Slashing Mona Lisa

by D. M. Barr

  She mused at the irony. Here was someone garnering national attention for doing exactly what she yearned to do—pointing out the injustices waged daily against people like her sister. His propaganda espoused her personal cause to thousands each week, albeit for his own financial gain. His convictions made Mangel her comrade in arms, but his greed, her enemy. Alas, in the pursuit of justice, she was going to have to besmirch their shared cause by exposing the calamity his words had inspired. Sort of like cutting off your foes to spite your case.

  “I don’t pay you to doze off on the job, Ms. Torres.”

  Startled, she opened her eyes. A long night’s sleep seemed to have done wonders for Fletcher. The twinkle in his eyes matched his facetious tone.

  “You don’t pay me to fetch you chicken wraps after-hours either, but I do what needs to be done. That is what you pay me for.”

  “Touché. Thank you for last night. You were a lifesaver. Would you care to join me in my office so we can continue our discussion?”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll be right in.”

  Cam decided by his officious tone that he’d written off their momentary flirtation as a drunken hallucination, and for the moment, she was in the clear. She strolled over slowly, determined to retain her cool, all the while silently repeating her vow to keep things one hundred percent professional.

  A few moments later, she knocked twice, then pushed through the door he’d left ajar. Before her, overwhelming the room with a burst of color and sweet fragrance, was a vase filled with about two dozen wild rainbow roses, a mélange of purples and pinks, blues, reds, and oranges. Entranced by their beauty, she approached the desk, leaned over, and sniffed deeply.

  “They’re lovely, aren’t they? Something to brighten up the office,” Fletcher said, emerging from behind the door she’d just opened.

  “They’re so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like them.”

  “Ditto,” he said, joining her by the flowers.

  She could feel his breath caressing her hair, his cologne as sweet as the floral tones of the bouquet. Her breath grew shallow, and her chin quivered.

  “You can consider them a thank-you gift, if you like,” he whispered into her ear.

  She turned by a quarter, so she could stare directly into those soulful blue eyes, daring her to let down her guard, forget the magazine he owned and what causes it supported, and indulge in their mutual yearning. While she wanted to stand firm in her resolve against discrimination, her impulsive streak beckoned her to explore the one thing she realized she wanted even more.

  She smiled and held up a finger. “Just one second.”

  She took two steps back and pressed the door shut, checking to make sure it was locked.

  “I just don’t want your executive editor interrupting us again.”

  “You want this to be strictly Hans off?”

  She grinned and slinked closer. “I’m just grateful for the thumbs-up,” she murmured, sliding her arms around his neck.

  He ran his fingers down the sides of her dress, lingering at her hips. So close, so warm; he felt as good as she’d dreamt he would.

  He’s going to feel those rolls of fat. She tried to ignore the voices, and instead focused on his lips, slightly apart, plump and tempting. She leaned in, unable to resist their lusciousness any longer.

  To her dismay, he suddenly froze in place like a statue and then took a step backward, extricating himself from her embrace.

  See, he was never really interested. He knows you could blow up like a balloon after your next meal.

  “You know you don’t have to,” he said, almost teary-eyed, his voice tinged with desire and dread. “This has nothing to do with your job. And if you choose to leave right now, walk back to your desk…I’d never hold it against you.”

  “Pity,” she whispered, stepping forward and placing her arms back around his neck, her face resting on his shoulder so her lips were at his ear. Their bodies were even closer than before, and she pressed her hips tight enough against his to feel his excitement, long and hard, rubbing against her. “I like having you hold it against me. Please don’t stop.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Before he could speak again, she moved her head and pressed her mouth against his, enjoying the tickle of his beard. His tongue darted out to tango with hers. She luxuriated in his touch, her hands straying from his neck to press against the front of his shirt, which hinted at the muscular chest underneath. She unbuttoned his top button and then the next as his hands lifted her dress and palmed each of her ass cheeks, forcing her closer still to his throbbing member.

  And then the phone rang.

  “Ignore it,” she whispered, drunk in the moment.

