The Wild Zone

by Joy Fielding

  He recoiled from the sight that greeted him when he turned it on. “Shit,” he exclaimed, then laughed triumphantly. “What a dump!” Lainey would throw a fit when she saw the mess he’d made.

  “What have you done?” he could already hear her yelling. “My God, what have you done?”

  “Just a little redecorating,” Tom yelled at the surrounding silence. “Something I should have done years ago.” He opened the phone book to the yellow pages at the back, quickly locating the pages marked ESCORT.

  There were at least a dozen such pages, some with full-page ads, of listings for various escort services. I shouldn’t have too much trouble finding one to suit my needs, Tom thought, assessing his situation. Word couldn’t have gotten around this fast. Surely he wouldn’t be blackballed by all of them.

  executive choice, miami escort service. open 24 hours. outcalls only.

  And then in smaller, although bolder, letters: DINNER ' BUSINESS COMPANIONS, CONFIDENTIALITY ASSURED, HIGHLY DISCREET, BEAUTIFUL LADIES.

  And then finally: All Major Credit Cards Accepted, followed by a phone number, a website address, and an e-mail address.

  The next dozen pages were variations of the same: Cachet Ladies, one listing promised. Party girls, another proclaimed. There was a listing for Bodylicious and another for Ooh-la-la. One service specialized in college students, its full-color half-page ad complete with headshots of smiling, nubile teenagers. “That one looks good,” Tom said, reaching for the phone, then stopping, flipping to the next page, noting a host of ads offering agreeable Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Filipina, Indian, Singaporean, and Thai female companions. Not that I’d know a Korean from a Japanese, he thought. Not that he cared one way or the other as long as they were as agreeable as the ads promised.

  There was a photograph of one Asian lovely peeking out shyly from behind a pleated ivory fan, another of a woman gazing provocatively over the top of a pair of jeweled designer sunglasses, yet another of a smiling, dark-haired girl with a green apple in her hand.

  What was that all about? Tom wondered, dismissing the last one. Who wants to fuck a girl holding an apple? An apple a day, he thought, his eyes falling on a full-page ad for a service calling itself Déjá Vu Escorts. What the hell did that mean? That you’d seen them all before?

  He turned the page. There was a “Beauty at Sixty”—“You gotta be kidding me,” Tom scoffed—and a “Fabulous Lady at Fifty” (another scoff) followed by Captivating Mature Companions (who the hell wanted maturity?) as well as Black ' White Maid Services and Bound and Gagged (both of which he thought might be worth investigating another time), Kitchen Depot (what, did they clean up afterward?) and Your Older Slower Better Escort. “Who needs old and slow?” Tom asked out loud. There were ads for Cuban girls, Russian girls, and even “Home-grown Beauties.” There was a listing for a Miss Vicki, a Mistress Letitia, and one for a Ms. Carla de Sade. There was a listing for Holly Golightly, one for Thelma and Louise, and one for, simply, Mark. “Sorry, pal. Not in this lifetime.” In the end, Tom opted for Last Minute Escorts.

  “This is Tanya,” a tantalizingly low voice announced over the phone seconds later. “How can I be of service?”

  Tom tried to think of something witty to say, but all he could think of was “You can get your ass over here and suck my dick,” so instead he said, “I’d like a girl. As soon as possible.”

  “Certainly,” Tanya said. “Do you have any particular preference?”

  “You have any girls from Afghanistan?” Tom surprised himself by asking.

  “Afghanistan?” Tanya repeated, her voice rising at least half an octave. “You mean, like, Arabs?”

  “I guess.”

  “I’m afraid not,” Tanya said. “We do have a wide variety of Asian women,” she offered, as if Asians and Arabs were easy substitutes for one another.

  “You have anyone from Singapore?” Tom had heard about how strict they were in Singapore, where they threw you in jail for jaywalking and doled out hundreds of lashes for just spitting on the street. Shit, hadn’t they almost executed some poor American kid for scribbling harmless graffiti on a wall? You had to figure their women would be pretty submissive.

  “I believe we do.” The sound of keys tapping on a computer. “I can offer you a lovely young lady named Cinnamon. She’s twenty-five, five feet two inches tall, and has a twenty-two-inch waist.”

