The Same Mistake Twice

by Albert Tucher

  Tracy left the bathroom again. Diana turned the handle, and water gushed. In a moment it turned hot, almost as hot as the tears that leaked from Tracy’s eyes when she returned and saw the results of Diana’s work.

  “Thank you. I can get through the day, at least.”

  The tears started again.

  “I’m sorry. This is getting to me. Thank you. That was a big help. I wish I had been born handy, but I just wasn’t.”

  “I’ve picked up a few pointers,” said Diana, “but l couldn’t call myself handy.”

  “Well, you’re better at it than my husband.”

  Tracy’s disloyalty seemed to shock her, but only for a moment, which obviously shocked her more.

  “Nobody can be good at everything,” said Diana. “It’s not a crime.”

  She couldn’t believe her luck. She could encourage Tracy and pry without looking nosy.

  “I wish he could stick to something long enough to get good at it.”

  Diana looked around.

  “You seem to be getting by. What does he do?”

  “That’s a good question.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m not sure what he does. I just know who he does it for.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Gary Rennert.”

  “Then there must be something he knows how to fix.”

  Damn it, Diana thought. There goes the Queen of Blurt again.

  Tracy gave her a stiff look.

  “I take it you’re a local girl.”

  “Driscoll all the way,” said Diana. “I’ve heard about Gary Rennert all my life. He got my grandmother her job in the high school cafeteria.”

  “Then why are you badmouthing him?”

  “It’s not like she didn’t work for her money.”

  Diana felt like slapping her own face. She had talked herself into the house and right back out again.

  “Wait a minute,” said Tracy. “Did you go to Driscoll High?”

  “Class of ’Eighty-Seven.”

  “My God. You might even know my husband. Class of ’Eighty-Nine.”

  “Then he was a sophomore my senior year.”

  “Oh, so you wouldn’t remember him. That’s not the way it works.”

  “I can’t say I would have noticed younger boys,” said Diana.

  But then it occurred to Diana that some young men had an eye for older women. In her business she had learned to turn down younger clients. They were too much work, and they tended to misunderstand her business. She did what she did to pay the bills. Clients got no discount for being young and cute.

  Suppose Dexter Grogan had noticed her in high school and then found her again right after she graduated. He could have found out about her line of work through stalking her that summer.

  Tracy led the way downstairs to the kitchen, which was also huge. She made coffee. Diana took a stool at the butcher’s block center island.

  “So what else do you do…?”

  “Diana.”

  “I’m sorry. You told me that. I’m Tracy.”

  I know, Diana stopped herself from saying.

  “I’m a personal trainer. Matter of fact, that’s what I came about.”

  The lie came easily enough to make her feel guilty.

  “I’m going door to door recruiting new clients.”

  “That’s a new one. Mormons and vacuum cleaner salesmen come with the territory, but never a door-to-door personal trainer.”

  “That’s why I’m trying it—to crack a new market.”

  She looked at Tracy and had to force herself to continue.

  “If I hang around the club waiting for them to come to me, I’m limited to people who are already working out. Or trying to, anyway. This way I might change somebody’s life.”

  She grinned at Tracy, who smiled back.

  “How’s it working?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Then I should let you go.”

  Tracy looked desolate.

  “I’m in no rush,” Diana said.

  “I wish I could get back into shape.”

  Diana couldn’t think of much to say. She stood.

  “Drop in anytime,” said Tracy. She looked away, as if she had heard herself begging.

  “By the way,” said Diana. “I know a good plumber.”

  She recited the phone number from the panel of Anne-Marie’s van. Tracy gave her a strange look. Who knew even the most reliable plumber’s number by heart? Diana couldn’t explain that ten years of hooking had given her instant and total recall of things like that.

  Until, as she had told Tillotson, she didn’t need the information anymore.

  That raised another question. Why did she think she owed Anne-Marie a referral? She would have to think about that one.

  Chapter Six

  The man in the doorway looked familiar. Beefy and florid in the face, he shook the hand of a shorter, slighter man. As Tillotson approached the house from the curb, the big man turned and noticed that he had company. He gave a meaningless smile and nod and strode past Tillotson and down the front walk to a black Crown Victoria. A man in a matching black suit pushed himself upright from the rear door he was leaning on and opened it. The big man didn’t have to break stride as he stooped to climb into the car.

  Tillotson placed the man. He had seen him on the news posturing self-righteously in Trenton over school vouchers or some such thing

  The smaller man had already gone on to his next item of business, which was Tillotson.

  “Mr. Rennert? I called earlier.”

  “Detective Tillotson.”

  Rennert offered a hand. “I’m sorry. I should have introduced you to the State Senator.”

  “I can’t vote for him. I don’t live in his district.”

  Rennert smiled.

  “What a pleasure. Most people wouldn’t have known that much. Come in.”

  Rennert led the way to a small room on the first floor. It was furnished as a no-frills office, but it didn’t have the feel of a room where anyone spent much time. There must be someone waiting in Rennert’s real office, someone who wasn’t as public a personage as the State Senator.

