The Yoga Club

by Cooper Lawrence

  “Yes, of course,” CJ said again and then sighed loudly. Malcolm smiled, again mistaking CJ’s sigh as support, though that couldn’t have been further from the truth. CJ’s mind raced. He couldn’t go to the phone now, it would be too obvious. He would wait until they were back at Malcolm’s place and lie, saying he was calling home to let Nanny know he would be spending the night out again.

  “Hey, did I tell you about the time I was here and Kate Hudson tried to get in?” CJ said as he attempted to lighten the mood. And what a stupid thing to say. Of course he hadn’t told Malcolm since they’d only just met, but Malcolm played along.

  “No, what happened?” he politely asked.

  “Well, it was when she was dating Lance Armstrong, and they came in expecting to be seated, but Frankie No showed them the door. It was brilliant!” CJ beamed.

  Malcolm cocked his head inquisitively. He’d thought he was bringing CJ here for the first time to impress him, but now it was clear CJ was something of a regular, though the overly discreet staff hadn’t dared give him away.

  The appetizers arrived, and the hanger-on next to CJ began talking to him about some political crap that CJ couldn’t care less about. But he appreciated the distraction.

  After dinner Malcolm let his entourage take the mayor’s car back to Connecticut while he and CJ took the car service Rao’s provided, but not before asking for a better night. He didn’t want to do the obvious pleading, so first he handed the guy a fifty and said, “Such a meal, Frankie! The best in Manhattan. Next time I have to have that Fish Alla Puttanesca, eh? So when’s my next date?”

  Frankie wasn’t terribly fond of the little fanook, but considering Malcolm’s position, he respectfully scrawled a date on a small piece of paper. Malcolm took one look and frowned, then desperately angled for a different night. But the man is called Frankie No for a reason, and that was it— Malcolm’s fate was sealed. He would forever be a Rao’s Monday night guy. Malcolm graciously said good night to the waiter, the cocktail waitress, and anyone who would listen, but the second he got in the car he exploded. “Motherfucking son-of-a-bitch!” he screamed. “That’s it, I’m done with that stupid place!” and vowed never to eat at Rao’s again. Or at least not until the Monday night in March that Frankie had given him as his next reservation.

  Eventually Malcolm calmed down and opened the window to let the cool November air wash over him as the car hissed down a damp, quiet, and practically empty Fifth Avenue. The remaining bright oranges and yellows of Central Park, in its final throes of fall, glowed in the incandescent bishops’ crook streetlamps.

  Malcolm broke the silence, somewhat sullenly. “I hate this fucking job, you know.”

  CJ started. He opened his mouth to respond, but there was nothing he could think to say. Better to let the rest flow out, he thought.

  “The mayor, he’s…. well, I guess he’s not an entirely awful guy, but he’s a snake. Not a sly, stalking cobra, but did you ever see the video of the stupid king snake that eats its own tail? He’s kinda like that. Typical politician. There’s nothing about him you can trust. Everything he says is a platitude, and it’s impossible to know whether he means a single thing he says. Does ‘good job’ mean Good Job! or does it mean he’s trying to con me into something? Know what I mean?”

  “Oh yeah. More than you can imagine. I like politicians about as much as I like dirty socks. They stink, they’re uncomfortable, and they ruin your shoes.”

  Malcolm looked at CJ in the dark of the car and smiled. He seemed a bit relieved, CJ thought.

  “God, so true. Makes me wonder if I should still be doing this. It always seemed like the right career for me. I thought it would be a way to do some good in the world. And I know you have to pay your dues, but the shit I’ve had to go through…. I’m starting to think it’s just not worth it.”

  CJ suddenly found himself with a bit of a soft spot for the stocky little boy-man. Well, in any case, he was finding himself fond enough to spend the night again, but not enough to tell Malcolm who he really was and what he was really after. When they arrived at the apartment, CJ excused himself to make a phone call before going in.

  “I’m sorry to call so late,” he said into his cell phone.

  “No, it’s fine, I’m awake. And I missed talking to you today, so I’m glad you called. But why are you calling at eleven P.M. on a school night? Is everything okay?” Coco replied.