  They continued their heated grasping and groping through four rings, relieved when the noise ended. But when Fletcher’s cellphone started vibrating immediately afterward, the mood was broken. They reluctantly relaxed their heated embrace.

  “I’m sorry. It might be important. I have to take it.”

  “I understand,” she lied.

  She smoothed her dress and regained her composure. Maybe it was for the best anyway. He obviously thought work was more important than any potential romance, and of course, he was right. She had no business flirting with her boss, especially when she was on the verge of making a major breakthrough on the BBG case.

  “Dinner tonight?” he asked Cam as his cell buzzed a third time.

  “Thanks, but I can’t. I have work.” For once she was grateful for the excuse. Time to cool down, reflect.

  She turned and walked out as he answered his goddamned phone.

  Chapter 17

  Camarin stumbled back to her desk, trying to steady both her breath and her pulse. What the hell was she thinking? Sure, he was hotter than Hades itself, but she had to shelve those desires, at least for now. This was her first job, and he was the publisher of a major publication, whether or not she agreed with its content. If this blew up in her face, it could ruin her reputation in journalism circles forever. Her writing—and the Mangel murders in particular—had to remain foremost on her agenda, and right now, she needed to decide on her next move.

  Rachel sauntered by, sporting a Cheshire cat grin. “I couldn’t help but notice, that was kind of a long central you and Fletcher had, eh?”

  Camarin was too dazed to attempt to decipher on her own. “Huh?”

  “Oh, please, I thought you’d gotten this. Central heating. Meeting.”

  “Go Peking yourself,” Camarin said, apparently coherent enough for verbal sparring. “That’s Cam rhyming slang, and I’m willing to bet you can figure it out.”

  “Ah, suit yourself, but you still owe me a drink, young lady. How about after work tonight? We can have a chin wag then.”

  “You like piano music?” Why not? The cat’s out of the bag about Job #2 anyway.

  “Well enough, I suppose.”

  “I work at Benji’s nights, bartending. It’s over by Times Square, inside the Laidlaw Hotel. Stop by early, around six, before the crowd floods in. First one’s on me.”

  “Sounds like a Manfred. Manfred Mann, plan. I should come around your desk more often. By the way, your lipstick’s all smudged. You might want to fix that before anyone else sees you.”

  “Got it, thanks.”

  “Apparently, you did. At least someone’s getting some. See you anon.”

  Camarin pulled out her phone and reversed the camera app to turn it into a makeshift mirror. What a mess! Thankfully, no one except Rachel had seen her. Could she count on the receptionist keeping the secret to herself? Only time would tell; time and perhaps more than one drink tonight.

  She spent a few minutes primping, erasing all evidence of her earlier indiscretion. Then she returned to researching all things Mangel before Wynan could drop off another inane editing assignment or thoughts of Lyle could again destroy her concentration.

  Thinking proactively, she checked the upcoming schedule of
the Feel Good About Yourself revival. Philadelphia, this Friday. Only about a ninety-minute train ride away. She could attend over the weekend and no one at work would be the wiser—no need to incur any embarrassment if her hunch was off. It was a perfect opportunity to see what was going on firsthand. Talk to some of the attendees. Figure out possible suspects. And, if she played her cards right, maybe solve the case before the next issue’s deadline. Surely if she fingered the killer, Trend would have to print the story.

  She felt the pins and needles again in her fingers and toes. No doubt jitters over the possibility of tackling her first major case. Then she glanced down at the admission price: a steep five hundred dollars. Apparently, whoever said self-esteem was priceless hadn’t met Terry Mangel. It took two weeks’ worth of tips at Benji’s to earn that much money, which normally covered a hefty slice of her share of the rent. Wasn’t going to happen.

  Time to think this through. She could ask Annalise or DeAndre for a loan, but no, they were as strapped as she was. Her mother? Ack, Cam didn’t want to deal with the aftermath of that request—the questions, the arguments, the debates—especially when her mother realized the revival was a gathering of people promoting self-acceptance at any size, the antithesis of everything she stood for. Cam could already hear her mother’s objections ringing in her ears: “You don’t want to be part of a group of outcasts, do you? The ‘right’ people might shun you, and then how will you ever find a man?”

