by Leslie Glass
"You're crazy." He turned his back on her a third time, pulled on a pair of shorts, then the Loro Piana navy blue nail-head cashmere trousers of a Bergdorf Goodman suit. He grabbed a shirt from a hanger, not even looking at it first. He was in a big hurry.
The deep blush, the nail-head suit, and the great big hurry were more than Janice could bear. She had a headache and a hangover. She swerved to the subject most likely to move him.
"Bill, I can't take all the responsibility of David myself. I've done all the parenting here. You have to participate. This is his junior year. His whole college career, maybe his whole life, depends on his knuckling under now."
"Knuckling is an incorrect image. You don't want him to knuckle under, you want him to settle down and work."
"Fine. You're his father, you talk to him."
"What do you suggest that I say?"
"Well, he's breaking the house rules again," she said, furious at both of them. Bill also was breaking the house rules, but one thing at a time. "Tell him you know about it. You're going to dock him his allowance and ground him if he doesn't knuckle under and live up to his potential."
Bill finished tying a new tie, a stunning Ferragamo with lovebirds on it so vivid you could almost hear them coo. Janice had never seen it before.
"Where did you get that?" she demanded.
"Do you like it? Peggy gave it to me."
Janice paled. Peggy was giving him inappropriate gifts now? Lovebirds? "I think it sucks a big one," she said.
Bill came out of the closet with a small tight smile on his smug face. He was gleaming all over-face pink and healthy, newly scrubbed and shaved, fancy suit, lovely new tie. He brushed by his wife, who was still holding the coffee cup, her thickening body showing clearly through the nightgown.
He marched into his son's room. David's head was under the covers.
"Good morning, David. Say hello to your father."
"You two are fighting again. You woke me up," came the angry response.
"David. Your mother and I love you very much. We're both very proud of you. Now listen to me. I want you to come home after school and get on the stick, you hear me? You're a wonderful, bright, brave boy, and you deserve all the good things life has to offer. We're proud of your efforts and we want you to try harder. Not for us, for yourself."
He turned back to his wife with an expression that said, There, I spoke with him. Satisfied?
No, she wasn't. There was one thing he hadn't mentioned. "And keep out of the park," she added. "I don't want you in that park. It's not safe. Your breakfast will be ready in four minutes. Meet me in the kitchen." Without looking at Bill she went back into the bathroom for her turn in the shower. She knew he'd be gone by the time she came out.
In the bedroom David was muttering, "Fuck you both."
Thirty-seven
Cheryl Fabman awoke feeling human for the first time since her surgery. She shoved her feet into satin mules and gently moved herself from her green satin bed to her white carpeted floor, then into the bathroom to pee and take her first good look at herself. All the bathroom surfaces were marble except for the large mirrored inserts in the walls. All her mirrors told her she didn't look bad at all. A nice side effect to the week in bed was that all signs of fatigue and irritation over her present predicament were gone from her eyes.
Cheryl could not help admiring her lips, which were very impressive now despite a bit of swelling that would probably not completely disappear for another week or two. The inside of her mouth felt funny, but so what? She hiked up her nightgown to her waist and twirled in front of the mirror a few times, taking in from several angles her still Lycra-encased hips and thighs. She had been thin before. With nearly two pounds of pure fat removed from vital spots she was even thinner. But she was most proud of the lips; they definitely looked movie-star plump.
As Cheryl studied herself, she reconsidered the skills of her doctor. At the time of the consult, Morris Strong had suggested a few other little things she might do. Botox shots for the vertical frown-lines between her eyebrows were out of the question because it contained active botulism and paralyzed the nerves or something.
He'd also suggested she do her eyes, of course. She was forty-three. She thought she'd wait on the eyes to see how the lips went.
Dr. Strong had informed her that in California they were doing full face-lifts at forty-two and it was better to start young. She pulled at the creases just beginning to tug at the corners of her mouth. He'd told her she could look twenty if she wanted to. But why bother? The Bastard, Seymour, was forty-two, a year younger than her and fat as a pig. Aston was fifty and looked sixty, another fat pig. She was forty-three and looked maybe twenty-eight. She was still a stunning woman. She could probably do better than either of them without any more work done.
