Fair Game

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “It sounds like a big deal over nothing to me.”

  “That’s because you’ve never been to law school. The competition for grades is merciless. Some people will do anything to beat out another student by just a couple of points.”

  “A great system,” Martin said dryly.

  “It doesn’t exactly foster camaraderie,” Ashley admitted.

  “Can your father’s opponent really make an issue out of something like that in the campaign? It happened, what, thirty years ago?”

  “Would you want a cheat for your ?” Ashley countered. “All sorts of things go on behind closed doors, before elections and after, that the public doesn’t know about; deals are made, trade-offs sanctioned, payoffs given to the right people. But the image is everything. If a candidate won the Congressional Medal of Honor but also beats his wife, the voters will elect him on the medal, because they’ll know about that. His domestic situation will remain a secret, unless somebody from the other side finds out about it and uses it.”

  Martin was silent. He knew she was right.

  She moved to lift her case off the bed, and he stepped up behind her, taking it and saying, “I’ll carry this down for you.”

  He followed her out into the sitting room, where she said to Capo, “Good-bye, Anthony. Have a nice weekend.”

  “Bye,” Capo murmured, watching the two of them walk past him. Cozy duo, he couldn’t help noticing. He sighed heavily, shaking his head. Bound to be trouble there, he thought.

  They went down in the elevator and Martin said to her, “So you’ll be glad to get away from this for a couple of days.”

  She looked at him, studying his expression, and replied quietly, “A change is usually welcome.”

  They emerged from the elevator and saw Dillon moving toward them across the lobby. He stopped in front of Ashley, kissed her, and said brusquely to Martin, “I’ll take that.”

  Martin surrendered the case, feeling as if he were giving up the woman herself.

  “Ready?” Dillon said to Ashley.

  She nodded.

  “Let’s go,” Dillon said.

  Ashley took a step, looked over her shoulder at Martin, and said, “Good-bye, Tim. I’ll see you Sunday night.”

  Martin watched them go, his expression bleak, and then went back upstairs to the suite.

  * * * *

  Ashley stared out the window of Dillon’s 528i, barely listening to his monologue on a case he was trying in district court.

  Why did she feel that she had left with the wrong man?

  “And so I filed for a continuance,” Dillon was saying, “but Judge Masters was in a bear of a mood. She wanted to know why I needed more time when we’d spent three weeks in discovery and the case was taking far too long already....” He looked over at her and realized that she was not listening.

  “Ashley?”

  She started and turned to him. “What?”

  “You’re in another world, darling. What’s the matter?”

  She shrugged.

  “Are you concerned about that law school thing with your father? Don’t worry, they’ll unearth some old professor and get him to say that your dad was the most sterling example of honesty ever to pass through the hallowed halls of... where’d he go?”

  “Penn.”

  “Right. It’ll blow over, you’ll see.”

  She nodded. That was not the source of her distraction.

  “It’ll be good just to settle in on the boat and relax. Did your father request that the crew stay aboard?”

  “Yes.”

  Dillon smiled, pleased.

  Ashley looked away from him, annoyed. God forbid he should have to fix his own scotch, she thought. She felt that he enjoyed the amenities of wealth a little too much.

  “We could take a cruise around the basin this evening, if you like. The weather should be right for it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Dinner on the water. How does that sound?”

  “That might be nice,” she replied, feeling guilty. He was acting the way he always acted. It wasn’t his fault that behavior she’d once tolerated, accepted, she now found irritating.

  “I’ve missed you, Ash. I can’t wait for us to be alone together tonight.”

  Ashley studied the passing trees, biting her lip. He would want to make love, and she didn’t know if she could go through with it. If she refused him, he would want an explanation, and there would be a discussion about it.

  Maybe she should just go to bed with him and get it over with; he wouldn’t know her heart wasn’t in it.

  She put her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

  Her problem was that sleeping with Dillon now would feel like a betrayal.