  She banged her fist on her desk, trying to summon a solution to reveal itself. And in her signature slapstick style, the side of her palm grazed the side of her box of business cards, which toppled to the floor. She stared down at them, a tiny smile spreading across her lips. Si Yu’os Ma’åse! God is merciful, she thought as she scooped up the mess.

  Thinking back on her Journalism 243 course, Research and Resourcefulness, she phoned the Philadelphia Inquirer’s advertising department and asked how she could reach the Mangel administrative team. Since they’d advertised in the paper, the Inquirer had to have some type of contact information. They hemmed and hawed until she told them that it was the revival ad in their newspaper that inspired her idea to interview Mangel for Trend. Wouldn’t it be a nice plug for the Inquirer if she mentioned that fact to the powers that be? Perhaps they’d consider an entire campaign? The Inquirer concurred. Ah, the power of self-interest.

  She called the number they provided, identified herself as the senior reporter for the magazine, and reached April Lowery, the lead public relations director for Mangel Enterprises. Could Terry Mangel spare an hour for an interview on Sunday morning? Camarin asked, reminding Lowery that Trend’s more elite, high-income readers would surely clamor to learn how to lift their self-image, no matter what the cost. Lowery put Camarin on hold for five minutes and then confirmed the interview for eleven AM Sunday.

  Oh, and by the way, Cam asked as an aside, would it be possible for her to arrive Friday and experience two nights of the revival for herself? Background for the article and all. Lowery agreed it was a terrific idea, and said that a press pass would be waiting for her at the ticket window. All she needed to do was show her business card. The publicist did advise that Mangel Enterprises would require final copy approval of all manuscripts, but Camarin saw no problem, since she had no plan to actually write the article. That’s that, I am on my way! she thought, bopping up and down gently in her chair.

  She spent the rest of the day alternating between editing a hard-hitting news story on Choosing the Right Toenail Color to Reflect Your Mood and preparing for her upcoming trip to Philly. She located a cheap Airbnb, brainstormed some sample questions for Mangel, and even considered some ways to approach her fellow revival attendees.

  When she looked up from her monitor, it was past five, and most of the other staff had already left. She realized that she had almost completely blocked any lascivious fantasies about her boss from interfering with her day. She rewarded her singlemindedness with a virtual pat on the back, lifted her bag from her lap, and ran out the door to meet Rachel.

  * * * *

  Benji’s really didn’t get hopping until after seven-thirty PM. Only a few diehards stopped by for happy hour, and DeAndre would occasionally entertain them by playing requests while he was warming up for that evening’s show. When Cam arrived just past six, he was chatting enthusiastically with Rachel, who had taken introductions into her own hands by draping herself face-up across the top of his Steinway.

  “Well, there’s our girl,” he announced. “Better late than never.”

  Camarin gave her roommate a peck on the cheek and then mock-pushed Rachel off the piano. “No tantalizing the talent. He has a show tonight, and you’re going to get him too razzed to concentrate.”

  “Well, if anyone would know anything about giving someone in the workplace the Kournikova, I guess it would be you,” Rachel teased back.

  “Don’t even ask,” Camarin warned her roommate. “You don’t know what you’ll start if you do.”

  “Once-over,” a defiant Rachel said under her breath, loud enough for both Cam and DeAndre to hear.

  “You never told me you had such a sexy coworker, roomie.”

  Rachel beamed at the compliment.

  “Oh, please, Dee, careful what you say. She’s like a stray cocker spaniel puppy. Give her something to nosh on, and she’ll follow you around forever.”

  Rachel rolled from her back to her stomach and stared at the piano player, elbows bent and chin on palms, flirting unabashedly. “Mmm, you remind me of Taye Diggs and Shemar Moore, all rolled into one. I’d love to see who you look like when you’re unrolled.”

