“It’s not a tease when you ask for it, and you asked for it.”
He gave me another light kiss on the cheek. “And maybe soon you’ll give it to me.” He stepped into the street without waiting to see my reaction. A cab was approaching and he hailed it over. No, he was right, I hadn’t given it to him yet, but God I wanted to.
He held the door of the cab open for me. I was still woozy from the endorphin rush. He must have seen that I was off balance because he grabbed my hand and helped me to sit down. “Take a deep breath.”
“I’ve never been with anyone like you, Emilio.” You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you? I was so caught up in the moment that I had forgotten to slide across the seat to make room for him.
“Aren’t you going to let me in?”
“Oh God, yeah.” I knew that his comment had not been meant as a double entendre, but it played with my mind, as everything about him did. Every man I had ever been with had been so much less than Emilio. Some were nice and some not so much, but they all had one thing in common and that was to get to the finish line as quickly as possible. “You’re the tease, not me,” I said.
He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. “This is the art of seduction, Allie. Enjoy it.” In the next instant he was giving directions to the cabbie through the security partition. I settled back into my seat and took a deep breath. My heart skipped a beat.
Twenty: Old Friends
Coach Schroeder yanked open the door to Ciro’s Pizza. Robert Gerkin heard the door open and looked up from his newspaper. He waived to his friend.
Schroeder grinned and walked over to the table. Gerkin smiled, stood, and gave Schroeder a man hug. “Hey, buddy boy, how you doing?” he said reprising Joey Tribbiani’s salutation from the TV show Friends.
“Fine. Thanks for getting me out of the house. I was fixing the basement humidifier.”
“That sounds boring as hell. You college coaches lead a tedious life.”
“Bless your lucky stars, Robert. If my life didn’t suck so badly there’d be no one for you to go to lunch with.”
“Ah, now that hurt.”
“Sorry, my friend, face the fact, who wants to hang with an IRS agent? Repossess any homes from the elderly?”
“Three this week,” Gerkin said facetiously. “I’m throwing so many old farts out on the street I had to buy a second villain’s costume.”
“You’re nuts!”
“No worries, I get to deduct the cost of the new costume from my tax return, technically it’s a work uniform.”
“At least you won’t get audited.”
“Fo’ shizzle.”
Schroeder placed his hands over his ears momentarily. “None of that hip hop slang shit. I listen to it five days a week.”
“No prob, I’ll lay off the ghetto rap. What are you getting for lunch?”
“It’s after two. It’s more like a pre-dinner than a lunch.”
“Does that mean you’re going to order heavy?”
“I love the eggplant parm. Matt has friends over at the house, and my wife and daughter are out shopping anyway. They told me I’m on my own for dinner.”
“How is everyone?”
“Marilyn’s fine. Sarah spends every last dime I make but she’s pulling straight As in veterinary school so I don’t care that she’s putting me in the poor house.”
“I can’t believe a dumb old jock like you has a daughter that’s going to be a vet. Are you sure no one slipped Marilyn the pickle?”
“I hope that’s not a confession, ger-kin.”
Gerkin laughed and then turned to call their order to the storeowner. “Two eggplant heros, Frank.” Frank nodded and walked into the kitchen at the back of the store. “How’s the all-star?”
“God, I wish I had his life.”
Gerkin smiled. “Living large?”
“Jesus Christ, yeah. Let me ask you something, how many women have you slept with in your life?”
“Besides Francine?”
“Yeah, besides Francine.”
Gerkin thought for a moment. “Three. You?”
“One girl before Marilyn. Matt’s bedridden with a calf injury. I swear there should be a revolving door on his bedroom. One after another, these gorgeous young girls are coming over to see him.”
“He’s such a smart young man; he’s milking the sympathy angle, isn’t he?” Gerkin said with a smile. “So much promise and talent.”
“Robert, he doesn’t have to milk anything; I think he’s sleeping with every one of them.”