  Lorraine Capo opened her front door in Northeast Philadelphia and caroled, “Timmy, come on in.”

  The house was a semidetached ranch with a stone front that shared one exterior wall with its twin next door. The floor plan was railroad style, with the living room, dining room, and kitchen in a line front to back, the bedrooms off to one side.

  Martin entered, shedding his jacket. Lorraine beamed at him, her black hair shining, fresh skin glowing.

  She patted his cheek and said to her husband, “Look how gorgeous. Tony, why can’t we find this man a wife?”

  “It’s not for lack of trying on your part, Lori,” Martin said dryly.

  Capo said nothing, thinking his own thoughts on that particular subject.

  “Smells good,” Martin observed, commenting on the dinner still in the oven.

  “You always say the same thing,” Lorraine told him. “What do you live on back at that apartment of yours, dog food?”

  “Just about. Anything that comes in a can. Where are the kids?”

  “The baby’s sleeping, hopefully down for the night,” Capo replied. “And Michael is...”

  The four-year-old boy burst in from the back of the house, running past his mother to Martin and grabbing him about the knees. Martin responded by picking him up and hauling Mike above his head while the child screeched with delight.

  “I guess we know where Mike is,” Lorraine said acerbically. She went back into the kitchen to check on the roast.

  “Want a beer?” Capo said.

  Martin nodded.

  “You promised that next time you came you would show me how to switch the tracks on my train set,” Mike complained.

  Martin looked over at Capo, who rolled his eyes.

  “Go on,” Capo said. “I’ll get the beer and bring it in to you.”

  Martin and the boy departed for the child’s bedroom, and Capo went into the kitchen, where his wife was removing the sputtering roast pan from the oven.

  “Where’d they go?” she asked her husband.

  “They’re in Mikie’s bedroom with the trains,” he replied. He opened the refrigerator door and pulled out two cans of beer, popping the top on one of them for himself.

  “This will be ready in just a minute,” Lori said, taking the padded glove off her hand and opening a drawer to remove a carving knife. “What do you think about Dottie Calandria for Tim?” she asked.

  “Who’s Dottie Calandria?” Capo said, taking a healthy swallow of his beer.

  “You know, Betty Rizzo’s sister. You met her at the christening for Betty’s little girl, Rhonda.”

  “Is Dottie the one with the mustache?” Capo inquired.

  His wife stared at him in exasperation. “She does not have a mustache,” she said firmly. “She has dark hair, that’s all, and...”

  “She looks like Tom Selleck. She must shave twice a day.”

  “Anthony Capo, you should be ashamed of yourself. That’s a cruel thing to say.”

  “I’m not fixing my friend up with her, and that’s final. Tim would never go for it anyway. How many times have you tried to get him to go along with one of your ideas? Has he ever listened, even once?”

  “There’s always a first time,” Lorraine said stubbornly.

 
; “Not for Dottie Calandria,” Capo replied flatly.

  “All right, all right. But he’s lonely. Just looking at him you can see that.”

  ‘Tim can find his own women.”

  “But that’s the problem. He’s not looking. Not seriously, anyway. Those dates he has are always one-night stands, a couple of weeks at the most. He bolts as soon as the woman really starts getting involved with him.”

  Don’t be too sure of that, Capo thought gloomily, sipping his drink.

  “Not that I blame him after Maryann,” Lorraine said, “but that was a long time ago. Is he going to spend the rest of his life nursing his wounds about that?”

  “Lori, I don’t know,” Capo said wearily. “But I wish you would find something else to do. Why don’t you work on the peace campaign, or the energy crisis, and leave Tim alone? Everybody in the world doesn’t have to be married.”

  Lorraine scooped butter from a stick and mixed it in with a pot of vegetables sitting on the stove. “Fine,” she said crisply, replacing the lid on the pot. “I’m going to freshen up. You set the table while I’m gone.” She breezed past him, going into their bedroom.

