by Joan Smith
‘Hi, Loretta. This is Michael.’
It was quite unexpected, he had always called in the evening. Then she realised she was wrong, he had spoken to her in the morning a couple of times, but only when he was pretending to be Lieutenant Donelly.
Her silence made him anxious. ‘Loretta, you’re not going to hang up on me? I missed our little chat yesterday, it wasn’t very nice of you, staying out all day when you knew I was waiting to talk with you. You did know, didn’t you? I waited all afternoon, first your machine was on and then the line was busy. You’re gonna have to be specially nice to me today to make up. I’ve been thinking about you a lot, whether you work out and stuff ... I hope you work out, I like hard bodies, not those soft, fleshy types of women.’ He hesitated, and his voice began to wheedle. ‘Come on, Loretta, say something, you know what I like. Tell me about your body.’
She said impatiently: ‘It’s too late, I know all about you —who you are, where you live. I rang last night, you were out and I got your answering-machine.’
He laughed, a little uncertain. ‘Nice try, Loretta, but most folks in New York have machines. Listen, I realised last night I never asked your measurements, I hope you don’t have big breasts? I’d be very sorry if you –’
‘God,’ she said, thoroughly annoyed, ‘you don’t give up easily, do you? Wait, I’m going to move to the other phone.’ She went back into the living-room, picked up the other handset and carried it to the coffee table where she had left her notebook. ‘OK, here we are. Your name’s Michael Lindsay and you live on –’
At the other end of the line there was a muffled sound, somewhere between a gasp and an exclamation. She ignored it, continuing to read his address and phone number into the stunned silence.
‘You’re an actor, I gather. Are you a good one? Or is this the best you can manage, pestering women over the phone?’ She mimicked his tone of voice: ‘I don’t think you’re very good, Michael. When did you last work? In panto was it, or don’t you have them over here? I’m trying to remember the name of that place, the one in the saying. Will it play in Peoria, that’s it, I expect that’s about your level, isn’t it Michael, panto in Peoria.’ To her astonishment, she was beginning to enjoy herself. ‘What about Lieutenant Donelly, is he there too?’
There was a long pause, then he said lightly: ‘You really have done your homework. But you have to admit, you were taken in for the longest time. How did you find out, did you talk to Toni?’
‘No, actually. I worked it out for myself.’
‘Clever girl.’
Not liking his tone, Loretta said sharply: ‘Look, it’s over, whatever game you think you’re playing at. And before I leave New York I’m going to give your name and address to the police.’ She said it without much conviction, wanting to scare him, thinking he was taking his exposure much too lightly.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t?’
‘You really think they’ll believe you?’ He put on a high, womanish voice, a fake English accent: ‘I’ve been getting these calls, Lieutenant, this horrid man wanted to know all about me, I mean everything. Oh no, I couldn’t possibly repeat it, he made me talk dirty to him. No, of course I didn’t put the phone down, I thought I was helping the police.’ His voice changed back. ‘You think they’re gonna buy that?’
‘Why wouldn’t they?’
‘Fine, I can’t stop you. Waste your last day in New York – what time is your flight, by the way?’
‘It’s none of your business.’ She was losing control and a memory came back to her, an incident in Paris when she’d caught a man slipping his hand into her bag outside the Pompidou Centre. She had shouted, in English unfortunately, and the would-be thief took a couple of steps back and looked her boldly in the eye. She did not know what to do and a moment later he ran off, disappearing into a noisy crowd which had gathered to watch a fire-eater. She felt the same sense of disjunction now, unable to think of a way of ending the conversation without giving Michael Lindsay the last word.
Into the silence he said matter-of-factly: ‘It was a game, Loretta. Like you said.’
‘I didn’t mean — not literally.’
‘What I’m saying is, I’m an actor.’
‘I know.’ She wasn’t sure where this was leading.
‘I was rehearsing, you were helping. You’ve heard of the Method, I have to get into a part, really live it. Like De Niro.’
She gave a shout of astonished laughter.
‘What’s so funny? You’re a friend of Toni’s and you offered to help. Now you’ve changed your mind. Maybe you got into it, enjoyed it too much, now you’re crying rape –’
‘What? You think anyone’s going to fall for that?’