  “Bust size?”

  “Double D.”

  “Natural?”

  “Is that a joke?” Tanya asked.

  “Okay. Fine. She sounds great.”

  “I’ll need your name and credit card.”

  Tom was about to fish into his pocket for his card when he stopped, not wishing for a repeat of what had happened with Chloe. “Can you hold on a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  This was gonna be good, he thought, reaching into his other pocket but coming up empty-handed. “Damn.” Where had he put it? “Can you give me another second?”

  “Take your time.”

  Tom raced up the stairs, past the empty bedrooms of his children, and into the maelstrom that was the master bedroom. The master bedroom, he repeated silently, turning on the overhead light and pulling at the crumpled white sheets of his bed, trying to ignore the large bloodstain in the middle. Stupid bitch had bled all over his nice white sheets, and she had the nerve to complain. He should sue that stupid Venus Milo, he thought, locating his red and black checkered shirt on the floor by the foot of the bed and finding what he was looking for in the shirt’s front pocket.

  He was chuckling as he returned to the phone in the living room. “Okay, Tanya baby. I’m back. You ready?”

  “Name?” Tanya asked in return.

  “Carter,” Tom said, suppressing a chuckle. “Carter Sorenson.” He recited the numbers off the front of the credit card he’d stolen from Carter’s wallet a few days earlier. The imbecile hadn’t even realized it was missing, or if he had, he still hadn’t reported it to the credit card company. Tom knew this because after Carter fired him, he’d gone to Macy’s and charged several shirts and a new pair of boots to Carter’s account. Then he’d gone to the grocery store and bought half a dozen cartons of cigarettes and an equal number of cases of beer.

  Clothes he shouldn’t be wearing, cigarettes he shouldn’t be smoking, beer he shouldn’t be drinking, shady ladies he shouldn’t be frequenting—that Carter is quite the dude, Tom thought, and laughed out loud. “Shame on you, Carter baby.”

  “I’m sorry. Did you say something?” Tanya asked.

  “Is there a problem?” Tom asked in return, holding his breath. Was the word out? Was what had happened with Ginny already making the rounds of the escort services of greater Miami? Had she reported him to the police? Had Carter?

  “No problem at all,” Tanya said, quickly explaining the terms of the contract and ascertaining Tom’s exact address. “Cinnamon can be there in half an hour.”

  “Great.”

  “Thank you for your business, and please call us again.”

  “Will do.” Tom hung up the phone, then laughed again. “Or Will don’t, as the case may be.” He pictured Jeff’s younger brother, the look on his face when Tom had pointed out the obvious truth about Jeff’s whereabouts, the way Will had tucked his tail between his legs and run when confronted with the cold, hard fact that Jeff was getting it on with little brother’s girl. “Hah!” Tom exclaimed triumphantly, wondering where the hell Jeff was now, why he hadn’t heard from him.

  He’d tried to call him after his dismissal, but Jeff hadn’t picked up his cell. Nor had he returned the message he’d left him. No doubt Jeff was holed up somewhere with the Pomegranate, fucking both their brains out, Tom thought, lighting another cigarette as he headed back upstairs. Might as well take a shower, he decided, noting more blood on the white towels by the sink. “Great,” he muttered, grabbing a couple of clean towels from the linen closet. The bitch had made one hell of a mess.

  He stared into the mirror over
the bathroom sink, looking past his own reflection to see Ginny walking through the front door into the foyer, round face, curly blond hair, bright red lips. He watched her discard her sweater to reveal those huge, balloon-like breasts. He remembered thinking she could give Kristin a run for her money as he directed her up the stairs to his room, his hands already sneaking underneath her short skirt. “A hundred for a hand job, one fifty for a blow job,” she’d recited, as if reading from a menu, “two hundred if you want to come in my mouth. Three hundred for a straight fuck, five if you want to do anything fancy. I don’t do golden showers and I don’t do Greek.”

  “You got something against Greeks?” Tom joked.

  “I like Greeks. I’m just not into pain,” Ginny said.

  “How about I tie you up?”

  “No handcuffs,” she said. “Nothing I can’t get out of easily.”

