Wing Girl

by Nic Tatano

  I folded my arms in my lap. Dammit, I hate it when she’s right. “Yeah,” I said softly. “I think about it. A lot. It’s like a damn videotape on an infinite loop in my head.”

  “So, what are you gonna do?”

  “Think about it some more.”

  “Well, you’d better—”

  A tap on the driver’s-side window interrupted her and I saw a cop make a motion to roll down the window. She complied.

  “You can’t park here, Miss,” he said.

  “Officer, it’ll just be a minute. I got a woman having a bit of an emotional crisis here.”

  “Well, take your crisis somewhere else. Move the car. Now.”

  Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake. Will you give me one minute?”

  The cop crouched down and for the first time I got a good look at his face, which was lit up by the streetlight. Black hair, dark eyes, Roman nose, maybe fifty. He turned on his flashlight and took a closer look. “Roxanne?”

  She looked at him and smiled. “Oh, hey Carmine. I didn’t know it was you.”

  “You need help?”

  “Nah, my friend here is in a complicated situation and I needed to pull over while we talk this out. It’s like the single woman’s version of texting while driving; you don’t want me behind the wheel when I’m talking about men.”

  “Then you should never be on the road,” he said.

  “Smartass. Oh, I’m sorry. Carmine, this is Belinda. Belinda, my Uncle Carmine.”

  He waved through the window. “Hey, how ya doin’?”

  “Nice to meet you, Carmine,” I said.

  “I’ve been tryin’ to hook her up with Vincent,” said Roxanne, cocking her head at me.

  “A shame about his mom, huh? But what a beautiful funeral.” Suddenly the cop seemed to notice something and aimed his flashlight at me. “Wait a minute. Red hair and freckles. You’re the smartass girl with the flu!”

  I slammed my head back against the bucket seat as my mouth dropped open. “Geez, does the whole town know about this?”

  Thankfully Carmine’s two-way radio started barking. “Hey, I gotta take this. You girls park here as long as you like.”

  “Thanks. See ya, Carmine,” said Roxanne, as she rolled up the window.

  “Is there anyone in this town you’re not connected to?” I asked.

  “Nah, not really. The Mayor’s probably still up, if you wanna drop by and say hello.”

  “Can we go home now?”

  “Sure.” She cranked up the car and looked at me. “You gonna be okay?”

  “I don’t know. I need time to think.”

  She pulled out into traffic. “Look, here’s the bottom line. Vincent just got his life back and he really earned the right to have some fun. He’s not gonna sit home watching television. A lot of women would love a guy like him. Let me put it this way: if you at least give him a shot, you’ll know one way or the other. If you don’t, you’ve lost any chance you might have had at a man who could be your soulmate. And don’t gimme this bullshit about worrying if you’ll hurt him. He’s a big boy and he can take it if that should happen. And I can tell you this: he’d be happy to risk that for a shot at you. So think fast, my friend, or he might be off the market by the time you come to a decision. You do realize he no longer has the obligation that took all his free time.”

  No, for whatever reason I didn’t realize that incredibly obvious fact. But thank you for pointing it out.

  And now I had to think faster.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  I’m not a morning person at all, and hate working the vampire shift when I have to. It’s bad enough getting jolted out of a deep sleep by an alarm, but having to see the perky morning show staff makes me physically ill. Harry once said I had no future as a morning anchor because I’d begin the show with, “I’m Belinda Carson. What the hell are you doing up at this ungodly hour? Go back to bed!” Anyway, I needed some video for a story that only took place at the crack of dawn, so after coming in at five this morning I was already off the clock by one.

  I had a rare afternoon off, an early start to the weekend.

  What to do, what to do?

  And I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I’ve been thinking. Fast.

  It had been three days since the funeral, and a source whose identity I absolutely cannot reveal tipped me off that Vincent was back at work.

  It was time to say thank you for all he’d done. If that was even possible.

