Deadly Odds

by Allen Wyler

  She pauses, a small chunk of golden-brown pastry halfway to her mouth. “Need to run home for a couple hours before we go shopping.”

  Shopping? “Oh,” he says, unable to mask a hint of disappointment. He’d hoped to spend the morning together. Doing what, he’s not exactly sure.

  This vague disappointment surprises him. Not solely because it’s there, but also because he allowed it into his voice. How very uncool and unmanly. Most of all, he hates to develop an emotional attachment to her. Especially considering she is, after all, renting her affection to anyone willing to pony up the bucks. She is a professional caterer of men’s sexual desires, a libido lightening rod. He means nothing to her. Yet this irrational affection burrowed into his heart last night after switching off the room lights. Soon as their sexual games finished and they readied themselves for sleep, he’d stretched out, hands knitted behind his head, waiting for fatigue to overcome him. Breeze had curled onto a ball a few inches from his right arm, her soft, scented body heat making him keenly aware of her presence. He liked that feel. Repeatedly he reminds himself she is an escort, a person paid to pamper him. Now he’s forced to admit: it’s not like you’re lovers. You’ve only known her a grand total of sixteen hours. His objective, logical mind knows all this. Subjectively however, he likes her a lot.

  Don’t be meshuganer. He shakes his head, trying to fling off the emotional aspect of her response, and pretends to watch the news while reflecting on the events of the past night. Howie predicted correctly: getting laid has made a huge difference in his self-image and confidence. This morning he believes—no, he knows beyond doubt—he’s no longer quite as little-boyish as he was twenty-four hours ago. His perspective on the world is now more that of a 23-year-old man. All because of accomplishing a rite of passage. Yeah, Howie nailed it. Maybe he should fly down every month, spend a few days with an escort, maybe even become one of Breeze’s regulars. This thought had crossed his mind the night before as he lay next to her waiting for sleep, and it had evoked the first little prickles of jealousy. For some sick reason he pictured her in this very hotel room with a fat, bald, middle-aged businessman—maybe from the east coast—she kneels at his feet and lowers his pants as he pushes her mouth to… He shakes his head once again to rid the image from his mind. Why do this to himself? Christ, it’s so perverse.

  As if required to justify her statement, she adds, “Need to swing by the house for a few minutes, pick up a change of clothes,” before popping the pastry into her mouth and returning to the television. Discussion closed.

  He debates whether to ask. He knows better, but can’t resist. “I could come with you.” And quickly adds, “That is, if you want.” Jesus, what a lame thing to say. Sounds so pathetically desperate.

  For a long, agonizing moment he waits for a reply.

  She slowly turns, as if considering her words carefully. “I have obligations.”

  Shit, she’s married. The bottom of his stomach drops. A flush ascends his face as he senses her studying him, but he can’t bear to look her in the eye. He imagines the 60 Minutes second hand sweeping around the dial: tick tick tick…

  She sighs. “Hey, look, I moved Mom here from LA a few years ago, okay? She’s got a case of bad COPD, the smog was killing her. I’m it, an only child, so I take care of her now, give her medications. That, and I got this cat needs feeding.” She pauses, as if testing his reaction.

  Perhaps sensing a want to shore up her reasoning, she adds, “Mom doesn’t like people dropping by. She doesn’t want anyone—not even people she knows—seeing her so disabled. A pride thing, I guess. I’ll be gone, oh, two hours max.”

  He scrambles for words with which to salvage a spec of dignity. “No, no, sorry I even mentioned it. Take as much time as you need. Don’t worry about me.” Then, to change subjects, asks, “That where you’re from? California? Initially, I mean.”

  “Yes.” She returns to the croissant and CNN.

  He swears he detected a touch of east coast in her vowels last night. He’s good at accents, makes a point of picking up on them. Boston maybe. For sure, somewhere up in the New England region. Just a word or two, then vanished. Must be mistaken. What’s more, she has every right to keep her private life from customers. For any number of good reasons, now that he thinks about it. Still, she seems to be working hard on this present accent, a sort of California West Coast generic sound. Makes him wonder…

  She dabs the corners of her mouth with the linen napkin before tossing it back on the breakfast tray, checks her watch. “Speaking of which, I should get going. We have some shopping to do when I get back.”

