Wing Girl

by Nic Tatano

  “Okay.” He reached in his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper and placed it on the end table. “That’s my cell number just in case.”

  “Just in case what?”

  “In case you suddenly get real sick, fall down, whatever. I don’t think you will, but best to be safe.”

  “So this is the younger, high-tech version of I’ve fallen and I can’t get up?”

  “Basically.”

  “You’re a regular boy scout, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged. “Back in a few minutes.”

  “Okay.” He left the room, and I waited until I heard him shut the door to the apartment. I pulled out my cell and quickly called Roxanne.

  She picked up after a couple of rings. “Hey there, Wing Girl,” she said. I heard music in the background as well as scissors snipping away and knew she was at the salon.

  “Got a minute to talk?”

  “Sure. God, you sound horrible.”

  “I’ve got the flu.”

  “Ewwww. You need anything?”

  “Yeah, I was wondering if you could go by my apartment later and pick up some clothes, my toothbrush, a few other things.”

  “Sure.” Short pause as it obviously dawned on her what I was asking. “Wait a minute. Where the hell are you?”

  “Well, you’re not going to believe this, but I’m at your cousin Vincent’s apartment.”

  I heard her excuse herself from the client, the music faded and a door closed. I knew she was in her office. “Did I just hear you say you were at Vincent’s place?”

  “It’s a long story, but yeah. I broke a heel last night, sprained my ankle outside his apartment, it was raining, I was sick, he carried me inside—”

  “Holy shit!” Long pause. “Wait a minute, last night? You spent the night with Vincent?”

  “I spent the night in his apartment. I’m real sick and he put me in his bed and made me meatball soup and has been taking care of me and keeping me warm.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  “That’s not what I meant! He’s keeping me warm with an electric blanket.”

  “So where’s he sleeping?” I didn’t need Skype to see the devilish look on her face.

  “On his sofa bed.”

  “Oh, poor guy. That thing’s a torture rack.”

  “Really? He said it was comfortable.”

  “Pffft. I spent a night on it once. You may as well sleep on the sidewalk. So anyway, does this mean—”

  “It doesn’t mean anything, Roxanne, he was just being nice because I couldn’t walk and I’m sick and it was raining.”

  “Just being nice. Sure, hun, whatever you say.”

  “Roxanne!”

  “Hey, your words, not mine.”

  I needed to change the subject. “Meanwhile, Scott finally called last night and I’ve gotta call him back.”

  “Let me get this straight. Vincent rescued you, took you in, is taking care of you, and you’re gonna call another guy for a date?”

  “Uh … yeah, that about sums it up.”

  “Wow, calling one man back from another man’s bed. Aren’t you the wild child? You got some serious cojones.”

  “It’s not like that!”

  “Oh, so you’re not calling one man from another man’s bed?”

  “Yeah. No. Dammit, Roxanne, I’m in a situation here!”

  “Yeah, that’s a good word for it. You sound like one of my clients who says it’s complicated when I ask about their love life. Look, I gotta go but I’ll bring your stuff by this afternoon. Meanwhile, stay in Vincent’s bed and let him keep you warm.” I heard her sinister laugh as she hung up.

  I could hardly wait for her visit.

  That painful conversation out of the way, I now had to call Scott back before Vincent returned and I didn’t know how long he’d be gone. Dammit, I should have called him first. I quickly dialed his number and he picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey there.”

  “Hi, Scott. Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. I went to bed real early.”

  “Are you sick? You sound awful.”

  “I’ve got the flu.”

  “Ugh. Geez, I’m sorry you’re feeling bad. I was going to see if you wanted to catch an opera tonight, but I guess that’s out of the question.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not going anywhere for a few days. Doctor wants me to stay in bed until at least Monday.”

  “Well, okay. You get well and we’ll do something when you’re better. I really miss you.”

  “I miss you too.”

