red and a cigarette at night. Perhaps a little Coltrane.
Getting a phone call from this number ruined all of it.
He recognized the area code and extension immediately, and as soon as they appeared in the caller-ID
display, Benjamin knew there was a problem. Petrovsky
was only supposed to call if there was an emergency. And
Benjamin made it very clear about what constituted an
emergency.
He answered the phone. “Doctor,” Ray said. “There’d
better be a fucking good reason for this.”
Raymond Benjamin listened as Dmitri Petrovsky filled
him in on what had occurred at the hospital that day. He
ended the conversation by saying he’d watched the two
people—Henry Parker and Amanda Davies—leave the
hospital. Only, when they left, they didn’t drive away. In
fact, they’d been sitting in their car for several hours.
Petrovsky and Benjamin came to the same conclusion:
they were planning to follow the doctor when he left work.
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When Ray Benjamin hung up the phone, he sat there
for a moment, thinking. Then he got up, tossing the rest
of his glass into the sink, stubbing out his cigarette in the
ashtray. He called Vince and told him to be at the garage
in fifteen minutes. Ray had a lot of phone calls to make.
First he called the house. The couple took it as well as
he expected. He told them they’d prepared for a day like
this. And if they kept up their end of the deal, it would all
be worth it. And if they didn’t, he only needed to remind
them of the photograph.
When everything was in motion, and Petrovsky confirmed that Parker was still at Yardley, Ray Benjamin went
to the garage. Vince was waiting for him. Vincent Cann
was a tall, slender man of thirty-eight. His jet-black hair
was slicked back, his face clean-shaven as always. A pair
of designer sunglasses sat on his face. He nodded when
he saw Benjamin approaching.
“Clusterfuck, ain’t it, boss?”
Ray answered by not answering at all.
They piled into the car. Ray opened his window a crack.
The younger man was chewing gum, his jaws working
overtime. Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out a
fresh pack of Chesterfields. He depressed the electric
lighter, unwrapped the pack, stuck the cig in his mouth and
waited.
Vince said, “Should we get going?”
“Wait a second,” the older man said. The lighter
wasn’t ready yet.
When the metal knob popped out, Ray took the end,
pressed it to the tip and inhaled deeply. There was nothing
like a good Chesterfield. When the butt was half smoked,
a long finger of ash hanging off the end, Ray flicked it out
the window.
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“Clear your schedule for the next few days,” Ray said
to Vince as he pulled into traffic. “We’re going to be busy
cleaning this mess up, and there’s not a lot of time.”
20
Paulina arched her back, feeling the convulsions ripple
through her body. She embraced the aches of pleasure, the
slightest hint of pain as Myron Bennett raked his too-long
nails down her stomach. She felt the final shudder of
orgasm, the sweat dripping down her chest, waiting until
everything was calm before finally becoming still. Paulina
looked down. She was still wearing her bra, a slight puddle
of moisture collecting in between the cups.
Gathering herself, Paulina climbed off Myron, taking
one more glimpse at his naked body, his erection like a flag
of surrender. The boy had a beautiful body, that’s for sure,
and though nobody would ever know of their tryst, it
secretly thrilled her to know she’d just fucked a man thousands of women would ditch their husbands and 2.4
children for.
She located her underwear, snagged the band on her
shoe, kicked it into her hands and headed for the bathroom.
“Hey,” Myron called out as Paulina groped her way to
the bathroom door. “I didn’t come yet!”
“Nobody’s watching if you want to finish yourself off,”
she said, closing the bathroom door. Paulina looked at
herself in the mirror. Her mascara was streaked. She ran
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the faucet and washed it off. She looked at her breasts, felt
a twinge of sadness, noticed they were sagging slightly
more than she remembered. For years Paulina had taken
care of her body, spending countless hours at the gym,
countless dollars on every treatment under the sun. But
aging happened to everyone, even women who were born
to fight everything. Push-up bras did wonders to enhance
her natural cleavage, but nobody could fight Father Time,
especially since he had gravity on his side. She thought
about having them done, wondered if it was an outpatient
procedure. The last thing she needed was to be out of
work a day or two, then come with them enhanced. Boob
jobs were only worth it if no one knew you’d had one.
She could hear Myron moving about in the bedroom.
She heard the sound of his zipper, laughed to herself that
he was too frustrated to finish the job. Myron was a nice
treat, and thankfully she’d never have to see him again. At
least not in person.
