A Half Dozen Fools

by Susana Falcon

  Dylan chuckled. "Same shit as always."

  "Yeah, but at Black's, last year, we had free gifts for the holiday. Rod expects miracles with nothing. It's tough competing with big department stores these days and what they've got to drive sales."

  "I know," Dylan said. "Believe me, I lived it for years."

  Shar looked at Dylan. "How lucky, your ex-boyfriend happened to be head makeup artist for One Day At A Time."

  Dylan sounded slightly defensive when he said, "Hey, I happen to be a damn good makeup artist, I'll have you know."

  "I never said you weren't. I'm just saying, how serendipitous Murphy got you onboard sooner rather than later. I mean, you have to admit that's a beautiful thing."

  Dylan shrugged. "You want me to lie? Sure, it's a beautiful thing. I finally got my big break. But I also paid some serious dues, let us not forget. I spent years in this town doing freelance makeup."

  "Well," Elyse said, "I only pray it happens for me, too. I'd love to get into soaps or movies."

  "You're such a great artist," Shar said. "You can paint anything and make it beautiful. Faces, canvas--whatever you decide, it comes out great."

  "Believe me, petunia," Dylan said to Elyse, "the first opening I hear about, you're top of the list. I know what you're capable of. It's just--nobody leaves the show once they get on. You'd have to be nuts to leave such a sweet gig!"

  "Oh, I totally get it," Elyse said. "But, man, would I like to shift the whole way my life's been going lately. It's nutso! Know what I mean?"

  "I do know what you mean." Dylan reached out and plunged a fist into the bowl of plump cashews at the center of the table. Between crunches, he asked, "What's making you nuts--besides the dopey Hoffenzimmers?"

  "Well..."

  Elyse puckered her mouth as if formulating the right words to explain. At the same time, the server placed new drinks all around.

  Sipping her fresh margarita, Shar cast her friend a derisive glance. "You are not still seeing that Sicilian douche bag, are you?"

  "Oh," Elyse said, blushing, "he's not such a douche bag, really."

  "What? After the way he treated you that night?"

  Dylan looked fast from one to the other in an effort to keep up. "Wait a minute, who's this--the chef?"

  "Yes, the chef," Elyse said meekly. "Rick Giordano."

  "Rick, the prick," Shar said dryly.

  "The one with the harem, right?" Dylan asked.

  Shar giggled maliciously.

  "Not a harem, no," Elyse said defensively.

  "He just lives with a bunch of stewardesses," Shar explained.

  "Flight attendants," Elyse corrected.

  "Whatever," Shar said with a wave. "A bunch of chicks there at his convenience. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am!"

  "Well, we don't quite know if he bangs them all or not," Elyse added sheepishly.

  Shar stared at her. "Are you actually defending him, my love?"

  Elyse gazed at her helplessly.

  "Oh, I get it. So, you are seeing him, again."

  Elyse pressed her lips together and said nothing. Dylan came to the rescue.

  "Well, if she's involved with him, Shar, maybe we ought to give him the benefit of the doubt."

  Shar gave him a look. "Or not." Before Dylan could argue, she added, "You didn't meet him."

  "True, I didn't."

  "Look, I'm just looking out for our girl, here. I think the guy's a douche." She turned to Elyse. "Did you tell Dylan how he walked out on you, that night--wouldn't even discuss it? Just slammed the door and left?"

  "No..."

  Both friends stared at Elyse. Elyse, in turn, stared out the window. She was watching the darkening clouds roll in from the East River. Dylan spoke up.

  "Of course, I want you to be happy, petunia. But just how big a douche is this guy, for real?"

  Elyse shrugged. "He can be a jerk sometimes. But he's really hot, so it's hard to say."

  "Well, that says it all, doesn't it?" Dylan cracked up laughing. "The great sex is winning! Which, as you know, Miss Sharmaine, means it ain't over 'til it's over. Hot sex prevails over everything, no matter how big a jerk the guy might be."

  Shar shrugged. "For a while maybe."

  Dylan leaned across the table and waggled a finger toward Shar. "Which, gorgeous, you know better than anybody else."

