Man at Work

by Elaine Fox

  As the older woman described her house in Tuscany, Marcy spotted Win standing alone by the buffet table.

  “I’m so sorry, Calvin, Sheila, would you excuse me, please?” she asked during a lull in the conversation.

  “Of course,” they both said at once, then looked at each other and laughed.

  Marcy walked away, intent on Win Downey.

  “I’m sorry,” Calvin said to Sheila as Marcy disappeared. “I didn’t introduce you properly but I’m afraid I didn’t catch your last name.”

  Sheila laughed, touching him briefly on the sleeve as she did so. “It’s Fleming, dear, Sheila Fleming. You’re such a gentleman, Calvin. Wherever did you come from? Why haven’t I met you before?”

  Marcy rode down the elevator trying to suppress the grin she wanted so badly to let bound onto her face like an exuberant puppy. But she was surrounded by people, most notably Trish and her date, Palmer Roe.

  When she’d finally gotten to talk to Win Downey, he’d gone on and on about how proud he was of the job she was doing on the Burton case. The way she’d presented it in the Monday meeting, he’d said, he could’ve closed his eyes and believed she was a senior associate. Or better, he’d said with a wink, which Marcy took to mean “partner track.”

  Granted, he was talking so expansively he’d obviously nipped a little at the champagne, but still. He hadn’t had to say the things he had.

  Then there was Calvin, who was apparently romantically interested in that diamond woman. Even better, she had appeared quite interested in him.

  And his food! It couldn’t have been any better received. From everyone she talked to, she believed it had gotten universal acclaim.

  The whole evening could not have gone any better.

  Against her will the image of Truman flitted through her mind once again. Okay, she let herself think. It might have gone better had Truman been a completely different person and come with her as her date. Then, yes, the evening could have been better.

  She looked over at Palmer Roe, who was good-looking, charming, and rich, as they rode down the elevator together. Trish has all the luck, she thought. She finds interesting men and they’re perfect. I find an interesting man and he’s broke, lies effortlessly, and juggles women like a street performer with bowling pins.

  She sighed as the elevator doors opened and the three of them exited into the garage. The smell of motor oil and exhaust was practically a relief after an evening spent clouded in every expensive cologne on the market.

  “Where are you parked, Marcy?” Trish asked.

  She pointed down the aisle in front of them. “I’m just down here. Next to that black BMW, I think.”

  “Let us walk you to your car,” Palmer said, tucking Trish’s hand in his arm. “No woman should be alone in a parking garage at night.”

  Trish beamed up at him as if he’d just offered to send Marcy to college. “That’s so nice. Isn’t that nice, Marcy?”

  Trish might have had a little too much champagne too.

  Marcy laughed. “Yes, it is. Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe.”

  Palmer shook his head. “Nope. I won’t hear of it. We’re only an aisle away anyway, so it’s not even out of our way.”

  The three walked to Marcy’s car, laughing about modern-day chivalry, but as they rounded the black BMW they abruptly stopped laughing.

  All four of Marcy’s tires were flat.

  Palmer dropped Trish’s hand gently and moved toward the car. Getting down on one knee he fingered the tread of the closest one.

  He looked back up at Marcy, his face full of concern. “They’ve been slashed.”

  Marcy was shaken badly, but there was no way she was going to accept Trish’s offer to stay with her. For one thing, Marcy lived in a secure building. Supposedly. But for another, things were obviously going very well with Trish and Palmer, and Marcy didn’t want to mess things up for her friend just because someone was trying to spook her.

  “Really, you guys, thank you for your concern,” she said to Palmer and Trish as they dropped her in front of her building. The night was cold and she clutched her coat around her as she bent to look in Trish’s window. “But if someone was really going to attack me, would they give me such an obvious warning sign first? No, they’re just trying to scare me.”

  “Well, they’ve scared me,” Trish said. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me? I know I’d feel better.”

