ARE YOU LONESOME TONIGHT? (Running Wild)

by Hutchinson, Bobby

  "If Edna gets rich, I’ll lose a great employee.” The thought made Maxine sad, even though she wanted her friend to get what was legally hers.

  “Sometimes I feel like confronting that ex-husband of hers and saying to him, 'You know what you’ve forced your wife to do for a living, you piece of human’”—Polly glanced at Graham, who was staring curiously up into her face, and substituted—“piece of human garbage?”

  Polly’s language tended to be explicit and graphic. Maxine had been shocked when she’d first met her, because the visual image didn’t match the audio. It hadn’t taken long to understand that Polly would go to any lengths for her clients, and that her heart was as soft as her mouth was tough. But she also had decided ideas about what was right and what wasn't.

  Maxine, on the other hand, suspected there were gray areas. "You know you can’t tell Gimbel what Edna does," she warned. "Edna’d die of shame if her sons ever found out she does phone sex. They think she takes care of an elderly invalid during the night."

  Polly snorted. “Edna's way too softhearted. She should lay it out on the table to those boys, exactly how their father snookered their mother into that travesty of a settlement."

  Maxine shook her head. “Edna doesn't want the boys involved."

  “Boys, hell. They're adults, they’re nineteen and twenty-one. And I don’t exactly see either of them standing up for her against that creep of an ex.”

  “It's because he’s the one with the bank account," Maxine reminded her. “Money inspires loyalty, especially when it pays for your university fees and a snappy sports car to drive instead of taking the bus.”

  "It makes my blood boil for both of you when I think about the rotten deal you got from guys you trusted.” Polly sighed. “And I still can’t get a single line on where Slippery Shwartzie is, either. Sometimes I feel like a bloody failure.”

  Maxine couldn’t help feeling disappointed.

  “No news from Costa Rica yet, huh?”

  Polly shook her head. “The lawyer I contacted down there is still doing inquiries, but so far nothing. Don't despair, Maxine. I'll find that slime ball if it's the last thing I do.” Her eyes narrowed and her voice took on a steely note. "And when I do, I'll nail his sorry ass to the wall and sell it, if that’s what it takes to get your money back and the support legally due this little tiger."

  Ricky Shwartz, the swashbuckling pilot Maxine had once loved and been engaged to, had talked her into loaning him twenty-three thousand dollars, her entire life’s savings, supposedly to help save Eagle Airlines, the small regional company they’d both worked for.

  Ricky was supposedly a part owner of Eagle. She’d been crazy in love with him, and she’d emptied her bank account for him. She’d been smart enough, though, in spite of being love- struck, to get a promissory note for the money.

  That was just before she found out she was pregnant. When she broke that news, Ricky had casually suggested abortion. He’d changed his mind about marriage, he announced. He wanted adventure instead of matrimony. He was going to Costa Rica to start a business with an old friend.

  When she asked for her money back, he said he didn’t have it. He’d repay it the moment his new business took off.

  But Ricky took off instead, and Maxine had never seen him again. She’d also found out that the friend he was going to Costa Rica with was female and gorgeous.

  Things had gotten very bad after he left. No one would hire a pregnant stewardess, and when she grew desperate enough to try to pawn the diamond engagement ring he’d given her, she found it was a zircon. That was the day she’d found Polly in the phone book, under “Legal Aid.”

  She’d gone through an entire box of tissues in Polly’s office that morning, explaining her predicament. But disasters are really opportunities in disguise, Maxine reminded herself now.

  That had been the beginning of her business; totally destitute, she’d answered an ad that same week and been hired on the spot by a company that sold phone sex. They didn’t care that she was pregnant; she had the right voice for the job, they assured her.

  At first she’d been shamed, shocked, and horrified at what she was doing. Somewhere deep inside, she was still the daughter of the town minister, Zacharias Bleckner.

  But the job paid her rent and bought her food and vitamins, and she got better and better at it.