He mocked her: ‘Why wouldn’t they? I’m a respectable guy, I have an agent, I’m up for a part in Tarantino’s next movie. You have — what? Twelve hours before your flight? Say you’re right and you manage to persuade those guys I’m some kind of a pervert. That makes you a witness, maybe they won’t let you fly out, did you think of that?’
‘That’s ridiculous. They wouldn’t keep me here.’
‘You wanna risk it?’
She was still thinking when he began to speak in a completely different, caressing voice. ‘Come on, Loretta, we both enjoyed it but it’s over. Let’s not fight.’If a stranger had overheard him, it would have sounded regretful, a lover’s farewell.
‘God,’ she said in a rush, ‘you really like manipulating people, don’t you? This isn’t about sex, it’s about power.’
‘Wow. A feminist.’
‘And what are you? Nothing, just a collection of parts. What do you do when you wake up in the morning, toss a coin? Who’s it going to be today, Hamlet or a child molester?’
‘Now wait –’
‘Or some stupid little pervert who’s so scared of women he has to get his kicks over the phone. You weren’t acting on Friday night, that’s the only way you can — ‘
‘Baby,’ he crooned reproachfully, ‘and I was going to invite you to lunch.’
‘What?’
‘Loretta, we could have been so good together, I would’ve taken you to Orso’s, maybe we’d have ended up in bed together. But you had to go and spoil it. Sorry, babe, but I just don’t think I want to talk to you any more.’
There was a soft click as he put the phone down. Loretta stared at the receiver, lost for words. She had heard of people with multiple personality disorder, had read a case history in a magazine, but she had always assumed that in real life the transitions were gradual, nothing like so rapid as she’d just encountered. Unless, of course, Michael Lindsay had been acting all the time, from the first phone call on Thursday to this final flourish ... Astounded, she handed the phone down on to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, replaying the bizarre conversation in her mind.
‘Honey,’ she said after a while.
The dog was asleep in her usual place, stubby legs stretched out front and back, next to the television. She opened her eyes and regarded Loretta distrustfully, as if to say she’d been fooled too many times by the promise of a walk which then failed to materialise. Loretta got up and went to the front door, calling the dog repeatedly over her shoulder, and lifted the lead from its hook. Still suspicious, Honey dragged herself to her feet, slouched towards the door and allowed Loretta to slip the hook on to the ring of her collar.
Riverside Park was marginally less noisy than usual, the volume of traffic on the expressway not quite as relentless as on a weekday morning. Loretta recognised a couple of other dog-walkers in the distance, people she’d seen on previous visits to the park, but most of the joggers seemed to have decided to stay indoors until the mist lifted. The drifting, translucent haze in which the city seemed to float when viewed from the fifteenth floor, and through glass, translated at ground level into sticky fumes which Loretta could feel clogging her nasal passages. Honey was as impervious to the weather as ever, sniffing sparse hummocks of grass an
d squatting every few yards to rid herself of a depressingly diminutive quantity of pee. While the poop-a-scoop and its associated operations still filled Loretta with disgust, she was becoming less self-conscious with every outing about die horrid little plastic bags she had to dispose of on her way out of the park; eager to get the whole business over, she did her best to be patient, aware that the dog didn’t really get enough exercise for an animal of her size.
Honey trotted ahead, following invisible trails with the enthusiasm of a truffle hound on the track of some sumptuous underground tuber. So far that morning they had survived a challenge from a yappy, bad-tempered Yorkshire terrier, a familiar nuisance whose sorties Honey magisterially brushed aside, and a more perplexing encounter with a short, squat, black pig. Honey had stopped and growled as soon as she spotted the animal, observing it with growing alarm as it waddled towards her with its owner, a slender woman in skintight cycling shorts. To Loretta’s astonishment, as the odd couple got nearer, the bulldog backed away as far as the lead allowed and flattened herself on the scrubby ground next to the path, as though 40 lbs of muscle and bone could simply merge into the scenery at will. Loretta crouched beside the terrified dog, speaking to her encouragingly, but Honey refused to be comforted, flicking her eyes this way and that until the threat was safely past.
