Be the One

by April Smith

  He signals a server as Nora says, “Gee, it’s great to see you again.”

  Cassidy cannot help searching her delicately angled face for clues to something Harvey mentioned. Treetops. Some kind of bad-kid home, she remembers from People magazine, somewhere like Utah? Colorado? Children of celebrities go there. Free-spirited, all right. So what was it? Acting out? Learning disabilities? Smoking marijuana? Alcoholism? A major depression? The skin is pale and fragile for a twenty-something; and what about that habit of looking away, wet-eyed, nervous? One thing: although the words are effulgent, Nora’s facial expression has not lost its chill reserve, a sign to Cassidy that at the very least none of the warm and fuzzy things she has said has been true.

  “Harvey taking care of you?”

  “He’s introducing me to the downtown crowd.”

  “What you have here, basically,” remarks Nora, taking in the guests at the buffet, “is the white man holding on by his fingernails.”

  Harvey spots Joe in an adjoining room.

  “There he is.”

  Half a dozen guests, male and female, are waiting uncertainly, like fish bobbing up and down in a current, apparently for the opportunity to speak to Joe Galinis, who is standing with his back to the fireplace, talking with a disheveled-looking older woman in harlequin glasses.

  Cassidy pauses at the threshold, watching how, with his ramrod posture and a now beguiling smile, he holds the attention of those even in back of the room; they want something he’s giving off, as if being touched by the magnetic force of his self-assurance could cause their own fragmented spirits to line up and be whole.

  She had felt it too, first thing, when they had met like war correspondents in the anarchy of Terminal E in Miami.

  Every flight to Latin America and the Caribbean had been canceled or delayed. Rain was coursing down the slanted glass and the light inside the mammoth terminal seemed dimmed. Electronic ciphers with dancing letters spelled out exotic destinations—Lima, Santiago, San José, Costa Rica—above the gates which were arranged like spokes in a glittering karmic wheel.

  As Cassidy charged forward, the sign that said “Santo Domingo” disintegrated into a scramble of dots. Passengers who had been in line for boarding, defending their positions like Green Berets, surged around the counter in an unruly mob. She couldn’t even get close. Joe Galinis had simply folded a magazine and turned purposefully away.

  Cassidy had grabbed the sleeve of his blue blazer. “What’s the problem?”

  “The flight to Santo Domingo has been delayed two hours.”

  “Oh, crap!”

  “Life is a cabaret.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He had given her the scan.

  “You just got in from LA.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I saw you getting off the plane.”

  Tell me another.

  “Besides, you’re wearing a Planet Hollywood jacket.”

  “I got it in London,” she snapped, a lie. “You were on that flight?”

  He nodded. “I fly a lot. But that was bad.”

  “The worst was having to sit next to a waitress from Gladstone’s 4 Fish.”

  “You mean Gladstone’s up on Pacific Coast Highway?”

  “Been there?”

  “A million years ago.”

  “Well, the waitress is going to Aruba, so she has to put her German shepherd in a kennel. The German shepherd has a terrible skin disease, so she’s obsessing about whether or not they’ll remember to put on his tea-tree oil.”

  “Tea-tree oil?”

  “Finally I said, ‘Sister—we all have to leave our dogs.’ ”

  “Amen.”

  Cassidy had run a wrist over her forehead in a self-conscious way, hoping to check the guy out from underneath the cover of half a dozen silver bracelets. They had, after all, been speaking at least twenty-five seconds longer than necessary.

  But the ploy hadn’t worked.

  Unexpectedly she had found herself looking directly into his eyes, which she discovered were intensely bright—not blue-bright, but shining with a transparent light like water, shining with aliveness, curiosity and warmth. It had been startling to find something so complete. Slowly she lowered her arm, not breaking the look, entranced by a strong feeling of familiarity that was totally irrational.