“C’mon, no one get’s that much tail.”
“Robert, they send him videos of themselves in the shower. I told him, ‘don’t you dare let your mother see those, she’ll throw you out of the goddamn house.’”
“That’s wild. That’s what young girls do these days?”
“It’s unbelievable.” Schroeder stood and walked over to the beverage case. “Orangeade?” Gerkin gave him a thumbs-up. He walked back to the table and handed Gerkin his bottle of Snapple.
“So how did he hurt himself? I mean aside from his sore johnson.”
Schroeder laughed. “He got caught at the bottom of a pileup. His calf got pulverized.”
Gerkin winced. “That sounds painful.”
“Yeah. I’ve been taking him over to Dr. Rosen in Great Neck three times a week for physical therapy.”
Gerkin was about to twist the cap off his bottle of Snapple. He stopped and looked up at Schroeder with a serious expression. “Dr. Sam Rosen, the orthopedist?”
“Yeah, great guy, he’s the team physician.”
“Oh.”
“Oh what? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s really not my place to say, but maybe the team should get a new physician.”
“What are you talking about? Rosen’s been the team doc for years. The kids love him.”
“I’ll bet they do.”
All the humor drained from Schroeder’s face. He reached across the table and grabbed Gerkin’s wrist. He looked him in the eye. “Robert, what the hell are you talking about? I’m responsible for these kids.”
Gerkin shook free of his friend’s grasp. “Lenny, what do I do for a living?”
“Robert, I’ve know you for twenty years; for God’s sake, don’t be evasive with me.”
Gerkin shook his head unhappily. He seemed reluctant to speak. “What task force am I assigned to, Lenny?”
Schroeder huffed to express his frustration. “For the love of Christ, Robert, just spit it out.”
“Tax evasion, Lenny, I investigate business professionals that cheat on their taxes: doctors, dentists, and lawyers.”
“Everyone cheats on their taxes, that doesn’t make him a bad doctor!”
Frank walked over and placed two eggplant parmigiana heros on the table. “Enjoy, gentlemen.” Steaming sauce and cheese spilled over the sides of the hero bread like molten lava from the mouth of a volcano.
“Lenny, I love you like a brother, but there’s only so much I can say. It’s not the fact that he’s hiding income, it’s where that money comes from.”
Schroeder pushed his plate away with two hands. “Christ, Robert, you’re giving me agita.” He slumped back into his seat and turned his focus inward. It brought him back to Dr. Rosen’s waiting room and his chance encounter with Shawn Riley, the boy who had been expelled for steroid abuse. He remembered what his son Matt said about him: “He’s full of bull. He’s a junkie. He doesn’t work at anything except scoring dope.” He gave Gerkin a probing stare.
“Now you understand?”
Schroeder nodded.
Gerkin picked up the hero and bit off a chunk. “Man, this stuff is good.”
“Thank you,” Schroeder said.
Gerkin was still chewing. “Don’t mention it.”
Twenty-one: Fine Wine
We ended up at a restaurant named Del Posto on 10th Avenue. Emilio held the door for me to enter. My eyes were wide open as I stepped ins
ide. I was gawking at the restaurant’s beautiful two-story interior with crossed mahogany beams on the ceiling. I put my foot down on the threshold and felt an awful pain shoot through my already sore foot.
Emilio noticed me grimace. “Ah, the price we pay for vanity. No worries, I know exactly what you need.”
It was early, not even 5:00 p.m. The restaurant had just opened for dinner and was empty. There were several waiters standing about idly. They all lined up to greet us as we entered. They were friendly and happy to see us. They treated us as if we were a part of their family.
“I have a lovely table in the corner,” the host said. He pointed to the table with an open hand. “You like?”
“I’d love a table overlooking the main floor,” Emilio said as he slipped a bill into the host’s jacket pocket. “Perhaps something on the railing?” He smiled politely at the host. Emilio had a smile that could bend the human will.
