52 Palms is just one of the many fine-dining establishments and bars that dot a mile-long stretch of road called Dusty Pond Boulevard. Though Dusty Pond Boulevard is located near the numerous tourist traps that litter Interstate 4—including Disney World, Universal Studios, and Sea World—its establishments are mostly free of tourist types. If you hang around Dusty Pond much, you will mainly encounter residents from the Orange County communities of Windermere, Metro West, Dr. Phillips, and occasionally a millionaire businessperson or celebrity from the nearby golf communities of Isleworth and Bay Hill.
“Women, on the other hand, are a different story, as you have no doubt witnessed firsthand. Just think about it for a second. What does it take for a woman on a daily basis to make herself presentable to the world? Well, quite a bit, as you well—”
“Wally,” I said, “shut the fuck up. I have a terrible enough headache as it is without having you speechify on the mundane details of everyday life.”
“I’m hurt,” he said. But after he playfully flipped me the bird and started scoping babes at the bar, I knew he wasn’t really all that hurt.
“Still the same old meat market in here?” I asked.
Sidebottom shook his head. “Nope, it’s not like it used to be. Since the last time you hung out with me and the boys, two dozen new places have opened up on Dusty Pond. 52 Palms isn’t the preeminent meat market anymore. Mostly the older broads hang out here now, and cougars just aren’t my cup of tea.” He pulled his BlackBerry out of his pocket and set it on the table. “But with the aid of modern day cellular technology, my partners in crime scout the area and report back on where the true hot spots are for any given night. And Smith, these guys are good. I have learned a ton from them. I’m still a little bit of a greenhorn in the art of pickup, but this weekend I have a quota of twenty-five chicks to—”
“Sidebottom,” I said, pointing to his BlackBerry, “what time is it? It’s gotta be well past seven. Where the hell is your doctor friend?”
“I’d like to think that you’d be happy for me,” he said. “You may not think much of the art of pickup, but it’s not just about bagging a babe whenever the mood strikes. No, this is about leveling the playing field between the naturals—like you—and guys like me who have a tougher time of getting to know a woman. It’s about increasing my self-esteem and becoming more adept in my dealings with the opposite sex.”
“Adept?” I said while shaking my head in disappointment. I took another sip of ginger ale and pointed to the bar area, where the number of women seemed to be multiplying exponentially. “These women here now, they’re not so old. Most look close to our age. They’re here for a reason, Wally. They want to talk to a guy like you. Try speaking from your heart instead of following some script you’ve read in a book published by con artists.”
“So you have read the book.”
“Yeah, I’ve skimmed through the pickup bible,” I said. “But I’m not interested in methods or engaging in mind tricks of any kind to obtain companionship. That hardly seems romantic to me.”
The barmaid appeared and set another beer before Sidebottom and asked if I wanted a refill of my ginger ale. I nodded and then she quickly shuffled off.
“You have it all wrong,” Sidebottom said. He took a generous swig from his fresh bottle of brew and then continued: “It’s all about making the initial connection. What happens after that is purely organic. It’s about knocking a woman’s guard down and cutting through the bullshit. It’s not like these pickup artists are out slipping Mickeys or roofies to any of these chicks.”
Then, from seemingly out of nowhere but thin air, a beautiful woman settled into the booth next to Sidebottom.
“Scoot your ass over,” she commanded. But Wally didn’t scoot quickly enough. The woman slammed her hips into Sidebottom’s, bumping him over a good two feet. She then looked at me and grinned. “I’m Sam Fleming. You must be Mr. Smith.”