  Within a few weeks, Maxine had realized that she was exceptionally good at the job, and that her ability might be the key to earning a living while staying at home with her baby.

  She’d saved every cent she could, enough to pay the first and last months’ rent on this house, get a 900 line installed, and run a few ads. At first calls were sparse, but when she began to attract regular clients, the pace quickly became frantic. She’d hardly slept for months on end, between caring for Graham and answering the phone twenty-four hours a day. And through the haze of exhaustion one thing stayed clear in her mind: she was going to get back the money that she’d loaned Ricky, plus interest. He owed it to her.

  And, Polly insisted, Shwartz also had a financial obligation to support Graham. At first Maxine had objected, saying she wanted nothing more from Ricky than what he owed her, but Polly had explained that it wasn't Maxine’s choice; it was Graham’s birthright.

  “I’m gonna insist on a DNA test that’ll prove to the court that Graham's his. Then we’ll hit him with expenses and support payments extending back to Graham’s birth.”

  Polly made it sound as if it was only a matter of time before it all happened. Although Maxine would never tell Polly so, she privately believed that finding Ricky Shwartz was about as likely as winning the lottery.

  Graham was squirming to get down, and Polly reluctantly set him on the floor. “So what’s the score here, Maxine, you in looooove with this dude who's calling you all the time?”

  "Oh, gee, yeah, totally. All it takes is a little sweet talk and I fall head over heels.” Maxine simpered, crossing her eyes and assuming a half-witted expression. “Next thing you know, I’ll be loaning him money.”

  “Not," they chorused in unison, laughing at their own nonsense.

  Polly left, and Maxine gave Graham his supper and then bathed him and put him to bed. When she switched the phone back on, it rang almost instantly, and she caught herself watching the clock as she impatiently dealt with favorite positions and imaginary sex toys.

  She very much wanted the line free at eight- thirty, because she was sure Harold would call again, and in spite of what she’d said to Polly, there was something going on with him.

  With her, she corrected, making the appropriate moaning sounds into the receiver.

  With both of them?

  If only she knew.

  Chapter Six

  Harry was getting restless because Sadie wouldn’t settle. He read her favorite books to her, twice each: Where the Wild Things Are and I’ll Love You Forever. He sang "You Are My Sunshine,” four repetitions, with an encore of “Closing Time.” He rubbed her back and tried to curb his impatience, and at last—at last—she slept.

  He bent over and kissed her head. Her hair smelled of the fragrant fruity shampoo she’d seen on a TV ad and insisted he buy. She was already so female, this child of his. It was frightening, because there were some things he knew about females, but there were also mysteries he had no idea about. He doubted any man did.

  He pulled the duvet up over Sadie and glanced at his watch. It was after nine-thirty. He swore under his breath and hurried into his office to dial the now familiar number.

  “Lilith here, hello."

  The girlish voice with the slight lisp caught him off guard, and he didn’t answer immediately.

  “Don’t be shy, sweetie. I don’t bite unless you want me to.”

  "I’m not... I mean, actually, I wanted to speak to India. Please. Is she there?”

  “She’s not available just now. Are you sure you don’t want to talk to me?” A little girl giggle. “I’m really quite entertaining when you get to kn
ow me.”

  Damn, blast, double, triple damn. The disappointment he felt was way out of proportion, and that troubled him.

  This is an assignment, Watson, he reminded himself. Why should it matter whether he talked to India tonight or tomorrow or next week? The questions he’d wanted to ask would wait. There wasn't a single valid reason for feeling so let down.

  Except that he’d come to rely heavily on these nightly conversations, he admitted reluctantly.

  “If you should hear from India, would you tell her Harold called, please?”

  There was a pause, and then Lilith said carefully, “Is there a number where she could reach you? If I should just happen to hear from her?”

  “Yeah." He recited his number without much hope. India was paid on the basis of incoming calls. No way in hell would she call him.

