by Patti Abbott
That one tiny speck of doubt. Like, you still know it's all planned, but at the same time, you don't know. And maybe you don't want to know anymore. That's what it's about.
Because let me tell you brother, there is no factory out there manufacturing folding chairs that don't hurt when you get clubbed over the head with one. There is no good way to fall down. Are there ways that are better than others? Sure, but you still feel it. You always feel it. That night out there on Eddie Tortuga's ranch, when I came down out of the air and hit those stone steps, I felt them.
I felt every single one of them.
I just didn't think about how much it was going to hurt until I was already in the air.
The Higher the Heels
by Patti Abbott
The Night Owl was a blue-collar bar, and although Cara Willis had discarded the look that said she belonged there, she often stopped in after work. She'd paid less than $300 for the navy suit she wore tonight, but it looked damned good, as did the $80 haircut, and the gym-trim body. The higher the heels, the higher your sales numbers someone had told her ten years earlier, when she first got her license.
The guy across from her at the horseshoe bar was exceptionally cute. She noticed this gradually, since the lighting wasn't great. He was the type she was a sucker for—skinny build, wavy dark hair lightly swept back, tight jeans, one discreet tattoo curling out of his tee shirt. Drinking a beer. Perfect. Solitary whiskey drinkers were likely to be alkies. She made eye contact, and a few minutes later the bartender delivered her a second G & T. She smiled encouragingly and the guy began his slow slide around the bar. It was like a mating dance, and she felt pins and needles in her feet as she got ready to tango.
More than once in her pathetic dating history, a quick trip to her place or his had resulted in disease, a missing purse, a cab ride home (paid for by her), a black eye. And on one dismal night, she spent a half-hour sticking an eye-dropper filled with medicine inside a cat's mouth while the doofus she was with pried it open. She'd come away with some minor wounds, but her itch never got scratched.
"New guy" arrived at the empty stool to her right.
"Joey Rinaldi," he said, not offering a hand. So he wasn't just dressed the part of a blue-collar guy. White-collars always went for the handshake.
"Cara Willis." She patted the stool beside her, and he took it, lazily sliding his ass back and forth.
"You gonna sit down or polish it?" she asked.
For a minute, she thought he wasn't going to get it. Damn. Another double-digit I.Q. had sashayed into her life. But then he smiled, showing his nice white teeth. Relieved, she took a long sip. She had a weakness for choosing men of limited intelligence. So many good-looking guys were either gay or dumb—and often both. Did good looks accompany a low I.Q?
"Hey, I remember you," he said suddenly, pointing a finger at her and shaking it. "Realtor, right? You were showing a property I thought about buying a year or two ago. Over on Washington Lane? 'Round 800 square feet? Needed a lot of electrical work? Remember? Come on—the wires were dangling?"
She did remember the place then: a small storefront perfect for selling ice cream, which is how it ended up.
"Do you sell ice cream too?" she asked.
"What?"
"The purchasers sell TCBY now or something like that." She took a sip. "So what did you have in mind for the space?"
"I repair jewelry," he said. "Make some from time to time too. I was thinking of starting my own business about then. Would have been a good space as well as a good place. Location-wise, I mean. That was before things went bust, of course. Now I just work for the man."
"The man?" She stirred the ice with her finger and licked it.
He shrugged. "The man is anyone cutting a check other than me."
"And you don't like that, right?"
"Right." He twisted the ring on his finger. It had a blue stone and looked expensive.
"Did you make that?" She nodded toward his hand.
"Nah. It was a gift. I like to make more delicate things."
She never finished the second drink. Cara was a sucker for scrawny guys with witty banter, and his came close enough.
Thankfully, her place turned out to be the closer one. She was leery of going to the homes of strange men. Their filthy apartments were a turnoff. Or their unnervingly clean ones were even worse. One guy actually stripped the bed before she left the bedroom. Earlier, she'd thought their shower together was foreplay.
Joey was good in the sack. So good, in fact, it made her worry. Why was a good-looking guy like him with a woman not nearly his equal in the looks department? Looks were as far as they'd gotten, so it couldn't be something else. She was a six-plus at best. He was like a 9, she thought, looking him over in the lamplight. And half a dozen years younger than her probably. At some point, that first evening, she lost the upper hand.
"Nine" got up from the bed and roamed around, picking things up. "This you in high school?"
Momentarily embarrassed that she kept a picture of herself on display, she came up with something fast. "That's my twin sister, Cathy." He probably wouldn't be around long enough to find out she was an only child.
He looked over at her. "She could be your double."
Was she supposed to laugh?
He put the photo down. "So what's your story?"
She shrugged. "I sell properties—as you already know. Belong to a book club and vote Democratic—but don't tell my boss. I like pistachio ice-cream, summer carnivals with phony midway games and dangerous rides, and the Pixies."
"You mean like fairies?"
"They're a musical group."
No sign of interest. "Realtors must know more about what goes on behind closed doors than most people."