I recognized her immediately. She was the pharmaceutical sales representative assigned to the office of Dr. Beady Eyes. From close up, she was far more beautiful than I had ever imagined. Tonight she wore a black pantsuit, a slightly more conservative choice in dress than I’d normally seen her strutting into the doctor’s office wearing, but it was still a formfitting dazzler of a getup. She had alluring and sexually suggestive blue eyes that knew no shame. They were like cat eyes, eyes that exuded supreme confidence, eyes that said I know I’ve got it. Her complexion was perfect, like pure porcelain, and she barely had any makeup applied. Her lips were full and sensuous—no collagen there. And her slightly longer than shoulder-length blond hair had just a touch of silvery-gray to it—I couldn’t be sure if they were subtle highlights or just a sign of aging (I later learned that the streaks were indeed natural). Her demeanor and presence were indicative of a proud and intelligent woman.
And yes, I’ll admit it: I took notice of her fantastically terrific tits.
“Yes,” I answered. “I’m Smith. Just plain old Smith.” I offered her a handshake and smiled. I was so ecstatic to have this woman sitting in the same booth with me that I could hardly contain myself.
After shaking hands, she released herself from a grip that I may have been applying a bit too firmly.
“Nice to meet you, Plain Old Smith. You have quite an impressive handshake.” She chuckled and smiled brightly. “It makes a girl know that you’re really there. I like that.” She turned to Wally. “Mr. Smith and I are already acquainted.”
“Really?” Sidebottom said, his eyebrows hitched.
“Walter,” she said, “I think it would be appropriate if you allowed Mr. Smith and me some privacy.” She slid out of the booth and stood, motioning for Sidebottom to exit. “Get to work with your pickup crew, wherever they are. I’ll take care of your tab.”
Sidebottom meekly shrugged his shoulders and slid out of the booth. Sam Fleming kissed him on the cheek, then said, “Call me tomorrow and tell me how it went. I’ll want a full report. We’re going to find you a threesome real soon.”
“Well . . . okay,” he said. “Smith, wish me luck. Tonight is my maiden voyage.”
“Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “Do what you feel you have to. Just remember that when all this blows up in your face, it was me all along who said to just be yourself.”
Dr. Fleming slapped him on the ass and said, “March, Walter.”
Sidebottom nodded and did indeed march away, just like a soldier after being given orders by his commanding officer. He seemed a little sad to me. It was as if a part of him knew he was about to get in way over his head, at which point there’d be no turning back.
Sam Fleming sat back down. Her friendly grin didn’t indicate that she was at all peeved with me for trying to steer Sidebottom into a different direction.
“I’m not encouraging Walter to do anything he doesn’t want to do,” she said. “He came to me for help, and I turned him on to these fellows. He told me you didn’t approve of it.”
I decided not to start a big row about whatever she was doing with Sidebottom. He was a big boy, and though I didn’t approve of the methods he was seeking to employ, I figured that if a woman was dumb enough to fall for all of that bullshit, then she deserved whatever she got.
“I had no idea you were a doctor,” I said to her. “Dr. Fleming, is it?”
“You can call me Sam.” She relaxed her upright posture a bit and continued: “And yes, I am a doctor. I am, in fact, a psychiatrist. But I don’t have a real practice anymore. I’m semi-retired. But out of my home office I occasionally provide counseling to the rich and famous, people not comfortable with being seen walking into or out of a psychiatrist’s office. But I make most of my money as a pharmaceutical sales rep.”
Sam looked around to see if anyone was standing close by. She then leaned forward and spoke softly: “Let’s cut through the bullshit, okay, Mr. Plain Old Smith? You’ve undressed me with your eyes so many times that I long ago lost count. I felt completely stripped naked and more than jus
t a little bit violated every time I walked past you.”
It just tickled me to death to hear her say that. I was unable to suppress my shit-eating grin as I said, “Violated? Really?”
She leaned back and smirked. “Walter and I go back a long way. We went to school together back in Philly, first grade through twelfth. He’s a sweet boy and I love him like a brother, even though he wishes my love for him allowed us to be fuck buddies. So when he asks me for a favor I grant it to him, no questions asked. And he asked me to help you.” She leaned forward again, and with a playful smile said, “I understand that you are no longer under the care of Dr. Tabak. He released you from his care because you physically threatened him by offering to shove phone books up his ass. Is that right?”