  “Diana Andrews told you to expect me. I assume she explained.”

  “You’re looking for a man who knew her ten years ago and hasn’t been seen since.”

  “That makes her sound like my suspect.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that. Just giving a summary of your problem as it appears to me.”

  “Anyone come to mind?”

  “Not offhand.”

  “About when did she stop working for you?”

  “She never worked for me per se. She was more of an independent contractor. But it was certainly seven years ago that she stopped. Perhaps eight.”

  “Did she ever complain about anyone you referred to her? You know what I mean—‘Never send him to me again.’ Anything like that?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “That kind of man might have offended someone else. Someone who didn’t shrug it off as well as Diana.”

  “The Senator comes to mind. But as you see, he is still with us.”

  “I’m glad he doesn’t represent me.”

  “In that case, don’t tell me where you live. I’m sure I could disillusion you about your own legislators.”

  Rennert reached into the breast pocket of his dark gray suit and took out a letter-sized sheet of paper folded in thirds as if for a business envelope.

  “Eight names. In each case I remember needing to find some way to keep them entertained for an evening. I haven’t had reason to keep in touch with any of them.”

  Tillotson took the sheet and tried not to sneer. He was a little old for homework and too busy for make-work, but it wouldn’t be smart to show his disgust to Gary Rennert.

  Diana, now, she was different.

  Chapter Seven

  As Diana left the home of the younger Grogans, she tasted something bitter that wasn’t coffe
e. She had lied from beginning to end. Clients paid her to lie to them, but Tracy didn’t owe her anything.

  Back in her own living room she went straight to her bookcase. Her four high school yearbooks sat on the top shelf with her dictionary. She took down the volume for her senior year. Its top edge wore an impressive layer of dust. She carried the book to the kitchen and blew a cloud toward her garbage can.

  The kitchen table was where she did her serious thinking. She sat and opened the yearbook. The first thing she felt was relief. Her former boyfriend Kurt Krol wouldn’t be in this book, because he had graduated the year before. She wouldn’t have to think about the mess he had made of his life.

  She had thought she would start with Dexter Grogan, but instead she went to the faculty section. There was Richard Leavitt, her English teacher, dead for ten years now.

  Her English teacher and also her first client. This wasn’t going to be much better than thinking about Kurt. She remembered knocking on Leavitt’s door just weeks after her graduation and offering him what he had obviously wanted for years.

  Her. If he paid for it, he could have it.

  This was one of the early mistakes she tried to avoid thinking about, but she knew she wouldn’t succeed today.

  Chapter Eight

  I guess I should call you Dick,” said Diana. “Mr. Leavitt.”

  “Go ahead. It might help me believe this is really happening.”

  “You’ll know when you pay me.” She smiled to take the sting of the words away. “Just a reminder.”

  “I didn’t forget.” He smiled back, maybe for the same reason. “Which reminds me. If you plan to make a career of this, you might want to get your money up front. And have them put it in an envelope and then just leave it where you can pick it up without asking for it. It’s a little less…it shows more class.”

  She turned on her left side, facing him.

  “I thought you hadn’t done this before.”

  “It’s true,” he said. “But I read books. It’s amazing, what you can get from books.”

  “You never had us read anything like that. Maybe I would have paid more attention.”

  She smiled again. He didn’t.

  “Right. I’m going to give books about prostitutes to high school girls. That would be a great career move.”

  “Relax,” she said. “I’m not a high school girl. I graduated, remember? A whole week ago. Nobody can touch us.”

  “Careful. Once we agree on the money and what it’s for, that’s a crime. The cops can definitely make an issue of it.”

  “They’d have to have proof. I’m not going to tell, and why would you?”

  He looked up at the ceiling and brooded as if she hadn’t spoken. Diana stretched her right leg across his thighs and levered herself upright. She sat straddling him.

  “What else should I know?”

  When he said nothing, she leaned forward and moved her head from side to side, letting her dark blond hair brush his chest. Her boyfriend Kurt, make that ex-boyfriend now, had always responded, and so did Dick. She felt him stiffen under her, and she shifted her posture to let him enter her. He started to thrust and lasted several minutes this time, before he bucked and groaned and closed his eyes and filled her with wet heat.

  His breathing slowed, and he opened his eyes. She let him slip out of her and stretched out on her side again.

  “That’s another thing. You should use condoms. Always.”

  “I’ve been on the pill for two years.”

  “That’s not the only reason. You’ve heard of AIDS?”

  “I know you. You don’t have it. Neither do I.”

  “That’s my point. You don’t know me, not that well. There probably won’t be three people in your life you know that well.”

  “Message received.”

  “Sorry to preach.”

  She smiled. It took a little more effort this time. “What else don’t I know? Tell me something about you.”

  “I’m not very interesting.”

  “Okay.”

  He touched her shoulder.

  “Sorry. I’m not being very good company.”

  “No, you’re right. Guys might not feel talkative. I should leave it up to them.”