  I had already picked up a gift certificate for a special treat and stopped at Nick’s pastry shop for a big box of those freshly baked Italian cookies, the smell of which was driving me nuts as I walked toward Vincent’s taxicab garage. I had no idea if he would be there, but I was willing to wait if he wasn’t.

  The huge steel door to the garage was open, so I turned off the sidewalk and headed inside. I was wearing jeans and stacked-heel boots, with a cropped suede jacket. I figured a dress or skirt was a bit much for a garage, though this simple outfit still stopped traffic.

  The place was huge, big enough to hold twenty cabs. One guy in mechanic overalls had a cab on a lift and was changing the oil. He stopped to check me out and smiled as I passed. I noticed another man was busy putting a coat of wax on the angel cab. The two-way radio chatter echoing off the walls was constant, coming from a beat-up desk manned by an old codger who was obviously the dispatcher as he barked addresses into the microphone. This was apparently the nerve center of the operation, so I headed directly for it.

  The dispatcher looked up over his half glasses and smiled. “You lost, young lady?”

  “No, not at all. I was hoping Vincent Martino is around, but I don’t see him. I have something for him.”

  He pointed toward the back of the garage. “He’s in the office. Go right ahead.”

  “Oh, great. Thank you.”

  I headed toward the office, which was basically a corner of the garage with two simple walls added and no window. I knocked on the door and heard his voice. “It’s open.”

  I opened the door and saw him behind a giant metal desk, tapping on an old-fashioned adding machine. “So, you’re not driving today.”

  He flashed a soft smile and I could tell he was still fried from the events of the past week. His eyes were droopy and bloodshot. “Belinda. What a nice surprise. What are you doing down here?”

  I moved toward the desk, deposited the cookies and an envelope. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done lately, and figured you needed some cheering up, so this was a good time.” I grabbed a chair and pulled it to the side of his desk.

  “Well, I’m not turning down anything from Nick’s.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a pair of scissors and cut the red and white string that held the box closed. He opened it and raised both eyebrows. “Oh, yeah. Looks like dessert for dinner night.” He turned the box toward me. “You’ve never had these. Try one.”

  “They’re for you, Vincent.”

  “I’ll share. Try one.”

  I reached out and chose a light-green cookie dipped in chocolate with some sort of red filling and took a bite. The red filling turned out to be raspberry. The tart berries and the sweet chocolate mixed wonderfully in my mouth. “Oh, that’s terrific.”

  He grabbed a cookie and took a bite. “Told you these were the best.”

  I pointed toward the envelope. “You have another present.”

  “Oh, there’s more?” He slid a letter opener along the edge of the envelope and pulled out a stiff card. “Gift certificate for a one-hour massage. Wow, thank you. I’ve never had a massage.”

  “Trust me, you’ll get hooked.”

  “What’s this for?”

  “For sleeping on your hide-a-bed from hell while I had the flu.”

  “Roxanne must have told you about that thing. I really need to toss it.” He looked at the gift certificate. “But I can really use this, especially after … ” His eyes misted.

  “So, how you doing?”

>   He shrugged. “I figured coming back to work would help, but it’s hard to concentrate.”

  “It takes time,” I said. “You’ve been through a lot. So, you’re not driving today?”

  “I do my own books.”

  I didn’t understand until I spotted a New York City business license hanging on the dark paneled wall behind him that read Martino Cab Company. “Wait a minute. You own this place?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got two dozen taxis and a few limos.”

  “Wow, I didn’t know. So why are you out driving a cab?”

  “Gets me out of the office. That’s how I paid for college, driving a cab during the summer. I do it once a week. Keeps me grounded. And sometimes you meet the nicest people.”

  I leaned back in the chair and looked around the office.

  The diploma from Harvard Business School stuck out. “You went to Harvard?”

  “Yeah. I knew I wanted my own business, and that was the best place to learn, though Roxanne will always argue that Wharton is better.”

  “Damn, Vincent, I had no idea.”

