He went up a flight of granite stairs that led to a shiny black door, pressed the glowing buzzer to the right of it and waited, wondering if she’d be alone or if he’d also have to deal with her assistant.
Either way, he could handle it.
A slight man somewhere in his fifties with a balding head and round glasses opened the door. He wore a dark blue suit and a matching tie. He lowered his head to look at Spocatti over the rim of his glasses and Spocatti saw the extent of his baldness. “Doctor Benedetti?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Spocatti said.
The man looked relieved. “Please, come inside. Piggy’s in the parlor. She’s in a state, but she’s expecting you.”
Spocatti stepped into an entryway paneled in dark wood. It was warmly lit by candles on a hallway table, which he found unusual, and the Art Deco sconces on the walls. To his left was an intricately carved, grand-looking staircase that curved up and around to the second floor. The parquet floors gleamed as if they’d just been waxed.
“How is she?”
“Calm for now.”
“She’s taken her pills?”
“She’s taken them.”
“Have they had time to work?”
“I’m not sure....”
“That’s your way of saying she just had one, isn’t it?”
The man flushed.
“Is she sober?”
He shook his head.
“So, it’s been difficult? For you and for her?”
He moved to speak, but he didn’t answer.
“I mean, about the chronic orgasms? Not the drinking.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “It’s been awful. Nobody knows what to do.”
“I do,” Spocatti said. “I’ve dealt with this before.”
“You have?” He sounded at once relieved and surprised.
“Once. It’s rare what Piggy has, but it’s treatable and I have the treatment with me. Your name?”
“Marvin.”
“Marvin, if you could start a tea service for Piggy, I’d appreciate it. No biscuits. We’re just going to serve her a medicinal tea. My own blend. Crushed plants and exotic herbs. I just need a carafe of hot water, Piggy’s favorite teacup, a bit of honey if you have it, and also a strainer. Keep everything in the kitchen. When it’s time, I’ll need your help to prepare the tea.”
“Of course.”
He looked around him. “Is the parlor through there?”
“Yes,” Marvin said, gesturing toward the room to his left. “She’s there, resting on the fainting couch. But you should be prepared.”
“For what?”
“She doesn’t want to be seen.”
“But I have to see her if I’m going to treat her.”
“I think you misunderstood. You’ll see what I mean. She hasn’t seen Percy in months. She’s very sensitive about how she looks. Her hair has gone white. White.”
“Who is Percy?”
“Her stylist. Lovely man. And how he used to transform Piggy. She always looked so chic after seeing him—so naturally blonde. No one receives a kitchen-sink dye job from Percy—he’s a pro. What I miss is seeing how Piggy was happy after she saw him. She was better back then. She didn’t take to the Goose so much.”
“To the what?”
“Grey Goose. The vodka.”
“I see.”
He shook his head and Spocatti watched his eyes well up with tears. The man genuinely loved her. “Anyway, right through there, Doctor Benedetti.” His voice was thick. “I’ll arrange for the tea service and collect you when it’s ready.”
“Thank you, Marvin,” Spocatti said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Spocatti found Piggy on a yellow embroidered fainting couch in an enormous room in which nothing seemed to match, but in which everything—somehow—nevertheless came together.
It was a room filled with antiques, but also modern touches. And while it made no sense to him at first glance, he realized, as he walked through the space, that everything had been carefully designed to highlight the old by underscoring the new.
Piggy was stretched out on the couch by a window sheathed with caramel-colored curtains. She had an arm slung over her head, which was covered by a massive black hat, the lace of which concealed her hair and her face. She was wearing black pants and a black shirt. She looked as if she was in mourning.
“Piggy?” he said.
“It’s Ms. French,” she replied. “I don’t know you, doctor. Please let’s not be so familiar so fast. It doesn’t sit well, especially at this point in my life. I realize I’m compromised by my condition, but I’m still Piggy French. I’m still of the French lineage. I’m still in the book.”
“Of course, Ms. French.”
“You’re here to treat me?” she asked. “To rid me of these demons that have swallowed me up and consumed me?”
“I am.”
“And you think that some herb can actually cure me of this? You really believe this? You think you’re beyond Western medicine?”
“I don’t believe in Western medicine. Many don’t. Many believe the pharmaceutical companies are a bait and switch operation. They’re all about marketing, but their products are inferior to what the planet offers us. Still, people buy and buy, not understanding that there are holistic alternatives.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I believe in Eastern medicine. I believe in treating people with what our planet provides for us. I’ve treated one other woman who suffered as you suffer now. I know my treatment works because it continues to work for her. You’ll need to take the tea once per day, in the morning, and life will go on as it always has for you. It has a bitter taste, which is why I suggest you take it with organic honey, but I think you’ll find that the alternative is worse than the bitterness.”
“Alternatives? Some say the other alternative for me is a day spent passed out on the bathroom floor with an empty bottle of Grey Goose just out of reach. That’s my alternative medicine.”
“But that doesn’t need to be your life. If you’re drinking to excess, I can help you there as well.”