  She is five foot ten, he three inches taller, fair physical condition, tennis and racquetball, looked to be late forties but with a worn worldly sense, mileage on him, someone who carried a lot. Olive skin, black curly hair cut aggressively short, heavy eyebrows and a long, beautifully proportioned nose; that’s what was arresting about the face: large, classical proportions. Fluid body movement that showed some arrogance—an attorney or maybe a corporate VP, she had thought, wearing comfortable funky old jeans with the nice blue blazer that had gold buttons plump as Roman coins.

  She had gazed toward the windows streaked with steam. Despite torrential rain, some clouds had cleared from a corner of the sky, creating a patch of cerulean blue punctuated by a white three-quarter moon like a sticker.

  “What are we supposed to do?”

  “I’m going to have a drink.”

  Her eyes had come back to his. “Without me?”

  He laughed uncomfortably.

  “The truth is, I’ll be on the phone the next two hours.”

  “Hard telling the truth.”

  “I try to avoid it. Nice to meet you.”

  She watched him go, calculating her losses. Forget the annoying stimulation down below. She needed to make some calls. Do something about her blood sugar. Caffeine or alcohol? It was a toss-up.

  A line of thirty people waited for the phones. She picked up her bag and headed into the main corridor, smack into the intersection of every culture in the western hemisphere, a perilous swarm of humans pulling luggage carts. Trekking mindlessly, she glimpsed the blue blazer fifty yards ahead, moving at a jaunty clip.

  Suddenly it stopped at a door marked Admirals Club and Joe pulled out a credit card.

  Now two real possibilities were put into play: finding a phone and having a drink. Sprinting ahead, smacking people with the flying bag, she reached the door just as the lock buzzed open.

  “Hi. I realize this is kind of lame, but could you sneak me in?”

  “It’s supposed to be for members only.”

  “Please. It’s a zoo back there.”

  She couldn’t tell if he was being ironic or was seriously concerned about upholding the corporate policy of American Airlines when he said, “I really shouldn’t do this.”

  “Suck it up,” Cassidy had replied.

  Their eyes meet across the room.

  “Cassidy!” as if they hadn’t seen each other since lunch. “Let me introduce you to Hazel Porter-Gaines, wife of the British consul—”

  The warm smile, long outstretched fingers impatiently inviting you in.

  “It’s the consul general,” corrects Mrs. Porter-Gaines. Dandruff has collected on her plum damask Chinese silk dress with frog closures and puffy sleeves. The harlequin glasses would be terrifically hip had they not been the real thing, what the lady’s worn for sixty years.

  “Forgive me. The British consulate is one of our greatest friends, downtown.”

  When she turns to answer someone’s prickly question about the IRA (“We don’t get involved. We serve the Queen”), Joe says,

  “Cassidy.”

  He has a way of breathing her name so that it sounds like the announcement of spring.

  “How are you?”

  “I’m well, Joe, how are you?”

  He looks good, really good, a little fuller in the face than she remembered, but with that same simmering fire and desire, limpid hazel eyes with sable lashes, glistening hair, aura of accomplishment, wearing a charcoal nipped-waist suit the way a lion wears its skin.

  “I was so glad to hear from you,” he says. “Glad you could come.”

  “It’s good to be here.”


  “Have you said hello to Nora?” he asks. “Where is she?” fretfully scanning the room.

  “Don’t worry, she’s fine.”

  “I’m not worried. I just like showing her off.” Joe fixes Cassidy with a smile. “What’s going on with you?”

  “Winter workouts. Getting ready for spring training.”

  “Any more trips to the Dominican?”

  “Not real soon. How about yourself?”

  “In town for a while. I usually get down there once every few months, but since we broke ground on the sports arena, I’ve been crazed.”

  “I heard you’re responsible for that.”

  “You make it sound like the Vietnam War.”

  “I have mixed feelings.”

  “It’s going to save downtown.”

  “I like plain old-fashioned ball fields. I like Dodger Stadium.”

  “Dodger Stadium is a relic. They’ll have to tear it down or sell. The world,” Joe says mildly, “is one big sell.” He sips some Scotch. “How’s the phenom working out? You signed him, right? He’s here?”