  “A blue-collar business is still a business. Same principles apply.”

  “Yeah, I know that from Roxanne. So, the angel cab was your idea?”

  “Uh-huh, but I didn’t give it that name.”

  “Must have been expensive to outfit that thing.”

  “Eh, no big deal. My mother always said, ‘you do well, then you do good’. She believed in giving back, so I’m doing a small part.”

  “She was very wise. And it is a big deal to the sick people you transport. It’s not a small part by any means.”

  He didn’t say anything. He picked up another cookie and ate it slowly, his eyes vacant. I could tell his mind was somewhere else.

  I pointed to the adding machine. “Do you have to do those books today?”

  “Nah, I can do ‘em anytime. Why?”

  I stood up. “C’mon. Grab your coat.”

  “What for?”

  “We’re going out to dinner.”

  “Belinda, you don’t have to—”

  “A very smart man once told me that when you’re depressed you need good food, good company and something to make you smile.” I grabbed his coat from a metal rack near the door and tossed it to him. “So put your coat on and don’t argue with me.”

  “Belinda—”

  I reached out toward him, grabbed his hand and pulled. “Shaddup, I’m rescuing you.”

  ***

  “Why am I not surprised you picked an all-you-can-eat place?” said Vincent, as the waitress placed a few more crab legs on his plate with a pair of silver tongs.

  “Hey, I like to get my money’s worth.” I pointed to my plate and the waitress loaded me up as I bounced up and down on my chair like a little kid.

  “Something tells me they’re losing money on this table. But this is terrific seafood. Good choice.”

  “Glad you like it.” The place was simple, with good food served on paper tablecloths and a roll of paper towels on each table that served as napkins. Steam constantly rose out of the kitchen, which was not separated from the dining area, as seafood was being cooked around the dock. I grabbed a crab leg, broke it at the joint and within seconds I was dipping a big hunk of meat into hot, melted butter.

  “You’re really good at that,” he said, as he struggled to open a crab leg with a nutcracker.

  “My family loved the fish-on-Friday thing. And crab was our favorite.”

  He watched me intently as I snapped another leg and dipped the succulent meat. “Teach me to do that, Belinda.”

  “What?”

  “That thing you do without a nutcracker. How you pop the meat out so easily.”

  “Let me get this straight. An Italian is asking an Irish girl something about food?”

  “Yeah. Call your station, breaking news.”

  “Okay. Grab a leg.”

  He picked one up.

  “Okay, now bend it at the joint so it breaks, then pull one section. That will pull out the tendon from the other piece.”

  He followed my instructions, doing quite well. “Now what?”

  “Now take the piece without the tendon and snap it in half. The meat should be in one piece and you can dip it in the butter.”

  He did so and it worked. “Wow, that was pretty easy.”

  “Irish life skill,” I said.

  ***

  The line at the theater was pretty short. Vincent looked at the movies on the marquee, but I had made my choice in advance.

  “So, what are we seeing?”

  “A movie.”

  “I’m getting the feeling of déjà vu here.”

  “Yeah, it’s kinda like those movies where people switch bodies. I’m suddenly having an incredible desire to drive a cab.” The line cleared in front of me and I moved to the gate. “Two for C-4 Apocalypse.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. Don’t you like action movies?”

  “Yeah, what guy doesn’t? But you should pick something you’d like as well.”

  “Why do you assume girls don’t like action movies? Hey, I saw the previews and they blow up a ton of shit in this one and the good guys win. What’s not to like?”

  ***

  Nick handed me the photo as we took our seats in the pastry shop. I looked at the color print, which showed me wearing a huge grin while my eyes were wide as saucers as I was about to devour a cupcake. Not sure Mrs. Baymont would approve, but what the hell? “So that’s what I look like when I eat sweets, huh?”

  “The camera doesn’t lie,” said Vincent. “It’s what you look like when you eat anything.”