“Certainly, a lovely table upstairs for the gentleman and the lovely lady.”
“Go on up ahead of me,” Emilio said to me. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything is perfect. I’ll just be a minute.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Scoot,” he said playfully.
I smiled and followed the host upstairs to the table. As I climbed the stairs, I saw Emilio speaking to one of the waiters.
I plopped down into the chair, and could not wait another minute to get off my feet. They hurt like hell—I prayed that I didn’t have any blisters. I took a moment to admire the decor. It seemed like very little time had passed before Emilio returned. He sat down and our waiter came right over.
“Would you like red wine?” Emilio asked.
“I’d love red wine.”
“What’s your best malbec?” he asked the waiter.
“We have a 2005 Bodega Catena Zapata, signore.”
“Nicasia Vineyard or Argentino?”
“Argentino, signore.”
“Excellent. Bring us a bottle, please.”
The waiter nodded with a broad smile as if to acknowledge Emilio’s sound judgment. “Very good, signore, I bring the Argentino.”
“You’re in for a real treat. This wine is excellent.”
“From Argentina, I take it.”
“Yes, it’s wonderful wine. Lift your foot.”
“What?”
“Lift your foot. I’m going to take off your boots.”
“No you’re not!”
“It’s been bothering me for hours.”
“Not a chance.”
“The lights are dim, no one will notice.”
“I don’t care; it’s embarrassing.” Emilio reached under the table and grabbed my right leg. He slid my boot off before I could stop him. “You don’t listen very—” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. He began massaging the bottom of my foot. It felt so good I had to stop myself from moaning.
“How’s that?”
“Amazing.”
“Good.”
He pulled off the other boot. I looked around to see if we were being watched. Thank God we had privacy. He worked the pads of my feet with his strong fingers to relieve the soreness. “You’ve got a great touch.”
The waiter Emilio had spoken with before coming upstairs approached the table. He jokingly shielded his eyes and set a shopping bag down alongside the table. He attempted to hand Emilio some money, but Emilio refused. “Thank you,” the waiter said and quickly disappeared.
“What’s that?”
Emilio was still working on my feet. “I had him run over to the shoe store and buy you some flip flops.”
“Really?”
“Well, you can’t put those high heels back on; it would be like torture.”
I opened the shoebox. “Tori Burch? That’s insane. Do you know how much these cost?”
“More or less.”
Honestly, I had no idea how much they were, but I knew that they were expensive. “That was so sweet of you. Let me give you a kiss.”
Emilio lifted a hand. “Don’t disturb me while I’m working,” he said jokingly.
“You’re crazy.”
“No, not crazy, just attentive.”
I couldn’t believe it. Emilio was wonderful in ways I had never imagined.
The waiter returned with our wine. I thought Emilio would stop but he didn’t.
He smiled at the waiter. “I’m performing necessary triage on the lady’s feet.”
The waiter laughed politely. “Who is going to taste?”
“You can pour. There’s no need to taste.”
“But, signore, the wine, it’s three hundred dollars. Perhaps—”
“Not to worry,” Emilio said. “Pour the lady a large glass. She’s overwhelmed with pain.”
“Very good, signore,” the waiter said. He uncorked the bottle and filled my glass.
“Well, what are you waiting for,” Emilio said. “Drink!”
I didn’t argue. I put the glass to my lips and took a mouthful. The wine was rich and full-bodied. It tasted wonderful, warm, and aromatic as it sloshed around in my mouth. I had not eaten all day and could feel the alcohol hit me immediately.
“How is it, signorina?” the waiter asked, hoping for a positive response.
“It’s awesome.”
The waiter smiled broadly. “Very good, signorina.” He poured Emilio a glass and topped off mine. He placed the bottle on the table, turned, and left immediately.