‘You useless lump,’ Loretta finished affectionately, getting to her feet, and they resumed their serene progress through the park. Hearing the pounding footsteps of a jogger gaining on them from behind, the first one that morning, Loretta moved to the side of the path to allow the runner to overtake without breaking his or her stride. ‘Honey,’ she said warningly, shortening the lead in case the dog took it into her head to snap at the jogger’s heels.
The next moment the jogger barged into her, inflicting a painful blow on Loretta’s left shoulder. She staggered, the breath knocked out of her, and let go of the lead. Recovering enough to spin round, already remonstrating with the runner, it took her a split second to realise he wasn’t a jogger at all, that she was being mugged. He came at her again, shouting unintelligibly above the furious barking of the dog, his hands seizing her arms, and she felt his superior strength as she twisted and struggled to break free. Gasping that she had nothing to steal, nothing at all, her mind threw up only useless advice — don’t make eye contact, don’t speak, keep your jewellery hidden. Sheer desperation jerked her knee up into the soft vulnerable flesh cof his groin, the only manoeuvre she remembered from an old self-defence manual, and she was unprepared for its spectacular success. He let go instantly, doubled over in pain, his hands between his legs, and the unexpected physical release sent Loretta tottering backwards. The dog, beside herself with rage, saw her opportunity at last and hurled herself at the mugger’s legs, bowling him over.
Loretta watched in horror as the scene unfolded: the attacker sprawling on his back, the dog’s powerful jaws closing on his leg, her teeth ripping through denim, her noisy grunts as she resisted his frantic attempts to shake her off. Dazed by the speed with which her assailant had been disabled, Loretta did not move until he screamed, a high, inhuman sound which snapped her out of her state of shocked inaction. Throwing herself forward, shouting the dog’s name until she was hoarse, she managed to get a hold on the thick leather collar, first with one hand and then with both, and pulled so hard that the animal rounded angrily on her, knocking her off balance. Gravel tore at her hands as she skidded backwards on the path, throwing up her arms to defend her face as the dog turned on her —
‘I got him,’ someone shouted, and the dog reared on her hind legs, jerked backwards by the lead. Loretta scrambled out of reach, still afraid, but the stranger held tight.
‘You all right?’ she heard him say, unsure whether he meant herself or the injured mugger a couple of yards farther up the path. She struggled into a sitting position, tears streaming unnoticed down her cheeks, peering at the man who had tried to rob her. Not a man, a youth —
‘What happened? You know this guy?’
She did not answer, transfixed by the bloody stains on her attacker’s jeans. ‘Get a doctor,’ she gasped, unable to look away from the ragged, oozing mess. ‘Get an ambulance.’
The jogger persisted. ‘Do you know this guy?’
‘No.’ She lifted her head, wondering why he couldn’t just do what she asked. He was middle-aged, dressed in running gear, and an odd detail lodged in her mind, the only thing she could recall about him afterwards: he was wearing wire-rimmed glasses, held on by an elastic band which passed round the back of his head.
A crowd was gathering, converging on the two prone figures, and the runner took charge. ‘Does anyone here have medical experience?’
‘I’m a nurse.’ A plump, older woman pushed to the front.
‘Can you take a look at him?’
The mugger lay groaning, in obvious pain, and the nurse knelt beside him, asking him questions in a low voice. When she put her hand out, tentatively, towards the wound in his leg, someone in the crowd called out: ‘Hey, don’t touch, he might have — ‘
The word AIDS hung unspoken in the air and the woman drew back her hand. Loretta wiped her eyes with her knuckles and watched the boy — he was perhaps 18, she now saw – wincing as he attempted to sit up. She could hear his teeth chattering in spite of the damp heat, an effect of shock perhaps, but no one moved, apparendy paralysed by the spectre of infection. She panicked, thinking the kid needed help even if he had tried to rob her, and began edging towards him, still too shaken to get up. He lifted his head, met her gaze with dark, anguished eyes, and she noticed for the first time that his long fair hair was tied back in a pony tail.
