I grabbed the phone. “Wait a minute, we had a deal.” My voice quaked. “You agreed to one week. Don’t you come near me before Saturday.”
No answer. I waited.
Click. Dial tone.
***
Wearing a knee-length Paddington Bear tee—Benita had purchased it at the Less-Than-A-Dollar store—I blended up a banana smoothie for the two of us. It was the least I could do. “But, Binnie, if you use up all your vacation time now, say good-bye to that Carnival cruise.”
She sat at the kitchen counter, still dressed for work. She was so upset when I told her about my porno phone call from Curtis that she contacted her office and claimed the rest of her vacation days. This did not make her boss too happy. “Hey, it’s my life, too,” she said. “So don’t get into any guilt over it. I thought therapists didn’t approve of guilt.”
Setting two glasses on the island counter, I climbed onto the stool next to my roommate. “I ordered a trace on the Hummer’s license plate number through the web. I wonder if I could risk hiring a PI that way without Curtis finding out.”
Benita glared at me. “Not with my butt on the line, you can’t. Besides, we don’t need one. I’m telling you, we can do this. I found a website with some good do-it-yourself suggestions. And they’re cheap.”
“So, that explains what I saw on the table in our laundry room.” I’d found a magnifying glass, a small brush and an assortment of Gwen’s items, plus the note Darryl had sent to us. All covered in some mysterious brown powder. “What’s that brown stuff that smells like cocoa?”
She grinned. “Cocoa. Works great when dusting for prints.”
“What? Next you’ll be doing your homemade forensics in our kitchen, and I will not have skin shavings next to the arugula.”
“Bold times require bold measures. We may even have to go incognito.”
“Wonderful. I’ll be running for my life in a Darth Vader mask. And to think I was worried. I can’t believe you’re actually getting off on this.”
“Damn straight. Time to kick ass.” Benita hopped off the stool, rinsed her dishes and turned to me. “I need a good sparring session. Boxing keeps me ready. In fact, when this whole thing is settled, I might even come out of retirement. Let’s head over to Gleason’s this morning.”
I rolled my eyes. Since quitting the fight game, Benita spoke of coming out of retirement an average of three times a month. I’d grown immune to the announcement. “You go without me. I’ve been awake since that three a.m. phone call. The gym is the last thing—”
“You’re uptight about Eldridge being there with that Buckley chick.”
Was I that transparent? “Well, he brought her to Jaleel’s party.”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen you fall over your feet like this for a guy. What do you want with a nutjob window-washer like Eldridge Mace? You’re a freakin Ph.D. There are plenty of hot lawyers and doctors and architects.”
“And don’t forget the mold removers.”
“Why are you so hooked on Mace?”
I thought about it, asking myself if this was all about Eddie Rivera and my sixteen-year-old heartache. Having no idea what the answer was, I just said, “I better get started. The receptionist at FWI told me ‘the nose’ would be in at nine thirty. I’ve also got to phone the Institute for Sexual Counseling, as well as my private clients and the women in my Clitoral Culture group to cancel everything for this week.”
I went straight to my room, determined to make up for my Mississippi debacle. How to bait Tim Donnelly into seeing us this very day? Raffy said he was interested in Gwen’s new perfume, and if the tablet did relate to that perfume, then he had to know something. Maybe he even knew where the tablet was. That statement in Gwen’s journal about me being the only one who knew could be out-of-date. She might have told someone like Tim since writing that note.
When I used Raffy DiNardo’s name, the receptionist put me through to the perfumer. He came across as cold and irascible, making things rather disconcerting at first. But my brilliant idea to tell him I had a gift for him from the late Gwen Applebee turned him around. We arranged to meet at three thirty in the FWI building on Fifty-seventh Street.
As soon as I hung up, a call came in from Irv Monsky, my aunt’s lover and the director of the Center for Being. It was about my Do-Me-Good sex toy demonstration party that was scheduled at the Center…tonight at seven. Where was my brain? Thanks to all the fun I was having courtesy of my dear, deceased friend, I’d totally lost track of my normal life.