  “Really, Marcy. Why take the chance?” Palmer said, leaning across Trish to look at Marcy out the window. One arm was stretched across the back of Trish’s seat.

  Marcy smiled. “Because I don’t think there is a chance, for one thing. Besides, this is a very secure building.”

  She pictured Truman as he’d looked that first day he’d gotten around the doorman and startled her at her front door.

  “If you’re sure,” Trish said, shaking her head.

  “I am. And thanks for the ride.”

  “Want me to pick you up for work tomorrow?” Trish asked.

  “I’ll just take a cab, thanks. I might have to get in early. Prepping for depositions, you know.”

  They both made a face, then laughed, and Marcy let them go.

  She watched them drive off, wishing she had a Palmer Roe to go home with. She didn’t know why Trish complained about him so much. He seemed like a really decent guy. Not like some she could name.

  With a sigh, she went up to her apartment. She was a bit nervous entering the darkened living room, but as she walked about, turning on every light in the place, it became clear no one was there and nothing had been disturbed.

  While she couldn’t say she slept particularly well, she did sleep and get up early the next morning. The first thing she did upon arriving at the office was write a note to Truman asking him to meet her at The Guards, a bar in Georgetown, at five thirty that evening. She had something important to talk about. Then she called a messenger service to courier it over to his apartment.

  She shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was when she had trouble getting someone to take the letter into that part of town. Finally, however, she tracked down a service that would do it and instructed them to slide the envelope under the door when they got there. In that neighborhood there was no way any sort of envelope would go untouched in the hallway.

  Five fifteen saw her in the bar of The Guards. She hadn’t heard from Truman, though she’d thought he might call and try to talk her into a different place, so there was a chance he wouldn’t show. In any case, though, Marcy hadn’t gone straight home, so if anyone was banking on her sticking to her routine they were thwarted. At least temporarily.

  She’d had her car towed in the morning and had picked it up on the way here. Four new tires richer and six hundred dollars poorer, she sat nursing a vodka collins in the dark, polished bar. Around her, men in power suits chatted and drank while eyeing women in business dress and post-work, reapplied makeup. Large palmlike trees graced every corner, casting shadows on select private tables in the dim light. She’d thought about grabbing one of those, but she didn’t want Truman getting the wrong idea.

  “Hi, you’re looking lonely over here all by yourself. Are you alone or waiting for someone?”

  Marcy looked up to see a nice-looking guy in a blue pinstriped suit gazing down at her. Red tie, white shirt, he had to be a lawyer, she thought. In his hand he held a martini.

  She smiled. He looked exactly like the kind of guy she always imagined herself with—well dressed, well groomed, well spoken—so she wondered why she felt disappointed it wasn’t Truman.

  “Waiting for someone,” she said.

  He gave her a rueful look and shook his head. “Just my luck,” he said, and went back to his buddy at the bar.

  She looked down at her drink. Maybe Truman would stand her up, she thought. She had been pretty cold to him the other day, and he had no idea why. But that was stupid, she told herself. Whether he knew she knew about the other woman or not,
he certainly knew he was jerking her around. He deserved whatever he got.

  At five forty-five, Marcy was wondering how long she should wait. She was feeling a little foolish, since the guy in the pinstriped suit was still glancing her way every now and then. If she nursed this drink much longer she’d either look like a liar or a loser. She should have brought some work.

  She glanced at her watch again. Nearly six. The waiter appeared at her table.

  “Anything else?” he asked, clearly wanting the table for more profitable patrons.

  “No, I…” Just then she saw someone skulking in the front door. He was dressed in jeans and leather bomber jacket, along with dark sunglasses. He was even looking toward the wall as if he were afraid the masses would recognize him and come begging for his autograph. She started to laugh.

  “Actually, I’ll have another,” she said, looking up at the waiter.

  He walked off without replying and she was sure she saw him rolling his eyes.

  Truman spotted her—she wasn’t sure how, since he barely looked around the room and probably couldn’t see a thing in those dark glasses—and headed straight for her table. Once there, he sat in the chair facing the wall and let his hair fall forward over his face.