‘Her dog do that?’ someone was demanding in a loud voice. ‘Dogs like that, they oughta be tied up. They oughta be shot.’
‘No way it’s the dog’s fault. Guy tried to mug her.’
Momentarily distracted, Loretta looked up. ‘Honey, where is she?’
‘I got her,’ a woman called from the back of the crowd, apparently having taken over the responsibility from the man with glasses.
The boy was protesting, speaking disjointedly: ‘I’m not — I didn’t — I couldn’t stop. I only wanted to speak with her.’ A spasm of pain contorted his face and he pushed away the nurse, who was ineptly trying to straighten his wounded leg. ‘Shit, no, please, it hurts’ Still addressing her, but looking at Loretta, he said pleadingly: ‘You don’t understand, she’s my Mom’
There was an excited buzz from the crowd as it recognised a new and exciting development in the drama.
‘She’s your Ma, how come she don’t seem to recognise you?’
‘You know the kid?’
‘I thought he tried to mug her?’
‘What’d he say? I didn’t hear what he said.’
Loretta gasped: ‘His mother? I don’t know what he’s talking about, I was taking the dog for a walk — ‘
‘You’re British?’
She nodded, uncomprehending.
He buried his face in his hands and said over and over again: ‘Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit.’
An idea, outlandish but just within the realms of possibility, came to Loretta. She put out a hand, touching his arm very gently. ‘You thought — did you think I was Toni? Antonia?’
‘You know her?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Ms Stramiello?’
She nodded.
‘You have the hair,’ he explained, pointing at her head, ‘and the dog so I thought... He said she walks a big, ugly dog every morning in the park next her apartment block.’
‘Who?’ she asked. ‘Who said that?’
‘What’s he say?’ the deaf man in the crowd said loudly. Someone snapped back: ‘Shut the fuck up, grandad.’
‘Mr Dunow. I paid him to — to find where she lived.’
Loretta was beginning to see the resemblance to Toni, the similar bone structure and hollow cheeks. His, though, were smeared with blood, and he was trembling.
‘Wait,’ said Loretta, looking round for
the jogger who had initially taken control. He was talking to a black man with a perfectly bald head, gesturing with his hands and laughing, but when he saw Loretta getting unsteadily to her feet, he came to help her. She asked: ‘Has someone gone to call an ambulance?’
He shrugged. ‘I guess not.’
‘Where’s the nearest phone?’
‘A phone?’ He considered. ‘West End Avenue and 78th, there’s a little café –’
‘Please,’ she said, ‘get an ambulance. He needs a doctor.’
He hesitated. ‘What about the cops? Didn’t he just try and rob you?’
‘No, it was a mistake. He thought I was someone else.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes. Hurry, please, he’s losing blood.’ At this rate, she thought, they were more likely to get a TV crew on the scene, tipped off by a resident in one of the apartment blocks that overlooked the park, than the emergency services. To her relief, the jogger said a casual ‘OK’ and set off at an easy run.
‘Where’s the nearest hospital?’ Loretta asked, addressing an anorexically thin teenage girl. She wondered where on earth all these people had come from, drawn to the scene as though it was free Sunday-morning entertainment.
‘Dunno. Like — I live in Babylon.’
Loretta closed her eyes, unable to bear it. Someone mentioned the Roosevelt, someone else St Clair’s, and an argument broke out. The nurse was questioning the boy again, asking about injections — tetanus, rabies, whether his shots were up to date. Loretta thought rabies was the least of their problems, compared to the risk of infection from Honey’s saliva and loss of blood, and she crouched beside her: ‘You did say you were a nurse?’
The woman flushed. ‘I have some training, it was a while back but my brother-in-law’s a dentist, couple days a week I help out in his office ...’
Loretta rolled her eyes upwards. ‘There’s nothing wrong with his teeth. Please, leave him to me.’
The self-styled nurse withdrew and Loretta lowered herself gingerly on to the ground, taking the boy’s clammy hand. ‘The ambulance’ll be here soon,’ she said reassuringly, wishing she knew something about first aid. His leg looked a mess but at least it wasn’t gushing blood. She didn’t dare move him, thinking the bone might be fractured.