Weekend at Prism

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  She sat up, reached for her drink and took a large swallow. “Maybe I should have become a librarian.” She patted the vacant cushion, inviting him to sit beside her. He did. Turning toward him, she rested an arm atop the love seat and toyed with the top button of her blouse with her thumb and forefinger. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Go ahead, as long as it’s not Why are you such a jerk.”

  This made her laugh.

  “Do you ever kiss on first dates?” she asked puckishly.

  “Depends on the circumstances.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well,” he grinned, placing a hand behind her neck and easing her closer. “Only if I find the woman very attractive.”

  After about five seconds, he wanted more. A lot more; her mouth appealing to organs other than his brain. Within a minute his hand slowly started moving from her knee to her thigh, but stopped when she grasped his wrist. “I said kissing,” she whispered into his ear, panting softly. “No touching below the waist until at least the second date.”

  Two nights later, they returned to Chat Éclair, Louise comping dinner in return for him signing a half dozen more books and Cassie agreeing to personally pick up then bring back a list of items upon returning from her trip. Back at her condo, he learned his thoughts about the pleasures of her mouth weren’t misplaced. They agreed to a third date, Cassie impishly noting, “Three’s always a charm.”

  But suddenly she was gone, leaving a message that her appointments had unexpectedly changed again, that she couldn’t be reached while in Europe and that circumstances indicated she’d probably be extending her visit well past the originally scheduled two months.

  Three weeks later he served as best man at his best friend’s wedding and began dating Becky, the maid of honor. Within a month he agreed to making their relationship an exclusive one, and between her and the wild ride he’d embarked on—having been confirmed by Potcheck and Walbee to be the television broadcast’s Lead Anchor for the WST gala, Cassie faded deeper and deeper into the background until he no longer gave her much of a thought.

  On Thanksgiving Day, following a traditional dinner at Becky’s parent’s house, he’d adjourned to the living room with her father Joseph and Beck’s brothers Joe, Jr. and Phil to watch some football. They began passing around a liter of Stoli, chugging it straight out of the bottle, but he declined joining in. As they got more and more loaded, he started thinking that maybe this wasn’t a family he’d enjoy spending a whole lot of time with. Then after making a comment on the Bears’ O-Line weakness, Phil slurred, “What the fuck do you know about fucking football? All you know about is those fucking faggots you write stories about.”

  He took a deep breath, then stood and said, “Gentlemen? It’s been a very pleasant afternoon but I think I’d better get going.”

  “Hey, Rebecca!” Junior yelled toward the kitchen. “Your boyfriend’s takin’ a hike!”

  She stepped into the room, tossing a towel onto her shoulder and rubbing her hands on her apron. “Something wrong, babe?”

  “I was just leaving.”

  “Mom hasn’t served dessert yet. You can’t leave before the pie. Now what’s the problem?”

  “I don’t appreciate having some of my friends called faggots.” He paused. “That’s the problem.”

  Phil passed the bottle to her and she took a couple swallows.

  “That’s the problem? Lighten up.” She coughed. “They’re just having fun.”

  He gritted his teeth. Don’t say it, Jip. Don’t say it.

  “People having fun is fine with me. Drunken louts insulting my friends isn’t.”

  She raised a pointed finger. “You’d better apologize right now. You can’t speak to my family that way. You’re a guest in their home.”

  “Not anymore I’m not.”

  The first storm of the season arrived as predicted on Friday morning, and by the time the 5:00 news began the City was in a virtual lockdown: 14 inches of heavy wet snow on the ground with at least another eight to follow. In anticipation of the onslaught, Pinkiefinger’s offices had closed before lunch, so he spent the afternoon reworking the list of topics he wanted to cover when he flew to Santa Fe for his interview with The Alliances’ front men scheduled for the 18th of December, to be aired on New Year’s Eve before the Battle. When the first floor intercom buzzer sounded just past 7:00, he figured it had to be his neighbor, a serial key misplacer.