  “How much?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Okay.”

  “In cash. In advance.”

  Tom shrugged, pulled five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills out of his back pocket. He’d been stealing a little bit of cash from his coworkers’ purses for months now. Twenty dollars here, another twenty there. Fifty from that twat Angela just the other day. Taking them to the bank, converting them into nice new hundreds. Five’ll get you ten that Angela’s the one whose complaints got me fired, he bet himself, watching as Ginny took off the rest of her clothes. She had a good body, he thought. Not as great as Kristin’s, but a hell of a lot better than Lainey’s. That stupid bitch, he thought, securing Ginny’s wrists to the bedposts with pillowcases and then climbing on top of her.

  “Hey, easy there,” Ginny cautioned him as Tom pushed his way inside her, his hands kneading her breasts as if they were made of clay. “Careful, buddy,” she said. “Keep squeezing them like that, they’re liable to burst.”

  “I think you should be quiet now,” Tom told her. He’d had enough of her instructions, her lists of don’ts. He continued to pound his way inside her, pretending she was Kristin, then Suzy, then Angela, then Lainey, then that little tease in Afghanistan, every bitch who’d ever said no, every bitch who’d ever complained.

  “And I think you should go a little easier.”

  “I’m not paying you to think.” Tom began pounding harder, biting her ear as his fingers scratched at her flesh.

  “Okay, stop,” Ginny said, her eyes filling with angry tears.

  “Sweetheart, I’m just getting started.”

  “No. I told you, I don’t do pain. We’re finished here.” She struggled to loosen the ties at her wrists, whimpering as she squirmed to get out from under him.

  “I say when we’re finished,” Tom said, really starting to enjoy himself now. What was it with women anyway? They were always leading you on, taking your money, and then leaving you high and dry. He’d been discharged from the army, been fired from his job, was about to be thrown out of his house, all because of some bitch. “Tell me you love me,” he directed Ginny.

  “What?”

  “You want me to go easy, tell me you love me.”

  “I love you,” Ginny responded immediately, her eyes saying the exact opposite.

  “Not good enough. You gotta make me believe it.”

  “I love you,” Ginny said again.

  “You can do better than that. Again.”

  “I love you,” she shouted.

  “I’m just not feeling it, sweetheart. Again.”

  “No.”

  “I said, again.”

  “And I said, no!”

  Which was when he lost it. The rest was a blur of fists and fury. Tom couldn’t remember the number of times he’d hit her, although he could still see the blood gushing from her nose and the bite marks spreading across her neck and chest. Ginny finally managed to free her hands and staggered toward the bathroom, her nose bleeding profusely as she gathered up her clothes. “Can’t say I didn’t get my money’s worth,” he shouted after her as she ran down the stairs and out onto the street.

  Tom smiled at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, recalling Jack Nicholson’s famous remark about hookers. At least he thought it was Jack Nicholson. Maybe it was Charlie Sheen. “I don’t pay them to come over,” he’d told an interviewer who’d questioned the actor’s occasional preference for call girls. “I pay them to leave.”

  “That’s a good one,” he said, chuckling. The doorbell rang. Tom checked his watch. “Well, isn’t that nice? My little Cinnamon bun is early. Nice and eager, are you, sweetheart?” he asked, bouncing down the steps and opening the front door.

  A young man in a beige suit stood smiling on the other side. “Tom Whitman?”

  “Yes.”

  The man thrust an envelope into his hands. “You’ve been served,” he said before making a hasty retreat.

  “Again? Are you fucking kidding me?” Tom called after him. “What the hell is it this time?” He tore open the letter, read it quickly, then threw it to the floor. So the bitch was serving him with divorce papers after all, he thought, slamming the front door shut, then kicking at it with his heel. Several minutes later, he was back in the living room, his two .44 Magnums and his old Glock .23 on the coffee table in front of him. “Don’t think I’m gonna let that happen, sweetheart,” he said, lifting one of the .44s into his hand and steadying it with the other. “Not in this lifetime, anyway.” He pictured Lainey cowering in front of him, her shaking hands trying to cover her face. Then he aimed the gun directly at her head and pulled the trigger.

