Second Love

by Gould, Judith

  'Damn!' she swore, looking down around her. 'I couldn't be klutzier if I tried!'

  'So you dropped it. Big deal.' Hunt half rose and retrieved it from the covers. 'Here.' He held it out to her.

  She stared at it and started to reach out, then hesitated. There was something too intimate about this simple action. Quickly she withdrew her hand and shook her head emphatically. 'No.' Her voice was low, almost trembling.

  They both understood what that no encompassed: an out-and-out declaration of noninvolvement. It put to rest any chances whatsoever of a relationship, no matter how innocent, between them; it put her off limits to his touch.

  Hunt acted as if that were of no consequence. He sat back, popped the piece of tart in his mouth, and chewed. 'Very tasty.' He nodded in approval.

  She put the fork down on the tray and met his gaze head-on. 'Hunt, why did you come?'

  He seemed surprised by the question. 'To offer my services, see if there was anything you needed. After my wife's behavior at the party, I thought it was the very least I could do.'

  Dorothy-Anne's expression did not change. 'Does she know you're here?'

  'Gloria?' He shook his head. 'No.'

  'Where does she think you are?'

  He laughed bitterly. 'That depends upon what condition she's in. If she's drunk, she's almost certainly convinced I'm shacked up with someone. If not, that I'm out pressing the flesh or mingling with constituents.'

  'But I'm not a constituent,' Dorothy-Anne said quietly. 'I'm not even a registered voter in this state.'

  'In my experience, everyone's a potential voter.' He grinned easily. 'And if they aren't, they have friends or relatives who are.'

  She drew a deep breath. 'I . . .' she began, and shook her head. She clasped her hands in her lap. 'I'm sorry. You'll have to excuse me, Hunt. I'm afraid I tire out awfully fast. The painkillers and all . . . '

  He smiled and rose to his feet. 'I understand. Anyway, in case you change your mind, here's my card.' He did a nifty little sleight-of-hand trick and seemingly snatched one out of thin air. He placed it on the swing-arm tray. 'If there's anything you need—anything'—he tapped the card—'don't hesitate to call. I'm not without influence, you know.'

  'I'll remember that,' she said.

  'No strings attached,' he added.

  She smiled. 'Thanks for coming by, Hunt. The flowers are lovely.'

  'No balloons or teddy bears.' He winked. 'See that you get well soon.'

  'I will.'

  As soon as he was gone, her smile faded. She let her head sink back on the pillow and shut her eyes.

  Here's my card . . . if there's anything you need . . . I'm not without influence. . . .

  She sighed deeply. Hunt could have saved himself a card. Strings or no strings, she wasn't about to court trouble by getting in touch with him. She'd observe etiquette and send him a thank-you note for the flowers—period. Anything else might be misconstrued, and she didn't want to lead him on.

  I'm happily married. I have three beautiful children. What more could I want?

  Freddie safe and sound.

  That isn't too much to ask for. Is it?

  She heard footsteps and then Venetia said softly: 'Sugar? You awake?'

  Dorothy-Anne opened her eyes and nodded.

  'Good. Dr. Chalfin's here.'

  Dorothy-Anne glanced past Venetia. The surgeon was standing there, just inside the door, his white lab coat so starched it could have stood there on its own.

  'Good afternoon, Mrs. Cantwell,' he said. 'How do you feel?'

  'That all depends, Doctor. Why don't you tell me?'

  Burt Chalfin didn't so much as smile.

  Cheerful soul, Dorothy-Anne thought sardonically. He can probably sit through a Marx Brothers movie without cracking up.

  She watched him shut the door, step forward, and lift her chart off the foot of the bed. Every movement he made was done with precision and forethought. Even the way he flipped through her chart, nodding to himself from time to time; the deliberation with which he reached for his gold ballpoint pen and twisted it to write, making a neat notation; the compulsive manner in which he hung the chart back at the foot of the bed, making sure it was perfectly aligned.

  'Well? Am I going to live?' Dorothy-Anne quipped.

  'Oh, definitely,' he said in all seriousness. 'You're recovering nicely. In fact, we'll have you out of here in no time.'

  'Now, that's the first good news I've heard in ages.'