  “Tris?”

  “Mr. Jonathan Spotswood?” a woman asked in a congested voice.

  “Yes it is.”

  “Mr. Spotswood, my name’s Loni and I have a delivery for you from Paris? From a Cassandra Chase?”

  “Cassie? What is it?”

  “I’m only from a delivery service, sir. Could I please bring it up? And if you wouldn’t mind, I slipped on the sidewalk and fell into a puddle so…”

  He pressed the entry button. “We’ll get you fixed up. Unit 626.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  When he opened the door following her triple rap, he took a step back and fought to hide the humorous effect this winter’s apparition was having on him. Her long blue wool coat was drenched, droplets falling from her mittens, her backpack and the shipping box she clutched. A half an inch of mush blanketed her cap and its visor while her yellow night vision shades had fogged over. She sneezed twice, covering her mouth with her wrist, but when she lowered it, she smiled with one for the books, glowing white teeth set between a pair of voluptuous lips.

  “God bless you. Twice,” he smiled back.

  “Thank you, sir. And thank you for being my final stop this evening.”

  He gestured her in, accepting the case, then setting it on the floor. “Could I get you some towels or a cup of coffee or something?”

  “Would you mind if I used your bathroom for a few moments?” she asked, swinging the backpack off her shoulder. “I’ve got a change of clothes in here.”

  “Sure, fine. Lemme get you some towels.” He thought a moment about what he’d want were their positions reversed. “If you’d like, hop in the shower for a hot one.”

  “Thank you, sir. And I just might take you up on that coffee.”

  “C’mon. We’ll get you set up.”

  She looked about. “This is a lovely place you’ve got here.”

  “Thanks. Follow me, please.”

  He led her to the master bath and after grabbing a full towel set from the cabinet, closed the door, then the bedroom one, and made his way to the kitchen to start a pot of Double A. That done, he moved into the family room, switched off the TV that was now all storm/all the time and switched on the B101 FM Jen and Michael Show, knowing the two hosts wouldn’t mention a thing about the weather. Then he grabbed the remote to ignite the gas fireplace, raising the power level to high and choosing the multicolor function. As a final touch, he dimmed the overheads to highlight the blue/red/green/yellow flames, their reflections adding to the sense of warmth.

  Stepping back to the bedroom door, he lowered an ear to confirm she’d decided to use the shower, then stepped across to the front doorway to gather the package, shaking it once to remove what was left of the slush. Setting it on the kitchen island, he drew a blade from the knife drawer and sliced the tape down the middle. His trans beeped a warning signal: the additional snowfall was now estimated to be in the 12 to 14 inch range and the Mayor had issued a winter storm emergency order, including heavy fines for any civilian vehicles caught on the streets before 2:00 the following afternoon.

  What’s the worst that could happen?

  He made his way to the guest room and flicked on the lights. Though he’d lived there over a year, the room still had a faint scent of fresh paint, nobody having ever slept in it. He pressed down on the mattress then sniffed at the pillows to make certain they were good to go. After switching on the table lamps, he returned to the kitchen, hearing the shower in the master bath shut down.

  Opening the package, he counted eight small
boxes marked either Fauchon, Gallaries Lafayette or Lafayette Gourmet, one larger unmarked case and an envelope. The card it contained read:

  Dearest Jip,

  I pray that this package finds you in good health and spirits, and that your plethora of projects is going well.

  I’m hoping that I’ll be back in the City by Christmas Eve as I’ve decided on a very special gift for you.

  Until then, please find someone with whom to share the enclosed, as long as you promise to think of me when you do.

  With fondness,

  Cassandra

  P.S. Don’t forget—I owe you that Third Date!

  The smaller boxes contained a jar of foie gras, a tin of biscuits, 12 ounces of Beluga caviar, a container of Delafee chocolates, a pair of Renoir champagne flutes, a brick of cheese labeled Beaufort D’Etre, a matching set of hors d’oeuvres utensils and serving plates, and finally a Mona Lisa Pez-dispenser. Gently opening the larger one, he nodded as the Dom Ruinart was revealed.

