Or maybe not. “So why didn’t you call?”
He hadn’t meant that to sound so harsh, and she was silent for a moment.
“Well, I did just leave,” she finally said, nodding toward the bridge. “And, even though I don’t like your attitude … ”
He didn’t know if she was being serious. She sounded serious.
“I don’t know how to block caller ID from my cell phone.”
“Oh!” Rick shook his head. “Now that’s cold.”
Carolyn grinned, the same as she had on Letterman, and he thought the same thing. Wicked. A piece of hair had come loose from the silver clip at the back of her neck, and she tucked it behind her ear, not more than a foot away from him. Rick shifted against the rough bark of the tree. It was getting hard to not move closer.
Carolyn tilted her head. “What are you listening to?”
“What? Oh.” It didn’t have a name, so he held out the left earphone.
Her right ear was closer, the earphone wouldn’t hook over that way, and the wire wouldn’t reach her left ear. He was about to give her the right earphone — for real — when she solved her problem by closing the space between them down to a foot and shifting to face him.
There you go, Zeus. Now, I’m inspired.
She listened for a second, head bobbing a little. It was a good piece. “No lyrics?”
Don’t rub it in, Carolyn. “Not yet.”
Every part of her face went wide open. Mouth, eyes. Like Christmas or something. “Is it — did Zeus — it is him! Oh, my God.”
Rick nodded, unnecessarily, and wondered if she could have ID’d Zeus in a vacuum. A lot of people could. His beats sprinkled the BillBoard charts.
“Are you going to use this?”
The music wasn’t the issue. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Do you have anything yet?”
Anything would be fine. “Got any ideas?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, no … I’m not — I can’t write.”
“You wrote a book.”
She shook her head for some reason.
“Bestseller, chick on the radio said.”
“Karen Hunter is not a...” She blinked. “You listened?”
Rick shrugged. “Easier when you’re on the radio.”
She rolled her eyes, like he was making that up. Ain’t lied to you yet, Carolyn.
The next song came on, and her eyes drifted to the left, concentration moving in the direction of the sound. After the melody looped, she looked at him again. “I like that one.”
He did, too. The melody was a cello, in a minor key.
“Sounds haunted,” she said. “You feeling haunted by anything?”
“Always.” That track was the only one that even gave him a mood. The rest of it was just salt. Poured on the wound. And that was about as fresh as he was feeling.
Carolyn studied him as the cello ran up and down the notes of the key. He’d been flip with the ‘always,’ but on top of all the other shit, now he was feeling kind of haunted by her. She’d probably say it was the other way around.
She didn’t. She jumped and looked at her watch. Rick had seen this flick before, and he knew how it ended.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Where now?”
“A signing, from five to six-thirty.”
Was it that late? He got to his feet right after her, because she forgot to take the earphone off, and if he didn’t move something was going to get yanked — most likely the wires connecting a hundred and sixty bucks worth of miniature speakers.
“Sorry,” Carolyn said, handing hers back. “I like that one a lot.”
He decided to use it. Somehow.
She glanced over her shoulder, to check out the serial killer shooting away on the bridge. Rick raised his eyebrows, but she just shook her head. He tucked the earphones in his pocket. “You know how to get out of here?”
She grinned. “Are you lost?”
“Not really.”
She gave him a funny look. “Fifth Avenue’s right up here.” She pointed the paper airplane in the direction he’d already guessed.
Then she handed him the plane. “Not bad flying.”
“I took a class,” Rick said. “For about twelve years.”
Carolyn laughed again — damn — as she started up the path. In less than a minute, they were back on the street. Her hotel was right across from the entrance, but she stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, her hand on the wall that separated the park from the city.
Rick wasn’t too eager to dive into the flow of traffic either. “What’s after six-thirty?”
Carolyn looked at him, startled. Then he could have sworn she looked disappointed.
“I … well … ” She glanced over her shoulder, back toward the park.
“You’re busy.”