“Oh, puh-lease. If she were alive, Betty Ford would know me by name. Nobody has helped me yet.”
“Ms. French, I’m not here to upset you. I’m only here to help. If you’d like me to leave, I will.”
And Piggy, stunned that someone would challenge her, turned her hat-topped head to him. “Oh, no,” she said with all traces of formality leaving her. “Please, forgive me. I’m sorry. I’m not myself. I suppose I just sounded like what my two ex-husbands called me—a cunt. Can you imagine? Both of them calling me that word? One publicly. The other privately. Did they have a meeting of the minds or was that just coincidence? I gave them everything. I don’t understand it. Twice I’ve been called that unthinkable, awful word, and sometimes, when I fall prey to the Goose, I believe that what they said about me is true.”
“Are you on the Goose now?”
“Half a bottle of it.”
“What size was the bottle?”
“A fifth.”
“I can help you.”
“I don’t want to be known as a, uh, you know.”
“An alcoholic?”
“If you want to call it that.”
“I’m not sure what else to call it when you’re passed out on the bathroom floor with a fifth of Grey Goose beside you.”
“Well, then. I guess I am an alcoholic.”
“I can help you. But you’ll need to be strident in your resolve. It won’t be easy, but it will work.”
“I want to see Percy again,” she said wistfully. “You have no idea how he tipped my hair. How he made me youthful and blonde and pretty. He made it so I could look at myself in the mirror and feel good about what I saw. You know, because of all this, I don’t accept invitations anymore. Having my little rushes in front of old friends, especially male friends, would send the wrong message. They would smell my sex―and then what? Another marriage?
More suitors? Sheer horror? Being called a cunt for the third time? I want to be part of life again, but I can’t... At least not with all that’s happening to me now.”
“I have made a special medicinal tea for you,” Spocatti said. “It will alleviate the orgasms—”
“Please!”
“—the little rushes you’re dealing with.”
“That’s better. Little rushes. They are little rushes and I need to be rid of them.”
“Will you drink the tea?”
“I’ll drink it,” Piggy said. “I’ll do anything, especially since Edward recommended you. He said that you help him with his stump.”
“With his what?”
“His abbreviated leg.”
“Oh.”
“He says you make it so he doesn’t feel as if it’s still there, which I don’t understand at all, because of course it’s not there. Hasn’t been there for years.”
“Our bodies betray us, Ms. French.”
“Tell me about it. As for me, the Chantrix works for a few hours, but it wears off too quickly. I could have one of my little rushes at any moment. I need to warn you about that, doctor.”
“Let me see Marvin in the kitchen and we’ll prepare my special tea for you.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Piggy said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“Marvin,” Spocatti said, when he found the kitchen. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but this tea could also help you.”
Marvin looked up from the tea service, puzzled. “It could help me?”
“It could,” Spocatti said. “There’s a side effect to this particular tea that’s actually rather terrific. Please forgive me if this offends you, because that’s not my intent, but I noticed that you suffer from alopecia.”
“I suffer from what?”
“Baldness.”
Marvin’s face flushed.
“This tea,” Spocatti said quickly in an effort to put the man at ease, “can actually relieve that issue. In six months, you could have a full head of hair.”
“You’re joking,” Marvin said.
“I’m not. It works. I have too many clients having too much success with it to promise you otherwise.”
“But how can one drug contain orgasms and also grow hair?”
“It just does. It’s a holistic mystery,” Spocatti said.
“But I’m not sure that I could afford it.”
“Could you afford ten dollars a month?”
His eyes widened. “Is that all it costs?”
“You’ve been such a great help today, so that’s what it would cost you. We need to get Piggy back on track. You’ve been very helpful. Others pay much more. You wouldn’t have to.”
His eyes welled with tears again. “I started to lose my hair when I was twenty-six,” he said. “I was mostly bald by thirty. It’s been years since I’ve had a full head of hair. It’s been years since I was able to take a blow dryer to it, and come up with something cute. And I know I’d look younger with hair. I think being bald is what has kept me from finding someone all these years. I’ve hated being single. In spite of my great affection for Piggy, I’ve been lonely.” He looked at Spocatti’s head. “You shave yours. I can see the stubble. Why would you ever shave what must be a thick, lush head of hair?”
“For the look,” Spocatti said. “And I can always grow it back. Here. Before we go to Piggy, let’s steep a cup of tea for you. Are you game? It’s on the house.”
“I’d be grateful.”
“The tea is very potent and should only be consumed orally. Do you have any rubber gloves? We don’t want hair growing on your fingertips. I need to strain the tea and let it steep for five minutes before we proceed.”
“Of course.”
He swept out of the room, returned with a pair of rubber cleaning gloves and watched Spocatti strain the tea into the carafe. Then, when it was time, he watched Spocatti fill a cup. “You’ll want to sweeten it,” Spocatti said. “I’d recommend the honey.”
“J’adore honey.”
“That’s right,” Spocatti said, watching Marvin drizzle the honey into the cup. “Just enough. You’re so good, Marvin. I couldn’t have done it better. Now. Tell me how it tastes.”