She twirled some more. Nice butt. Really. Despite the Vicodin she'd taken last night, her eyes were clear. She saw that her hair needed freshening up, though. The yellow was too strong, maybe she'd go a little less brassy for the fall. She finished her assessment and padded into her daughter's room.
Brandy was still asleep. The air conditioner was humming away. It was freezing in her room and Brandy was buried deep under the covers. Cheryl checked the clock. Seven-thirty.
"Bran, honey. Wake up. Did you sleep through your alarm?"
There was no movement under the covers.
"Hey, kid, wake up and smell the flowers. Today's a school day."
Cheryl didn't want to lose her good feeling. She was through being an invalid. Where did it get her, anyway? No one cared how she felt. She'd be up and out of there today, ready to start a new life with new hips and new lips. Brandy had a mirror on her bedroom door. Cheryl looked pretty good in that one, too. She primped a little, fluffing her hair.
"Brandy, are you okay? Don't you want to see how good I turned out?" Cheryl frowned at her daughter's mess.
"Uh-huh."
Cheryl didn't like the mess, or the way that uh-huh sounded. "Honey, what's the matter? You don't sound very enthusiastic. Don't you know what time it is?"
"Uh-huh."
"You've got to get going or you'll be late for school. You promised me you'd take your studies seriously this year."
"Uh-huh."
A third uh-huh. What was going on? "Brandy, I'm losing my patience. Get up and clean this mess up. It stinks in here. And get ready for school. Where were you last night, anyway? I waited for you for hours."
This got her talking.
"With Dad. I got home at ten. You were out cold." The covers moved, but Brandy's head did not appear.
"That's not true." Cheryl was stung. Maybe she'd had a Vicodin or two for the pain. But she was up practically all night thinking about her daughter, she was sure of it. "That's a lie, you know I never take pills," she said.
"Oh, come on, you were so fucking wasted you wouldn't know if an atom bomb hit."
"Jesus Christ! How dare you talk to me like that! I'm your loving mother. Don't you forget that," Cheryl exploded. "Look at your clothes. They're disgusting. What do you do, spend your time in a sewer? I know what you were up to, you little slut! You weren't with your father any more than I was."
"Well, at least I can see him any time I want. He hates you so much he wouldn't see you if you were dying of cancer."
Cheryl's breath made a noise that was meant to be a growl but came out like a sob. The pain of it all got her voice going. "I'm going to give him a little call about this. Look at your clothes. I've never seen anything so disgusting in my life. If this is his idea of parenting, I have a little surprise for him."
Brandy was out of her bed like a shot. She was wearing a pair of her father's boxer shorts and a T-shirt. "Don't touch my stuff," she cried. She looked horrible. Dark circles around her eyes. The pudgy teenager's body from hell. Cheryl freaked just looking at her. Brandy was a spawn of the devil, protecting a pile of filthy clothes and dirty sneakers. This child was never going to be a debutante, never going to be pr
etty, never going to turn out to be anything at all. She was hanging out in the park, God only knew what she was doing. Cheryl didn't know how she was unlucky enough to have an impossible kid like this.
"I'm your mother. I will touch your stuff," she screamed. "It's my job to see that you're taken care of. And I will not have you turn out a slut and a nothing. You little bitch! What are you hiding, pot?"
"Oh, come off it, you and that creepy friend of yours smoke pot all the time. So does Dad."
"Dad smokes pot? Are you crazy?" Cheryl was shocked, and screamed some more. Her ex-husband was an absolute uptight and boring square, a Republican, who never thought about anything but business and had ridiculous views about everything. They'd had no fun at all for years, and he'd never once smoked pot with her. Not once. She couldn't believe it.
"He's got a cookie jar full of it, smokes it all the time," Brandy said.
Cheryl's eyes popped. "I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you if you smoke that pot with your father. I'll put him away. You're a nothing. You're going to be a Goddamn good-for-nothing, just like him. And watch me. I'll send him to jail. I will."