She shook her head. “No, actually … ”
He raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“He has to work. Unexpected.”
“Well, that sucks.” He grinned at the look she shot him. “So what do you wanna do?”
“With you?”
Rick blew out a sigh. “You know, Carolyn, it’s a good thing I spend half my damn life thinking up new ways to say how great I am.”
She laughed, but it sounded nervous. She kept looking away, then back at him. Like she was …
Someone who’d memorized one of his songs before it was even released. Probably all the others too. “You scared of me, Carolyn?”
Her eyes widened and she didn’t look away this time.
“Christ. Look — that’s just … I ain’t never hit a woman in my life. Not even when they deserved it.”
Her eyes went even wider for a split second. It might have been the wrong thing to say, although he wasn’t sure how. Then she tilted her head. “Maybe you could put that on your resume.”
It would be a positive if he was in any other business. “Maybe not my resume.”
He could tell she didn’t want to laugh at that. She did, though.
“I don’t got no bodies stashed in my freezer, either.”
“Oh, would you stop with the — ”
“Don’t even got a freezer, tell you the truth.”
She studied him for a minute, and Rick was blinded by the irony over having a personal invitation to Guillotine’s CD release party tonight. A lock for any woman except the one looking at him right now. He figured at this point shutting up might be the best idea, if only because the words trying to slip out sounded a hell of a lot like come on … please?
“I have tickets,” Carolyn said, but she didn’t sound like she was sure.
Maybe she just had the same problem. “To what? Opera?” He made a face and she grinned. “Ballet?”
He was trying to think of something worse when she said, “The Yankees.”
Baseball. A three-way tie, if it wasn’t for the beer.
Carolyn raised her eyebrows. “Not a fan?”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Rick said. “I mean, if there ain’t no hockey on. Or basketball or football. Lacrosse, soccer. Or golf. Yeah, then I’ll watch baseball.”
“It’s better being there.”
Rick grinned. “Could it be worse?”
“You don’t have to go.”
Because he was working this hard so he could say ‘no thanks.’ He shrugged. “I’ll probably live.”
Carolyn just looked at him, and he thought she might be changing her mind. Maybe he should have tried to fake it, but he wouldn’t have been able to. On the other hand, baseball games lasted forever, so in that amount of time, the possibility existed — probably remote — but it still existed. That he might even get to touch her. Rick re-creased the main fold of the airplane in his hand. Seemed like even when she wasn’t around, that was all he could think about anymore.
“I’m not sleeping with you,” she said.
Unbelievable. “You know, that’s like the fourth time — see I’m counting now — four times, you mentioned that. I�
��m a start thinking you mean it, you keep that up.”
She didn’t answer, but she did smile as she looked away. Rick leaned in closer. “It ain’t having the effect you’re going for, Carolyn.”
She jerked away from him, eyes flaming, and he’d seen this movie too — twice — and he didn’t like it the first time.
“So that’s it? Are you bored, Rick?”
Because he could never follow the damn plot. “What?”
“Women flashing their tits, jumping right in bed — am I just more of a challenge?”
“Oh, hell no — I like easy. I think I told you that already!”
“Then what is it?” she snapped.
“What is what?”
“What is the effect I’m not going for?”
“It keeps making my dick hard!”
Oh, shit.
Carolyn’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Damn it, Carolyn,” he said, but he wasn’t mad, not when he saw the laugh in her eyes. “It wasn’t that fucking complicated.”
That made her laugh again, but then her eyes widened, looking past him — because even though Rick felt like the city faded away when he was with Carolyn, people didn’t actually disappear.
One woman in his audience had four long, red fingernails practically up her nose, her hand over her mouth. Same pose, different meaning.
“There’s more of that on iTunes, if you want,” he said, and the woman’s eyes widened. “Well, I ain’t giving it away. Most of it rhymes when you pay for it — fucking complicated, discombobulated, you know, like that?”
The woman gasped.