In Sunday’s edition of the Dispatch, Paulina would be
running a lengthy article about Myron’s decade-long affair
with Mitsy Russell Henshaw, wife of billionaire venture
capitalist Richard Henshaw. Richard Henshaw had been
a longtime critic of the Dispatch, specifically the paper’s
editor-in-chief, Ted Allen. It was what Allen called a “have
your cake and eat it, too” story. It was both a juicy bit of
gossip that would sell papers, while accomplishing the
goal of humiliating one of Ted’s most vocal enemies.
Paulina figured it only fair that if she was going to report
the piece, she deserved a piece of the cake, too.
Though Myron was in his late thirties and no longer in
the kind of shape that had secured him deals as an underwear model in the nineties—the abs a little softer, the
arms not quite as sinewy—he was still a striking bachelor,
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the kind of man that would turn heads and make very
wealthy women think very bad thoughts.
She had interviewed him for three hours, at the end of
which Paulina offered to buy him a drink. To make things
a little more personal, she said, rinse off the professional.
And when they were in the comfort of a pair of martinis,
she let Myron know that as long as she was putting her
keyboard out, he’d be putting out, too. And so here she
was, room 1250 at the W Hotel, the beauty of her exorbitant expense account allowing her the beauty of Myron
Bennett.
Yet as much as she’d savored the night’s pleasures and
would enjoy the media circus surrounding Myron’s affair,
she’d be glad to get back to work on the real story that had
>
kept her juiced the past few months. Underwear models
came and went. It was a rare occasion that you could do
something that mattered. And in just a matter of weeks,
she’d be ready to bring Jack O’Donnell down like a house
of cards. And with Jack, the veneer that was the Gazette
would tumble as well. And that kind of satisfaction would
last longer than any orgasm.
Cinching up her robe as she left the bathroom, Paulina
took her purse from her wallet and flipped a twenty at
Myron. The crumpled bill landed sadly on the pillow.
Myron stood there staring at it. He was topless in his jeans,
searching around for his shirt. He looked at the money,
confused, then looked up and down at Paulina as if she
were hanging in a freezer.
“You have the most beautiful tits,” he said, a sultry grin
on his face that made Paulina feel like retching.
“Please,” she said. “Save it for the women who give a shit.”
“What, one party and you get all cold on me? It wasn’t
good for you, beautiful?”
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“Ugh, don’t call me that. I’m sure Muffy or Tiffani or
whatever rich bitch you’re going to bang tomorrow night
will love that ooey-gooey shit. You’re a good lay, Myron.
I appreciate it. But enough of the honeydoll, baby stuff.
I’m a grown woman, you’re a grown man, now help me
find my shirt.”
“It’s under the bed, doll.” He smiled at Paulina’s
grimace. She glanced under the bed, came up with a
wrinkled blue shirt. She nodded toward the twenty on the
bed.
“Take it.”
“What’s that for?”
“Whatever you want. A taxi. A beer. Doesn’t matter.”
He looked at the money. “Really, you don’t have to.”
“Listen, I spent the better part of an entire day talking
to you and listening to the most boring shit on earth. I
listened to you whine about your mean parents, your
crummy job, how nobody will hire you as a model
anymore. And I know you have less money in the bank
than you have brains up in that head of yours. I don’t think
you’ll say no to cab fare. So just say thank-you and go
home.”
He watched her for a moment, looked at the money.
“Thank you,” he said. “But you don’t have to be a bitch
about it.”
Paulina’s mouth dropped, a startled laugh escaping her
lips. “Bitch? You call me a bitch because, what, I just
repeated what you’ve been blabbing about all night? If you
don’t like hearing the whole, cold, hard, clean truth, just
continue to delude yourself. Facts are facts. Nobody wants
to hire a forty-year-old has-been when twenty years old
can be bought for less, and without the baggage. And if you
didn’t fuck Mitsy for a decade, you’d keep that irrelevant
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streak of yours going. So you don’t want to believe the
truth? Then, buddy, don’t read the newspaper. But if you
want a reality check, you little baby, what I say shouldn’t
hurt you any more than your life hurts you.”
“See,” Myron said. “That’s what I mean. Most women,
when you give them an orgasm, they don’t treat you like
you’re a piece of, a, a dust ball or a termite or something.
Something they can pick up and throw in the trash like it
didn’t exist.”
“Listen, Myron. You’re a sweet guy. But sweet guys get
as much out of life as a little teacup puppy that someone
carries around in their purse. You get fed when your master
wants to feed you, but pretty soon you’re a nuisance and
not quite as much fun to look at. If you want more out of
life than that, you have to take it. If that means being a
bitch, well, I’d rather be a bitch than a pussy.”
Myron stared at her. “I’m looking forward to reading
the article.”