  “No, girl, not at all. We need to get that ragtag Scooby-Doo group together. We’ve got a mystery to solve,” CJ said half jokingly.

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “That police chief lied to us. The mayor killed her, and I have proof!”

  “What? You have real proof?” Coco was getting nervous now.

  “Well, not real proof, but I’m with his aide right now, and he’s told me enough.”

  “Can you tell me more?” Coco asked.

  “C’mon, lover!” Malcolm yelled out playfully.

  CJ covered the phone with his hand. “One sec, sugar!” he said to Malcolm and then continued. “Coco girl, I gotta go, but I’ll call you in the morning. Can we get together tomorrow night?” CJ asked.

  “Well, it sounds like we have to. I’ll call Bailey and Olivia. Let’s meet at my house at eight, okay…. sugar?” Coco said, laughing.

  “Shut up. Yes, okay, see you then,” CJ said as he hung up, hearing Coco give a quick “Okay, bye.”

  His night was just starting. He was going to get the full story from Malcolm, even if he had to pound it out of him.

  CJ walked inside the apartment, took off his jacket, and sat down momentarily. Malcolm wasn’t in the kitchen or the bathroom, so CJ got up and looked in the bedroom, where he found Malcolm lying facedown in the middle of the bed, completely naked. He was clearly waiting for CJ, but he appeared to have drifted off. CJ sighed, quietly covered Malcolm with a blanket, and turned off the lights. Taking a spare quilt to the sofa, he removed his shoes and settled down for a few hours of fitful sleep.

  Nine

  Scooby-Doo and Malcolm Too

  Detective Casey couldn’t sleep. He was usually a very sound sleeper, but tonight he just stared at the ceiling thinking about something his chief had said, something that didn’t make any sense. It was one of those rare moments that made him proud to have been with the FBI. His training had given him a way of thinking that was different from that of an average cop; his thoughts raced between how lucky he was to have had those experiences and the strange little world in which he now found himself.

  What kept playing over and over in his head was his chief on the phone, bragging to someone about his job security: “Oh, no, no. Don’t worry about a thing. This guy’s goin’ nowhere. Heh, heh.”

  Casey had heard Bruno walk toward the door and close it, so the detective quickly and quietly moved to the wall next to the door to listen, his back against the wall.

  “…. nah, I’ve got City Hall in my pocket. Trust me, this is a big one. They’re not going to replace me—probably ever. The search is off. I just earned myself some very long-term job security…. heh, heh, yeah…. Just like Kennebunkport. Ha. You got it!” Casey moved back to his desk and sat with headphones on, engaged, or so he made it seem, in a review of a witness interview he’d conducted earlier that day.

  Damn. How’d he get that kind of job security? There had been talk of the First Selectmen appointing another chief when Bruno’s contract was up in July. This was the first Casey had heard otherwise. He’d even thought of applying for the job.

  The chief had been insistent that Coco and her friends were mistaken about the mayor, yet Casey’s investigative instincts told him otherwise. And now the chief’s phone call seemed to tie it all together. Casey’s love for his work and his need for an excuse to contact Olivia were propelling him to take a next step—one that could jeopardize his career in Greenwich.

  Coco sat in front of her dressing mirror scrutinizing her skin and trying to decide what “type” it was. She’d alway
s been a tomboy, never a girlie girl; attempting to be liberal and understanding, her parents had respected her seeming lack of feminine graces, but at that moment she wished they hadn’t. She wished that her mom, or an aunt, or the sister she never had, had taught her something about looking girlie and pretty, how to do her makeup for any occasion. She knew how to make it work for business and how to look like an Ann Tayloresque professional, but what was sexy or exciting about that? CJ’s stinging rebuke about looking like she’d stepped out of the eighties made her realize that she needed to update her look—perhaps doing so could even revive something in Sam—but she didn’t know the first thing about any of the pricey products laid out in front of her on the bathroom counter. They were all promotional items that came without instructions. She evaluated five shades of foundation as if one of them would jump out and say, “Here I am, alabaster honeysuckle : use me!” She knew that her biggest critic would be CJ. Let’s face it, she thought, women don’t dress for men; they don’t even dress for other women; they dress for gay men. Then there was the matter of figuring out what to wear. She called out for Sam.