Marvin lifted the cup and took a sip. He cocked his head to the side and then shook it. “It is bitter,” he said. “But not awful. I’ve tasted worse. Especially back in the seventies, when I was one of the young stars at Studio 54 and did it all. And I mean, all.”
“I had no idea, Marvin. You’ve come a long way. Drink up and we’ll go to Piggy and give her hers.”
In one big gulp, Marvin downed the tea. Spocatti watched him lick his lips and put the cup on the counter. He seemed unaffected by the fact that he had just taken a lethal dose of poison. Spocatti waited for the dramatic death throes Carmen promised, but none came. They stared at each other, and none came. It was unusual for Spocatti to feel this way, but for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. Marvin was looking at him. Waiting. His was a look that said, “Why aren’t we serving Piggy her tea?”
“How do you feel?” Spocatti asked.
Marvin furrowed his brow. “I should feel something?”
“Sometimes there’s a warmth.”
“I felt that, but I assumed that was from the hot water.”
“A tingling?”
“No tingling.”
“Isn’t that curious?” Spocatti said. He kept his eyes transfixed on Marvin’s. They appeared clear. Focused. Spocatti was confused, but hardly without hope. He was, after all, carrying his gun.
“We probably should bring Piggy hers,” Marvin said. And Spocatti noticed, at that moment that a bit of spittle had appeared at the corner of Marvin’s mouth. “I’d hate it if she started to, well, you know...” He mouthed, but did not say the words, ...Have her orgasms. “I don’t know how much longer the pills will hold. I don’t—oh, goodness, what is this?”
Spocatti watched him wipe the corner of his mouth and look at the yellowish foam that had collected there. “In spite of the tea, or because of it, my mouth must be dry. How embarrassing. Excuse me.”
He picked up a napkin from the tea service and wiped his mouth with it. When he did, he coughed into the napkin and then opened it to look to see what was inside. “Well, that’s not right,” he said. “That’s not right at all.”
“Are you OK, Marvin?”
“I seem to be foaming at the mouth,” Marvin said. “Is that a side-effect of the tea?”
“It certainly shouldn’t be.”
“I think I should sit down,” he said. “I think I’m having a reaction.”
“An erection?”
“No, a reaction.”
“Because the tea can also cause an erection.”
“Dear God.”
“It’s probably best to stand,” Spocatti said. “Get your bearings.”
“I’m feeling a little light headed. And hot.” A rush of foam bubbled up from his throat and dripped down his chin. Horrified, he looked down at his previously pristine suit and saw that it was spotted with a blotch of yellow mucus. He looked at Spocatti and sagged back against the counter.
“What’s happening to me?”
From the parlor, Piggy French started to moan.
“That’s Piggy,” Marvin said. “They’re starting again. I need to sit. I don’t feel well at all. What did you say was in that tea?”
“Holistic herbs.”
The man started to sputter. He looked at Spocatti in alarm. He reached for his throat and managed to ask for help while Spocatti stood there, sensing the man’s throat swelling shut. This was more fascinating than he’d expected. He’d need to thank Carmen.
“Help me,” Marvin managed.
But Spocatti didn’t.
Marvin’s face turned blue and his eyes bulged. He pressed back hard against the chair he was sitting in and fell to the floor. Then, came the promised theatrical death throes that involved squirming, heaving and his bloated
purple tongue leaching out of the side of his mouth, where it remained for the final moments of life. Finally, his eyes became unseeing, dilated pools of liquid black.
And Marvin was dead.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Where’s Marvin?” Piggy French said as Spocatti hurried into the room from the kitchen with the tea service. “And what was that sound I heard? That banging? Where is he? I become hysterical when I have my little rushes and he’s not here. Where’s Marvin? Have you seen him? Have you.... Oooooohhhh....”
She was writhing on the fainting couch. Her black hat with its black veil now sat on the parquet floor, so, for the first time, her face and shock of white hair were revealed to him. Bloated from too much alcohol and exhausted-looking from too many orgasms, Piggy’s face was as red as her chipped fingernails, which one of Percy’s assistants once likely attended to.
“Piggy,” he said.
“No,” she managed.
“Piggy,” he said again.
“It’s Ms. French,” she said. “I told you never to call me Piggy. You don’t know me. You’re just a man peppered with spells and voodoo. Where’s Marvin?” She cupped her breasts in her hands, pinched her nipples, and rolled her head to the side. “Oh, my God!”
“Ms. French....”
“Where’s my Marvin?”
Spocatti ignored her question and poured her a cup of the lethal tea. “Sit up,” he said. “Quickly. This will give you immediate relief.”
“No, it won’t.”
“Yes, it will. You need to sit up and drink. I’ve prepared it with honey for you. It will still be bitter, but what’s worse? A bitter taste or your bitter little rushes?”
Drunken and unsteady, she pushed herself up and looked at the tea service. “I want vodka,” she said. “I want the Goose. Why are you bringing me tea?”
Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Page 15
