Emergency Exit (The Irish Lottery Series Book 6)

by Gerald Hansen

  She had already put David's number into her phone. She scrolled down her contacts, her favorites, yes, she had put him there, and found his name. She had added three hearts after Roth. The only good thing about that dreadful attack, she thought to herself, is that it brought me closer to myself, closer to God. And David Lee Roth.

  Her heart thumped as she pressed his number. She shifted on the stool. She inspected the lemon seeds sitting on the bottom of her cup of tea, excitement vying with fear. Just as if she had encountered an alien.

  “Hello?”

  She melted at the sound of his voice, that sonorous purr. Unlike Maximus's wimpy squeak. She nearly hung up.

  Oh, for goodness' sake, Gretchen! Get a hold of yourself! 'Catch yerself on!'

  “Hello? Who is this?” Sharper this time.

  “Oh, um, hi there, uh, David. This is, uh, Gretchen. You know, the one you saved the other day?”

  “Oh, hey there, Gretchen!” She felt swaddled in the warmth of his voice. “I never even got your name. What's going on? Are you alright?”

  “Well, actually, uh, first of all, I wanted to thank you so much for saving me. I really think you were maybe sent by, oh, I know it sounds silly, but, sent from heaven or, or something like that. It was so amazing. I'm so grateful. I must make it up to you.”

  “Don't worry about it. All in a day's work.”

  He was amazing! Saving lives and not giving it a moment's thought. Well, considering what his job might be, maybe that really was the case.

  “Speaking of which...what is yours?”

  There was silence. Gretchen froze. Had she said something wrong? Should she hang up? She was relieved to hear his voice again, this time a bit quizzical.

  “What's my what?”

  “Day's work.”

  He laughed, and she loved the sound of it, a rich, hearty roll.

  “Ah, I get it now. I'm an anesthesiologist.” As far as you could get from a poet! On second thoughts, she reflected with a naughty smile, both were skilled at putting people to sleep.“You'll have to forgive me. I'm a bit slow right now. I had a double shift and just got home. I'm about to pass out.”

  “Oh! I'm so sorry!”

  “No worries.”

  “I'll make it quick, then. I'd like us to meet, it that's okay with you. I've been beset by nightmares, and before I didn't think I wanted to press charges. But now I think I might. So I wonder, would you go to the police station with me?”

  As if she'd do that! But she couldn't say, “Hey, how about a dinner and a movie?” There was silence. Gretchen pressed her ear to her phone, trying to hear what noises there might be in an anesthesiologist's apartment. What room was he in? Was it his bedroom? Why wasn't he speaking? Panic gripped her.

  “If you really think it's worth it,” he said finally.

  “Well, I mean, we can meet and discuss the, well, the pros and cons, I guess. If that's okay with you?”

  “Sure, yeah. I've got...” She heard the flutter of paper. “Oh! I've got tomorrow off. How about five? I can meet you at your place. I know where it is, after all.”

  “Yes. Yes, you do. Okay, that's great. And now you have my number as well. Okay. Thanks so much again. You've made my life worth living.”

  “Aw, don't put so much pressure on me! Anybody would've done it!”

  “Well, thanks. And goodbye. See you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Gretchen. See you then.”

  She loved how he said her name. She turned off her phone, hand trembling, head buzzing, heart soaring. She hugged the phone to her cleavage, then bit short a scream. A man had sat at her table during the call. Him sitting there wasn't strange; the place was full. But that she hadn't noticed him sitting down? She had been so wrapped up in the phone call. He was peering at her hair with eyes that were slightly Asian. Not exactly lewdly but...

  She ran her fingers through her curls, but there was nothing sexual about the gesture (at least to her). People often noticed her hair. She wanted to look away from him, but couldn't. He was dressed to impress, navy Brioni suit, starched pink shirt that looked bespoke, monogrammed DT on the cuffs, Cartier cufflinks, Ermenegildo Zegna tie. He was drinking what looked like a blended Java Chip Frappucino. She caught a glimpse of a watch that showed all the innards working away, a Bulgari, she thought. His i-Phone was solid gold. He looked somewhat Slavic, a broad face, high cheekbones and a snubbed nose. His hair was dark, and graying at the temples. She wouldn't have called him handsome; he had too many moles and pockmarks on his face, and what looked like a knife scar slicing though his left eyebrow. And she could see a stomach causing the buttons of his shirt, however crisp, to strain. But he exuded power. And, from his clothes, she suspected wealth. Blended Frappucinos weren't cheap.