  “What was all that about? Is something wrong?” she asked, leaning slightly toward him, still trying to contain her smile.

  “No,” he said curtly.

  She paused, then said, “Then why are you acting so…”

  “So what? You summoned, I came. Was there something else you wanted? Flowers, maybe?”

  She frowned and exhaled in exasperation. “Truman, I’m sorry if I sounded high-handed in my note, but you’re so hard to get hold of you don’t give me much choice.”

  He gave her a hard look through his hair. Or what she thought was a hard look—it was difficult to tell what with the Tom Cruise shades and all. It was all she could do not to reach over and brush the heavy locks from his face.

  She glanced at the guy in the blue suit. He’d turned fully away now, no longer intrigued by her since her “date” had arrived.

  Oh, the hell with him, she thought. Stuck-up asshole. She didn’t want to date another lawyer anyway.

  “You didn’t call me here to talk about the phone situation again, did you?” he asked. His words dripped disdain.

  “No.” She looked at him a long moment, wondering if coming to him had been such a wise idea. “Last night someone slashed my tires.”

  For a second Truman froze. Then he pulled the glasses from his face and flipped the hair out of his eyes with a quick motion of his head.

  “What?” He gave her a look so penetrating her knees felt weak.

  “I was at a party. At work. When I got back to my car all four tires had been slashed.”

  “Where was the car?”

  “In the garage at my office. The Finkletter Building on K.”

  “Were you alone?” His eyes were pinned on her like an interrogator’s. She felt her cheeks heat.

  “No, I was with friends. They gave me a ride home.”

  “Did you see anyone suspicious? Hear anything? See someone walking away in a hurry, either there or at your apartment? In the lobby, maybe?”

  She shook her head. “No, the garage was empty. My apartment was untouched. Truman, do you think Guido did this?”

  He was silent a minute. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not? He was the first person I thought of. Maybe Planners knows I’ve talked to Donnie Molloy.”

  Truman pushed his glasses into the pocket of his coat and ran a hand through his hair. It was getting quite long, but Marcy was starting to like it.

  “I’ll ask Donnie tomorrow if anyone has contacted him,” he said. “Or if anything weird has happened. Seems to me if something had, though, he’d have said something today. You might have noticed he’s not exactly the quiet type.”

  The waiter stopped by at that moment and Truman ordered a beer. A Budweiser. Marcy sighed, picturing her father on the couch with a Bud in his hand.

  “But who else would it be,” she continued once the waiter had left, “if not Guido? They don’t have another, what would you call him, a hit man? Do they?”

  Truman looked at her closely and was sure he detected some real apprehension in her eyes. Of course. What a fool he’d been, thinking just because Guido was inept that Planners wouldn’t hire someone else. But he really hadn’t thought Planners was behind it all.

  The whole thing had Lang written all over it, despite what Arthur had said. Lang was the one whose butt would be in a sling if Marcy won this lawsuit. Or rather, the one whose butt would be on the street, looking for a new job. And Lang was the one nasty, and stupid, enough to try to frighten someone off with dirty tricks. Planners would know they’d just find themselves in criminal court as well as civil.

  “Marcy, I wasn’t completely honest with you about Guido, uh, Arthur the other day.” He thought with shame about his motivation for not telling her about Arthur’s crush. He’d wanted her scared, just a little bit, just enough to keep him around.

  Clearly that strategy had failed.

  Her midnight eyes studied him. “What do you mean?”

  “For reasons I don’t want to get into, I didn’t tell you all of what Arthur said and I’m sorry. The real reason he came to your apartment that night was because, well, he’s got a little crush on you.”

  Marcy looked startled. “A crush?”

  Truman nodded and she started to laugh.

  “I’m serious. He said he went by your place to see if you’d go out with him.” He smiled a little ruefully. “I guess you didn’t make him feel very welcome.”