  He untwisted his pen and clipped it just so to the inside of his breast pocket. Then he frowned and eyed Dorothy-Anne thoughtfully. 'Ms. Flood tells me she's a close friend of yours.'

  Dorothy-Anne glanced fondly at Venetia and smiled. 'Yes, she is.'

  'Then you won't mind if she sits in on this? If she's party to what I have to say?'

  Dorothy-Anne's eyes snapped back to him. 'Why?' she asked, suddenly wary. 'Is it necessary?'

  'Not at all. But I've found that certain situations are easier when a patient has a member of the family or a close friend at hand.'

  Dorothy-Anne felt a sick, churning feeling rise up inside her. The cloying scent from the flowers nauseated her and the room seemed stiflingly hot. Her heart began speeding, pounding out a percussive beat.

  She stared at Burt Chalfin. 'What's the matter, Doctor?' she whispered. 'What's wrong with me?'

  Dr. Chalfin glanced at Venetia.

  Venetia glanced back at him.

  Then they both looked at Dorothy-Anne.

  'For God's sake!' Dorothy-Anne blurted. 'Will somebody please let me in on whatever the hell is going on? This is my body, you know!'

  7

  Saturday afternoon, Jimmy Vilinsky called Joel, his bookie, from a pay phone at Grand Central saying he wanted to put five grand on the Rodriguez kid for tonight's fight at the Garden. 'The Kid' was the underdog, and the odds were twenty to one—against. But if he came up the winner, Jimmy stood to rake in a cool hundred grand. Just like that.

  Joel, growling around a cigar at the other end of the line, rasped, 'Jimmy, Jimmy. You'd lay bets if ya saw two roaches crawlin' across a kitchen counter.' Pausing to see how Jimmy reacted to that.

  He didn't, just kept breathing into the phone.

  Joel laying it on a little thicker now, saying: 'And you know somethin', Jimmy? Outta them two roaches? You'd sure as shit pick the loser!'

  Jimmy rolled his eyes, held the phone away from his ear, and made yak-yak motions with his hand. Like he needed this shit! Just because he and Joel went way back, growing up in Hell's Kitchen together, didn't mean he had to listen to him flapping his lip.

  Jimmy heard Joel say, 'Whyn't ya take some friendly advice, huh, Jimmy? Your markers are startin' to add up again. Do yourself a favor and lay off the bettin'.'

  After the squawking stopped, Jimmy said, 'Joel? Blow it out yer ass. Five grand on 'The Kid.' '

  Telling it like it is and hanging up.

  That taken care of, Jimmy strode through the terminal. He was a skinny guy, late thirties, with black hair slicked back with gel. He had a pointy ferret kind of nose and blackcurrant eyes that kept darting about, like jumpy little raisins, and he liked to act cool.

  At the moment, Jimmy Vilinsky was flying high. Had been, ever since that phone call out of the blue had changed his life.

  Now, putting a little extra swagger in his step, he permitted his thoughts to drift back to that night —

  Back to when the phone had rung . . .

  Coming when it did, at four-something in the morning, the jangling was enough to raise the dead. Jimmy, asleep one minute and sitting up too suddenly the next, felt the shock of pain splitting his skull in two. Groaning, he looked around in confusion, trying to get his bearings.

  From the light left burning in the bathroom, he ascertained that the bed was his own.

  So far, so good.

  He could also make out the quart of Four Roses, what was left of it, two smudged glasses, and overflowing ashtrays. The familiar stench— s
tale cigarette smoke, sweaty sheets, semen, and cheap bourbon—all rang a bell, only he couldn't remember why.

  Meanwhile, the phone on the far nightstand kept up its jangling. He was tempted to hurl it across the room, the noise too much after tying one on.

  Wishing he'd switched the damn thing off before crashing, Jimmy muttered, 'Shit!' Started to reach for it, then felt the smooth, naked warm body sleeping next to him.

  That stopped him short.

  Blinking, he stared down in surprise.

  A girl Jimmy had never seen before was lying there on her belly. Tight little rear end up, face turned sideways on the pillow. Cute as a button, with a trim little figure and loose dark hair, not too long.

  He couldn't for the life of him remember where she'd come from, or what, if anything, they'd done—definitely a bad trip in this day and time. With dread disease stalking the streets, all it took was the wrong casual screw and—whammo! Sex equaled death.