  I autographed the photo for Nick and handed it back to him. “Here you go, and I’m honored to be on your wall.”

  “I’ll have it up tomorrow morning,” said Nick. “And I’ll be right back with your usual, unless you two want something else.”

  “The usual,” we said in unison. That got a small laugh from Vincent.

  “Good to see you smile,” I said.

  Vincent looked around, as if looking for something. “Is there a teleprompter in here? Because I swear you’re following a script that I’ve read before.”

  “Just hitting you with your own logic.”

  ***

  My fast thinking was all done as we walked back to my apartment. Same deal as last time: nice night, his hands in his pockets, my arm hooked around his elbow.

  And my cell phone was turned off. In fact, he didn’t remember to turn his back on when we left the theater.

  Unless we got hit by a meteor, we wouldn’t get interrupted.

  We reached the front of my building, and he turned to face me. “Belinda, I can’t thank you enough for tonight. You really cheered me up.”

  “Like I said, just taking advice from someone I trust.”

  “Well, this was all terrific, from the cookies to the massage to dinner and everything else.”

  “Speaking of everything else … ” I took one deep breath in an attempt to slow down my heart. “Vincent, would you like to come up for coffee?”

  He furrowed his brow. “I thought you didn’t have a coffee pot.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Instant?”

  “Nope. Don’t even have cream and sugar.”

  “Then what—”

  I put one finger on his lips to interrupt him. “You know, for a guy who went to an Ivy League school, you’re being a real stunad right now.”

  He chuckled a bit. “Let me guess, you learned that term from Rox.”

  “Yeah. Actually, she’s taught me a lot lately. Stuff that goes beyond Italian slang. She’s very wise, you know. Very perceptive about people, and what they need.”

  He moved a little closer and looked deeply into my eyes. “This isn’t about coffee at all, is it?”

  “You catch on quick, Harvard.”

  “So … what is this about? You’ve been dancing around something the last two weeks.”r />
  “I haven’t been dancing. Bad ankle, remember? That’s how all this started.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Belinda. What exactly is all this?”

  I moved closer and wrapped my arms loosely around his neck, dipped my head a bit and looked up at him through my long eyelashes. “All this is about a damsel who happens to be in major, serious distress. And you seem to be a guy who, shall we say, specializes in rescues.”

  He gulped, his breathing getting short. “So, uh … what sort of distress would, uh, this fair damsel be in?”

  “Well, this particular damsel needs to be held. She needs many, many hugs, the kind where she can rest her head on a strong shoulder. She desperately needs to be kissed, which, I might add, needs to take place over an extended period of time. But most of all, she needs to be loved. That is perhaps her greatest need, but she will only accept it from someone who is kind and funny and sweet and strong, someone who can accept the fact that she can take care of herself but loves it when he takes care of her, if that makes any sense. And most of all, he has to be a decent guy. So, are you decent?”

  He shook his head and smiled. “Nah, I’m a shallow gigolo.” He put his hands on my waist and slid them toward the small of my back. His touch sent a shot of electricity through my body like none I’d ever felt. Now my breathing was getting short.

  “Good one. Oh, one more thing. This particular damsel has been walking a lot, so she isn’t sure if she should rest her ankle. And if I remember correctly, you are in the transportation business.”

  “Sounds like she needs a lift.” He scooped me up easily as I tightened my arms around his neck. “This damsel of whom you speak … does she always talk about herself in the third person?”

  “She does because she’s sometimes been scared to admit her true feelings, so she pretends she’s talking about someone else. But at this point in her life, she’s not afraid any more.”

  “How would one discover these true feelings?”

  “Why don’t you come up for coffee and find out?”

  Vincent lifted me a little higher and kissed me, long and soft, holding the kiss right there in the middle of the sidewalk. He cradled me like a groom carrying a bride, while pedestrians walked by and cars honked their horns. And as is always the case in New York City, this magical moment was doused by a bucket of ice water delivered via a wicked accent.