  This is the second mention of that particular activity. Shopping isn’t anything he had considered doing. In fact, he hates to shop. If he needs new Dockers—which happens every couple of years—he runs down to Macy’s, grabs a pair his size, pays, and is back outside the store in under ten minutes, nothing to it. “Shopping?”

  Out of the chair now, she glides into the bedroom. “Yeah, I checked your wardrobe. Dockers the best you can do?”

  “I guess,” What’s wrong with Dockers? “What, you don’t like khaki?”

  He sees half of her back as she sheds the robe, the sight of her naked body stirs his groin again. Wonder if she’d have time for… But figures best to not suggest it. Besides, how do these arrangements work? She on the clock? When does last night’s “gift” expire? Or is there a closing time, like a bar, where business shuts down at 3 a.m.? Was this the reason for wanting the entire five-day payment up front, to allow him free reign, so to speak? Too many questions to worry about them at the moment. She’s out of sight now, but he hears, “We need to get you a seriously cool suit for our nights out. Can you afford one?”

  How much money she talking about? Doesn’t want to appear cheap. “I don’t know. What’re we talking price-wise?” Only suit he owns—a black single-breasted number purchased from The Men’s Warehouse for his parents’ funeral. The thought makes him flash on the bearded guy saying, I guarantee it.

  He hears water running in the bathroom sink. “A couple grand, thereabouts. Why? That a problem?”

  Jesus! For a suit? She’d got to be kidding. No piece of clothing could possibly be worth that much. A computer, sure, that he can understand, but clothing? Not a chance.

  He opens his mouth to protest but muzzles himself. What will she think if he says no? That he’s cheap? A jerk? He’s already proven naïveté in bed, so why compound the lousy image by being what she obviously considers a bad dresser? Better pony up and buy it. Besides, now that he’s a changed man, maybe he’ll need it in the future. Who knows?

  He raises his voice to be heard over the water. “No, not a problem. Where we going that I need a suit?” He saunters over to the bedroom door to watch her at one of the bathroom vanities brushing her hair. She’s fully dressed now with her make-up refreshed. She looks at him in the mirror, never missing the rhythm of brush strokes. “You’re taking me out to dinner, aren’t you?”

  Hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Absolutely.”

  She nods, opens her purse and drops in the brush, primps once more in the mirror, smoothes her dress, presses her lips together to smooth out her fresh lipstick. “That’s what I thought.” Satisfied, she turns to him. “Okay, here’s your next lesson: Women love men who are stylish dressers. Dockers and T-shirts just don’t cut it. So we need to get you something nice. You’ll arrange dinner reservations while I’m gone?” She slides past, into the bedroom where she picks up her coat from the back of the couch.

  He remembers Howie saying women like to be asked for advice. “It’s your town. What’s your favorite?” And for the first time this morning is proud of the way he sounded: masculine, in charge.

  She moves to the front door, places one hand on the handle. “What are you willing to spend?”

  There it is again, an oblique probe into his finances. With the tip of his tongue, he works at dislodging a raspberry seed from the jam lodged between his teeth. Hmm,
how to answer…

  “You name it.” Again, pleased with the way it sounds.

  Smiling, “Get us a 6:30 seating at Il Mulino. We’ll have an early dinner then come back for another lesson on satisfying women. How’s that sound?”

  Her words begin a stirring in his groin, but he’s no longer ashamed of whether or not she notices. At the moment, he’s more concerned with getting the name of the restaurant right.

  “How’s that spelled?”

  9.