  Sharmaine sat back. "Okay, okay! You don't have sound so accusatory--mea culpa, mea culpa! I'm not getting down on my best friend, for God's sake. Just looking out for her."

  Dylan lightened up. "I'm just saying, I recall one or two in the past you just had to have, too."

  Shar raised an eyebrow. "Likewise, I'm sure."

  "Touché!" Dylan laughed and lifted his glass. "Score on that one."

  Elyse sighed. "Okay, so, we've all made mistakes. And maybe we'll keep making them once in a while. But it's been quite a while since I found anybody remotely attractive who wasn't married. What can I say?"

  Dylan reached over and patted her hair with affection. "Nothing, my little flower. We're all true friends here, judgment free. And we always will be, too--letting each other play out our dramas to the very end. No matter what happens, we're always buds."

  "Right," Shar said amiably. "I'm all for that."

  As the sunlight hours drew to a close, the concrete canyon acquired a stony, impenetrable aspect. During the three friends' conversation, the bar had rotated from one end of Times Square to the other. Innumerable windows glowed from the walls of buildings along Broadway, tiny portals imparting glimpses of inside activity. For a moment, Elyse wondered what went on behind those walls, and what kinds of businesses powered such fortresses.

  Shar raised her glass to Dylan then Elyse. "Whatever happens, my friends, it's like you said... It ain't over 'til it's over."

  Elyse gazed down through the architectural abyss, toward the colorful lights and teeming life in the theater district below.

  Finally, she sat back and returned Shar's toast, also clinking Dylan's glass.

  "I'm good with that."

  Chapter 6

  Elyse changed into her sexiest night gown for the chef. She entered the living room ready to receive his accolades and was ignored. For there he was, yet again, texting on his cell phone for the umpteenth time that night. She copped attitude and poured herself another glass of chardonnay.

  Seated in the oversized armchair, Chef happened to glance at her when he reached for his glass. "Hey, sexy mama," he said. "Come over here to Daddy."

  Slightly mollified, she did as he bid, glass in hand. She slid onto his lap, careful not to spill her wine, and snuggled. In seeking the best position for total comfort, she accidentally nudged a bare foot against Rick's knapsack, which he'd placed on the floor by the sofa.

  "Whoa," she said lightly, "what the heck have you got in there?"

  "Careful with that." He hoisted it up and over to the other side of his chair.

  "What is it?" she asked coyly. "A present for moi?"

  Before he answered, his phone bleeped with another text received.

  Elyse huffed in annoyance while he read it. "No offense, Rick, but you've been texting all night long. I'm getting a little jealous of whoever else is so important."

  "I told you, Elyse, I have to keep tabs on those guys from back home."

  "But you said whatever happened was, like, twenty years ago--when you were a kid. Why is your friend so concerned about it now?"

  "Look...do you not know anything about the Mob and how they work?"

  "The Mob?" she asked, only half believing him. "Really? You didn't tell me that."

  The look Rick shot her cut like a knife, and she knew she'd hit a nerve. She suspected he wasn't playing around, after all, and it scared her.

  "For real, Rick? This is the Mafia we're talking about?"

  Rick ignored her and finished texting. Then he put his phone down, sat back in the chair, and put all his attention on her.

  "Look, I know it's hard for you to imagine from the pristi
ne little town where you grew up, but yeah. My bud and I saw something happen back in Brooklyn, when I was a kid. The guys who made it happen just want to be sure we don't share it with anyone. Ever. So, they check up on us, every now and then."

  "You saw something really bad? And these guys want to make sure you never talk about it?"

  "Genius! Give the girl a prize!"

  "Ha, ha. Very funny. No, but, really, Rick--are you in some kind of trouble?"

  "Elyse, did you hear anything I just said?"

  "Yes, Rick, I heard all of it. I'm just trying to understand."

  "What the fuck do you not understand?"

  His response upset her so much, Elyse couldn't find an answer and her head popped in frustration. But since she couldn't find a specific question that wouldn't make her look dumb, she remained quiet.

  Rick sipped his wine. After a moment of silence lapsed, he looked at her. "What?"