  She made an effort to smooth her resentment. Knowing how to do that would be as important as her sexual expertise.

  “Okay, last thing. You might want to set a time limit, like an hour. More time, more money. Guys who do this will prefer it that way. They’ll like a woman who knows when to go.”

  She looked at him without the smile. “Do you want me to go?”

  He hesitated an instant before saying, “No, of course not.”

  She rolled to the edge of the bed, sat up, and let her feet find the floor. Her clothes were piled on the wooden chair next to his bed. As she hooked her bra and stepped into her panties, her T-shirt and jeans started looking inadequate. Some men might expect more of an effort from her in the wardrobe department.

  “You want to take a shower?” he said.

  She pictured herself in his bathroom and realized that she would be vulnerable with soap in her eyes. He didn’t scare her, but she was also practicing for the future. She leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

  “No, thanks. I’m a one-bathroom girl. After gym class I always waited until I got home to shower.”

  As she watched, his penis stood straight up again.

  “That’s me remembering,” he said. “One time you walked past me after gym class. I smelled you—nothing bad, just a healthy odor of a healthy young woman. And I got a case of this in about a tenth of a second.”

  He nodded toward his erection.

  Talk about mixed messages, she thought. Does he want me to go or not?

  “Hold that thought until next time,” she said.

  His smile vanished, and she understood. There wouldn’t be a next time with this man. She wondered why, but it was his business.

  He stood and went to his dresser, where his wallet lay. He thumbed out five twenties and handed them to her.

  “I was wrong,” he said. “There is one more thing. Try to find out the going rate. I have a feeling you could get more than this.”

  Diana had parked her aging Cutlass in front of Dick’s house. She sat behind the wheel and looked at her money. She must have carried it in her hand for anyone to see. She would have to get smarter than that.

  And she would have to start over on her client list. She had hoped to finish her first day with one regular, who might even give her more leads. Other than Dick, she didn’t know a man who would be open to a knock on the door and a straightforward business proposition.

  She sat for a moment more, trying to feel like a whore. Nothing came. Either she was one already, or it wasn’t that big a deal. Was it even important to know which?

  The next morning Diana boarded the ten-o’clock New York bus. In the Port Authority terminal she found a newsstand and selected a half dozen skin magazines and sex tabloids. She flipped to the back of each publication and verified that it ran classifieds.

  The same magazines were available on her home territory, but all the store clerks would know her.

  The young man behind the counter leered. She glared back, until he decided to concentrate on the kids shoplifting in the back.

  But he retaliated by slapping her magazines down on the counter and turning away. On the way to the bus, she plucked a plastic shopping bag from a trash can. It looked clean enough to handle, and it held her purchases.

  The return trip became boring. She should have bought something to read.

  Back home she found Grandmom and Bea Wynn, her friend of forty years, in the kitchen. Diana looked at her grandmother and knew immediately. Mrs. Wynn shook her head.

  “Not a good day. Not the worst, but not good.”

  Diana nodded and kissed her grandmother, who seemed to wonder what had just happened. Diana started up the stairs to her bedroom.

  “Who was that?” Gran
dmom said.

  “Tell you later,” said Mrs. Wynn. “When you feel better.”

  “I feel fine now.”

  “Later.”

  It was the only thing that could make Diana want to cry. Her grandmother was going away. She came back now and then, but it happened less and less.

  Diana opened a magazine and studied the ads. When she had the idea, she wrote on a legal pad:

  “Single white female, 18, dark blond hair, cheerleader figure, elegant cheekbones and a touch of the Orient around the eyes, seeks generous gentlemen who love to be pampered. 201 area code only.”

  Her grandmother had told her that the Asian cast of her eyes came from their Hungarian ancestry. Diana hadn’t mentioned her strong nose in her ad. It was part of the package, and men would have to get used to it. Dick Leavitt certainly had.

  From each publication she clipped the form for submitting a classified ad. In neat capital letters she printed the text she had composed and added the address of the mailbox she had rented.

  On the way to work at Denny’s she stopped at the post office and bought money orders to cover the fees for her ads. She dropped a handful of envelopes into the letter slot.

  She worked and waited. She talked with Grandmom when the opportunities came. There wouldn’t be many more. When Grandmom’s mind went away, Diana fed her and bathed her and took her to the toilet.

  Her first ad appeared five weeks later, and the first reply landed in her post office box only days after that. She opened the envelope and read that her correspondent wanted to choke her repeatedly and then use her dead body.

  Points for honesty, she thought.

  Other men with similar tastes might be less easy to spot.

  The next letter came from a man who said that she sounded lovely. Would she like to meet? He gave a name and phone number. She called him from a pay phone in the only luncheonette left in downtown Driscoll. The phone was near the entrance to the kitchen. As a male voice sounded in her ear, the busboy emptied a plastic tray of dishes into the sink.

  “I’m sorry,” said Diana. “I didn’t catch that.”

  “I said, ‘Hello.’” The voice sounded amused.

  “Oh. Hi. This is Diana. You wrote?”