  They stroll like a couple, Breeze and Arnold hand in hand. Every so often, Arnold sneaks a discreet glance at other shoppers to see if they’re checking him out. Do the men wonder how a skinny little weasel like him could attract such a stunning female? The women pay more attention to Breeze, he thinks, because they’re stricken by fleeting jealousy for a figure that trumps theirs, or are trying to decide if she’s more attractive, or younger, in spite of the high percentage of them who have obviously enlisted the skills of cosmetic surgeons on more than one occasion and are now held hostage by the puffy-lipped, amazed look. Having a beauty like Breeze cling to him this way really boosts his ego. Must be how Howie feels most of the time. Howie: the woman magnet, the guy who juggles three to four women at a stretch, sorting through the prime ones, never seeming satisfied with how lucky he is to have the affections of even one of them.

  He’s grateful to Breeze for the way she makes him feel in spite of the mental speed bump of acknowledging she’s essentially his paid employee. But there’s something else bothering him, a niggling doubt in the back of his mind that she really didn’t visit her mother, that she was doing something entirely different. He shrugs off the suspicion and returns to enjoying having a knockout for a companion. After all, at the moment, she’s earning good money to look like a million-dollar model. Which is exactly the reason she can demand, and get, top dollar. Or at least it seemed like top dollar when he was shopping for an escort. He’s sure there are more expensive escorts available, but what more can they provide than what he’s enjoying now? Didn’t even cross his mind at the time. Hmm… interesting thought, though. Perhaps he should investigate the possibility. He immediately experiences a twinge of shame for being mentally unfaithful toward her, especially with the affection he feels toward her.

  They’re casually window shopping on a meandering route to the men’s store she’s selected for him. He’s never heard of the name until this morning but figures that’s not surprising, considering he’s never been interested in clothes nor been a slave to the elusive, ever fickle desire to be “in style.” He doubts his time in Las Vegas with Breeze will change his attitude. If he possessed unlimited funds and was so inclined—which he isn’t—he supposes he could hire a valet or butler to make sure his wardrobe remained fashionable. Then again, for what reason? Even if he turned into a clothes horse, his fundamental social personality would remain unchanged. He’d still be an introverted recluse who requires only a few good friends to make his life happy and satisfying. Simply put, he’s not a social animal in need of constant external entertainment and stimulation. And unlike many of his peers, who are driven to “experiences,” he isn’t interested in travel and living for the here and now. And he sure isn’t interested in accumulating “stuff,” like his parents did.

  He realizes he’s so wrapped up in thoughts that he’s ignoring her. “How was your mom?”

  She stops to peer in a window, and without turning from it, replies, “Pretty much the same. Has bad days and good days. Last night she didn’t sleep well because it was difficult to breathe and she’s got this cough keeps her up.”

  “And the dog?” He’s not sure why he throws this out, but is interested in her response.

  Without a moment’s hesitation she answers. “Fine. I let him out to do his business,” and turns from the window to resume walking.

  Arnold swats away the urge to ask why she must lie to him, to point out that during breakfast she claimed it was a cat in need of tending. Then again, maybe she has both a cat and a dog. Why assume she’s lying? Maybe this is her way of protecting her private life. Maybe there have been men who, like him, grow attached to her to the point of being nuisances, or stalkers, or… Besides, why should he give a damn? Once he leaves town he’ll never see her again. What difference does it make? Still…

  Giving his arm a gentle tug, she says, “In here.”

  The store is three walls of visually-pleasing dark-stained mahogany shelving and hanging racks comfortably stocked with jackets, a window facing out into the shopping area with a display for foot traffic, four spacious islands stacked with shirts, ties, and sweaters. A decidedly masculine scent from the distinct fragrances of leather, cotton, wool, and shoe polish, the sum total produces a pleasant potpourri that, to his amazement, subtly encourages a willingness to shell out a ton of money to stock one’s closet with more clothes than are reasonably necessary. A clever retailing ploy, he decides, similar to the way a hunter baits a trap.

  “May I help you find something?” asks a skeletal male not more than a few years senior to Arnold. With hands clasped together at chest level and deep-set wide eyes peering through black horn-rimmed glasses, he reminds Arnold of a praying mantis imitating Buddy Holly.

  Breeze turns to Arnold and raises her eyebrows questioningly.

  Arnold clears his throat. “I’m looking for a suit?” Don’t make a question of it, dammit.