  "I don't get why you're so pissed off because I don't always know what you're talking about."

  "I'm not pissed off. It's just business, Elyse. Gimme a break, would ya, please?"

  He picked up his phone to read yet another text, and she got off his lap in a huff. He made a half-attempt to pull her back down, but she pushed him away and sat on the sofa. While texting, he glanced over to see her pouting.

  "Look, Elyse--it's pretty heavy. I can't give you the details, okay?"

  "Believe me, I don't want them!"

  He sighed and put his phone aside. "Okay, look... When my best friend and I were, like, fourteen years old, we went to see his Uncle Louie, like we did every Thursday afternoon. Everybody in the neighborhood knew Uncle Louie, who owned a florist shop. The guy was, like, almost eighty by then, but had apparently been in business with a well-known family at one point. Way before that. But he'd been in the flower business so long, nobody thought much about it anymore."

  "You mean," Elyse said, "Uncle Louie was in with the Mafia?"

  Rick looked at her blandly. "Yes, Elyse, very good. Uncle Louie had worked with the mafia. But not anymore."

  "Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot!"

  Rick widened his eyes but refrained from further comment.

  He took a deep breath and continued. "So, there's my buddy an' me out on the stoop, fourteen years old, while Uncle Louie closes up shop, ready to take us to dinner like he always did. And, all of a sudden, this car pulls up and screeches to a halt. The windows go down, and two shooters fire over and over, until Uncle Louie ain't moving no more. Up go the windows, and off they go."

  Elyse wore a stunned expression. After a few seconds, she swallowed. "They shot him just like that? Dead?"

  Rick laughed. "Well, you don't live with thirty rounds in ya!"

  "My God," she mumbled, paling in horror. "But, what happened to you and your friend?"

  "Nothing--obviously. I'm still here. He's still here."

  "But, what did you do while they fired? You were right next to Uncle Louie, weren't you?"

  "We hit the ground 'til it was safe to come up."

  "You could've been killed!"

  "Yeah but, besides the fact we almost peed ourselves, nothing happened."

  "But, what if they'd missed?"

  "This was a hit. These guys were pros. They weren't out to get two innocent kids."

  "A stray bullet could've hit you by mistake!"

  Rick sniggered. "Like I said, these guys are pros. They don't make mistakes like that, or else they'd have to pay. No, they just did what they had to and went on their way. Only--they like to be sure my friend and I don't remember anything about what happened, no matter how many years go by. They like to keep things status quo."

  Elyse grew quiet and fought to remain calm. While she sat there digesting Rick's story, he resumed texting. Elyse was suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue.

  "I'm going to bed." She rose and went into the bedroom.

  "I'll be right in, in just a minute. Lemme wash up."

  Elyse left the bedside lamp on when she crawled beneath the covers. With hands folded neatly over the blanket, she kept picturing the story Rick had shared from his youth. Against her will, she imagined an old man getting shot up to pieces while two teenage boys looked on in terror. She couldn't imagine how that wouldn't be psychologically damaging.

  I'd be in therapy the rest of my life!

  Rick's Brooklyn upbringing was the antithesis of her youth spent in Connecticut, where social correctness had prevailed. All at once she was struck by something she hadn't considered earlier. Rick was probably masking fear behind his attitude of casual bravura. In fact, she thought he must be scared witless, but machismo kept him from saying so. Her anger toward him softened a bit.

  Rick finally came into the bedroom toting his knapsack, which he carefully arranged on the floor beside the bed. He yanked his long-sleeved shirt off and left his T-shirt on. After placing his cell phone on the bedside table, he sat on the bed and pulled off his loafers. Elyse turned her head in his direction.

  "So, you finally done texting for the night?"

  "Why d'you always have to be so sarcastic?"

  "I'm sarcastic because I asked if you're done texting?"

  "It's the tone of your voice. Like a school teacher or some shit."

  Elyse's face burned red. "Well, excuse me! You don't like how I sound?"

  "Look, Elyse. I got a lot on my mind. Give it a rest for one night." He stood, took off his slacks, sat back down on the bed and turned off the light.