  He hung up and tried to work on the newsletter an insurance agency had hired him to write, but after five minutes he knew it was hopeless. Frustrated and unable to concentrate, he got up and went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and scanned the contents for something to fill the sudden void in his gut. He settled on a slab of cold pizza and cracked a beer, taking both back to his office.

  His mouth was full of cheese and mushrooms when the phone rang. He swigged a gulp of beer, swallowed hard, and snatched it up.

  “Harold, I heard you were trying to reach me.” The deep, honeyed voice was like soothing balm to his nerves.

  “India." His spirits went straight from dismal to exuberant. "I’m so glad it’s you. Want me to call you back on your business number?”

  "No, that's not necessary.” There was a moment's pause. "Actually, I’m calling you from my private line."

  Harry understood that her admission subtly altered their relationship. This was the moment to try to push it even further, to do what Sullivan had suggested and try to arrange an actual meeting. He was about to go where he hadn’t ventured before, but there were some things he had to know first. He didn’t relish the thought of getting his head bashed in by some hulk of a jealous boyfriend.

  "India, is there someone special in your life?” That sounded nosy, so he quickly qualified it. "I mean, do you have a husband or a live-in lover or a guy you date regularly?”

  “Not anyone special. At the moment." After a moment’s hesitation she said a little defensively, "I do date, of course.”

  He was filled with relief. “Of course.”

  "But there’s nobody special. Not in that sense.”

  He didn’t ask her what she meant. He was too busy trying to figure out the logistics of what he was going to suggest next.

  “India, I wondered . . . That is, I know this is a long shot, but.. . would you consider going out with me?" His heart was hammering and his throat was dry. “Dinner, dancing, maybe a show, anything, whatever you’d enjoy the most. . .”

  His hands were sweating. He hadn't taken anyone on a date for so long, it made him horribly nervous even to ask, and the long silence that followed didn’t help at all. She was going to refuse; he just knew it. His heart plummeted.

  “Gee whiz, I don't know, Harold.”

  He had to grin, because he hadn’t heard anyone say gee whiz in a long time, and it was so unlike her usual sexy sophistication, it caught him off guard. And he was also grinning because she hadn’t outright refused, had she?

  “I know there are probably all sorts of rules about not dating customers,” he said in the most reasonable tone he could manage. “I can see how necessary that would be, but I think you can tell that I’m not an ax murderer or a rapist or anyone who'd hurt you in any way. I just want to get to know you, India. I want us to get to know each other better. And we can’t do that over the telephone.” His voice was rueful, and it wasn’t all an act. “I only wish there were some way to give you a character reference, but there isn’t.”

  Certainly not when he’d fed her such a bloody big pack of lies, he thought with a stab of guilt. Maybe over dinner, they could start over?

  Sure, Watson. You can spill the beans about the article and admit you’ve been lying through your teeth just to get a story. Now that'll get you brownie points, Romeo. And she’s gonna be thrilled to hear you're a single, stay-at-home dad who scribbles insurance company ads for a living in between doing the laundry. “India, how do you usually meet the guys you date?”

  There was a short silence, and he wondered if she was finally going to blast him for being too nosy. “Oh, ummm, I guess mostly friends. I have friends who introduce us.”

  She must have better friends than he did, he thought glumly. None of the guys he knew ever set him up with anybody. They were too busy trying to get laid themselves to worry about him, the selfish bastards.

  “Could you maybe just pretend I’m somebody one of your friends introduced you to, then?"

  This time there was a long, thoughtful silence.

  "I suppose I could do that," she finally said, and Harry realized he'd been holding his breath. He let it out with a whoosh and then realized he’d done it in her ear.

  “Sorry. I’m just relieved. That's wonderful, India.” He had to glance at the calendar to figure out what day it was. Wednesday? Yeah, Wednesday.

  “How about Saturday evening?” He crossed his fingers, praying that Mrs. Campanato would be able to sit for Sadie. “Around seven?”

