Hell. Mistake.
Carmen knew he called Cathy “honey.” She didn’t like it when he used the endearment with her.
“Well,” she said frostily, “I’m busy at lunch. I may be busy for a lot of lunches. Maybe all the lunches for the rest of my life.”
“Come on, babe.”
Her laugh said: Nice try. But he wasn’t pardoned for the “honey” glitch.
“Well, you mind if I come over and just pick up something?”
“Pick up something?” Carmen asked.
“A pair of slacks.”
“You mean, you called me just now because you wanted to pick up some laundry?”
“No, no, babe. I wanted to see you. I really did. I just spilled some coffee on my slacks. While we were talking.”
“Gotta go, Charlie.”
“Babe—”
Damn.
Mondays, Monroe was thinking. I hate Mondays.
He called directory assistance and asked for the number of a jewelry store near Carmen’s office. He charged a five-hundred-dollar pair of diamond earrings and arranged to have them delivered to her as soon as possible. The note he dictated read, “To my grade-A lover: A little something to go with your tuna salad. Charlie.”
Eyes out the window. The train was close to the city now. The big mansions and the little wannabe mansions had given way to row houses and squat bungalows painted in hopeful pastels. Blue and red plastic toys and parts of toys sat in the balding backyards. A heavyset woman hanging laundry paused and, frowning, watched the train speed past as if she were watching an air show disaster clip on CNN.
He made another call.
“Let me speak to Hank Shapiro.”
A moment later a gruff voice came on the line. “Yeah?”
“Hey, Hank. It’s Charlie. Monroe.”
“Charlie, how the hell’re we coming with our project?”
Monroe wasn’t expecting the question quite this soon in the conversation. “Great,” he said after a moment. “We’re doing great.”
“But?”
“But what?”
Shapiro said, “It sounds like you’re trying to tell me something.”
“No…. It’s just things’re going a little slower than I thought. I wanted to—”
“Slower?” Shapiro asked.
“They’re putting some of the information on a new computer system. It’s a little harder to find than it used to be.” He tried to joke, “You know, those old-style floppy disks? They called them file folders?”
Shapiro barked, “I’m hearing ‘little slower.’ I’m hearing ‘little harder.’ That’s not my problem. I need that information and I need it soon.”
The morning’s irritations caught up with Monroe and he whispered fiercely, “Listen, Hank, I’ve been at Johnson, Levine for years. Nobody has the insider information I do except Foxworth himself. So just back off, okay? I’ll get you what I promised.”
Shapiro sighed. After a moment he asked, “You’re sure he doesn’t have any idea?”
“Who, Foxworth? He’s completely in the dark.”
A fast, irritating image of his boss flickered in Monroe’s thoughts. Todd Foxworth was a large, quirky man. He’d built a huge ad agency from a small graphic design firm in SoHo. Monroe was a senior account executive and vice president. He’d risen about as far as he could in the company doing account work but Foxworth had resisted Monroe’s repeated suggestions that the agency create a special title for him. Tension sat between the men like a rotting plum and over the past year Monroe had come to believe that Foxworth was persecuting him — continually complaining about his expense account, his sloppy record keeping, his unexplained absences from the office. Finally, when he’d gotten only a seven percent raise after his annual review, Monroe’d decided to retaliate. He’d gone to Hunter, Shapiro, Stein & Arthur and offered to sell them insider client information. The idea troubled him at first but then he figured it was just another way of collecting the twenty percent raise that he thought he was due.
Shapiro said, “I can’t wait much longer, Charlie. I don’t see something soon, I may have to cut bait.”
Crazy wives, rude commuters…. Now this. Jesus. What a morning.
“This info’ll be grade-A gold, Hank.”
“Better be. I sure as hell am paying for gold.”
“I’ll have some good stuff by this weekend. How ’bout you come up to my country place and you can look it over. It’ll be nice and private.”
“You got a country place?”
“I don’t broadcast it. Fact is, well, Cathy doesn’t know. A friend and I go up there sometimes…”
“A friend.”
“Yeah. A friend. And she’s got a girlfriend or two she could invite up if you wanted to come.”
“Or two?”
Or three, Monroe thought but let it go.
A long silence. Then Shapiro chuckled. “I think she oughta bring just one friend, Charlie. I’m not a young man anymore. Where is this place?”
Monroe gave him directions. Then he said, “How ’bout dinner tonight? I’ll take you to Chez Antibes.”
Another chuckle. “I could live with that.”
“Good. About eightish.”
Monroe was tempted to ask Shapiro to bring Jill, a young assistant account exec who worked at Shapiro’s agency — and who also happened to be the woman he’d spent the evening with at the Holiday Inn last night when Carmen had been trying to track him down. But he thought: Don’t push your luck. He and Shapiro hung up.
Monroe closed his eyes and started to doze off, hoping to catch a few minutes’ sleep. But the train lurched sideway and he was jostled awake. He stared out the window. There were no houses to look at anymore. Only sooty, brick apartments. Monroe crossed his arms and rode the rest of the way to Grand Central Station in agitated silence.
The day improved quickly.
Carmen loved the earrings and she came close to forgiving him (though he knew full restitution would involve an expensive dinner and a night at the Sherry-Netherland).
In the office, Foxworth was in a surprisingly cheerful mood. Monroe had worried that the old man was going to grill him about a recent, highly padded expense account. But not only did Foxworth approve it, he complimented Monroe for the fine job he’d done on the Brady Pharmaceutical pitch. He even offered him an afternoon of golf at Foxworth’s exclusive country club on Long Island next weekend. Monroe had contempt for golf and particular contempt for North Shore country clubs. But he liked the idea of taking Hank Shapiro golfing on Foxworth’s tab. He dismissed the idea as too risky though the thought amused him for much of the afternoon.
At seven o’clock — nearly time to leave to meet Shapiro — he suddenly remembered Cathy. He called home. No answer. Then he dialed the school where she’d been volunteering recently and found that she hadn’t come in today. He called home once more. Still she didn’t pick up.
He was troubled for a moment. Not that he was worried about the South Shore Killer; he just felt instinctively uneasy when his wife wasn’t home — afraid that she might find him with Carmen, or whoever. He was also reluctant for her to find out about his deal with Shapiro. The more money she knew he made the more she’d want. He called once more and got their machine.
But then it was time to leave for dinner and, since Foxworth had left for the night, Monroe ordered a limo and put the expense down to general office charges. He cruised downtown, sipping wine, and had a good dinner with Hank Shapiro. At eleven p.m. he dropped Shapiro off at Penn Station then took the limo to Grand Central. He caught