  She laughed again and Truman felt a pang of pity for the big oaf. “I guess not. Lucky me. I seem to attract all the—” She stopped, cast him a mortified look, and continued, “I just, I’ve had some bad luck with guys the last year or so.”

  He kept his eyes on her face. “And you think I’m bad luck too.”

  She started to say something—though it wasn’t clear she was protesting—but Truman stopped her.

  “It’s okay, I know all about girls like you and how you don’t want to be seen with guys like me.”

  She cocked her head and scrutinized him with narrowed eyes. “And by guys like you you mean guys who are…?”

  “BMW-free.” He leaned back in his chair. “Don’t worry, sugar, I understand completely. Guys like me are really only good for one thing.”

  He let that hang in the air a minute while her face grew red. Only she didn’t look embarrassed or chagrined. She looked furious.

  “Listen, Mr. Holier Than Thou,” she said lowly, but she was interrupted by the waiter dropping off Truman’s beer.

  “You were saying?” he asked once the guy left.

  “I think I explained my reasons for not continuing our…whatever you want to call it, our affair, the other day.”

  “The case.”

  She nodded. “The case.”

  “What a crock of—”

  “Look, this should be good news for you. One less chick to juggle. Surely that’s a relief.” Her words came out incensed. “By the way, I’m finding a home for Folly this week. I think she needs to be somewhere she’s not locked up in a bedroom all the time.”

  He leaned forward, his arms on the table in front of him. “What are you talking about? First of all, Folly’s fine where she is. In fact, she’s so not cooped up I had to tape the pieces of your letter together tonight to find out what it said. Anything that comes in under the door is a chew toy to her. And second of all, I’m not juggling anything, least of all chicks.”

  “Uh-huh. So that girl there the other night was just your chef, right? Or wait—maybe she’s part of the delivery service you employ on your extravagant salary? Which is it, Truman? Girlfriend? Chef? Delivery service?”

  He sat stunned. She knew about Heather. How did she know about Heather?

  “Can’t decide?” she continued. “Well, I’ll tel
l you something, Truman. Don’t bother, because I wouldn’t believe what you told me anyway.”

  She stood up.

  “Marcy, wait,” he said, reaching out as if to take her by the hand.

  But she whirled, grabbed her coat and purse off the back of the chair, and marched for the door.

  Truman stood and started to follow but was caught by a hand on his arm.

  “You’re not going anywhere, buddy,” the waiter told him. “Not until I get eighteen dollars and seventy-two cents. Plus tip.”

  14

  Wednesday, November 6

  WORD-A-DAY!

  JACTITATION: n., a restless tossing to and fro; as when one reverses one’s decision, yet again, about associating with a companion just recently jettisoned

  Truman yanked his wallet out of his back pocket and shoved a twenty at the waiter. Another twenty out the window before it had a chance to cool off from the ATM.

  “Hey,” the waiter called as Truman bolted around tables and through the crowd at the door. “What kind of a tip is that?”

  He caught Marcy halfway down the block, her high-heeled strides fast and purposeful, carrying her away from him as quickly as they could without running.

  Panting, he got close and grabbed her arm, pulling her aside and out of the stream of people on the sidewalk. “Marcy, wait.”

  She turned and glared up at him. “I’m so sorry, Truman. I haven’t been very professional. I forgot to mention that depositions are two weeks from today. The twentieth. My office will be in touch with you to set up a time to prep for them.”

  She started to turn but he didn’t let go of her arm. She stopped.

  “She was a chef, all right?” he said, regaining his breath and dropping his hand from her arm. “I know it’s ridiculous and you probably won’t believe me, but my mother, whom I definitely do not wish to talk about, thinks I’m not taking care of myself, so she hired Heather to come cook for me.”

  His heart was hammering in his chest. He didn’t want to tell her about his mother, he didn’t want to reveal any more about himself or his circumstances, but there was no story believable enough that it wouldn’t sound like a lie.