  Deciding he'd better answer the phone before his skull shattered, he crawled over the girl, whoever she was, unable to help brushing against her. It didn't wake her; she merely rolled over on her side and curled up and went right on sleeping.

  Grabbing the receiver, Jimmy was about to lift it when he had second thoughts.

  Uh-oh.

  The muzziness starting to clear now, his mental gears going clickety- click. One thing for sure, the call couldn't be friendly. Not at this hour, the way it was ringing off the hook—what? Fifteen, twenty times already?

  Something like that.

  Now he started thinking along that track, the jangling did have that certain sound, like the call had to be about all the money he owed.

  What happened, these past few months had been a real bitch. A losing streak had wiped him out completely, and he'd relied on markers to try and recoup. But Lady Luck, that two-faced whore, had turned her back on him, and the markers only got him deeper and deeper in the hole.

  Soon he owed everybody and his brother. Not just Joel, but a dozen syndicate and Chinatown bookies as well.

  Next thing he knew, they'd cut off his running tab, and the bookies' collectors were dropping by, making nasty noises.

  Then they'd started threatening him outright, spelling out exactly how they could affect his personal health and well-being.

  And most recently, they'd stepped up their campaign to the point where he was seriously contemplating the merits of vamoosing. Maybe heading out to the Coast and lying low.

  Still the damn phone kept on ringing. Like that Energizer bunny that wouldn't stop. As if the caller knew he was home and listening.

  How the girl slept through it, he'd never know.

  Exasperated, Jimmy finally grabbed the receiver and snarled, 'Yeah!' Expecting the shoe to drop.

  Some smooth-talking guy said, 'Mr. Vilinsky?' and waited.

  'Who's callin'?'

  'A friend. How you doing?'

  Jimmy said, 'Look, cut to the chase, willya? I ain't got no friends.'

  'You sure about that, Mr. Vilinsky?' The voice sounded like velvet.

  'Course I'm sure!' Jimmy making out like he was getting ready to hang up. 'You fuckin' realize what time it is?'

  The voice said, 'Of course, Mr. Vilinsky. It's forty minutes and twenty-four seconds past four.'

  Jimmy wanted to say, Hey, smartass? Fuck you and the donkey you rode in on. I'm goin' to bed and switchin' the phone off.

  The thing was, his curiosity was getting the better of him. Long as he stayed on the line, maybe he could figure out the guy's angle . . . see what he was up to. You never knew. Could be this guy might prove useful somewhere down the road. . . .

  'Mr. Vilinsky? You there?'

  'Yeah. Lemme guess.'

  Idly Jimmy scratched his crotch, which for some reason or other had started to itch.

  'Next thing I know, you'll be all buddy-buddy. Telling me, 'Lookit, I'm yer friend. I don't wanna see ya get hurt.' Somethin' like that. Am I right?'

  The guy surprised him.

  'No, Mr. Vilinsky, you're reading it all wrong. See, I didn't call to twist your arm. And another thing?'

  Jimmy waited.

  'Nobody's going to call up or drop by to pester you. The dogs have been called off.'

  'Is that so?'

  'You have my word on it.'

  'Yeah, but who're you?'

  'I'm the man bought up your markers. You understand what I'm saying?'

  Jimmy wide awake now, drawing in his breath, thinking, The fuck—? He felt a knot of alarm twisting his bowels as the wind outside gusted and howled. The windows shook, making him think of that story, the one about the Three Little Pigs. The wind not the wind anymore, but the guy on the phone; the Big Bad Wolf breathing down his neck.

  'Mr. Vilinsky . . . ' That smooth, cold voice again.

  'Yeah, yeah.'

  Jimmy rubbed his face, working on keeping his voice cool. Acting like he was surprised, yeah, but not scared shitless.

  He said, 'Why'd ya buy 'em up?' Taking the guy for some hard-ass collector who went around, buying up markers at a discount.

  But the guy was full of surprises.

  'Because I wanted to hire you, Mr. Vilinsky. Only instead of getting paychecks? You work off what you owe.'

  Jimmy said, 'Work it off how?' Trying to show some spunk.

  'Why, same as you'd work your way out of any mess, Mr. Vilinsky. You get into a bind? Do whatever it takes.'