"That would be home sales," she said. "I rarely get involved in those. They're a pain in the ass because everyone thinks their home is worth more than it is if they're selling, and less than it is if they're buying. Businessmen are more realistic. A lot less hand-holding."
"I bet you made a pretty penny on the one I missed out on."
Cara shrugged. She couldn't really remember what her commission had been but certainly nothing special.
"So they put an ice-cream parlor in that place?" He shook his head. "Ice cream that profitable?"
"Yup." Why the hell was he so interested in it?
Reading her mind, he said, "It would've been perfect for me. A great space for a nice little pawnshop." He stroked the hair on his chest and she shivered.
"Thought you said jewelry?" she said, pulling herself together.
"Same difference. People pawn jewelry more than anything else." He got up and started dressing. Not a ripple of flesh to be seen. Pity she couldn't say the same. She pulled the sheet up tight and stayed put.
"Maybe we can do this again?" He was combing his hair in her mirror and caught her eyes. "Dinner, movie, whatever."
"Okay," she said. "I already put my number in your phone. You really should keep it locked."
He flinched. "I don't keep stuff about money on it."
"Cara with a C," she said.
"And how would you pronounce that?"
Thank God, he was joking.
Cara fell hard. The lock on the safe clicked when he showed up with a necklace.
"It's gorgeous. Did you make it?" she asked, fingering the delicate gold chain.
He shook his head. "Part of an estate my boss bought. He let me have it for some overtime he owed me. Like it?"
"Love it."
"As soon as I saw it, I knew you would. It's kind of old-fashioned—like you. Most women are wearing that chunky-clunky stuff now. I hate it."
She'd never thought of herself as old-fashioned. Men had a way of inventing her, she'd found. Was this true of other women, or was she enough of a blank slate to bring it out in men? Not long ago a man had told her that what he admired most about her was her ambition. Ha! Marry me and I will never work again, she almost said.
"Always on th
e job, right?" Joey jolted her back to the present. "Looking through your—what do you call it—listings?"
"Not all the time." He knew this by now, didn't he? They'd been out a dozen times. I like The Pixies, she thought. See that book on my night table. Remember our discussion about Tarantino?
He sank into the chair. "I've been thinking about that little business I want—you know, the jewelry store." He squinted. "Ever get another property like that Washington Lane one? About that size."
Mentally, she sifted through her listings and the ones cross-listed. "There's always something similar available. Maybe a little bigger or on a less prominent street. But close enough."
She lifted her hair for him to fasten the necklace.
He fumbled with the clasp. "Sorry. I'm all thumbs tonight. There."
"That's kinda funny in a jeweler." She got up and went to admire it in the mirror. It hung just below her clavicle. The stones twinkled. She'd never been given such a lovely gift. Nothing even close.
"It looks great," Joey said, crossing his legs and leaning back. "I knew it would."
"What are the yellow stones? Topaz?" It was an acorn pendant on the chain—one composed of yellow and white stones.
"Yellow sapphires," Joey said. "The white ones are diamond chips."
"I thought so—the diamonds, I mean. Must have cost a fortune. How much overtime did you have to put in?" The acorn felt warm on her chest.
"More than enough—but hey, you're worth it." They exchanged a smile. "Anyway, Cara, I was thinking maybe you could show me a few properties this week. I'm sick to death of working for Bill Davenport. Maybe there's a spot I could afford."
"How much do you have to spend?"
He shrugged. "Probably not enough for anything fancy."
"Why do you have to buy a place when you could rent?" she said. "I have a lot of rentals on my books."
"So you'll show me a few? I'd like a space that wasn't stuck out in the burbs. Something classy. Maybe Victorian—to suit the type of jewelry I'll carry."
"Sure," she said. "I have plenty of those."
They made a date for the next Saturday, and she showed him five properties, three of them rentals. The current proprietors were still in two of them: a furrier and a religious bookstore. The other three sat empty. He went through each as carefully as a city inspector, checking the electricity, plumbing, exits, and windows.
"My God, you're thorough. Any fit the bill?" she asked him later over coffee.
"I liked that rental on Ogontz, but the neighborhood's too iffy."
"Price is good though."
"Yeah, I could probably swing it. But let's keep looking."
Sometimes she thought he was more interested in her listings than her. She did what she could to step up her game with a new hairstyle, a diet, some new clothes.
Cara talked it over with a fellow realtor—the closest thing she had to a friend in the business—at lunch one day. "I don't know why I let myself get so over the moon about this guy. He's nothing special once you get past the looks. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to do that." She fingered the necklace, which she'd yet to take off. "And there's this."
Pam whistled. "Nice! Hey, I never knew you to be so big on appearance. Remember Paul, the guy you dated a few years ago? He was the homeliest man in the world, but you were crazy about him for a long time."
"Well, we had a lot to talk about. That's what I liked about Paul. Turned out he was a jerk though." A cocaine habit had sent Paul off to rehab. She'd never seen that one coming. Breaking up with Cara turned out to be one of his twelve steps.
"With Joey, there's not so much to talk about. The sex is great, and he sure likes to look at my properties. And I mean actual properties when I say that."