“So much for professional discretion,” I said. I couldn’t help but keep smiling, though. She was so beautiful that . . . Well, it just made me happy, so full of mirth and merriment that—
But then I felt my head throb, a reminder that I was still in pain. I simmered down and got serious with her: “I hope you’re better at keeping your mouth shut than he is.”
“Doc Tabak just told me yesterday about the stunt you pulled. Did you know he called the police about it?”
“No shit?” I said. I was trying to sound like I didn’t care, but it worried me slightly because I have a bit of a history of settling my differences with my fists. But that was a long time ago, long before I ever came to Orlando.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s very timid—mousey, I would say. The police just told him to call if you showed up again. Besides, I thought it was funny.”
“I bet he buys all of the shit you peddle, doesn’t he?”
“You’re damn right he does,” she said. “I’m the best at what I do in this entire region. Maybe even the country. And yes, my darling, the way I dress and the way I look has a lot to do with it. When I walk out of a doctor’s office, that doctor does indeed want to prescribe everything I’m peddling out of my black suitcase, mainly because he also wants to fuck my brains out.”
“So you’re selling sex?”
“Money has no mother, Mr. Plain Old Smith.” Her expression was rather grave while uttering that particular profundity.
“Money has no mother,” I said, repeating her mantra. “The ends justify the means, right?”
“When it comes to money, sweetheart, you’re damn right.”
I decided it would be a good idea to change the subject. I explained to her that I was a manic-depressive and that I was completely off my meds. After I told her what drugs I’d been taking, I could see the light bulb go off above her head.
“You can’t CT from those drugs, Plain Old Smith.”
“CT?” I asked.
“Sorry. CT stands for cold turkey. Perhaps you read about the trouble a famous rock singer went through when he tried to come off drugs similar to the ones you’re prescribed.”
“You mean Orlando’s own Ben Davenport?” I said. “Yeah, but I also read that he got sick as a dog, even though he was on a tapering plan of some sort. Lot of good that did him.”
Sam shrugged. “That was only because he didn’t adhere to the game plan his doctor had laid out for him. He rushed the process. If you do that you’ll get sick. Period. He may as well have just gone cold turkey himself.”
“How long is the tapering plan?” I asked. “That is, if I stick with it.”
“It’s different for everyone,” she answered. “In your case, though, I can set you up with a hundred measured doses that decrease in strength each day, until you reach zero. But you have to be committed to the program and not speed things up.”
“I’d like to try it.”
“We can do it for both of your meds,” she said. “There’s a compounding pharmacy here in town that can fill the prescriptions. But it could take a couple of days to fill them.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I feel like I could hurl right now. I have to have something now to make myself feel better.”
Sam Fleming stared at me for a minute, and then finally nodded, as if she had reached some favorable conclusion regarding my character.
“Let’s get out of here and you follow me to my place,” she said. “I can give you enough meds to carry you through until the prescriptions are filled. That way you can get some sleep tonight and normalize a tad. But you have to realize that eventually, once you’ve fully tapered from these drugs, your sleep will never be as deep or as rehabilitative as it was while taking these meds. You probably have a history of insomnia, right?”
“You must have taken a peek at my chart while you were loosening Tabak’s tie,” I cracked.
She didn’t think that was funny.
“Just follow me to my house, Plain Old Smith, and we’ll get you taken care of.”
“Okay, but only if you quit calling me Plain Old Smith, Miss Big Bouncy Tits With The Big Black Suitcase Full Of Goodies.”
She did like that—it put a million dollar smile on her supermodel face.
“Smith, you’re a real smartass, but I already like you. Let’s go.”
6
AS I FOLLOWED DR. Samantha Fleming to her home in Bay Hill, I thought of what she had said about having gone to school with Sidebottom. That meant she was thirty-nine or forty years old. Based on my most recent sinful glimpse of her from inside the lobby of Dr. Beady Eyes, however, I had placed the doctor’s age closer to thirty or so. Her stunning looks had, for quite a long time, distracted me from seeing the real truth in her eyes. But having finally gazed directly into them I had picked up upon a profound sense of loss, sadness, and emptiness. I’ve always been adept at reading eyes. I would soon find out that I was right on the mark with my assessment.