  “Okay, talk to you later. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  I felt better, having gotten that taken care of. And apparently just in time, as I heard the key in the door and knew Vincent had returned.

  And then I realized Scott had not asked if I needed anything or offered to take care of me. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it somehow did.

  ***

  I slept most of the day and woke up around four in the afternoon, hobbled to the bathroom on crutches still feeling lousy and sore, and then decided to wander out of the bedroom. Thankfully Vincent had left the door cracked, so I pushed it open with the end of one crutch. I heard the faint sound of a baseball game and recognized the Mets announcers. I made my way into the other room and found Vincent at the kitchen table, keeping an eye on the game while rolling little meatballs and dropping them onto a metal cookie sheet.

  He noticed my arrival and looked up. “Hey, what are you doing out of bed?”

  “Needed to get up and move around for a while. I’m going right back. What are you doing?”

  “Making a batch of meatball soup. You ate the last bowl and you’re gonna need more.”

  The table was covered with bowls, a garlic press, bread crumbs, and about six jars of spices along with the cookie sheet. “You didn’t have to do that. It looks like a lot of trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble. I love to cook and you need to get well.” He finished rolling the last of the beef mixture, got up, picked up the cookie sheet, walked to the kitchen and slid the meatballs into a large steaming pot. “It’ll be ready in a half hour.”

  “Great, I’m hungry again.”

  “Feeling any better?”

  I shook my head. “Not much. Still pretty sore.”

  “A hot bath would probably loosen you up.”

  “So, you like your women loose?”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Oh, man. It never ends with you, does it?”

  I wiped my runny nose with the back of my hand. “Nah, it’s part of my charm. The smartass chromosome is dominant in my family.”

  “Well, it suits you. So, you want me to run you a hot bath after you eat?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  He cocked his head toward the bedroom as he washed his hands in the sink. “Go get back in bed. I’ll bring you some soup when it’s ready.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, Roxanne stopped by. She peeked in on you but you were dead to the world. She dropped off a bunch of your stuff. Clothes, your laptop. I’ll bring it in for you.”

  “Thank you, Vincent.”

  ***

  Two bowls of soup, a thirty-minute hot bath and some fresh clothes later, I was back under the covers. Apparently Disney bluebirds had changed the sheets while I was in the tub, while my outfit from yesterday had seemingly been washed and ironed by magical elves and was hanging on the back of a closet door.

  Vincent tapped on the bedroom door. “You decent?”

  “No, I’m a cheap bimbo.”

  He laughed as he entered the room. “I guess this will be our running joke for the weekend. Did the bath help?” He sat down on the edge of the bed. His hand landed close to mine.

  “Yeah. My back’s still pretty tight, though.”

  “Some Bengay would probably make you feel better.”

  “Yeah.”

  He reached into the night-stand drawer and pulled out a tube of the muscle rub, then handed i
t to me. “Here you go.”

  He started to get up. Much as I hated to do it, I desperately needed to ask for another favor, one that would involve his hands on my body. “Uh, Vincent, I can’t exactly rub it on my own back.”

  He playfully slapped his forehead with his palm. “Duh. Right.” He took the tube back from me. “Okay, sit up.”

  I sat up and scooted forward while he sat on the bed behind me. My heart raced a bit as he squeezed some Bengay on his hand. I was expecting him to tell me to take my sweatshirt off, but he simply ran his hand under it and gently rubbed the stuff all over my back with a very light touch. I peeked at him over my shoulder and saw that he was focused on my back. No sleazy comment, no creepy smile, no hands going where they weren’t supposed to be. My back began to warm up as the stuff took effect and he pulled my sweatshirt down.

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Need anything else?”

  “Well, I slept all day. Could I watch a little TV?”

  “Sure.” He grabbed the remote from the end table, fired it at the flat screen on the wall and handed it to me. He watched as I scrolled through the guide. “Not much on Friday nights these days. Then again unless you like reality shows there’s not much on any night of the week.”

