Flesh And Blood

gently.

I said, “Men come on to you even though you don’t encourage it.”

“Exactly. You listen, don’t you? I mean really listen.”

“On good days.”

“He’s like that, too – Ben. A good listener. Anyway, I did this experiment for a month or so, and finally he did ask me out. But not like a come-on. More like father-daughter, being friendly, wanting to know how I enjoyed the job. He took me to the Ivy at the Shore. He was a perfect gentleman, wanting to know me as a person, we had a real good time even though I didn’t feel any – you know: sparks. And then – and this is the karma part – we’re leaving to get into his car, waiting for the valets to bring it up, and this other car drives up. This gorgeous maroon Bentley Azure, and another guy gets out – older, really well-dressed, really well-groomed – but mostly I’m looking at the car, ’cause how many of those do you see – chauffeur, chrome wheels, a million coats of lacquer. But Ben is staring at the guy who gets out. He knows him. And the other guy knows him, too – the two of them start hugging and kissing and I’m thinking I was right, he is gay. Then Ben says, Cheryl, this is my father, Tony, and the other guy bows and kisses my hand and says, ‘Enchanted, Cheryl. I’m Marc Anthony Duke’ – which shocked me. Because once I heard the name, of course I connected it to the face, but you don’t expect someone like Tony to know someone like Ben, let alone be his dad. Ben doesn’t even go by Duke – he uses the real family name. And he’s nothing like Tony – I mean nothing. You couldn’t have two guys more different.”

She paused to catch her breath. Licked her lips, threw back her shoulders, and thrust out her chest. “Anyway, that’s how I met Tony and I must’ve made an impression, because the next day, he called me. Said he’d gotten Ben’s permission – which was a twist, right? So cute. He asked me out, and the next thing I know, we’re flying to Acapulco, and the rest, as they say, is history. Basically, he swept me off my feet.”

“Whoa,” I said.

“Whoa, Nelly,” she said. “Now you tell me something, and be honest, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll bet when I told you I’d been married to Tony you figured I’d posed for him and that’s how he discovered me, right? You figured I was a Treat of the Month?”

“Not really-”

“Oh, yes you did,” she insisted, slapping my wrist. “Everyone assumes that. And that’s okay. But Tony always told me I was his special treat. Did you know I’m the first woman he had babies with since Ben and Anita’s mom died? And I gave him beautiful babies.”

“Adorable.”

Her fingers spider-walked to my wrist. “You’re very nice – So what kind of investments do you do?”

“I own some properties.”

“Sounds profitable.”

“I get by.”

“Nice,” she said. “Good for you. Having time to hang out. But you’re intellectual, I can tell that. I have a sense for people. So what else besides boating do you do for fun?”

“Play a little guitar.”

“I love music – Tony’s tone-deaf, but he pretends to like music. For parties, you know? He brings in the best live bands. Catch 159, Wizard, the last one we almost got the Stone Crew.”

“Sound like incredible parties.”

“Sometimes,” she said. “Other times it was a thousand strangers invading and stuffing their faces, and all these tramps from the magazine shoving their tits in Tony’s face. Sometimes it was for causes – like charity, you know – and Tony would let other people come in. Like retarded people, burn victims. Thank God I won’t have to deal with that anymore.”

“Because of the divorce,” I said.

“That and Tony doesn’t throw parties anymore.”

“How come?”

“Things change.” She freed my hand, ate more bagel. “I am definitely going to bloat up.”

“I doubt that. So did Ben turn out to be gay?”

She stared at me. “Who cares?”

“Not me, just making conversation.”

“Well, he’s not,” she said. “He’s just one of those, you know – not into it. Like a priest.”

“Asexual.”

“There are people like that, you know.”

“Life would be pretty boring without variety,” I said.

She smiled. “You like variety?”

“I thrive on it.”

“Me, too… Seeing as we both thrive on it, would you like to get together or something?”

“When?” I said, touching the side of her face.

She drew away. Smiled. “How about right now – no, just kidding, got to get back to feed the kids before someone accuses me of neglecting them. But maybe someday you could glide by in your little canoe and I could just happen to be on the beach. Maybe wearing this.” Tapping the bag with the bikini.

“That sounds very good,” I said.

She reached into a bag, brought out a small appointment book, wrote down a number, tore out the page.

“This is my private cell phone.”

“I feel privileged,” I said, taking the slip.

She reached out, took my face in both her hands, kissed me too hard on the mouth, pressing her teeth against my lips and ending with the merest swipe of tongue. “This has been very cool, Alex. Lately, no one seems to be appreciating me. Bye, now.”

CHAPTER 30

HYPOTHESES CONFIRMED:

Ben Dugger used his experiment to pick up women – young blondes. Relinquished his catch when Dad asserted a preference.

Snaring women but acting the “perfect gentleman.” Asexual – at least in the beginning. Something off sexually – Monique Lindquist’s laughing aside about his not wanting to talk about sex rang in my ears.

So did Cheryl Duke’s remark about not wanting to be judged neglectful: definitely worried about losing her kids. The accidental gas leak. Living at the estate as the Duke family called the shots.

Black Suit also bunking down there. Playing tennis. More than just hired help.

Threads of suspicion – a net. But nothing that told me why Lauren and the others had died. Nothing to tell Milo.

As I drove back home I wondered how I’d recount the day to Robin.

Hey, hon, I played frogman and spent most of the afternoon flirting with a much younger woman. Cheryl’s private number was wedged in my wallet. There was no reason for her aroma to linger in my nose, but I kept catching whiffs of suntan lotion and good perfume.

I arrived just before five. Spike greeted me at the door with a dismissive snort, but no sign of Robin. He led me into the kitchen and groused until I fed him some leftover brisket, and that’s where I found the note: “Taking a nap, alarm set for six-thirty.”

I checked the answering machine. Four messages, none from Milo. Booting up the computer, I plugged in “Anita Duke,” came across the personal website of another woman with the same name – a computer programmer in Nashville – offering the universe a peek into her private life. Why do people do that?

The Anita I was looking for merited a dozen hits, almost all of them citations I’d already pulled up – the