“Look up Ricky Rain,” he told her. “Like a storm, not a king. It was a joke, see, because of Slick Rick — you know Slick Rick, right? Remember that song, ‘The Ruler’s Back’?”
She tossed a quick look — horrors! — over her shoulder when she spun away.
Rick kicked up the volume. “Richard means ‘a ruler,’ see, so it was a joke because of my real name and how the other kind of rain is all wet. Not in a good way, either.”
The lady disappeared into the crowd.
“Wasn’t my idea,” he called. He turned to see the smile in Carolyn’s eyes and shrugged. “Guess she ain’t interested.”
Carolyn lowered her hand. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For getting offended,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t know what the hell she was talking about now. “When’s the game?”
“Seven, but I won’t be back until then. Wait — are you … sure you want … ”
He watched her trail off. Now she was asking if he was sure? Only that he wasn’t getting any, and he couldn’t even make a damn joke about it. “Do me one favor, Carolyn? You don’t know what I mean, just ask me next time?”
She nodded, so seriously it would have been funny if it wasn’t so messed up.
Don’t sleep with me — okay. Misunderstand me — okay. Get pissed off — okay. But please, ask me a question. I’ll tell you anything.
He backed up a few steps and repaired the folds on the plane he’d crushed. He shot it to her, perfectly aimed again. Even on damaged wings.
She laughed as she caught it. “You must have studied so hard, Rick!”
He was grinning when she glanced at her watch. She started for the corner, in a hurry, glanced back. And smiled. What the hell was wrong with him?
Rick cupped his hands over his mouth. “Yo, Carolyn — don’t give me that plane back until you write your number on it!”
She grinned as the light changed and the crush of people started across Fifth Avenue. And … no … she didn’t …
She did. So fast that he was sure he hadn’t seen what he thought he saw. Carolyn Coffman flipping him off. He watched her until the stream swallowed her up before he turned toward his hotel. Damn. He was passing the construction at the Plaza when his phone buzzed. By the time he pulled it out of his pocket, the vibrating was over. He idly flipped it open to check the missed-call log, because it could have been someone else.
Just a number, no name to go with it. Just a number.
He quickly hit the green button twice to dial it back. As he reached his hotel the same recorded female voice he heard on his own service told him they were trying to locate the customer, which was funny, because if he was right, she was just down the street.
Then the voice told him what he’d already guessed. She let it ring long enough to register, then shut her phone off. Rick nodded at the new doorman while he listened to Carolyn, sounding very proper as if she’d never once given a guy the finger in the middle of Manhattan, ask him to leave a message. So he did.
“You want to hit star sixty-seven next time, before you make the call, that’s standard. I shoulda told you that earlier, maybe.” He headed for the stairs. “Or you can do it permanent — star eighty-two, kind of a useful feature. That works with this phone company, we got the same one, which I didn’t know. But good news, though, on that, ’cause it probably don’t cost any minutes to call me.” He veered around a guy in a suit. “So you can’t use that for an excuse. Think of something else, but be creative. I don’t mind bullshit. But I hate when it ain’t original.”
He thought for a second, but he didn’t have anything else. “I’ll be over at seven.”
He jogged up the last three flights of carpeted stairs. He didn’t feel tired, but by his recollection baseball games lasted twelve or thirteen hours, so he glanced at the clock in the phone’s display window. Four-thirty, plenty of time for a nap. Sounded better than what he was doing yesterday at four-thirty, which was … meeting Carolyn. Twenty-four hours to get her phone number. Wouldn’t Terrance love that?
Then Rick grinned as he reached the door of his room, because he’d only asked for it a minute ago. He started to drop the phone into his pocket, changed his mind and shut it off.
He hadn’t gone through all that so she could cancel on him.
15: How Do You Get to the Bronx?
“Where you going?”
Rick ran the towel over his hair and squinted into the mirror. His hair was getting too long, the ends were curling up. “Yankee game.”
Terrance leaned against the bathroom doorway. “Say again?”