  With a wan smile, the humanoid insect nods. “Very good, sir. Any particulars in mind? A designer? Color? Weight?”

  Designer? Arnold does his deer-in-the-headlight thing for a moment until he dredges up the only name he can think of, and only then because he remembers someone mention it in the distant past. “Armani.” That even right? Now he’s not so sure.

  Another nod, another smile, followed by a pirouette. “Very good, sir. This way.”

  Breeze takes hold of the clerk’s arm. “Wait,” stopping him in mid-stride. She steps back a few feet, shoots Arnold a head-to-toe inspection. “Naw. You’re more of a Zegna type. Besides, you’d be paying a premium for Armani’s name when you can get the same quality with Zegna. Maybe even save a few bucks in the process. What we save now can pay for dinner tonight.” Making them sound like an old married couple. He smiles.

  He’s never heard of the name—if it is a name—and decides to say nothing and just see what plays out. The clerk wags an index finger at her. “You know, you’re absolutely spot-on with that.” The finger sweeps left, to end up pointing toward a rack of suits on dark wood-and-brass hangers. “There we are.” He appraises Arnold a beat. “Forty regular?”

  Huh? Then he gets it and wings it with, “Let’s start with that and see what happens.” Hmm, that sounded okay.

  The clerk leads them to a mahogany closet stocked with suits spanning shades of brown through black and on into more desert colors. He inserts his palm between two suits and the other a few feet away. “The forties are in this section. But of course, if you don’t see anything that seems to be what you’re looking for, all our fabrics are there,” pointing to one of the islands with identical wood shelves laden with bolts of luxurious muted material, “and our tailor would be more than happy to make one to your specifications.”

  Of course he would.

  Breeze is already flipping through the suits, her hand moving with experience, inspecting a sleeve, discarding it, pulling out the next one until she’s narrowed the choice down to one suit that she lifts off the hanging rod to carry into the mirrored alcove where the lighting is truer. Draping the coat over her left arm, she massages the fabric between her thumb and index finger, and then flips over the lapel to read a label. Apparently satisfied, she checks the liner, and holds the garment up for Arnold. “What do you think? Want to try it on?”

  What do I think? Looks like a suit coat, is what I think. He nods. “Sure.”

  He shrugs off his navy North Face windbreaker, and the clerk slips him into the coat. Soon as his arms fill the sleeves, the clerk palms both hands from
the center of his back to his shoulders, smoothing the buttery material, then rotates Arnold by the shoulders ninety degrees to face the center of the three-mirror stage. Arnold stares at himself while the clerk flutters around, smoothing here and there, muttering sounds that aren’t quite intelligible words yet strike him as pleasantly approving.

  “Very nice fit,” the clerk finally opines with a gentle tug to the left lapel, then smoothes a palm over it to ensure a perfect lay. “Yes. A forty regular fits you like a glove.”

  Breeze strolls around him, eyes darting from shoes to collar, with brisk appreciative nods. Apparently satisfied, she steps back. “What do you think?”

  Arnold moves into the mirrors a bit more to take advantage of all three simultaneously, turning this way and that, assessing the back of the two-button coat, his right fingers absentmindedly luxuriating in the silky-soft weave of pure lightweight wool. The color is a deep, rich charcoal with tone-on-tone muted stripes. He glances at the left mirror, then the right, again rotating slightly one way then the other, seeing what looks like a man’s suit. Nothing more, nothing less. What is there to say? A suit’s a suit. But considering all this hoopla Breeze and the clerk are generating, he feels it necessary to appear to possess some semblance of a discerning eye.

  Without thinking of what he is about to do, he reaches down to check the price tag dangling from the left sleeve. And is shocked. Twenty-five hundred dollars! Half off. On sale. Jesus! What the hell could possibly make a suit this expensive?

  Well, the shop, for starters. The overhead on this puppy must be ginormous.

  Breeze and the clerk continue to await an answer.

  Before he can say a word, the clerk hands him the pants still clamped to the hanger. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the dressing room where you can slip into these and evaluate the entire ensemble.”