  “Hair too beautiful,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Your name?”

  Gretchen turned to the side and waved him away.

  “I'm waiting for my boyfriend.” But she said it with a smile.

  “Is alright. I have wife.” He showed the best part of a quarter of a million dollars trapped around his ring finger. “And three child.”

  Gretchen turned back.

  “Your name?” he asked again.

  “Gretchen.”

  “Greetcheen.”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  He pointed to himself. “Darko.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My name. Darko. Darko Trajko.”

  “Hi, Darko. Nice to meet you.” Gretchen was beginning to feel stupid, and maybe scared. What did this man, this married man with three children, want with her? His accent made her think of thugs and drugs and trafficking, both human and organ. But she shouldn't be thinking like that. She was the new Gretchen. She couldn't judge, couldn't assume. Life was great and people were good.

  “I hear you on phone. Nice voice. Very nice voice. Easy for understand.”

  “Well, erm, thank you.” Was this a pick-up line in whatever strange country he came from? Forget talking about eyes or personality, talk about beautiful hair and nice voice? “Where are you from, exactly?”

  “Svardia.”

  She struggled to recall if she had seen this on a map at any stage in her life.

  “Small country. Balkan. Near, maybe you know, Bulgaria? Romania?”

  “Oh, you mean like one of those little countries that used to be Yugoslavia?”

  “No. Like that, yes. But I wonder. I hear you voice. I think very nice. I need teacher. You will be my teacher. Yes?”

  “But...!” If he had asked her to give him a lap dance there before the baristas and the soy milk container she couldn't have been more surprised. “But I know nothing about English.”

  “But you speak.”

  “Yes. But, but...I wouldn't know where to begin. Really. I don't know the first thing about...I got C pluses in English in high school.” Straight As, but she wasn't going to tell him that. “Do you know high school?”

  “You see! You know right question for ask! Yes, I know high school. I want you my teacher.”

  “I'm sorry,” Gretchen said, shaking her head and grabbing her phone. Now she wondered if he were staring lustfully at her after all. It was difficult to tell. Something was shimmering in those eyes, and it would be strange if it was the excitement of him having found someone to teach him English. Which he seemed to know reasonably well anyway. “Besides, I don't think you need a teacher. Your English is fine.”

  He frowned and held out his hands.

  “You make the joke of me.”

  “No, really. I understood everything you said. Well, except your name, but that wasn't English. You don't need me.”

  “I pay you money. Big money.”

  She was sure he could. She was even sure he would. She respected him, this foreign stranger, her heart went out to him. It must be difficult to live in a country when you don't fully understand the language. Lord knew, Gretchen found it difficult, and she was born speaking English! And so many—she looked arou
nd her now, where she struggled to hear any English—so many who lived here didn't bother because they were too busy, too lazy or too stupid? She didn't know why they didn't learn it. But they didn't. Yet here was a man, an apparently very influential man, begging to be taught. But she couldn't help him. She didn't have the appropriate skill set.

  “I'm very sorry. You seem like a very nice man. But I really can't help you. I struggle at the difference between an adjective and an adverb. I'd probably do you more harm than good.”

  She contemplated placing her hand on his, on the hand with the big gold wedding band, but didn't know how this might be construed. She stood up to go.

  “Please,” he said, holding her elbow. She froze. He saw her distress and let go. “Pardon. I not know—”

  “I don't know about your country,” Gretchen said stiffly, “but in this country you do not paw at people you don't know.”

  She was happy now she hadn't touched his hand. He seemed confused, either about the custom or the word 'paw,' Gretchen didn't know and didn't care. She was ultra-sensitive to having a man's hands on her. After...