Brandy whined, "I feel bad. Mommy, get me some coffee. I'll go to school. I'll clean up. I'll do it, okay."
"You better do it." Cheryl softened immediately, thinking she'd order out for the coffee. "What kind do you want? Cappuccino? Mochaccino?"
"Look, don't hassle Dad. I was just mad at you for giving me grief all the time. I lied about the pot."
"You lied about the pot?" Cheryl said, suddenly sorry that she'd exploded like that. She always overreacted.
"You know I don't do that stuff." Brandy stood there guarding her filthy clothes. "I'll take care of this, okay?"
"I'll get that coffee for you, but hurry up." Cheryl didn't ask her daughter why her clothes were such a mess. Kids were hell, everybody knew that.
"I'd like a Danish, too," Brandy said.
Cheryl went into the bedroom for a robe and to call the deli. While she was dialing, Brandy ran out into the back hall and dropped her clothes and shoes down the garbage chute. They went down with a satisfying whoosh and disappeared forever.
Thirty-eight
John Zumech was six feet tall with a medium build, no discernible fat on his body, long legs, and a salt-and-pepper crew cut of the kind that had been reviled since the Vietnam War by those not in the armed services but was recently making a comeback. He had a nose that had seen too much fighting action, a thin mouth with a small scar in the shape of a C that curved down toward his chin from one corner, a cleft in his chin, stormy gray eyes that were not exactly challenging but took a person on with full intensity. Women liked him. And even if he had not been wearing the orange SAR vest, no one would mistake him for anything but a military man.
As promised, he was waiting inside the park where April and Woody had responded to a call for help on Tuesday night. He was wearing hiking boots and was playing with a flat leather leash. His red Jeep Cherokee, as always in such situations, was packed with search and rescue equipment. He'd parked it on the grass. Because the day had already warmed to a hot Indian summer eighty-two degrees in Central Park, the windows were all partially open. The huge head with sharp pointed ears of the Doberman pinscher called Peachy was stuck out a back window, and she whined like a frustrated child.
As Mike and April pulled up alongside the Jeep, the dog's whine got louder. Mike cut the engine quickly. The dog flung herself at the door as if there were a chance she could propel herself through it. The vehicle shook with her efforts. Her agitated moans made an eerie sound and raised the hairs on the back of April's neck. She glanced at Mike. If he was on edge, he didn't show it.
John slapped the leash against his palm and immediately started complaining to April. "The two of you stink. You know, perfume like that will knock a dog's whiffer out for hours."
April greeted him through the open passenger window. "Hi, John, thanks for coming. This is Lieutenant Mike Sanchez. He's in charge." She didn't bother to apologize about the smell. Hers was just soap and Mike had no idea this was coming down today.
John plopped a Yankees cap on his head and leaned down to window level. "Hey, Mike. This isn't going to work. Look at that-dogs, people. Cars. Buses." He straightened up and pointed out the people lying out on the grass, walking on the paths, the traffic over the wall on CPW. The area hadn't been cleared as he'd requested. He looked disgusted. He leaned back in and raved on.
"A, April here promised a different scenario, and B, Peachy is the best dog in the world, but she couldn't do anything with this even if you'd cleared the area as promised. I knew this was a mistake. Not only that, you guys aren't playing by the rules. I stopped over at the CP Precinct. Courtesy thing. The CO over there had no idea we were working here today. What's up with you?" This last he directed to April.
Mike confirmed John's reading of the situation by giving his neck a little exercise, making a manly connection to John that April read perfectly. Oh my God, she thought. Mike had no actual intention of supporting her operation. Peachy was pacing the backseat of the Jeep now, as well as whining. Mike got out of the Camaro, hiking at his belt. He was going to abort on her.
April unhooked her own seat belt, but stayed where she was to watch the scene play out. John was understandably upset. It was against procedure to work in any precinct without full knowledge and support of the CO there. In addition, John had a bit of a chip on his shoulder because so many people, including the PC, had no faith in the dogs. He hated to be made a fool of. And this was pretty bad. Not only that, John hated the prospect of Peachy's failing at a task no animal could possibly be expected to fulfill.