  Martin stuck his head into the kitchen. “Hey, where’s my beer?”

  Capo handed him the second can and said, “Did you get Mikie set up in there?”

  “Yeah, he’s planning a collision between the B & O and the Langhorne-Reading Railroads.” Martin took a belt of his drink and asked, “Are we supposed to be doing something in here?”

  “Setting the table, I think,” Capo replied, nodding to the adjoining dining room.

  “Let’s do it.”

  They put out the plates and silverware, discussing the Phillies game while they did so. Martin’s back was to Lorraine when she entered the room with her son .

  In an instant he seemed to be surrounded by a scent he knew all too well. In the irrational, instinctive second before he realized that Ashley could not possibly be there, he believed she was, and he whirled suddenly, heart pounding, his expression dazed.

  “Tim, my goodness,” Lorraine said, staring at him. “What is it?”

  “Your perfume,” he mumbled. “I thought...” He stopped, his gaze moving guiltily to Capo.

  His friend understood in an instant. “I gave it to Lori for her birthday,” he explained quietly. “I could afford only a teaspoon of the stuff. It costs two hundred and fifty bucks an ounce.”

  “What’s this about my perfume?” Lorraine asked, bewildered.

  “You’ve got it bad, man,” Capo said to Martin in a soft voice.

  Martin refused to meet his eyes.

  “There’s something going on here I don’t understand,” Lorraine said loudly.

  “The perfume I gave you is the same brand Ashley Fair uses,” Capo explained to her. “I liked it, so I asked her what it was and where to get it.”

  “I see,” Lorraine said slowly. “I wondered why you suddenly developed such good taste. It’s the nicest scent you’ve given me in eight years, Tony. I love it.”

  “Tim likes it too, don’t you, Timmo?” Capo said softly.

  Martin didn’t reply, and Lorraine looked from one to the other before intervening to say briskly, “Well, come on, let’s eat before everything is ruined. Michael, come with me and help me bring in the food.”

  Her son followed her out, and the men maintained a silence until they were all gathered around the dinner table. Michael said grace and then Lorraine kept up the conversation as they passed the dishes and ate. Martin did not seem to have much appetite and contributed little to the chatter, which consisted mainly of Michael’s doings at nursery school and Lorraine’s inquiries about the Senator and his entourage. Capo answered her questions, sometimes asking confirmation from Martin, who agreed with a nod or a grunt when it was indicated. They had cleared the table and Lorraine was getting the coffee when Capo said to Martin, “Tim, I think we’d better talk about it.”

  “About what?”

  “About the rise in unemployment in the rural Southwest. What do you think?”

  Lorraine returned with dessert, and no more was said until they had finished the meal and she’d gone with Michael to supervise his change into pajamas.

  “Tim, don’t you think you’re losing your grip on reality?” Capo began again.

  Martin regarded him dispassionately.

  “This girl’s father is a U.S. Senator running for President. She’s almost engaged to her lawyer boyfriend, and his daddy has almost as much money as her daddy. Where do you fit into all of that?”

  Martin said nothing.

  “She couldn’t be seriously interested in you,” Capo told him gently.

  “I never said that she was.” It was Martin’s first comment on the subject.

  “Then what are we talking about?”

  “I don’t know, Tony. Why don’t you tell me?” Martin replied dryly. “You seem to be heading this discussion.”

  “You don’t think she feels the same way.”

  Martin sighed. “I haven’t discussed it with her.”

  “But you admit that you’re hung up on her.”

  Martin stared at the tablecloth morosely. “I guess so, Tony. Since you’re obviously on top of the whole situation, there isn’t any point in denying it.”

  “Then it’s the thunderbolt,” Capo said with conviction.

  Martin glared at him. He had heard about the thunderbolt before, unfortunately.

  “Don’t look at me that way, Tim. You know it’s true. I just didn’t recognize it, ‘cause you’re so good at hiding your feelings. When you were looking at Dillon like you wanted to kill him, I thought it was because the guy’s a wimp. Sometimes I feel like killing him myself, and I’m not in love with his girl. But it’s the thunderbolt, no doubt about it.”