  He sighed.

  “Might be you change mind.” A business card appeared somehow in her hand. He had pressed it there. What was this with business cards being pressed into her hands? She had been in college the last time she had seen a business card, and now she had received two in almost as many days. Feast or famine.

  “I'm so sorry, but—”

  “Goodbye,” Darko Trajko said abruptly, and then he was gone. He hadn't said it rudely, more disappointed and maybe embarrassed.

  She sat back down. She hadn't realized her legs were quaking. She saw him through the crowd, standing in the very long line for the unisex Starbucks bathroom. New York's public lavatories. She yelped as her phone rang. Three girls next to her looked at her and giggled among themselves. She picked up the phone, cheeks burning.

  “Hello?”

  “Gretchen.” She tensed. It was Dennis.

  “Dennis? What happened? Did management contact you? What's going on?”

  “They've decided...” He paused, and she could almost feel him tittering to himself, prolonging the suspense just to torment her. “They've decided to let you go. They won't even let you work out your last week. They don't want you near a plane again. I'm very sorry.” He sounded anything but.

  Gretchen threw down her phone. She tried to get up from her stool but couldn't. Her cup toppled over and tea splattered everywhere. She was frozen in horror, seeing nothing but white. Or was it red? She didn't know. It had happened, the thing she had long hoped and feared. She felt stripped of her clothing, as if she were sitting there starkers. She suppressed a whimper, biting her fist. She got up. She ran over to the line. She grabbed Darko by the arm.

  “Please!” she begged. “I will be happy to teach you!”

  “But? You? You say no..?”

  “Yes. But now I say yes. I say yes.” She nodded her head so he would understand what she meant.

  “You say yes.” He understood. He smiled. Maybe this would be easier than she thought...!

  CHAPTER EIGHT ELEVEN MONTHS AGO

  THE NIGHT BEFORE, MAXIMUS had been drunk as usual. He had dressed up in a tuxedo, of all things, with a red bow tie and matching cummerbund, and set up a stereo, an actual record player, in the living room. He was playing what sounded like muzak from the 60s, Percy Faith, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. And he was guzzling down. Gretchen was washing the dishes. When “Theme From A Summer Place” came on, he rushed over to her, that brightness that she had loved so much shining in his eyes. He wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled his chin into the back of her neck while she scrubbed a pot.

  “Waltz with me, honeypot! Come on, it's been so long since we've danced! Come on, I love this song! So romantic! Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah...!”

  Just to shut him up, she ripped off her gloves and, feeling like a fool, she stumbled past the coffee table, he placed her hands in the correct position, and they sort of waltzed in a tiny square there in the living room until the song was over. It was thankfully short, but each second pressed against what was now on his face felt like an eternity.

  “Oh, thanks, Grechen! My love! My dear! My little honeypot!”

  And then he had passed out on the sofa, and she had rinsed out the colander.

  So he could waltz. So what. A year ago, it would have made her heart sing. Now it made her stomach turn. The magic, and there had been a lot and it had reeled her in, she grudgingly admitted to herself as she ran a soapy rag through the egg beater, the magic had now gone. It was no longer the Magic Kingdom she was living in with Maximus, it was Elm Street.

  Now it was the morning after. Well, the afternoon. Gretchen dumped an ashtray full of his butts and toenails into the garbage on top of all his empty beer bottles, then crossed the living room and rapped on the door to the Room of Dreams.

  “Are you decent?” she asked.

  And she really had to ask. She didn't want to be forced to see him masturbating again. She still couldn't understand why, the week before, he had just called out, and quite cheerily, “Come on in!” when she had knocked, then sat there, having the conversation about the bill or whatever (and it probably had been about a bill), with his junk slowly deflating in his hand. As if he was proud of his sexual urges. The sexual urges she, apparently, couldn't help him satisfy much any more. She thought this behavior peculiar, but didn't dare ask any of her female friends if their partners did it as well. Maybe she was just a prude.

  “Oh, don't worry!” Maximus now trilled. “I'm decent, yes. Come on in!”