  “Honey?” she bellowed.

  “Yes,” he screamed back.

  “Can you look at what I’m wearing and tell me if it’s okay?”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. The living room.”

  “Then garble garble garble garble?” He was yelling, completely inaudibly, as if he were walking away.

  “Whaaaaa?” she screamed back.

  “Garble, garble, wearing?”

  She’d had enough and started walking through the house looking for where poor Sam was being forced to yell from. She found him in the kitchen eating an apple.

  “I couldn’t understand that last thing you said,” she said calmly.

  “I was eating. I said: If you’re staying in, how could it possibly matter what you’re wearing?”

  “CJ, Olivia, and Bailey are coming over. I want to look good for them. I got platters made at Le Gourmet, and I have to look as good as they do,” she replied.

  “As good as the platters or the people?” he asked.

  “Well, both I guess, but I meant the platters. Did you see them? They look incredible. I can’t be upstaged by foie gras terrine on toast,” she joked. “I want to look like canapés, not a can of peas.”

  Sam groaned. “So, what outfits will we be choosing from?”

  “Well, the one I have on, I was thinking.”

  “The simple black dress is always a good choice. What is it you call it again?”

  “The LBD,” she said. She knew that much, at least.

  “Right, the little black dress, perfect. What’s on your face? Have you been eating Cheez Doodles? Ooh, do we have Cheez Doodles?” he said excitedly.

  “No. It’s makeup.”

  “Oh, gotcha. So we don’t have Cheez Doodles?”

  “Oh, for god’s sake, I don’t know. Check the cupboard!” She was mad at his comment but figured he just knew nothing about the new winter colors. She headed back upstairs to finish getting dressed. Just then the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Sam yelled again from the kitchen.

  He went to the door and saw Olivia.

  “Hi, Olivia,” he said.

  “Hi, I’m Olivia, we met once before,” she said nervously.

  “Yes, that’s why I said ‘Hi, Olivia.’ Coco will be right down.” He led her into the living room. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked politely.

  “An Orangina?” she asked.

  “Ummm, I don’t think we have that. Do you just want some orange juice?”

  “No thanks. I think I’m good?” Sam hated people who made statements that sounded like questions, but Olivia was cute, so it was okay.

  “So, it’s Orangina or nothing?”

  “Yep.” Olivia smiled.

  “Oh-kay. Well, Coco will be right down….” He trailed off as he started to leave the room.

  “So, what are you doing tonight?” Olivia caught him.

  “Library.”

  “Oooooh, nice!”

  In another city going to the library might seem a punishment, but the library in Greenwich, like everything else in Greenwich, was spectacular. Big, yummy, comfy chairs that caress and cuddle your backside, making it hard to leave their embrace. Every book imaginable is available, there’s free Internet and a coffee bar modeled on the fabulous Hotel Sacher Café in Vienna. Sam looked forward to being kicked out of the house just for the opportunity to spend his evening at the library.

  “Can you get it?” Coco yelled from upstairs.

  “Get what?” Sam yelled back. Just then the doorbell rang. Coco must’ve seen Bailey’s car pull up in the driveway from the upstairs bathroom.

  “Hi, I’m Sam, Coco’s, er, boyfriend, nice to….” But before Sam could get out the rest of the sentence, Olivia came prancing in from the other room like an excited puppy.

  “Hi, Bailey, it’s so nice to see you again!” She beamed.

  “Uh, you as well,” Bailey said cautiously. Within seconds Coco and the two Spinoni came barreling down the staircase.

  “Hi, hi, you guys, sorry I’m running late. Come here, come here!” Coco said as she waved hurriedly for them to follow her into the living room. “CJ just texted, he’s late too. I have food, can I get you a drink?”

  “Orangina?” Olivia tried again.

  “Sounds good, I’ll have one too,” Bailey said.

  “Okay, two Oranginas,” Coco replied as she walked into the kitchen and fielded Sam’s sneer along the way. “What?” she asked, trying to interpret his quizzical stare.