Too late to call off the demo party. Some of the people coming were referrals from clients and friends. There was no way to track them all down. Plus, Irv had made an effort to round up members of his own flock for me. I couldn’t worm out now. And even though Lana was still in East Hampton, she’d want to know why I was canceling last minute.
As soon as I finished my brief talk with Irv, I rushed to catch Benita before she left for her workout. I broke the news and added, “So, after our meeting with Tim Donnelly in midtown, we’ll both shoot down to SoHo. I need your help with my sex toy party.”
“Do I have to?” Benita groaned. “Why can’t you be like most women and give baby showers or Oscar parties?”
“Come on, I was there to support you at every one of your boxing matches. And I had to watch them with my eyes closed.”
“Saylor, a person cannot see anything when their eyes are closed.”
“Exactly.”
“Make a deal. I’ll help out with your sex toy party if you come to the gym.”
“Done.”
After Benita took off, I phoned the Institute for Sexual Counseling to tell them I wouldn’t be available for my usual Thursday appointments at their clinic this week due to a personal emergency. Next I called clients and got into a mini session with Hannah McClure.
“You’re not alone, Hannah. Many women still grow up under the ‘bad girl’ curse, afraid to touch and explore their own bodies. Ridiculous, considering that guys become experts at getting themselves off long before losing their virginity. Given the number of females that still approach their first round of intercourse without ever having experienced orgasm, I urge you to hit the practice green. The sooner the better.”
By eleven o’clock I’d managed to either leave voice mail messages or have little chats with all of this week’s clients and the women in my Clitoral Culture Group. Such wonderful people. It made me realize how much I loved my work. And my life.
Resolute in my determination not to let anyone take it from me, I decided to dress in spunky, tight black jeans that made my legs look super firm, a low-cut floral blouse and a pair of pastel pink heels. I whisked on eyeliner, caked a matte lipstick over my healing cut and dabbed myself with Chance by Chanel. Hyacinth uplifts the spirits. Too bad I wasn’t going anywhere except the gym, where I’d be peeling off my clothes and pushing myself through a boring hour that would leave me a frizz-topped sweat-sicle. I tossed a pair of oversized sweatpants and an old undershirt of my brother’s into my gym bag. So what if they made me resemble a baby elephant? It was Monday morning. No way Eldridge would be at Gleason’s. Right now, he’d be somewhere up in the clouds overlooking the city, washing the windows of some office building.
The gym was only two blocks away, but I felt skittish and eyed all parked and mobile cars for any sign of Curtis and company. It was another day of blistering heat. Sunlight and people on the street offered a touch of solace and protection. Still, I moved swiftly.
When I got to the gym I saw Benita standing next to the second ring. Jaleel was lacing up her gloves. “Hey, Bin,” I called out.
Looking revved in her nifty orange mouthpiece, she lifted a glove to me. Manny, a skinny Dominican fighter from Flatbush, stood nearby. Don’t tell me she was going in with him today? Last time it took about four layers of makeup to compensate for six rounds with Manny. And this afternoon we had a meeting at the uber-company of high-fashion fragrance. I put off going to the locker room to change and hung out n
ear the ring for the first round, pretending to watch.
“Get off the ropes, Binnie,” Jaleel said. She stepped to the side and unleashed a staccato blur of rapid-fire punches, her famous “Boricua Flurry.”
When the bell ended the round, Manny laughed and gave her a love tap on the shoulder. “You’re fighting like you old bitch self. You must got a man problem.”
She didn’t answer him, but I knew how few men Benita had gone out with since her divorce. Not that she’d ever dated as omnivorously as I. Despite my current dry spell, I normally had one or two play pals around. But my practical roommate had always been tough on men. She
wanted a husband and kids real bad, and if a guy didn’t appear to be Daddy material, she didn’t waste her time.
Benita leaned over the ropes toward me. “I’m gonna go a few more rounds. You want Rasheed to help you work the bag?”
“No, I’d rather just…” I was caught off guard by a hand on the small of my back. I turned. What was he doing here this morning? Eldridge stood close, wearing only boxing trunks that rode low on his hips. A sweatband made his Mohawk features more apparent. His cheekbones glistened with perspiration. So did his buff, bare torso. Guess he liked to work out as near to naked as possible. I clamped my teeth together to keep my tongue from hanging out.
