“Well, Nancy, I just want to say that it’s high time you joined the sisterhood of fully mature, sexually active women. I was beginning to get worried about you. At the rate you were going, you were either going to end up a creepy virgin bride or an old cat lady who lives in a trailer down by the river.”
I couldn’t help but laugh at that. Coming from anyone else it would have been insulting, but from Hannah it was sweet. “Thanks,” I said, tapping my beer bottle against hers. “Here’s to getting laid.”
“I’ll drink to that. God, it’s only been a couple of days for me, and it already feels like a dry spell. Do you know if Rostovich has a younger brother? I could use some good sex right now, and I’d also like an orgasm that doesn’t involve using batteries. If it was so easy for you with Peter, maybe the soft touch runs in that family.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s an only child. At least, he didn’t refer to any brothers or sisters.”
“Oh well. I guess that would have to be too good to be true.” She guzzled the rest of her beer and set the empty on the counter. “But if you run across anything when you’re working on your stories, let me know. I could settle for a cousin, or maybe even a nephew. By the way, when do you think you’ll be finished? My editor is practically frothing at the mouth to get her hands on your review after what happened at the gallery. It’s all over the news, you know. They even did a lead story on Channel 3 about it.”
That piqued my interest. “Any juicy info on Rostovich? What about footage?” I didn’t remember seeing any TV cameras at the opening, but figured somebody had probably managed to sell their cell-phone footage to the local news by now.
“No, just exterior shots of the shuttered gallery, and a two-minute interview of the owner. Who doesn’t seem to like Rostovich much, by the way. His comments were vicious. I saved it on the DVR for you if you want to watch.”
“That would be Richard Darling, right? Funny, Peter says they’re old friends.”
“You’d never know it from the interview. He looked mad enough to split nails. Might be something for you to dig deeper on.”
“All right, I’ll look at it later. I think right now I just need a nap.” Fatigue was fast creeping into my limbs, and I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. The past twenty-four hours was finally catching up on me, I needed to rest. Still, I’d have to keep it short; I had way too much to do. I made a mental note to call the assignment editor at Channel 3 news when I woke up to see if there was any more to the interview they’d be willing to share, reporter to reporter.
Hannah grabbed her empty from the counter and stood up. “All right babe, I’ll leave you alone. Need me to wake you up at your usual time for cocktailing?”
“No, I’m not actually cocktailing tonight. I’m taking the night off to work on the stories.”
Hannah’s eyebrows raised. “Taking off two cocktailing nights in a row? Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that. Won’t Benny be mad? And how will you make the rent?”
I shrugged. “I’m really not worried about it.”
“Oh-kay.” Hannah gave me a skeptical look, but she didn’t question me further. “Have a nice nap, then.”
“Thanks. Wake me up at around one if I’m not up already. Set an alarm for yourself at that time if you want to go back to your usual Saturday schedule.”
Hannah stretched and yawned. “Will do. Believe it or not, I’ll be up working most of the day on the next issue of the magazine. This whole page redesign is giving me grief, and my editors have sunk a lot of money into it. Which is why your story needs to be super-good---we need to sell as many copies of the Rostovich issue as we can, otherwise we’ll go out of business.”
“The Rostovich issue? I thought I was just doing a capsule review, not a whole issue.”
“Well, I was meaning to tell you about that. After this whole incident hit the news, our editor decided to take things in a different direction. They’re going to want a full feature from you, and more photos, and possibly an interview transcript if you can provide one. I didn’t promise them anything other than that I’d ask you---nicely---to come up with a bit more than we’d originally planned. I told them you also had the Plain Dealer gig and the two things couldn’t overlap, but they seem to think that you can still do both. We’re doing an extra print run since we think the demand will be there. You’ll get paid more, of course. Three hundred dollars instead of fifty.”
“Oh, wow. Same deadline?”
“Yep. Tuesday afternoon at the latest.:
My head began to spin. I had no idea how I was going to deliver two feature-length articles by Tuesday to two different publications, especially when I already had so little to go on. “Oh Hannah, I don’t know whether to hug you or punch you right now.”
“Just do the best you can with it. I’ve already got some calls out to other freelancers to pick up some of the slack if you can’t do all of it.”
That eased the blow a bit. Hannah could be a total pain in the ass sometimes, but she was also really thoughtful and fast on her feet when it came to handling last-minute publishing crises. “Thanks, Hannah, I appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome. By the way, Nancy, your mom called late last night. She said to call her back right away, that it was important.”
“What? But I just talked to her yesterday afternoon.”
“She did mention that, but she also mentioned that this is an absolute emergency and that she expects you to call her back no later than noon today. I tried to ask why, but she wouldn’t tell me. Granted, I understand your mom’s idea of an emergency usually isn’t a life-or-death thing, but she sounded pretty freaked out.”
“She probably just ran out of ketchup or something and wants to vent about it. I’ll call her back after my nap.”
Hannah nodded. “Good plan. Sweet dreams, Nancy. I hope you come hard in your sleep. That’s always nice during a nap!” With that, she retired to her room.