  'Who are ya?'

  'I don't believe you really want to be privy to that, Mr. Vilinsky.'

  Jimmy rubbed his face some more. 'This one of them offers I can't refuse?'

  The laugh was as soft as it was mirthless. 'Well, I suppose you could refuse. But if I were in your shoes? I'd think it over real carefully first.'

  Jimmy sighed. 'Okay. What you want me to do?'

  So much for his spunk.

  'Good. I was hoping you'd be reasonable. Now, what the job entails? You act as a go-between. All you do, you make contact with a certain person. From then on, you simply relay information between myself and him.'

  'And that's all?' Jimmy asked suspiciously.

  'That's all, I assure you.'

  Jimmy didn't believe it. 'There's gotta be a catch.'

  'But there isn't. What I explained is all there is to it. And each time you relay a message, I tear up one of your markers, mail it to you.'

  'Yeah?' Jimmy turning it over in his head, scratching his itching nuts and wondering if maybe, just maybe, the girl wasn't a walking flea circus.

  'I'll be in touch, Mr. Vilinsky. You'll receive detailed instructions later this afternoon.'

  'Hey! Wait a sec. Before you hang up? You never mentioned yer name.'

  'I already told you, Mr. Vilinsky. You really don't want to know.'

  'Yeah, but how about a first name? That way, when ya get in touch? I'll know it's you.'

  'I'm sure you'll recognize my voice. Good night, Mr. Vilinsky.'

  And the phone went click.

  The first thing Jimmy did, once it was daylight, he gave the girl a resounding slap on her bare ass.

  'Ow!' she yowled, jerking upright. 'What are you? Some kinda perv?'

  'I got business to take care of. Whyn't ya take a hike, huh?'

  'Gladly!' she huffed, giving him an eyeful of major bazoombas as she bounded out of bed.

  Jimmy sprang an instant hard. He had a thing for big lungs, and on a scale of one to ten, this broad's were definitely an eleven.

  How could he not remember them? Still, all was not lost, he decided with a knowing leer, especially since he gave good sweet talk and wasn't too proud to apologize.

  'Oh, honey,' he began, in hopes of getting something memorable going. 'I'm sorr—'

  She whirled on him, all blazing hair and teeth and boobs and—

  Holy shit!

  He stared, looked away, and did a classic double take. Then flinched as before an assailant.

  His one-eyed snake shriveled.

  He liked his wo
men well endowed, yeah, but not with cock and balls!

  Shit!

  Shock brought his universe to a standstill. His perception narrowed to the offending anatomy. There was a taunting sense of mockery about the same body sharing voluptuous female breasts with male genitalia, a macabre, surreal kind of travesty that he found aggressively repellent.

  He'd picked up a . . . what did they call transsexuals who'd had silicone implants but had yet to undergo the knife? He searched his memory. There was some phrase . . .

  Chicks with dicks. That was it.

  Not a man—or a girl.

  Both, and yet neither.

  'And what,' demanded the woman with a penis—or was it a man with breasts, 'are you staring at?'

  Jimmy recoiled, too dumbstruck to speak. He watched in horrified fascination as the creature stalked around, plucking pieces of female clothing off the floor and donning them.

  Once dressed, she flounced out, head held high, threw him a birdie, and slammed the door so hard that a framed blow-up of Jimmy's favorite horse, Sunday Silence, went crashing to the floor.

  He put his head in his hands and shut his eyes. Oh, the indignity. The disgrace. The shame.

  His self-esteem had been dealt a severe blow—not least by the fact that 'her' prick had been bigger than his.

  In the meantime, fact-finding calls to his various bookies provided a much needed diversion. Besides which, he was curious about the guy who'd phoned. Wanted to see if he was full of shit, or what.

  His first call was to his old pal Joel, who ran his business out of the back booth of a seedy bar over on Tenth Avenue. The bookie had been giving him the cold shoulder lately.

  'Hey, Jimmy!' Joel's greeting was genuinely enthusiastic. 'Long time no see. How you doin'?'

  It was the warmest reception Jimmy had gotten out of him since his credit had been cut off.

  'Pretty good,' Jimmy told him. 'How's business?'

  'Sluggish.' Joel laughed. 'I feel the pinch without yer bets.'