After parking in the doctor’s driveway, I remained in the car and picked up my cell phone. It was a quarter after eight. I thought I might be able to catch Caitlin before the real partying began up in Minneapolis. I tried calling her three times, but each time the call went straight to voicemail. I glanced up and saw the doctor standing in front of my car. She placed her hands on her hips and playfully nodded toward her front door. I now felt like I was on a date.
“To hell with you, Cait,” I said as I pocketed the cell phone. I got out of the car and followed the doctor into her enormous two-story house.
Inside it was immaculate. I whistled in awe.
“Don’t credit me with decorating this fucking museum,” Sam said bitterly. “All this depressing and boring Baroque artwork was bought by my ex-husband. I only leave it up because my son insists that it not be removed. And don’t be impressed with the cleanliness of the house, either. I have a service.”
“Okay,” I said. “Props to your ex-hubby and the maids.”
The place did look like a museum. It didn’t look like anyone was allowed to sit anywhere.
“Follow me into the kitchen,” she said. “But try not to drool behind me while you’re admiring my ass. The carpet’s a bitch to clean.”
I didn’t drool—almost, but not quite.
The kitchen was a monstrosity. It had two silver high-tech stoves made of steel, the kind I had only seen before in swanky restaurants in places like New York City and Chicago. There was a black refrigerator damn near the size of my walk-in closet at home—more than adequate space to stash a few corpses.
“I know what’s good for a headache,” Sam said.
From a wine refrigerator that was built into the kitchen’s expansive island she removed a bottle of Chardonnay.
“The wine may go down well enough,” I said, “but with this headache I’ll pay the piper in the morning for it. I think I’ll settle for some ginger ale or water.”
Sam handed me the wine bottle with one hand and an old-fashioned corkscrew with the other.
“Just open the damn wine and pour each of us a glass,” she commanded. “Before you leave here tonight I will give you medicine that will help you sleep and alleviate your pain. A few glasses of wine won’t hurt you. Meanwhile, I�
��m going to prepare dinner. I have a couple of filets, if you like steak?”
“Come to think of it,” I said as I uncorked the wine, “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. A steak sounds good.”
Sam told me to relax in the living room while she prepared dinner. She powered on the high-definition TV and set it to ESPN. She said she was a big fan of the Orlando Magic, and a Magic game was nearing tipoff. I never watched basketball, but after taking a few sips of the wine I began to feel a bit better and found myself somewhat interested in the game, and watching it soon took my mind off of life’s aggravations. Through the rear sliding glass door I eventually took in a sight that would have inspired LeRoy Neiman: a gorgeous view of one of the fairways on the Arnold Palmer-designed golf course.
Fifteen minutes later Sam took a break and came into the living room. She was holding her wine glass as she sat next to me on the brown leather couch.
“What’s the score?” she asked.
“The Magic are up by nine,” I answered. “It doesn’t really matter though, because all of these games aren’t decided until the last ten seconds. They’re completely rigged.”
“Your cynicism is duly noted, Mr. Smith.” She grinned and winked at me, which was enough to instantly set off a fire in my belly that made my throat dry and my heart swell. I then had to concentrate to quickly douse the flame within.
“By the way,” she said, “Walter told me your first name. What’s the big deal about that?” She then said my first name and it really pissed me off. But I kept my cool and told her I didn’t want to talk about it. I figured I’d tell her later, in exchange for her telling me something about herself.
For the next ten minutes she didn’t say a single word. She was too engrossed in the basketball game. Every bucket made or missed by the Magic players or their opponents dictated her emotional responses, which ranged from abject disgust (for the missing of an easy layup by Dwight Howard) to cheers of hallelujah (for Dwight redeeming himself by blocking a shot on the defensive end of the court).
Bethel's Meadow Page 4