Paulina nodded. “It’ll be a good one, I promise you that
much. I’ll make sure a copy of the Dispatch is delivered
to you first thing Sunday morning.” Then she strode across
the room until she was nearly mouth to mouth with Myron.
“And if you so much as mention this night to anyone, I’ll
run a correction on Monday about your chronic herpes outbreaks.”
“My what?”
“Exactly.”
“Even you wouldn’t stoop so low,” Myron said, though
he looked unconvinced.
“Try me,” Paulina replied. “I love it when people think
they’re calling my bluff.”
Myron nodded, put his shirt on, found his shoes. He
thanked Paulina, grabbed the twenty and left. Paulina
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stood there in a room full of rumpled sheets, the air
stinking of sweat and sex. Then she gathered up her
belongings, went outside and caught a cab home.
21
By three o’clock, my legs were growing stiff. We’d
watched countless people arrive and leave Yardley since
that morning, with no sign of Dmitri Petrovsky. We’d
taken turns going in to the cafeteria for cups of coffee and
bathroom breaks, doing everything we could to stay alert
without going insane, but I was growing impatient. And
even worse, worried.
Doctors came and went, but nobody who looked like
Petrovsky.
At four o’clock, Amanda asked, “Do you think we
might have missed him?”
I shook my head. “I hope not. Let’s make sure.”
I took out my cell phone, called the Yardley switchboard, asked to be connected to Pediatrics. When a
woman’s voice picked up, I asked if Dr. Petrovsky would
be available for any more appointments today.
“I’m sorry, sir, he’s got two more patients scheduled for
this afternoon, then he’ll be out again until Monday.”
“Do you have any idea what time he’ll be finished with
his patients?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry, but if you want to come in next week
I’d be happy to schedule you for an appointment.”
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“No, thanks, I’ll call back later.” I hung up. “He’s still
there, but probably not for much longer.”
Amanda nodded. She began to rub her shoulders.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Just a little stiff.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Nah, thanks, though.”
For a moment I had an ache to reach out, put my arm
around her and rub her shoulders myself. Not too long ago
it wouldn’t have been a big deal at all, just something else
that happened over the normal day of a relationship. Small
gestures like that in the end meant so much, and it was only
when they ended that I realized their significance.
“Henry, look,” Amanda suddenly said, pointing in the
direction of the entrance. “There he is.”
Sure enough, Dmitri Petrovsky was leaving Yardley. He
was easily identifiable with his bushy beard, ambling gait.
He’d changed out of
his hospital whites and was wearing
a bulky overcoat, carrying a stuffed briefcase. He trudged
through the parking lot as our eyes followed him. He
stopped for a moment to yell at another motorist whose
Saab edged a little too close, and for a moment I worried
that the argument would escalate and our whole plan
would be shot. Thankfully, after a heated exchange and a
middle-finger gesture that left the driver steaming, Petrovsky continued walking, eventually stopping at a dark blue
Nissan.
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Take my tape recorder out of
my bag.” She did so. “Now turn it on.”
She clicked the record button.
I said, “I want to record the directions. Just in case.”
“Smart,” Amanda said.
I started the engine, waited until I saw the brake lights
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on Petrovsky’s car turn red before I edged out of the
parking space. I turned the corner of our row just as Petrovsky finished backing out. I allowed another car to move
in front of us as all three vehicles headed for the exit.
“What if he sees us?” Amanda said.
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “Let’s just hope he
doesn’t.”
Petrovsky pulled up to the exit and put his right-turn
signal on. He made the right, and the car in front of us
turned left. I put my right blinker on, waited until Petrovsky’s Nissan was about thirty yards away, then I pulled
onto the exit ramp and began to follow the doctor.
Petrovsky kept an even speed as he circled the exit ramp
that led away fromYardley. I stayed far enough behind that
it would be tricky for him to see me in his rearview mirror.
Neither Amanda nor I spoke. We were both focused on the
road, the car and what would happen next.
When the ramp came to an end, Petrovsky kept on
straight and merged onto the freeway. He pulled into the
left lane; I took the middle, kept pace three cars behind.
There was still light in the sky, sundown not yet for another
hour, so I was able to make out his car pretty clearly. The
hum of our engine seemed as loud as a bullhorn as we kept
pace, threatening to give us away.
After a few miles, Petrovsky drifted over to the middle
lane, then turned on his right-turn signal and headed
toward a sign that read Exit 62. I relayed this to the tape
recorder. When he pulled into the right lane, I allowed a
silver Mercedes to do the same and I pulled in behind it.
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