Pam smirked. "So he's using you to get a good deal?"
Cara raised her eyebrows. "Maybe I'm using him to get a good deal too.
"Speaking of property, did you hear about the robbery in Jenkintown? A fur store. It was a new listing with Cambridge. Looks like the burglar got in just before they closed on it."
"Someone forget to lock the door?" Cara had made that mistake once, but luckily the place was empty and another realtor turned up to show it an hour later.
"They can't figure out how the guy got in. Doors and windows locked, no sign of forced entry—is that what they call it? Maybe the realtor was in on it."
"Or one of the employees?" Cara thought aloud. "Guy didn't haul out the furs, did he?"
Pam shook her head. "Just interested in the money, I think. They were dumb enough to keep the dough in a cash box someone could carry out."
Cara's phone rang. It was Joey. Waving goodbye to Pam, she walked toward her car.
"How about a movie?" he suggested.
"I have to show a few properties tonight to a newly minted dentist," she said. "Can we make it tomorrow night?"
"Sure. How 'bout I make you dinner? I have a few days off."
Joey liked to cook although the cleanliness of his kitchen (and hands, for that matter) concerned her. Would he get angry if she suggested her place? Better to let it go. She was well-stocked on Imodium.
The dentist fell in love with the first place she showed him. It was perfect for a dental office. In fact, it had been one before it turned into a spa. "I hope the smell of candles lingers for a while," he said. "A nicer smell than you usually find in my business." They made arrangements to sign the papers for an offer in the morning.
She stopped at a bar on the way home. It was one she'd never been in before on the other side of the city. It was larger and more upscale than the Owl, and she took a seat at a table, not wanting to make conversation with strangers at the bar. She ordered a Blue Moon and a cheeseburger, pulling out her iPad to check her email.
She heard his voice before she saw him. Or heard his laugh. She'd begun to turn—to peek around the large booth back—when she heard a feminine laugh. The bar was busy enough for Cara to risk a quick look. The twosome was seated at the bar, their backs to her. A young woman with honey-colored hair, dressed almost identically to her—right down to the heels, in fact.
So he had a type. Or was it something else, because at the woman's feet was a binder much like the one Cara was carrying in her attaché. As Cara watched, the woman reached over for it, opening it up on the bar. She couldn't hear what they were saying, but the woman was flipping the plasticized pages, stopping every so often to point something out. Was it just a business meeting then? Was he having his place redecorated? Was he choosing carpeting perhaps?
But then the woman leaned into him. Way in. The bartender brought their drinks and they took a sip simultaneously, laughing. It was early in their relationship, Cara thought. The period in which you laughed at stupid things. So she was being replaced? After a few more minutes of this, Cara took the opportunity of a particularly intense exchange to sneak out. Clearly, when she couldn't go to the movies tonight, he called in the second string. Or perhaps she was the second string and this was the third. How many strings in his instrument were there?
The next day, she expected a cancellation call. But when the time came to leave without any contact, she drove over to his place. The lobster was excellent and nothing seemed the least bit amiss. Twice she almost said something, but figured he'd either deny the woman in the bar meant anything to him or it would lead to a confrontation of some sort. And perhaps the woman was just a decorator. If this was a TV sit-com, honey-hair would turn out to be his sister.
"Are you planning on redecorating?" she asked suddenly, without thinking.
"What?"
"I thought you might want to redo this room." She looked around. "Paint job's a little old. If you ever do want to repaint, I can recommend someone. Realtors always know a good painter."
"You do know I rent this place, right?"
And, of course, she did.
On the next Wednesday, Cara attended an open house for a new listing—a medium-sized office complex, a new construction. The listing agent g
ave each of the realtors a 35-page file detailing its structure, various ways it could be divided, the architectural assets for prospective renters. As she was thumbing through it, waiting for the oral presentation to begin, the woman she had seen with Joey walked in. Though she'd only seen the woman in profile, the color and style of her hair alerted her. Her laugh, head tilted in that same way, convinced Cara. Did Joey have a thing for realtors or was she showing him property too? Her property or her properties? Cara was jealous on all counts. Working her way around the table on the pretext of getting coffee, she overheard the man asking the woman if she was insured.
"You mean for a break-in while we're listing a property. Oh, sure. The company has a policy that protects us against accusations of theft, fire—you know."
"Did they figure how he got in yet?"
She laughed that laugh again. "It's an old building and one of the cops suggested, almost laughingly, that he used the chimney."
"Either that or someone let him in."
"You think?" the woman said. She turned then to face the head of the table as someone cleared his throat. Swinging from the neck of the female realtor was what looked like a pineapple on a silver chain.
The meeting began.
It all clicked into place for Cara a few minutes later. While the gray-haired man at the microphone was talking about plumbing, heating, electricity, she was thinking about her properties. Properties and their particular assets.
"Hey, Joey, listen. A nice little place just came on the market. A classic—just like the ice cream shop. A converted Victorian. There's a law office across the hall. It's an elegant building."
"What's in there now?
"Crazy luck but a jewelry store. Guy's about to retire."
