and he has fabulous jewelry.”

“Maybe Marty’s family has money,” Cate said, easing Sharon out the door.

“Does Marty ever talk about his family?”

“No. We’ve been roommates for almost a year, but we don’t actually do much talking. Marty usually sleeps until eleven, and by then I’m either at class or at the library. I come back to the condo, make a peanut butter sandwich, and I’m off to work. I come home from work and crash into bed. And half the time Marty isn’t even in town.”

“Does he have boyfriends?”

“Probably, but he doesn’t bring them here.”

They rode one floor down in the elevator, exited, and marched to Mrs. Ramirez’s door. They sang “Happy Birthday” to Mrs. Ramirez, ate some cake with her, and then they went their separate ways… Sharon to resume her surveillance of 2B and Cate returned to her condo.

Patrick Pugg was at Cate’s condo door when she stepped out of the elevator.

“Pugg was afraid he missed you,” he said when he saw Cate.

“I was just downstairs.” Cate unlocked her door. “What are you doing here?”

“Pugg came to visit.”

“I’m kind of busy right now.”

“Pugg can come back later.”

“Well, gee, I have to work later.”

“Pugg can walk you to work.”

“No.”

“Pugg doesn’t understand no.”

“Shouldn’t you be selling tires?”

“Pugg is on his lunch hour.”

“You’re probably a really nice guy,” Cate said, “but I have to be honest. I’m just not interested.”

“Pugg is crushed.”

“The fact that I kneed you in the groin last time I saw you must have given you some indication.”

“Pugg thought you were playing hard to get.”

Cate slipped into the condo and closed and locked the door. She looked out the security peephole. Pugg was still there. Don’t panic, she thought. He’ll go away.

An hour later, Marty swept into the condo. “There’s a hairy little man in the hall. He says he belongs to you.”