  Gretchen pushed open the door, tensing at what tawdry scene might be revealed. But, through the haze of cigarette smoke that swirled over his desk, she saw he was only spraying deodorant on the soles of his feet.

  Apparently, when Maximus had told her he'd never smoke inside again, he meant 'inside my head,' because he always puffed away in the living room, in the kitchenette, and even in the bathroom (he had found one of those standing ashtrays on the sidewalk and put it in there). He had the 'good grace' to keep their bedroom smoke free. Gretchen saw the smoke, smelled the smoke pouring from the crack under the door of his Room of Dreams, wet dreams, more like, mingled with the stench of freshly- and often-spilled sperm.

  Three months of unemployment had passed, and his goatee with the swirly mustache was now a scraggly mountain man beard. Those few times lately that he had indeed touched her, she had shuddered inwardly as his hair-encrusted maul gaped toward hers for what it sought. As much as she disliked beards, a well-groomed one might have been tolerable, but, recently, Gretchen rejoiced on the rare occasion he decided to shower. He had revealed a rare allergy to water, but she suspected he was putting her on.

  Maximus had spent the past three months 'writing his poetry.' Many times, in the middle of a conversation she had instigated, usually about the household finances, he would suddenly gasp as if in pain, grab both sides of his head and race down the hallway to his room, moaning “I can't forget, can't forget!” The door would slam and he wouldn't surface for hours. Ostensibly, he had told her, 'deep' or 'profound' insights, the perfect word, the right combination, would shoot without warning into his consciousness from some depth of his brain, and he had to scribble it down immediately or it would be gone forever. True, she would hear the clinking of the key in the little box to get his notebook, but a few moments later, she would hear (she placed a glass against the door) the beeping of video games or the groans of pornography, under the schizophrenic music he played (if she hated one style, it didn't matter much, it would change in three and a half minutes).

  Presumably, his spraying of the feet was now a 'well-deserved' break from his 'writing.' He was at his desk, in any event. Gretchen tripped over a beer bottle, an empty 40 ounce.

  “Really, the filth of this room!”

  “It's my inner sanctum, remember. Hands off!”

  She saw two other beer bottles on his desk. Gone were t
he days of absinthe; he couldn't afford it anymore. She couldn't afford it anymore.

  A week or so after he had been 'laid off,' Maximus told her the truth. He had quit BytesTech. While Gretchen supposed she was expected to respect him for owning up, she figured out later he had told her because she kept talking about his unemployment benefits, and when they might be paid. When you quit, Maximus had apparently discovered, unemployment didn't pay. Well, maybe it did, but it started in six months, after you had been kicked out onto the street for non-payment of rent and died of starvation on a park bench. Unless you had a stupid girlfriend who paid all your bills and kept you fed.

  For the past interminable three months, Maximus dragged plastic bags clanking of 40 ounce bottles of beer through the door of their home, and not some trendy micro brew (she didn't think they even made 40s), not even Budweiser, but some generic beer she had only seen winos guzzle on the sidewalk. His wiry, slender body, which now put her off slightly, too much like a boy and not enough of a man yet, was starting to get fat. He might as well get drunk. He had nothing to wake up for. Except writing more poetry.

  He now eyed, irritation on his face, the pile of bills clutched in her hand.

  Gretchen began, “I've just been going over the bills, and—”

  “You know I feel bad about that. But don't worry. At some stage,” he indicated the notebook next to his elbow, “it will be finished, and I'll be the one supporting you. Just think, Gretchen, you at my side in the Louis Vuitton and the Louboutain pumps my royalties have purchased for you, as I stand before the microphone, my fans sitting in rows stretching out as far as the eye can see—”

  “Yes, but they're threatening to turn off the—”

  “And don't forget. I. Helped. You. Out.” He said it with slight menace and eyebrows raised meaningfully, eyes pointed at her mouth, and then the menace dissolved as he continued, suddenly light, flashing his own perfect grin, “So the least you can do it support me. And my art. The poems that will soon have the literati swooning. The new e e cummings, the male Emily Dickinson, T S Elliot, whoever.”