  TWENTY-NINE

  SHE WAS WAITING FOR him at the airport.

  At first, Jeff didn’t see her, so engrossed was he in trying to get ahold of Tom. But Tom’s line was busy, even after three attempts. Who the hell is he talking to? Jeff wondered impatiently as he strode purposefully along the moving sidewalk at the busy Miami airport. Aside from Jeff, Tom didn’t really have any friends, and now that Lainey had left him . . . Jeff hoped Tom wasn’t badgering Lainey, that he knew when to leave bad enough alone. “Excuse me. Coming through,” he barked at a plump, middle-aged woman who was hogging the left side, despite instructions in both English and Spanish that said those who chose not to walk should stick to the right. The woman exhaled a notable sigh as she shifted slowly to the other side of the walkway, as if Jeff was inconveniencing her and not the other way around, although her scowl turned to a flirtatious half smile as soon as she saw him. Jeff passed her without expression, hurrying toward the exit.

  “Jeff,” a voice called after him, stopping him dead in his tracks.

  He spun around, his eyes searching through the colorfully dressed crowd. He saw a couple of teenage boys laughing and punching each other on the arms in greeting, a young woman arguing in Spanish with an older, gray-haired man Jeff assumed was her grandfather, and another young woman with blond hair and way too much makeup smiling and waving in his direction. He took a few steps toward her, trying to figure out who she was and what she wanted, when the voice reached him again.

  “Jeff.” It summoned him from somewhere to his right.

  Still he didn’t see her. Was he hearing things, imagining the sound of her voice?

  “Jeff,” she said a third time, this time so close he felt her breath on the side of his face, the touch of her hand on his arm.

  “Suzy,” he said, not quite believing his eyes as he drew her into his arms. He held her tight, feeling her frail body melt into his. “I can’t believe you’re here,” he said, as if trying to convince himself that what he was seeing was real.

  “You told me you were coming back this afternoon. There was only one flight from Buffalo. It wasn’t very hard to figure out—”

  He kissed her. The kiss was soft and tender. Her mouth tasted of toothpaste and Juicy Fruit gum. Her hair smelled like a bouquet of fresh gardenias. “I’m so glad to see you.” He loosened his grip only enough to be able to take her all in. She was wearing a yellow blouse and light green pants. Her hair hung in loose brown waves around her sho
ulders. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, although she didn’t look fine, Jeff realized. Something was off. Even though it didn’t appear as if there were any new bruises scarring her pale skin, she seemed even more fragile, more frightened than usual. “I did it,” she said, her voice a girlish whisper. She glanced over her shoulder, squeezed his fingers. “I left him.”

  Jeff kissed her again, this time harder, longer. His heart was beating faster than he could ever remember.

  “I really did it,” she said, laughing now.

  “You really did it,” he repeated, his mind racing as rapidly as his heart, wondering what the hell he should do now.

  “If you don’t mind,” a woman said, maneuvering past them. “You’re right in everybody’s way.”

  “Get a room,” a man suggested, brusquely brushing past.

  “Good idea.” Jeff took Suzy’s arm. “Where’s your car?”

  “I don’t have it. Dave took my keys when he left for work, said I wouldn’t be needing them.” She laughed. “Guess he was right.”

  Jeff hugged her close to his side as he led her toward the exit marked TAXIS AND LIMOUSINES.

  “Where to?” the driver asked as they crawled into the back of the cab.

  “Do you know a good motel in the area?” he asked. “Something nice and quiet.”

  “Nothing’s going to be very quiet this close to the airport,” the cabbie said.

  “Not too busy,” Jeff clarified, feeling the weight of Suzy’s hand in his.

  The driver’s eyes narrowed in his rearview mirror. “I have no idea how busy these places get.”

  “Fine. It doesn’t matter. Wherever.”

  “There’s a bunch of motels a few blocks from here. Can’t vouch for how nice they are.”

  “I’m sure they’re fine,” Jeff said. It was only temporary, he was thinking, until he could solidify the plan that had been taking shape in his mind since he’d boarded the plane from Buffalo and then put that plan into action. With any luck, everything could be settled as early as tonight.

  Of course, everything depended on his reaching Tom.