“Drink some more,” Emilio said. “It’s strong, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s strong. I love it.” The alcohol was making me less self-conscious. Emilio was still massaging my feet, rubbing the pain away. “That feels so good. Can you do my shoulders next?”
“Yes.”
“And after that?”
“And after that we eat dinner, my hands are getting tired.”
“Then I’ll massage your shoulders.” I wanted him so badly. I wanted to feel his hands on me.
“I’ll look forward to it, but not today. We’re not ready yet.”
“You’re a fiend.” His hands felt so good. I purred softly and was unable to contain it. “Are you sure we’re not ready?”
“I’m positive. As with your feet, without pain, you cannot appreciate pleasure, and without patience, gratification is unfulfilling. We have to wait until the hunger consumes us like an inferno.”
“I’m not sure I can wait.” I drank more of the exquisite wine and felt my body glaze over with a mellow feeling of serenity.
He pressed harder against the bottom of my foot. He must have pressed against a sympathetic nerve because I felt the pressure all the way up the inside of my leg. “You have to wait until you want to scream. You have to hurt so badly you feel as if you will die without it.”
“You’re going to kill me.”
Emilio’s words were sincere, and his smile offered promise. He picked up his glass and toasted, “Here’s to a very slow and agonizing death.”
Twenty-two: Misery
Dr. Sam Rosen sat alone in his office. It was nearly 8:30 p.m. He kept glancing at the phone. The pharmacy usually called to let him know that they were closing for the evening. Their closing time had always been 8:00 p.m. sharp. He still had a healthy stack of reports waiting for review: X-rays, MRIs, and CAT scans. He knew his patients were waiting by their phones for their test results, and he would not leave the office until he had finished.
The last file was difficult. He would have to make a call to an eighty-three-year-old man with progressively worsening pain in the right shin. Rosen was reasonably sure of the diagnosis at the time of the patient’s first visit. He had identified a mass with ragged edges on a simple X-ray. He could feel the protrusion on the patient’s bone simply by palpating the identified area of the leg. Additional image studies and accompanying reports suggested fibrosarcoma. The prospects were not good for a patient of that age and even worse for a senior citizen with moderate dementia, who thought the affliction co
uld be controlled with aspirin and liberal applications of Bengay ointment. He practiced the call in his mind a few times. He needed to be firm with the old guy. He hoped that the old man’s son or daughter could be brought into the picture to lend support and validate what Rosen was saying.
The phone rang while he was still preparing himself to call his elderly patient. He answered without looking at the caller ID. He was expecting the requisite call from the pharmacy in the basement. “Hi, Stan, closing up?” he asked. Rosen owned the medical building and its contents, which included his practice, a physical therapy center, and the pharmacy.
“Sam, why are you still there?” The voice that came over the line belonged to his wife. Her voice was filled with rage as it had been for the past two years. She sounded nothing like the woman he knew and loved. “Sam, I’m packed and ready to go.”
He thought for a minute, quickly switching gears. The revelation struck him along with a pounding headache: the long drive to Seabrook House in Pennsylvania where his son was an inpatient in the drug rehab center. His half-eaten sandwich was still sitting on his desk since noon along with a cold cup of coffee. He drank the remaining cold coffee in one gulp. He checked his watch before he replied. “I’m sorry, Honey. I’ll be home by nine-thirty. That’s the best I can do.”
“Nine-thirty! You’ve got to be kidding, Sam, it’s a six-hour ride. You were supposed to be home an hour ago.”
“I know,” he said as he massaged his temple. “I’ve been running behind all day. I’ve still got calls to return.”
“And your son is back in rehab for the third time. We’ve been talking about this all week.”
“I know, I know, I’ll get there as soon as I can.” His wife was falling apart. Their marriage was, too. They had endured two years of unending misery. At first it was difficult for them to figure out: the fall-off in Scott’s grades, the missing money from his bank account, and the elaborate stories he had concocted to cover the lies, two years in and out of rehab clinics, and the endless promises that were never kept.
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