  “No kidding, I hate that garbage. You got any movies?”

  “I got a ton of movies. What are you in the mood for?”

  “Sci-fi, what else? But no zombies or vampires, I’m not into that. And no fantasy either. I hate those quests that last three hours. Just fire the damn phasers and be done with it.”

  “I agree. That’s why I like Kirk better than Picard on Star Trek. Shoot first and ask questions later instead of talking your enemy to death.”

  “Plus, Picard had less sex than Spock on that show.”

  “True enough. Kirk nailed an alien babe in almost every episode. Anyway, I’ve got a whole Netflix franchise on hand in the other room. Be right back.”

  Just as he left, my cell phone rang. I saw Ariel’s number and answered it. “Hi there.”

  “Hey, Wing Girl, we miss you!” said Ariel. I could tell she was on speaker as I heard a party atmosphere in the back and knew they were at a bar or restaurant.

  “How ya feeling?” asked Serena.

  “Not great, but a little better. My fever’s dropped a little bit.”

  “Sorry I missed you when I came by,” said Roxanne. “But you were sawing through a cord of wood and out cold.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been sleeping a lot. Thanks for bringing my stuff.”

  “Do you need anything else?” asked Ariel.

  “No, I’m good. And I don’t want any of you to catch this bug. It’s really awful. By the way, I’m not buying any more red-heeled shoes.”

  “They don’t design those things to walk across grates,” said Roxanne.

  “Then they should come with a warning,” I said.

  “Heard from Scott?” asked Serena, who I knew damn well already had the answer to that question since I had told Roxanne he’d called. But I played along.

  “Yeah, he called last night but I was asleep. I called him back today. He wanted to go to the opera tonight, but obviously when I told him I was really sick we couldn’t. He said we’ll do something next week when I feel better.”

  “Did he offer anything?” asked Ariel.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know, to come over and take care of you, if you needed orange juice, stuff from the drug store, things like that.”

  “Nope. Just said he’d see me when I got well.”

  “Ariel, that’s a silly question,” said Roxanne. “I mean, why in the world would she need Scott to bring her stuff when she’s already got someone who adores her waiting on her hand and foot? Who isn’t a virgin.”

  Just what I needed while bedridden, more Catholic guilt. I heard them giggling. “You guys think this is funny.”

  “We’re just getting a kick out of your current situation,” said Serena.

  “That I’m sick as a dog and have the flu?”

  “No,” said Ariel. “What bed you’re in and who’s taking care of you. It’s funny as hell. You’ve raised irony to an art form.”

  “I’m glad you all find this so amusing.”

  “Lighten up, Wing Girl,” said Serena. “Enjoy the butler service. We love you.”

  “Get well, kid,” said Roxanne. “Stay warm.”

  She had to throw that in. “See you guys next week,” I said, and ended the call just as Vincent returned with a huge box of DVDs.

  “You weren’t kidding,” I said, looking at the box which must have contained over a hundred movies.

  “How else would I know all that sci-fi trivia?”

  “So, you got a Starfleet uniform in that closet?”

  “I have to draw the line somewhere. I made a model of the Enterprise when I was a kid, but that’s about as far as it went. I stick with movies and books. And the annual convention. I get a kick out of those whackjobs in costume.”

  He set the box on the edge of the bed and I chose a bunch of movies I hadn’t seen in a while, along with some all-time favorites. I handed him one from the fifties.

  “Forbidden Planet, a classic,” he said, as he moved toward the Blu-Ray player under the flat screen. “I love this movie. First appearance of Robby the Robot.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” I said, as he loaded the disc. The movie, being an old one, started immediately, so there weren’t a ton of previews to sit through.

  “And Anne Francis is pretty damn hot. I mean, for an actress in 1956 to wear that sort of a dress—”

  “You would notice that.”

  “Why else would women wear short skirts if they didn’t want men to notice them? I believe you brought up the hemline issue when I asked if you were hot.”