  “We have Orangina?” he asked, stunned.

  “Of course we do, duh,” Coco replied.

  “Oh. Okay. Well, all right. Heading to the library. See you later,” he said as he kissed her forehead and walked out the kitchen door.

  Coco came back in with her beautiful food platters and three Oranginas. The dogs trotted along behind, then sat patiently staring at the food platters, as if willing the food to come to them, though they dared not grab it on their own.

  “Who’s got your baby tonight?” Coco asked Olivia.

  “I have this wonderful sitter. She lives on the block. I’m so lucky,” Olivia replied.

  “How old is…. Gosh, I don’t know your son’s name,” Coco said.

  “Simon. He’s eight months,” Olivia said proudly.

  “So what did happen between you and the baby daddy?” Bailey asked bluntly.

  “C’mon,” Coco scolded. “Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

  “Oh, please, you know you want to know too,” Bailey chided Coco.

  “No, no, it’s fine. I’ve made peace with it, and actually our relationship had been on the skids for at least the last two years. I’m glad it’s over. Really. I don’t have any problem talking about it,” Olivia said.

  “So things started going bad while you were pregnant?” Coco asked.

  “Well, things were going bad for a long time before that. But, yeah, it was a rough pregnancy all around. But I wanted a baby. I didn’t care if he was staying or not,” Olivia said.

  “God, why did you wait so long to get rid of him?” Bailey asked.

  “That’s a good question. I guess I wasn’t ready to be without him, but in a way maybe I was. Every time something went wrong, or he treated me like shit, instead of being a woman about it and talking it out, or even letting him know, I just logged it in my brain. Like ‘Okay, he spent my birthday in Vegas with his friends, gotcha.’ So I let him pile straws on my back, waiting for that final one. It was cowardly, I know, but I had to get to the point where I didn’t care anymore. In the back of my mind I knew he would get me there eventually,” Olivia recounted. “And, of course, he did.”

  “So what was the big issue?” Coco asked.

  “There were a few. First, he was a huge narcissist. That was the biggie. I don’t know if you’ve ever dated someone who has a personalit
y disorder like that, but it’s impossible to deal with. I knew about it early on, but it got harder to accept that he was always going to be his own priority; and I had no option but to go along with that if I wanted to be with him. The other thing was his bizarre new religious stuff,” Olivia said.

  “What does that mean?” asked Bailey.

  “His father was Protestant and his mother was Jewish, so he wasn’t raised one way or the other. As he got older, he decided to embrace his Jewish heritage, which at first I thought would be lovely for him…. and I thought that it might tame his narcissism. I also kinda thought it might be valuable for our child, since I was a nonpracticing Presbyterian. But he took me to this weird cultlike temple all the way out on Long Island that was as orthodox and fundamentalist as Jews get. I guessed it would be fine, but this felt totally creepy and culty. The women and men sat separately, and the rabbi preached about the need for women to keep the family together by not working, staying at home to raise the children, and, most important, catering to their husbands’ every need. Hah! Really taking too literally all that Old Testament stuff; and he seriously wanted me to buy into this crap. As if! ” said Olivia, disgusted.

  “Oh, like Hasidic Jews?” Bailey asked.

  “No, that would have been one thing, but this was creepier, and the temple demanded a certain amount of money from him regularly, like the Mormons and their heavy tithing; this felt more like Jewish Mafia. Plus, Benjamin was a total hypocrite. He had a baby out of wedlock with a woman who had a full-time career and with whom he didn’t live. So much for the subservient woman, right? And then, to top it off, he had a sleeve of tattoos up his arm of…. I kid you not…. two Warner Brothers cartoon characters and a Mercedes logo!”

  “I’m actually more shocked that you’d date a guy with those tacky tattoos,” Coco said. “But, hey, people do stupid stuff when they’re young, right? God makes exceptions for things you do before you found him I guess?”

  “No! He got the tattoos after he became a Super Jew!” Olivia explained. “And, get this: he asked the rabbi how he could be buried in a Jewish cemetery even with his tattoos. So the rabbi gave him a number.”