Mike's agenda, on the other hand, was not entirely clear to April yet. His smile was in place, but that was all. Unlike other cops April knew, Mike had a smoothness about him; the man could calm an erupting volcano. Since he'd become a lieutenant last spring, Mike's leadership qualities had a new authority. He was the man in charge, the Alpha male here. He still hadn't told her what his position on the case was or where he was going with it. But he was acting like a boss. That meant he didn't care if he made an enemy of John, and even April herself had to be careful. Like any PD boss, he could turn on her and crush her like a bug. She'd seen it happen a thousand times with the dumb uniforms who thought they could get away with having boyfriends on the job. The only one happy with the situation was the dog. Peachy bayed and scratched at the door, desperate to work.
"Hey, John. I've heard a lot of good things about you." Mike approached the dog trainer with his hand out. "And this is the famous Peachy who found that banker, right?"
John's tense smile eased up and he shook Mike's hand. "Yeah, Peachy's the one. Our most famous case. Back in '92. This guy Randolph was buried alive in a Queens cemetery. An angry employee did it to get even with him. You read about it in the paper, right? What you don't know was that Peachy located him through his airhole. His scent came right up through that hole."
"Smart dog," Mike said. "Sorry about the precinct slipup. We didn't want to keep you waiting. Is someone on the way?"
Smart Mike, April thought.
"No way, Peachy can't do anything with this. Too many people. Too many cars. And you know, a repeat of yesterday…" John shrugged, clearly softened by the praise. The dog was going crazy. April kept her mouth shut.
Mike pointed at the dog. "She always like this?"
"Peachy? No, she's an extremely well-trained dog. She'll sit on the seat until I give her clean scent of the missing p and tell her to 'go find.'" John went over to the window. "What's with you, honey lamb?"
Peachy was nuts trying to get out of that car.
Goose bumps rose on April's arms. Something was up. The dog knew it right away. "She wants out, John. She wants to find him." Finally April got out of the car herself.
John laughed. "She doesn't know who he is, sweetheart. She can't find if she doesn't have a scent of your guy." He tried soothing the dog. Peachy whimpered and pawed John through
the window. "Hey, that hurts."
"What does she want?"
John shrugged. "Beats me. Humans have maybe five million olfactory cells in their noses. A Doberman, like Peachy, has one hundred fifty to two hundred million cells. She can smell a ball thrown by a kid two days ago, squirrel pee in the grass, a parrot on somebody's shoulder half a mile away-you name it. Young dogs can go wild in an environment like this. With scent particles of literally everything falling all over the place, they're bombarded with stimuli we can't even imagine." John was showing off for Mike.
"That's very interesting. I had no idea." Mike patted the dog's head. He appeared to have all the time in the world. "And they can search for a lot of other things, right?"
"Of course. Lots of things."
"A cadaver?" April approached the trainer and the dog in the car with extreme caution. "Hey, Peachy." She wasn't exactly afraid of it, but wanted to stay out of slobbering range.
"Sure."
"Or something else that's out of place on a scene?" April's eyes were on the dog, who was yelping and carrying on. People were starting to drift over for a look. Pretty soon the Central Park Precinct officers would be on their case. It had been stupid to neglect them. But it was clear she wasn't in harmony, wasn't doing anything right.
John frowned at his barking pride and joy. "Quiet," he commanded.
The noise stopped. Peachy tensed, shivering all over, at attention.
"Why don't you let her out," April suggested. "She's a tracking dog. Let her do her thing."
"She's acting crazy, like a puppy." John opened the car door. "Maybe she has business to do."
"Yeah, and maybe she knows something that we don't." April looked over at Mike. Their eyes locked, and he gave her a smile. Her stomach did a little flip. The dog wouldn't let them pursue the subject further.
As soon as the car door was open a crack, the Doberman threw herself against it and leaped out like an Olympic athlete. April was shocked. Peachy seemed bigger than the last time she'd seen her. She jumped on John, almost knocking the six-footer over. With her two front legs on his shoulders, she was as tall as he was.