  “Oh, he’s here.”

  “Is he turning out as well as you’d hoped?”

  “He’ll be fine as long as he plays his game.”

  “You sound tentative, and somehow I don’t think that’s you.”

  “We have a situation, Joe.”

  “How can I help?”

  She hesitates. “That bottle from the DR you gave Harvey, the one with the razor blades—where did you get it?”

  “Gee, I don’t remember, one of those little markets on the street?”

  Somebody’s pager goes off.

  “Is that you?”

  “I think it’s me.”

  Fumbling in purses and jackets.

  “Is it me?”

  “No,” says Cassidy, “me.”

  When she comes back from the phone Joe is still standing beside the wife of the consul general, admiring framed portraits of Harvey Weissman’s Cardigan Welsh corgis.

  “—Oh yes, well, we could never have a dog because we moved around so much. The Queen has five of them, so I suppose they’ve become quite fashionable,” Mrs. Porter-Gaines is fussing on, “and just this morning someone asked if I like corgis, what is this, some kind of a thing?”

  Cassidy interrupts, “Excuse me, thank you, but I’ve got to leave.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Emergency at work.”

  Joe looks at his watch. “Now?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  She heads out through the gallery.

  A pianist has taken the place of the string quartet. Guests have gathered around the baby grand, listening to someone who sounds a lot like Robert Goulet singing “Falling in Love with Love.” It’s the CEO—back straight, eyes on the second balcony.

  Joe catches up. “Wait. Can we talk? Just for a minute? Look, I’m sorry, maybe I should have apologized for that first date at the ball game.”

  “Was that a date? Getting lost in a hurricane, getting ripped, ending up soaking wet and completely covered with mud?”

  “In the Dominican, that’s the senior prom.”

  It stops her. She laughs.

  Gently, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “My kid’s in trouble. My player, the one you met, Alberto Cruz.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know, but they’ve got him down at the Glendale police station.”

  “Probably his car was towed.”

  “He doesn’t own a car.”

  “Is this the ‘situation’ you were talking about?”

  “It might be related, that’s what’s freaking me out. Two weeks ago someone broke the window of my car and left one of those awful bottles, exactly like the kind you gave Harvey.”

  “But that’s incredible.”

  “It’s a threat, to scare Alberto. They’re trying to blackmail him.”

  “Why?”

  “We don’t know. They’ll kill him if he doesn’t pay.”

  “What are you saying? With some kind of curse?”

  “No, Joe, give me a break, they’ve been sending notes to the stadium. This is real. The cops are involved—I’ve got to go.”

  “Can I call you?”

  She feels Joe’s hand on her waist, hot through the tight layers of lace.

  “There was never any reason you couldn’t.”

  He releases her. She hurries down the flagstone steps. Three valets in red vests prick up their ears. She takes quick breaths of woodsy air. The CEO’s big-chested baritone soars confidently from the house. Falling in love with love is falling for make-believe—

  The Explorer rolls up the driveway, misted over in the windshield, roof splattered with those irritating little berries.

  Car wash city.

  7

  It is a low-slung building on a leafy residential street, unobtrusive as the phone company, but still, Cassidy doesn’t like police stations. They reek of failure.

  Too many times she was busted in high school for racing her Kawasaki 100 down Main Street and brought to the Ashland police station, feeling sour and stupid because now she had to face the inevitable boring consequences: the “disappointment lecture” from the coach, suspension from the team, tears of grief from her mom whom she would have to end up comforting. Things would die down and she’d do it again. Mindless. A death wish at age seventeen. No wonder she has a headache just passing through the door.

  The headache had begun inside her left eye, reaching like a pulsing wire to the back of the brain where paranoid scenarios are going off like fireworks. For example, the police department is just a few blocks from the Glendale Galleria where Alberto had been retained by plainclothes officers for allegedly shoplifting a batting glove. What if those sad-eyed cops at the mall had beaten the crap out of her best prospect? What if this arrest becomes the rationale for Raymond to ship Alberto back to the Dominican, and Cassidy to start a new career stacking cartons at Sport Chalet?