  “Eight would be better for me.”

  For him as well. Sadie would be ready for bed by then. “Eight it is.” He was elated. He hadn't dared believe he’d pull this off.

  “Tell me where we’re having dinner, and I’ll meet you there, Harold."

  “Absolutely." She was being cautious, and he admired her for it. Trouble was, he had no idea where to take her for dinner.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon and give you the details. Will that be okay?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  He detected a bit of strain in her voice. This was a stretch for her, too. Or at least, he hoped it was. Surely she didn’t date every weirdo who called for sex?

  “Good night, Harold.”

  “Night, India. And thanks.”

  Elation filled him as he hung up. He couldn't wait to see what she looked like. He’d been careful not to ask her, because he’d guessed that what she’d say would be exactly what she told her other callers. His hunch had paid off now, because if the description was a fantasy, it would have made her refuse to see him.

  And what about you, super stud? You’re supposed to be a big time sophisticated businessman. How the hell are you gonna pull that one off?

  With a sense of trepidation, Harry walked into the bathroom and really looked at himself in the mirror.

  His heart sank. He was a real prize, all right, but it wasn’t first prize. His blue eyes were bloodshot because he’d worked until two in the morning meeting the deadline on the golf article. His thick black hair badly needed cutting. And of course he’d have to shave off the stubble; even Sadie had complained that his whiskers scratched when he had kissed her tonight. There was nothing to do about the crooked nose, a keepsake from long-ago rugby games. There was that cleft in his chin that women had seemed to like, back when he was a player in the dating game. Was it still there under the whiskers?

  Would it come to kissing Saturday? God, he hoped so. He was sadly out of practice, but surely it would come back to him; it had to be like riding a bike.

  He’d have to get his sports jacket and his gray slacks cleaned. Did he have a decent shirt?

  Did guys still wear sports jackets on dates, or had the whole men’s clothing scene changed drastically since he’d last taken a woman out? He tried to figure out how long that had been.

  Six, no, seven months ago, it must be. He’d asked that ER nurse out, the one who’d been so nice when Sadie had had the ear infection. Janice? Jasmine? Jackie.

  It had been a pleasant enough evening, he remembered, but it hadn’t taken long to figure out that they weren’t on the same page when it came to what they wanted out of lif
e. She talked about traveling to exotic locations, living in a town house on the water, owning a boat. He thought in terms of paying down his mortgage and investing in mutual funds that would put Sadie through college.

  He hadn’t called her again.

  The memory started him wondering what he and India would talk about. Would she tell him her real name, for instance? He knew India was her working title. He ought to go over the notes he’d made during their conversations, find out what else he needed in order to make the article personal and powerful. Right after he met her, he’d do the outline for Sullivan, get the advance, and hire Joe at the garage to put a rebuilt transmission in the car.

  And what the hell was he going to do if the evening worked out beyond his wildest dreams, and she gave him signals about wanting to go way beyond dinner and dancing?

  He frowned and rubbed a hand through his hair. He’d buy some condoms, but he couldn’t very well bring India home, introduce her to Mrs. Campanato, and then ask her not to make any noise while they were doing it, in case Sadie woke up.

  He didn’t know any good old boys with a nice vacant apartment. He worried over the possibility while he finished his beer and studied the latest copy of Vancouver magazine, which he wrote for occasionally.

  There were, as always, reviews of Vancouver’s better eateries. One, highly recommended, was located in the Hotel Vancouver, and he had a flash of inspiration.

  He’d take her there and he’d book a room for the night, just in case. He’d never told her where he stayed when he was in Vancouver, and obviously Harold was the type of high roller who’d keep a room at the Hotel Vancouver.

  He called and made reservations, pleased that his credit card wasn’t maxed out. It was going to be an expensive evening, and it was unlikely Sullivan would pick up the tab for dinner, never mind the room, but Harry realized he didn’t give a damn.