  “Did everything arrive intact?” Loni asked from behind.

  He turned, about to offer they did, but couldn’t get the words out, completely stunned. She was the most striking woman he’d ever encountered. Her thick, straight, winter wheat hair, parted to one side, fell six inches below her shoulders, past a long, angular face featuring a pair of wide, round blue eyes above a tiny, turned-up nose and curvy, prominent cheekbones. She wore a flattering emerald green blouse with the cuffs turned casually up, complimenting her beautifully formed breasts. Her snug red velvet skirt, rising provocatively above her knees allowed plenty of room to display her shapely legs, accentuated by high, black velvet pumps.

  “My date just transed and cancelled.” She shrugged. “So much for going dancing tonight.”

  “I…doubt anything’ll be open” was all he could summon as she eased toward the fireplace, raising her perfectly manicured fingers to attract the heat.

  He looked to the presents. “I just got some really nice things from a woman I know and she said I should share them…with someone.”

  She glanced over her shoulder but didn’t reply.

  “I don’t mean to be…” he said, then paused. “Just a thought. Care for a snack?”

  She turned and smiled. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” She cocked her head and placed a palm on one hip. “I trust you’re not coming on to me.”

  “No, no, no,” he protested. “She just…here. Look at the note she sent.”

  She hesitated, then stepped to join him, accepting the card, reading it slowly then examining the bounty.”All of this after just two dates? She must be crazy about you.” She paused. “I’d have a glass of the champagne but it’s probably warm.”

  “I can fix that.”

  He reached into the cabinet below the island and removed a bucket, then after filling it halfway with ice, added some water and inserted the bottle, spinning it back and forth as she returned to the fireplace. In a minute it felt ice cold to the touch, so he removed the foil then twisted out the cork to fill the Renoirs. “Okay. Come and get it.”

  She turned but didn’t, standing silhouetted by the flames. So he took the glasses to her, handing her one and raising his in a toast. “To…cold champagne in front of a warm fireplace.”

  She took a sip and after clearing her throat replied, “To our third date, honey.”

  The voice. He involuntarily moved away a few feet as she pirouetted, grinning, “So what’cha think?”

  “C… Cassie?”

  Chapter Four

  Spotswood replayed her message, jotting down the phone and order numbers. Then he called it.

  “The Gun Store. This is Natalie. How can I help you?”

  “Checking on the status of an order.”

  “Name or invoice?”

  “That would be 719446.”

  “One moment, please.”

  The Gun Store?

  “Seventy-one, ninety-four, forty-six,” she said. “Just arrived yesterday. One Smith and Wesson Lady Smith double action .38 357 magnum, WST limited edition with 24 carat gold accents, African Blackwood grip and presentation case. Complimentary box of 50 Winchester .38 special 130 grain full metal jacket hollow points. Sound right?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Turns out we have two in stock, numbers 12 and 21 of the run of a hundred. Do you have a preference?”

  “No.” He paused. “Any suggestions?”

  “Well…am I speaking to Mr. Chase?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Mr. Chase, if it was me, I’d go for 21…blackjack…rather than 12…boxcars. Bad juju.”

  He thought a beat. “Number 12’ll be fine.”

  “Consider it done. I’ll have it set aside at customer service, so anytime you…”

  He disconnected then began to pace, his thoughts racing faster than a Formula One low rider. Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh no. Not now.

  After checking for the contact reference, he dialed it from a house phone.

  “This is the Bracket,” the woman’s voice answered.”And I’m Leslie. Mr. Spotswood? Twenty-seven zed eight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is this an immediate emergency or physical threat?”

  “No.”

  “Is it a potential emergency or physical threat?”

  “Might be.”

  “Your mother’s middle name?”

  “Ann.”

  “Your first pet?”