  Martin eyed him balefully. Capo was assuming his Sicilian pezzonovante personality, the retired man of the world sitting in the hills above Palermo, sipping Strega and reflecting on the vagaries of life.

  “Tony, if you start that crap with me tonight, I’m going to belt you,” Martin said wearily.

  “Okay, okay. But you have to admit it’s crazy, Tim. All these years, all the women you’ve been with, and this is the one you choose?”

  “It’s not a matter of choosing. You should know that.”

  “Are you sure she doesn’t know?”

  Martin shrugged. “She’s a nice person. We talk. She thinks we’re friends. Funny thing is, I guess we are.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing to do. I’ll finish out the assignment and then I’ll never see her again.”

  “That’s rough,” Capo murmured.

  “I assume that I’ll get over it. ‘Men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for love.’”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “My father used to say it.”

  “Your father was a cop.”

  “My father was a cop with a library card.”

  “You think too much, Tim.”

  “I guess that’s true.”

  Lorraine came in with her pajama-clad son, and they had more coffee. After the dishes were put away and Michael put to bed, Martin rose to get his coat.

  “Can’t you stay a little longer?” Lorraine asked as he was shrugging into his jacket.

  “No, thanks, Lori. I haven’t been home since we started this gig, and I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “Well, take care,” she said, kissing him on the cheek.

  “I will.”

  The second the door closed behind him, she turned to her husband and said, “Something is wrong with him.”

  “Tell me about it,” Capo muttered.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I think,” Capo said, “he’s in love.”

  “With who?” Lorraine said, thunderstruck.

  “With Ashley Fair.” Capo rose and went into the kitchen to get another beer, leaving his wife to stare after him in amazement.

 
* * * *

  Martin drove the short distance to his apartment in Trevose in a thoughtful mood.

  Curiously enough, his conversation with Capo had made him feel better. It was good to finally admit what he’d been concealing and deal with it honestly.

  He parked his car and walked up the path to his door, unlocking it and switching on the overhead light automatically. His place was a typical bachelor pad, nothing extraordinary, light on decor and heavy on the items important to him: stereo speakers, stacks of tapes and records, books on police procedure, history, and athletics. He went into the bedroom in the dark, stretched out on the king-sized bed—a luxury he considered a necessity because of his height—still wearing his jacket, and folded his arms behind his head.

  He hadn’t felt this way in twenty years. No, that wasn’t true. He had never felt like this. He’d been proud of Maryann, proud of their status as a couple, because she was pretty and popular and a girl the other guys admired. They seemed to belong together: she was captain of the color guard and he was a running back on the football team. They looked good in pictures, he so tall and dark, she with the same height and coloring, like matched bookends. He had let it all happen, cruising along without effort through the pins and the prom and the rings. He had liked Maryann, loved her dearly in a way that he now realized was boyish and as much a part of his youth as the high jump he could no longer scale. But the consuming passion he felt for Ashley, the jealous possessiveness that made him want to knock Dillon down every time the lawyer looked at her, the need to protect her from everything and everybody and have her with him at all times, was new.

  Capo was right. It was the thunderbolt, the exquisitely apt Sicilian expression for the stroke of Cupid’s arrow, the instant and irrevocable wound of love.

  Martin sat up and tore off his jacket, dropping it, with the sleeves inside out, onto the floor. He lay back down and rolled over on his side, hoping for sleep.

  * * * *

  Ashley crept up the steps from the cabin below decks and leaned over the railing of the Fair Play, letting the cool night breeze wash over her face. The water lapped gently against the hull as she pulled the collar of her robe closer about her neck and tightened the belt, snuggling into its warmth.

  Dillon was asleep. She had pleaded illness and pretended to rest in the guest cabin until he drifted off himself.