My phone vibrated in my pocket to tel me I had a message.
It was Roger Folds, the fund-raiser from The Stuff of Life. He was letting me know that he was home for the evening. He would appreciate if I could drop off his stuff.
Now that Tony had me convinced Al en’s death real y was a suicide, I was tempted to skip it.
Stil, I told Vicki I would take care of it, so I would.
CHAPTER 10
“You’re wearing that?” my mother asked, appal ed, as I got ready to leave my apartment.
I was dressed in flip flops, short denim shorts, and a tight white T-shirt that rode high on my bel y.
“What happened?” she continued. “Did you buy Jessica Simpson’s used wardrobe off eBay? You look like a hooker.”
I was dying to say, “Yes, Mom, I am a hooker,” but it sounded too much like a Lifetime movie starring Tori Spel ing, so I just shrugged.
“It’s hot out,” I said.
“Please, it’s hot in Long Island, too, but you don’t see me parading around like the Whore of Babylon.”
“Speaking of Long Island, have you spoken to Daddy today? Have you two worked things out yet?”
“Please, I’l let you know when I speak to your father. Don’t be so excited to get rid of me.”
“I don’t want to get rid of you,” I said. “I just want to get you out of my apartment.”
“Very nice,” she told me. “You weighed nine and a half pounds at birth, you know. It was like pushing a piano out of my…”
“Stop!” I screamed. “Stay as long as you like.” I picked up the box of Roger Folds’s stuff off the floor where I’d left it.
“I have to drop this off for a coworker. I’l be back later.”
“I’m making a brisket for dinner. I’l save you some.”
Can I just tel you something? I love my mother’s brisket.
On the cab ride to Roger Folds’s apartment, I had to admit my mother was right: I did look like a whore.
But tonight, it was for a good reason.
Roger Folds had a reputation as a big old letch.
More than once I heard complaints from staff members and other volunteers that he had made an inappropriate comment or untoward advance.
He liked them young and pretty.
Vicki had said she overheard Roger arguing with Al en before Al en’s death.
Knowing what they were fighting about might give me insight as to what was on Al en’s mind before he committed… before his death.
My experience as a hustler has taught me that a horny man has loose lips.
It was worth a try. In any case, it would keep my mind off Tony. Which was, I decided, my new rule in life: Anything that kept my mind off of Tony was A Good Thing.
Roger lived in an old building on the Upper West Side. An expensive neighborhood, but if Roger had a rent- control ed apartment, he could live there cheaply.
I rang the bel and he buzzed me up. An elevator that smel ed slightly of urine brought me to the seventh floor. I knocked at his door.
Roger opened it to reveal a tubby man of about five foot five. His head was mostly bald, except for thin strips that rested like twin caterpil ars above each ear. He wore black sweatpants and a black Tshirt with the logo from Miss Saigon on it.
“Thanks,” he said, reaching out for the box. He took it and put it on a table by the door. He looked at me for a half a minute, hungrily.
If there’s one thing I know, it’s when a man wants me. I hooked my thumb inside the waistband of my shorts and waited for him to invite me inside.
“OK, bye,” he said, and closed the door in my face.
What the fuck?
I knocked on the door again.
Roger opened it a crack.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
“Nothing,” I said, “it’s just…”
“Fine, then,” he said. “I already thanked you. Are you waiting for a tip?” Roger opened the door and reached over to the same table where he put the box. He picked up his wal et. “I must have a buck or two here somewhere…”
“No, listen,” I said. It was apparent that, despite my youthful yumminess, Roger didn’t want me around. But I had to talk to him. “I, uh, I need to use your bathroom.”
“Oh, that.” Roger opened the door. “OK, fine. Just be quick about it.”
Roger’s apartment was decorated in 1980’s theater fag. The art deco furniture looked as if it came from the road show of Anything Goes.
Posters from Broadway musicals lined his wal s.
He showed me into the bathroom, where a signed 8x10 picture of Stephen Sondheim hung over the toilet.
I real y did have to go, so I peed, flushed, and washed my hands.
Just for good measure, I “accidental y” left the snap of my shorts open.
I came out to find Roger standing by the door.
I ignored him and walked into the living room.
“Listen,” I said, “it’s hot as Mars out there. Think I could get something cold to drink?”
“There’s a bar down the street,” Roger said not looking at me.
I laced my fingers together and stretched my arms over my head, letting my T-shirt ride up even more and thrusting out my basket. “Come on, man. I’m hot and sore from carrying that heavy box. Just some water would be great.”
This time, Roger did look at me. If this were a cartoon, his eyes would have fal en out of his head and bounced off the floor. Oh, he wanted it al right.
But he was fighting it. I wondered why.
He cleared his throat and looked away.
“Fine,” he snapped, walking into the kitchen. “I’l be right back.”
I sat down on a sleek black leather couch. Roger returned and handed me what had to be the smal est glass in his kitchen.
“Here,” he said.
“Nice place you got here,” I said, although it wasn’t.
Roger just looked at the wal behind me, wil ing me to finish my water and leave.
“While we’re talking,” I said, even though we weren’t, “why’d you leave The Stuff of Life, anyway?”
Roger looked at his coffee table.
“I’m sure it’s none of your business.”
“I’m just saying, everyone liked you so much, and you did such a good job,” I lied again.
Roger looked at me. “What did you say your name was?”
I told him.
“You’re the kid who left a message on my machine the other day, aren’t you?”
I wasn’t sure if he’d placed me. I smiled, winningly I hoped. “Guilty as charged.”
“What did you want?”
This guy is al charm.