  “Fine, point taken.”

  “Okay, enjoy,” he said, as he started to head out of the room.

  Something wasn’t right. I had to start being nicer. “Aren’t you gonna watch it with me?”

  He stopped and turned to face me. “I figured you’d want to be by yourself.”

  I reached out and patted the chair next to the bed. “C’mon, big boy. Anne Francis in a short skirt.”

  “Well, if you’re gonna twist my arm.”

  ***

  After a Friday night triple feature (including our friend Jones the cat) I slept late, and so did Vincent. Poor guy was probably exhausted from being my slave and he was already doing this stuff for his mother. My fever was beginning to break, down to one hundred even, and the swelling in my ankle had gone down significantly. I still needed the crutches, though, as it was tender.

  Meanwhile, I was ravenous. I absolutely devoured an entire foot-long meatball sub Vincent picked up from the deli, along with all the other incredible food he put in my path. Mrs. Baymont’s rules went out the window for the time being, as pure animal hunger trumped etiquette. I was, however, pleased that feeding a fever seemed to work best for me. And if you’re going to get stuck in someone else’s apartment when you’re ill, pick an Italian.

  I was also getting a little bored. Loafing and watching movies is nice, but I was married to my job and beginning to miss the rush of the big story. I decided to spend the afternoon trying to catch up on work and doing as much investigating as possible from a bed. So I fired up my laptop and started looking at some of the stories I was working on when Vincent knocked on the door.

  “You decent?”

  I had a good one ready for him. “No, I’m a trashy jezebel.”

  He opened the door. “Jezebel, haven’t heard that term in a while. Then again, wanton harlot isn’t exactly a popular catch phrase these days.” He noticed the laptop. “Catching up on e-mail?”

  “Working on some stories.”

  “Oh, anything interesting?”

  “All of my stories are interesting.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I know.” I looked at the screen, filled wit
h the ever-frustrating documents provided by Councilman Jagger. “This one story in particular has me stumped.”

  “Can I take a look? I’d love to know how you people put stories together.”

  I nodded at the chair next to the bed. “Sure, c’mon.” He moved to the chair and sat down as I slanted the laptop so we could both see it.

  His face tightened as he looked at the long list of names and pension payments they were receiving. “What exactly is this?”

  “You know who Councilman Jagger is?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Well, he called me a while back and told me he thinks someone’s skimming from the city’s pension fund. He gave me all these documents. I was hoping to find out where the money’s going, but I’m not a CPA. So far all the financial people I’ve had take a look at it have come up empty, and it’s just a bunch of names and numbers to me.”

  “Why does he think someone’s skimming?”

  “Well, the city moved newer employees to a 401k a few years ago, the theory being that the older people collecting pensions would eventually die off and save the city money. But after three years, Jagger says he’s not seeing the savings he expected. So he thinks someone’s cooked the books.”

  “Maybe people aren’t dying off as quick as they expected. People are living longer, you know. Maybe those people … what are they called? You know, those insurance people who figure out the odds of people dying?”

  “Actuaries.”

  “Yeah, maybe they miscalculated.”

  “That’s possible, but here’s the key that keeps me going on this story. Jagger’s been threatened, told to stop nosing around in the pension fund. So something’s definitely there. We just haven’t been able to find it.”

  “Are the police involved in this?”

  “Jagger’s afraid to contact anyone. He’s pretty sure his office is bugged. He’s been calling me from a burner phone he’s so worried.”

  Vincent’s face took on a look of recognition as he pointed at the screen. “Hey, that’s my cousin Stefano.”

  I looked and saw the name Stefano Salvatore DiBlasio on the screen. “He must have worked for the city.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, maintenance guy for the school system. He was kind of simple-minded, went to a special school, but the guy could fix anything. They loved him down there. He was sort of a mechanical savant, for lack of a better term.” Suddenly he furrowed his brow. “This must be an old list, right?”