“I’ll put you through some drills on the bag,” he said.
Not exactly the kind of drilling I wanted from him. “Oh, hi.” Taking therapy advice I’d given clients, I stayed in neutral, thinking it over. Always best to process what’s really happening with a guy when you’re dying to jump his bones. Not an easy task. His hand on my back was giving me a case of the randy tingles. But the last time he played cutesy-poo with me I watched him walk off into the sunset with Tara. What was he up to?
Eldridge dipped his head toward me. “Let me show you how to work it really hard.” His sultry tone removed any doubt as to the nasty double meaning.
Unfortunately, all I had in my gym bag were my baby-blimp workout clothes. I’d rot in hell before I’d let Eldridge see me looking like a walking tent. Benita started another round, and I feigned interest. “Thanks, but I’ll just grab a stationary bike.”
His finger softly brushed my lip. “You heal fast.” He lowered his voice. “You’re a fool not to tell me what’s going on. I’m not a bad guy to have around when there’s trouble.”
My acting skills were usually pretty good when I dealt with clients, but Mr. Mace dismantled my ability to focus. I stumbled over a few meaningless words, finally getting out, “You have an overactive imagination.”
“Depends on the subject.” His pale, sexy eyes locked on mine, snaring me in a Mexican standoff that felt decidedly erotic.
I considered what Benita said earlier about the effect Eldridge had on me. She was right. I was hooked on him in a way I couldn’t quite figure out. In my recent relationships, I’d been more disappointed than hurt. But I remembered too well what it felt like to fall hard and be wounded. And I suspected that’s just where I’d wind up if I got involved with the Mace-man. “Well, it was nice to see you, Eldridge.” I headed for the dressing rooms.
He followed me. “I haven’t forgotten what you said at Sunny’s. About Gwen Applebee.”
I wheeled around. “Sometimes I say too much. Especially after one too many martinis.”
“You look like you’re not getting enough sleep.”
A flattering comment. “Maybe the sex is too good.”
“Don’t put me on. You look tired. And not in that way.”
“Gee, thanks. First I’m fat, now I’m tired, next it’ll be—”
“I never said you were fat. I’m no good at judging a woman’s weight. You really know how to make a guy feel like a jerk. No wonder you don’t date anybody.”
I wanted to heave my gym bag at him, but I dug my fingers into it instead. “Up yours, Mr. Boxer. I have more boyfriends than I can handle.”
“I never see you with anyone. You came alone to Jaleel’s picnic. And Tara said—”
“Tara?!” A few people gawked at us. I got control of myself. “It just so happens the man I’m involved with now would send Ms. Tara-make-me-puke-Buckley begging on her knees.” This was control? Here I was, making up stuff again. Every time I saw this guy I turned into a maladjusted adolescent.
“Guess I’ll catch a glimpse of him tonight,” he said. “At your sex toy party.”
My mouth went dry. “Where’d you find out about that?”
“Jaleel told me. Invited me to come along.”
Panic attack number twenty-four. I was about to say my boyfriend would be working tonight, when Eldridge cut me off.
“Of course, if you’re bullshitting me, the standard out would be to tell me he’s got to work and can’t be there.” Mr. Boxer had me boxed in. An unmistakable call-your-bluff grin sneaked across his face.
“You have some very serious mental disorders.”
He started laughing. “So, lay me down on your couch, Doc.”
I stormed into the women’s locker room and hurt my toe kicking one of the lockers. Damn Jaleel. Inviting Eldridge to my Do-Me-Good sex toy party. Maybe I should’ve canceled after all. Would Eldridge really show up? What if he brings Tara? And what guy was I going to introduce as my prize hunk? I zoomed through my brain files for male friends. He’d have to be gorgeous, available at the last minute and willing to play along.
Did I need this? In less than a week Curtis would be coming for me. I should be spending every second of my time figuring out what brought the likes of Curtis down on Gwen. And making sense of her poem so I could find that cockamamie tablet. And then doing whatever in hell she expected me to do with it. Hey, anything for a friend. I wanted to scream.