Leave it to Hannah to end the conversation in the gutter, I thought. I dashed off to my own room, sank back into my pillows and fell asleep fully clothed, still wearing Hannah’s expensive---and torn---bolero jacket and cocktail dress. If she’d noticed that Rostovich had ruined her designer duds in a fit of passion, she’d made no indication.
****
I was awakened an hour later by the phone.
This better be good, I thought, cursing myself for forgetting to silence the ringer before falling asleep. “Hello?”
“Nancy, it’s your mother.”
I groaned. She was the absolute last person I wanted to deal with right now. “Wha? We just talked yesterday.”
“Ahem. As I informed your roommate yesterday, this is an absolute emergency. Did Hannah even bother to tell you I called? She usually doesn’t.”
That’s because she knows you call all the time for completely stupid reasons. I knew better than to say this aloud, of course. I’d never hear the end of that. “She told me, but I was taking a nap just now. I was planning to call you back when I woke up.”
Mom ignored this. “Nancy, what sort of trouble have you gotten yourself mixed up in? Moreover, what sort of trouble have you gotten me mixed up in?”
I sat bolt upright, suddenly wide awake. There was something very strange about Mom’s tone---to say nothing of what she’d just said. This was not one of her ordinary guilt trips or mountain-out-of-molehill overreactions---what I heard was genuine alarm and fear in her voice. “What do you mean?”
“Nancy, shortly after I hung up the phone with you yesterday afternoon, several goons----I don’t know what else to call them---showed up at my office demanding all kinds of information about you. I wouldn’t talk to them, but they refused to leave and I eventually had to call the police.”
“Goons?”
“Yes, goons. Big, tall, and Russian. Mostly with shaved heads. They wore expensive suits and looked like mob enforcers. They showed up in a Mercedes Benz limousine and wore earpieces. You know, like the Secret Service typ
es and the folks at the UN wear.”
Oh my. “What did they ask you?”
“All sorts of things. They wanted to know when you were born, where you were born, how you had done in school, what your likes and dislikes were. One of them wanted to know the name of your first-grade teacher, another asked if I could provide a list of past boyfriends. It was creepy as hell. I’m glad I was on campus picking up some books and papers from my office library instead of at home. Campus security intervened and got them out of the building, but the police refused to make any arrests. The cops said there’s nothing illegal about showing up to a professor’s office and asking questions. Can you believe that? It was absolutely horrendous. I had a panic attack on the spot and I started hyperventilating. I had to go to the ER for oxygen and a Valium.”
I felt as if all the wind had just been knocked out of me. Of course I knew only one person could possibly be responsible---Peter Rostovich. But why? And moreover, how? Had Rostovich managed to track down my mother in another state less than 12 hours after meeting me and have a team of scary-looking dudes interrogate her? How the hell does that even happen?
“Mom, are you sure you’re aren’t pulling my leg?”
Mom gasped. “I would never joke about something like this, Nancy. I’ll send you a copy of the police report if you don’t believe me.”
“All right, all right, I believe you!” But that didn’t mean I understood. The whole thing was mind-boggling. Was Rostovich some kind of one-man CIA or something? Was he even an artist at all, or was that just some kind of ruse, a cover for something else, something very sinister? Or could there be a perfectly innocent explanation? I had no idea.
“Nancy, are you listening to me?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean, um, what?”
“I just asked you---again---if you’re in some kind of trouble that you need to tell me about. It’s okay if you are, I just need to know so I can help.”
“No, Mom. I swear, everything is fine. Normal, even. I’m just going to school and work like I always do.”
Lie. Big lie.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” No, I’m not sure at all. But I’m not about to tell you the truth, because you’ll probably find some way to kill me through the phone.
“Nancy Adrienne Delaney, if I find out you’re lying to me----and if you are, I will---mark my words I’ll be on the first plane to Cleveland and I will make your life very unpleasant.”
“Mom, don’t talk to me like I’m twelve years old. I’m a grown woman, I can look after myself.”
“Hmph. I’m not so sure. Even your father is in agreement with me on this point. He’s willing to cut his classes short for the semester and come with me if there’s something going on there that needs straightening out. I swear, I still think you should have stayed closer to home for college instead of jetting off to that Godforsaken wasteland. I can only imagine what strange things go on out there. I’m always terrified you’re going to get burned up in a wildfire or shot through the head by some nutbag Ted Nugent type.”
“Mom, they don’t have wildfires in Ohio.” Though I couldn’t exactly dispute her Ted Nugent remark. Cleveland was full of his gun-toting white-supremacist fans. And if my dad was really on board with Mom on this, the situation had to be bad indeed. “Seriously though, I have no idea why this might have happened to you. And I’m very sorry it did. But that’s all I know to say.” I wasn’t being entirely truthful, but I really had no idea why or how such a thing could have happened. I spaced out then, trying in vain to come up with an explanation.
“NANCY!”
“Huh?”