  “Meg.”

  “How can we help you?”

  “I got a call a few minutes ago. Something about…someone having a gun and…I think I might have a small problem.”

  “Please hold the line while I attempt a patch.” In a moment she continued, “Mr. Spotswood, I have the Director on the line.”

  “Mr. Spotswood. RD Reynolds, Director of Security,” he stated. “That’ll be all, Natalie.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Spotswood, I’m informed you think you might have a small problem that involves someone with a firearm. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be with you shortly. Do not open the door for anyone else. When I arrive, I’ll ring the bell twice. Look through the peephole to confirm four individuals before opening it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Click.

  ***

  It took him a few minutes to be convinced that Loni was actually Cassie, her cosmetic upgrade, as she termed it, so startlingly complete. Though she was vague on some of the specifics, he gathered that the multiple surgeries had occurred at a place called Chateau du Changeant in the French countryside over a number of weeks and when finished, she’d spent additional weeks getting used to her new skin and being educated in a number of disciplines to compliment her nouveau depart. She admitted the process had been much less painful than she’d expected, both physically and emotionally, but that she was still having difficulty adjusting to this new person she saw every time she looked into a mirror or saw her reflection in a store window.

  After finishing off her bottle of Dom Ruinart and one of his while feasting on the little box of goodies, including a single peppermint each from the Mona Lisa, she’d stood and extended her hand, breathing, “And now for that very special gift I promised.”

  Having situated him on the king in the master bedroom and dimming the lights, she excused herself to the bath, returning in a few moments wearing a lacy white negligee. Easing beside him, she touched his cheek briefly, then toyed with the satin belt of the dressing gown.

  “This is, ummm… this will be my first time, honey.” She hesitated. “I want you to know that in case…if that doesn’t work for you.”

  “You mean the first time since you had the… had things modified?”

  She touched his cheek again, her palm soft and warm. “I mean the first time ever.”

  He cleared his throat. “Well that sort of frames the…but why me?”

  She looked away. “Because I was always taught…I can still hear my mo
ther’s voice…that my…that it should be saved until I was sure.” She looked back and smiled. “And now I’m sure.”

  He sighed. “Are you absolutely sure you’re sure?”

  She nodded, then kissed him gently.

  ***

  The doorbell of the suite sounded as stated and he went across the check out the body count as instructed. Two men and two women. He opened the door and gestured them in.

  Reynolds, looking taller and older than he’d expected, extended a hand then quickly pulled it away. “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Spotswood. I’m Reynolds.”

  “That’s okay,” he replied, offering his own. “I’ve gotten over that.”

  “Therapy?”

  “Something like that.”

  After shaking, the man gestured to his crew with a walking stick topped by a large brass ball for a handle. “This is Chip. This is Mary. Finally, this is Denny.” The three nodded one at a time, the first two adding “Sir,” while the last added, “Nice to finally make you acquaintance, Mr. Spotswood,” in a soft twang that suggested Chicagoland roots. But he couldn’t place where, he was certain, he’d seen her before, recalling the soft blue eyes set over a pair of cover girl cheekbones and framed by medium-length blond hair that looked to be factory-equipped. She was shorter than the other two but still probably 5’7” or 5’8”.

  “Sooo,” Reynolds began, “how about if the staff gives your digs a look-see while you and I retreat to the bathroom?”

  “Sure.”

  As soon as the door was closed behind them, the man stepped to the toilet, raised the seat, lowered his pants to the knees then started peeing, humming along with the stream, finishing an entire verse of America The Beautiful before he zipped back up and flushed. Moving to the closest bowl on the sink, he turned on the water and began furiously washing his hands. Then he switched to cold and bent to splash his face a few times, pausing to glance up. “Sooo, what’re the issues today…can I call you Jip?”

  “Fine.”

  “Good. You can call me Reynolds or RD or Dave or David. I do not respond to the nicknames Research or Eyes. That work for you?”