In the meantime, thanks to my oh-so-intelligent choice of workout clothes, I was stuck in this locker room until Eldridge left. But how would I know when he’d gone? I couldn’t keep peeking out the door without being noticed. Well, I could try.
On about the twentieth peek, I opened the door a crack and saw him hitting the speed bag with his back to me. Flipping open my cell, I pretended to be talking as I slithered past him.
Just as I was making my elusive exit, Eldridge called out, “See you tonight.”
***
As I stomped through the door of our loft I was greeted by Benita’s mynah bird. “I’m horny! I’m horny!”
“Don’t remind me, Petey. You’re talking to a deprived woman.” I threw my gym bag on the sofa and stood in front of the mirror that hung in the foyer. My face did look tired. I’d had rotten sleep in the three nights since Curtis gave me a one-week deadline. Let’s hope Tim had some answers.
After giving Uncle Pete his food pellets, I switched on my laptop and checked my e-mail. Aha. A response on the license plate trace. The plate number was from a 1990 Honda Civic that belonged to a woman upstate. And the vehicle had been reported as stolen. Benita was right. These guys were pros.
In my bedroom I wriggled out of my denims. My answering machine blinked, indicating two messages. Please. No more romantic overtures from Curtis. Here goes.
“Hi, Saylor, it’s Fip. I need your help. Would you please try to persuade Benita to return my calls? I really miss her. I just need to see her face. You know how much I love her. Help me out, will you? Thanks, Saylor. You’re the best.”
Sigh. Benita was so lucky. I wished she wouldn’t be so hard on him.
Next message: “Hello, Dr. Oz. This is Alan Grossman. We met at Lana Klein’s Love Your Body workshop. Are you free for dinner tonight? Call me anytime on my cell at…”
Fingertips trembling with excitement, I snatched up a pen and frantically scribbled down his number. Who said there was no such thing as divine intervention? This was a bona fide windfall. A great looking, intelligent man who also happened to be a world-famous film director. Pinch me. Was he really interested in Saylor Oz, former munchkin? Maybe he was casting for a remake of The Wizard. In any case, he would certainly do as my impromptu trophy g
uy.
Wasting no time, I called Alan and asked if he’d mind being my date for my Do-Me-Good party first and then having a late dinner afterward. He loved the idea. I could tell Alan wanted to talk awhile, but I had to cut him off. I needed to reach Fip before Benita came home. I got him on his cell and suggested he come to the demo party. Fippy thanked me profusely, promising to buy several of Do-Me-Good’s latest.
Was I crazy? I had a lethal deadline, and here I was dabbling in romantic games. Guess even an impending death threat wasn’t enough to topple getting laid from the upper echelons of my priority list. Blame it on Eldridge Mace.
After making check-up calls to my mom and brother, I showered and threw on fresh panties and a tank top. Trying to de-puff my tired punim, I sat at the kitchen counter with my face in a bowl of ice cubes.
A door opened behind me. “You better hang your head in shame, girl.” Benita was home. “What happened to your workout? Run into somebody we both know?”
I looked up and smiled. There was a slight swelling above her right eye. “You could use a little ice yourself.” She plucked a cube from the bowl and pressed it to her brow. I dumped my ice cubes and checked her face. “Neomycin and concealer should do it.” I had to proceed cautiously. Benita would need some breaking in on the Fippy surprise package. Clearing my throat, I started by telling her about Alan Grossman. When I got to the part about Fippy coming to the party, she glared at me, dumbfounded.
“How could you? I get it. Payback for Jerome Markowitz.”
“No. It was Fippy’s voice. He was begging for my help.”
“Okay, Ms. Social Worker, I’m going right downstairs to invite Mr. Fellows. I hear he’s lonely and looking for a good time.”
“Go ahead. Maybe he’ll buy some sex toys. Although, judging by the way he likes to squeeze my butt in the elevator, I think he’s a hands-on purist.”
ELEVEN
Considering the joys of midtown traffic and parking lot prices, Benita and I opted instead to be gouged by a cab. We had our driver make a pit stop in SoHo at the Center for Being so I could drop off my shopping bags filled with Do-Me-Good demonstration products.
Aphrodisiac Page 12