“You heard me.” He glanced over at Terrance. Teal and white striped shirt, black pleated pants. Shoes shinier than his head, gold at his neck, diamonds in his ears. “Where you going?”
“Dinner.” Terrance eyed him for a minute. “Do we know any baseball fans?”
Rick pushed by him, but Terrance followed him into the bedroom, kicked back in the armchair, and chuckled like he had something all figured out. “Ricky, you hate baseball.”
Rick dug a white t-shirt from his duffel bag and slipped it over his head. T-shirts without tags, took them long enough. He started to reach for pants and hesitated. He didn’t want to be sweating all night. He didn’t want shorts either. Shit.
“That what you wearing?” Terrance asked.
“I can dress myself.”
“What you think.”
His back to Terrance, Rick let the towel tuck bust free when he bent down for his boxers. He stood up, and the towel hit the ground.
Terrance just laughed.
Rick shrugged. “You better be out now or I’m a turn around.”
“What you — ” He jammed both hands over his eyes. Added a nice horror movie scream.
Rick yanked up his shorts. “I warned you.”
“If I were you,” Terrance said. “I’d be leaving those on. Word of advice.”
Rick gave him a blank look, then decided on the pants. He found his phone — two missed calls from Carolyn, no messages — and fished twenty bucks out of yesterday’s pants. He rummaged in his backpack, counted out eighty more. A cab to the Bronx. Christ, how much would that cost? He was forgetting something else. He scratched his head.
“You know what you’re doing?” Terrance asked.
“Looking for my hat.” And that damn k
ey card, which was still gone. “Are you moving my shit around?”
Terrance was looking at him funny. Again.
“What?”
Terrance shook his head. “Nothing, man.”
Rick found his hat in the bathroom again. His shoes were in the living room. The card was on the marble table by that front door. Maybe the triple-room setup was too confusing. He checked the mirror, flicked his fingers around his waistband. Lydia had carried on when he was a kid, before Jesse was born, about how he couldn’t stand anything touching him. And quit yanking the tags out of your shirts.
Rick tucked his hair under his hat. “They got a barbershop in this place?”
Terrance didn’t answer, and Rick caught him in the mirror, standing in the doorway that connected to his bedroom. Watching him again.
“Goddamn it, T. What’s your problem?”
Terrance gave him a ‘Whuchu Talking ’bout Willis?’ look.
He should have shaved, but it was five ’til seven now. His stomach growled, and he tried to remember if he’d eaten today. How much did a hot dog cost in Yankee stadium? Not having money again was harder than never having it in the first place.
Terrance stood there, arms crossed over his chest.
Rick changed the subject. “Who you going to dinner with?”
“The new secretary,” Terrance said.
“Right. The two-hour phone number.”
“Only the beginning.”
Terrance looked sure of that. Rick glanced back in the mirror. “I’m a be late.”
“Wouldn’t want to miss any of it,” Terrance said.
No, he didn’t. “Later.”
Terrance called him back. “Don’t go running your mouth about how boring — ”
“Now you tell me?”
Rick heard him laughing even after he closed the door.
* * *
Her lobby wasn’t crowded, and the desk clerk was different. Some ancient people were dressed like they were going out, maybe to the opera. Rick almost smiled, but the elevator door slid open one minute after he got there, which he was sure he didn’t like. The thought disappeared instantly. She’d been dressed up every time he’d seen her before. He didn’t know what he was expecting.
Her jersey wasn’t baggy like the players wore. Carolyn’s stripes curved over her breasts, interrupted by the NY on the left, slid in at her waist and hugged her hips. Untucked, over a bleach-streaked denim miniskirt, not quite short as he was used to, but still showing plenty of long brown legs. Rick’s mouth went dry about the same time the recurring-erection syndrome kicked in. She caught him licking his lips and blew out a loud sigh. He watched her legs anyway when she walked over to him. And here he’d been wishing it wasn’t so damned hot outside.
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