“Are you watching TV instead of listening to me? You watch too much of that, whatyoucallit, Downton Abbey nonsense. You do realize that program is not the least bit historically accurate, don’t you? Especially when it comes to the Irish independence movement. I wrote a scathing letter to the BBC about that just last week.”
“I’m sure you did, Mom. But no, I’m not watching TV. You woke me up out of a dead sleep. You know I’m always up late on Friday nights working.” To call what I did with Rostovich last night working was stretching the truth quite a bit of course, but I didn’t figure it would be in my favor for Mom to think I had done anything last night besides cocktailing----her highly unfavorable opinion of such notwithstanding.
“Hmph. I still can’t believe you work---and I use the term loosely----as a cheap cocktail waitress slinging booze at those Midwestern boobs. It’s sleazy, Nancy. It’s tragic you have to work at all. Students should just focus on their studies, not on earning dollar bills in a dirty cocktail outfit. Can’t you find something more respectable to do instead?”
“Not something that pays well,” I retorted. Of course, I’d just landed two perfectly respectable journalism gigs, one of them quite well-paying----though what I’d gotten mixed up in since wasn’t exactly what I’d call respectable.
I had to shut this conversation down, pronto. I had too much to do, too many fires to put out, and having my mother breathing down my neck and threatening to fly to Cleveland was the absolute last thing I needed. “You know Mom, if you hadn’t blown your entire inheritance and maybe saved a little more money when I was growing up, I wouldn’t have to do stuff like this. I could just be a spoiled brat wearing Burberry and spending my summers frolicking across Europe instead, just like you did when you were my age.”
Dead silence. I waited on the line while my mother digested that. I knew just how and where to hit her hard. God knew I’d had plenty of practice over the years. Finally, she spoke. “Nancy, that is grossly unfair.”
“It’s the truth. And if you don’t mind, I really need to get back to my day. I have a lot of work to do. Tell Dad I said hi.” With that, I hung up before she could get another word out. It rang in my hand again almost 30 seconds later, Mom’s cell phone number on the caller ID. But I didn’t pick up. I had something I needed to do first.
After a brief trip to the bathroom and then to the kitchen for some milk and a bagel, I sat down at my computer, booted it up, and waited impatiently as the CPU and then the firewall software went through the start cycle. It seemed to be taking longer than usual, and I wondered if perhaps I’d been hacked. It would certainly fit the tone of the past 24 hours if I had. By the time I finally got into Gmail, my palms were sweating and my heart was thumping in my chest.
I logged into my account and found several angry-looking emails from my mom, all of which I deleted without reading past the first line. They were all just a general rehash of this morning’s phone conversation. There was also the usual spam and a couple of bulletins from my college professors about upcoming assignments. But the first email, marked “Urgent” with red font and a little flag, said only “Open Me” in the subject line with no identified sender. And there was an attachment.
Normally I would delete something like that as a potential Trojan Horse virus. But I knew it had to be from Rostovich. It was definitely his style.
I double-clicked and the message opened.
To: Nancy Delaney
From:
Date: 23 June 2012, 10:34 am
Subject: [none]
I trust you got some sleep?
Yours,
ROSTOVICH
I thought about deleting it without replying. I considered calling the Plain Dealer and telling them I wouldn’t be completing the assignment, or the Art News Now piece either. I considered booking an all-inclusive Caribbean resort vacation on my Discover card, jetting out of town that very same day and pretending the world didn’t exist until this whole mess blew over. But I didn’t do any of those things. Instead I typed this reply:
To:
From: Nancy Delaney
Date: 23 June 2012, 11:15 am
Subject: [none]
Mr. Rostovich, to quote Ricky Ricardo, you got some ‘splainin’ to do.
Nancy
There was an almos
t instant reply.
To: Nancy Delaney
From:
Date: 23 June 2012, 11:16 am
Subject: [none]
I’m sorry, I don’t follow. I hope you aren’t too tired and sore from our endeavors and therefore possibly speaking out of turn.
R.
To:
From: Nancy Delaney
Date: 23 June 2012, 11:16 am
Subject: [none]
I never speak out of turn. But apparently you do. Or rather, your goons in other states do.
To: Nancy Delaney
From:
Date: 23 June 2012, 11:16 am
Subject: [none]
“My goons in other states?” Again, Ms. Delaney, I don’t follow. Perhaps you are the one who should be doing the “splainin’.”
BTW, how is the article going?
To:
From: Nancy Delaney
Date: 23 June 2012, 11:18 am
Subject: [none]
Don’t get coy with me. I just had to field an angry phone call from my mother in Boston demanding to know why a bunch of Russian goons in a limo showed up at her office asking her all kinds of personal questions about me. Seriously, you want to know who my first-grade teacher was? Is that some kind of obscure sex fetish I’m not aware of? Perhaps a new safeword?
Like I said, you’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do, pal. And BTW, how the article is going is none of your freaking business, other than the fact that you can now probably forget about me using a favorable angle. At least in terms of your favor.
Domino (The Domino Trilogy) Page 20