  Camarin stuck her head between them. “Unrolled, he’s a layer of tarmac—black, smooth, but easy to walk all over. As his exes have regrettably demonstrated on a regular basis, and which is why I’m intervening now. Hands off, young lady. I don’t have time to pick up the pieces when this accident-in-the-making explodes in both of your faces. Clear?”

  She reached out and palmed the tops of both of their heads and forced them to nod in agreement. Rachel rolled her eyes.

  “Great. Glad that’s all cleared up.” Cam headed over to the bar. “In the meantime, what can I get you?”

  “I’ll have a fireball,” said DeAndre. “So there’s more than one thing up here that’s red-hot and spicy.”

  “And I’ll have a Blow Job. It’s Bailey’s Irish Cream—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know how to make it.” Camarin frowned, reaching for the Kahlua and then the Amaretto. “We’re low on whipped cream. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a ‘Fuck Me Behind the Piano During Your Break’?”

  “Funny, funny girl.” Unperturbed by her coworker’s sarcasm, Rachel gingerly lowered herself from atop the instrument and squeezed in next to her newfound admirer on his piano bench.

  Then, as if daring Camarin to intervene, Rachel ran one finger up DeAndre’s arm while he played and sang Elton John’s Sacrifice. Her caress caused him to miss a note or two, but he pressed on.

  “I give up,” Camarin said as she set both drinks on the Steinway. “Go at it like rabbits. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She headed into the back room to grab a few extra bottles of Grey Goose. They’d need it tonight, with a mortgage bankers’ convention in town. As she rummaged, she overheard a familiar voice out front that made her heart jump.

  “Why, Ms. Thorsen, what a surprise seeing you here. Have you switched from super-receptionist to star entertainer?”

  “No need to switch, Mr. Fletcher. I’m able to handle both. And I take requests. What can we play for you?”

  “Do you know The Most Beautiful Girl by Charlie Rich?”

  “That’s an oldie, for sure, but I believe I remember it,” said DeAndre.

  He started singing, and Camarin strode out, right on cue.

  “Mr. Fletcher, this is an unexpected treat. What can I get you?” She hoped her attempts to modulate her voice masked her delight. It was the first time she’d seen h
im since their memorable, heart-stopping kiss, followed by his unfortunate choice to answer his cellphone. Maybe his appearance meant he had decided to choose romance over work.

  Play it cool. Play it cool. Play it cool.

  “I thought we agreed you’d call me Lyle. And water, please. I’ve learned my lesson.” He held up a large, brown paper bag. “Since you brought me dinner last night, I thought I would return the favor. Perhaps we might share it here at the bar.”

  Despite her earlier resolve, she couldn’t help but admire his chivalrous gesture. “It’s usually slow for another twenty minutes or so. I’d love to join you, though I may have to excuse myself to serve the occasional customer.” She glanced over at Rachel, busily nuzzling DeAndre, who had given up rehearsing to practice his less orchestral maneuvers. “Or to gag from overexposure to the PDAs over there.”

  She ambled over to his side of the bar. He set the bag on a barstool and gave her his full attention, running his hand through her wavy, black locks and then winding a few strands around his fingers and pulling gently, just forcefully enough to show his desire for ownership.

  She let out a gasp and tilted her head in the direction of his tug, a tiny display of submission. She was tempted, so tempted, to embrace him, but couldn’t chance it. Benji kept his workers on a tight leash, looking for the slightest provocation to fire old-timers like Camarin so he could provide his regulars with ‘fresh meat.’

  “I can’t,” she said with a sigh, gently pushing his hand from her hair. “Not here, during work hours. I’m sorry.”

  “I am as well. But I understand.” He donned a half-smile, grudgingly lowered his hand, and reached into the bag to pull out dinner. “I hope you like lobster Newburg. Delmonico’s usually doesn’t do takeout, but I promised them a great review in Trend. Put that on your to-do list for tomorrow. I hope it’s still warm.”

  “I’ve never tried any type of lobster,” she admitted.

  It must be two thousand calories. Really the last thing you need.

  “Well, then you’re in for a treat,” he said.