  Although it has taken less than fifteen minutes to speed over here, the brassy warmth of Harvey Weissman’s fireplace is worlds away: she has exited the heaven of privilege and arrived in the underground realm of bad luck. Perhaps they try to get rid of the bad luck by disinfecting the lobby with some kind of acid wash several times a day: she has never been in such a sterile space. Gray floor, gray sofa made of a plastic material you would not want to set your butt on, the usual forlorn trophy display. She can spot the photo of the team the police department sponsors in the Babe Ruth League from across the room.

  A young woman with a ponytail is appealing to a tired but sympathetic female desk sergeant behind the bullet-resistant plastic.

  “We cannot enforce something without orders from a judge,” the officer explains slowly, and apparently not for the first time.

  Overweight, short-chopped hair, worn lipstick, worn smile, the sergeant is old enough to have grown children. What is she doing here, eleven-thirty at night?

  “I don’t have the papers—”

  An open folder, documents spilled across a narrow shelf. The young woman fingering through them, not seeing, not hearing, in a state of walking shock.

  Cassidy bullies past. “Excuse me—”

  “I’ll be right with you,” admonishes the desk sergeant from her stool on high, like a teacher who knows that you know better. To the blonde woman, “Have you ever had a court order brought in here, signed by a judge?”

  “That’s the transcript from the day the order was made.”

  Cassidy rubs her bare arms and fidgets with the back of the French twist, finally pulling the whole thing out.

  “We can’t enforce it,” the sergeant is saying.

  “She’s two and a half years old—”

  “I know. I’m with you. Trust me, I’ve been through it myself … Just a moment.”

  The cop frowns over the mother’s head at Cassidy, who stops shaking her hair out like a horse.

  “Can I help you?”
she asks disapprovingly.

  “I’m here for Alberto Cruz.”

  “For Alberto Cruz—what?”

  “He paged me. Said he was here.”

  The sergeant checks the computer. Cassidy stares at a cluster of white blossoms embedded in the inch-thick plastic. Shots were fired.

  The young mother turns to Cassidy.

  “When he took her and disappeared for three weeks, I thought that was bad.”

  She gazes down at her papers without hope.

  “I’m so sorry,” Cassidy murmurs.

  “We’ve got Alberto Cruz. He’s in jail.”

  Cassidy exhales long and hard. She’s got problems, too. Like, jail? It certainly has that rock-bottom sound. What the hell is Alberto doing in jail when he should be at Dulce’s house, asleep in bed, in a deep alpha state, fast-twitch muscle fibers rebuilding like crazy for tomorrow’s workout?

  “What are the charges?”

  “He was taken in on a felony.”

  “What did he do?”

  “All I can tell you is he was booked for assault with a deadly weapon. Bail has been set at ten thousand dollars.”

  Cassidy stands there, as immobilized as the traumatized mom. Slowly she becomes aware of both women watching her curiously, taking in the espresso lace slip dress and the black satin evening bag with pager attached.

  “Are you Mr. Cruz’s lawyer?”

  “No—”

  The doors open and Joe Galinis walks in with such authority all three turn to look. It is more than a surprise to see him, not only because his elegant personage is in striking contrast to the sterilized sofa and smeary glass of the waiting room—but because the influx of such wealth and confidence seems unthinkable in a holding station meant for losers.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “You left, so the party was over. Did you find out what happened?”

  “They booked Alberto on a felony charge.”

  Joe does not reply but produces a thin leather case from an inner pocket. His deft olive fingers slip a card through a slot in the bulletproof divider.

  “What are the circumstances?” he asks.

  The lady sergeant examines the card.

  “You’re an attorney?”

  “I would like to know what probable cause the officers had to arrest Mr. Cruz.”