  Elyse fumed in bitter silence, trying to figure out what she ought to do. One thing was certain--she didn't want Rick touching her. Any minute she expected him to slide a hand up underneath her nightgown and offer a seductive touch to try and melt the anger that had flared between them. She intended to be strong, however, and let him know she was not in the mood.

  She waited with her back toward him. But Rick didn't touch her. After a couple of minutes spent tapping her thumb against a thigh she turned. She was shocked to find him sitting up on the edge of the bed reaching in his knapsack.

  "Rick? What're you doing?"

  "Nothing, Elyse. Just go to sleep."

  "But what've you got in your knapsack?"

  She came up on an elbow to face him. The only light in the room filtered in from streetlamps through cracks in the curtains. With Rick's body barely visible, she could almost smell his sweat in the darkness. If she wasn't mistaken, she also smelled fear.

  Through the shadows, she saw him slip something underneath his pillow.

  "Rick?"

  He tensed. "Yeah?"

  "What did you put under your pillow?"

  "Are you spying on me, Elyse?"

  "What?"

  "Look, will you just go to sleep, please?"

  She bolted upright. "No, you know what, Rick? You don't tell me what to do in my own house. Okay? Yes, we come here all the time because you won't take me to your place to meet your roomies, and that's bad enough. But guess what? I pay the rent, I live here, and you don't tell me what to do in my own house! It's my frigging bedroom--I am not spying on you! I'll sit here all night long and stare, if I so choose--"

  "Okay, okay, Elyse--I get it! It's your house. So don't go to sleep. Sit there all night long, for all I care! Just shut the hell up and quit bitching at me!"

  "How dare you talk to me that way?! You are so rude sometimes, Rick! I don't get what I did!"

  "You didn't do anything, okay? How many times do I have to tell you that?"

  "But what's going on? You're not telling me what's going on, and I'm scared."

  "Don't be scared, okay? Just be quiet and let me get some rest."

  His cell phone rang. He sprang up and looked at the number. "Oh, shit, I gotta take this."

  "Who is it?"

  "It's him."

  "Who's, him?"

  "My buddy. Please, Elyse, please? Can you just let me talk in peace?"

  "I never said you couldn't."

  "Thank you."

  Rick stood and put the
cell phone to his ear. "Hey ya, buddy, how's it going, there?"

  He listened for a moment, while Elyse eavesdropped.

  "Uh-huh..." Rick started pacing.

  Elyse arched up like a feline ready to pounce.

  "Right," Rick said. Phone to his ear, he walked into the living room.

  Elyse waited 'til he was out of sight before she lifted up the corner of his pillow. In the darkness, all she could see was a small, dark lump that, at first, resembled a power tool. Gently, she reached out and touched it. She quickly recoiled from the cold metal that met her fingertips and dropped the pillow back. She sprung off the bed and clicked on the lamp.

  Leaning down, she carefully lifted the edge of the pillow again. The sight of a slate-gray handgun upon her violet cotton sheets was so incongruous her mouth dropped.

  "What?" she whispered to herself as reality took shape in her mind.

  A gun was in her bed--a weapon--a killing machine!

  Although she'd been skeet shooting her whole life, she'd never actually seen a handgun, before--let alone found one in her bed.

  Her fears exploded into a slew of rapid-fire thoughts. Who is this guy, this chef? What people are after him? Is he in hiding? Is he really a killer, or something, in with the mob? Is he going to kill someone? Is he going to shoot me?

  She lowered the pillow and tried to sort calmly through her options for choosing the best course of action. Unfortunately, there was a shortage of rational thoughts flowing through her brain, and she was failing to stay calm. In fact, her heart pounded wildly as she grew more and more upset.

  "He has to go," she whispered. "He has to take this thing and get out of here."

  Before she could figure out how to make him do that without creating a big scene, he came back inside the bedroom.

  "Hey," he said, "That was my boy. Things should be all right, now." He stopped. "What's wrong with you?"

  He reached toward her, but she recoiled.

  "I don't--don't," was all she said. "Rick, I can't have that. Not in my bed."

  "What? Oh," he said casually, "you looked under the pillow."

  Elyse nodded, her eyes wide with fear.