Call Me! (10 page)

My Glock 26.

I pull it from under the mattress and point it at Carter.

“
Jesus
!” she says. “I was just
kidding
!”

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“You wouldn’t
dare
shoot me,” she says.

I pull the slide back and release it, and now all three of us know the angry blonde with the shaky hands is holding a gun with a live round in the chamber. Since I’m pointing it at Carter’s face, I’m not surprised to see her assume a defensive posture, with her head turned away, hands in front of her face. I’m a little surprised to see the torrent of pee leaking through her panties, dribbling down her legs, though I’d probably pee my pants too, if I were in her situation.

“Drop your phone on the floor and kick it to me,” I say.

She does.

“Now sit down.”

She looks around. “Where?”

“On the floor.”

She sits in her pee.

I turn the gun on Joe and notice his erection has collapsed.

“Nothing says shrinkage like a loaded Glock,” I say. “Go sit on the floor by your girlfriend.”

“She’s my wife, actually,” Joe says. “And we really
were
kidding about raping you.”

When he’s on the floor beside her I rush to the door, unlock it, and remove the latch. As I do that, I hear Carter say, “I am so
fucking
turned on!”

I open the door, step into the hall, and hear Joe say, “This is the best birthday present I ever had!”

I put the gun in my handbag, close the door, and head for the elevator.

MONDAY EVENING

“WERE THEY SERIOUS, do you think?”

“About raping me?”

Sophie nods.

“At the time, yes, absolutely.”

“But now that you’ve had a few days to think about it?”

“Now I’m not so sure.”

“Because of what they said when you were leaving the room?”

I nod. “I think they might have been acting out a part. Like some sort of twisted foreplay.”

“Did you keep her cell phone?”

“I put it under my tire and ran over it a couple of times. Then picked up the pieces and tossed them out the window along I-71.”

Sophie laughs, and pours some Sauterne in her wine glass. Then tops off mine.

“This has been the most wonderful birthday dinner ever!” she says.

We touch glasses.

She adds, “I can only think of two things that would make it better.”

“Here it comes,” I say.

She smiles. “Dare I ask how it went with Ben?”

I sigh. “Vicky was a bust.”

“Vicky being?”

“Vicky Stringfellow. The schoolteacher.”

“Ah. You met her.”

“I did.”

We take another sip of our dessert wine.

Sophie says, “Let me guess. You told her he’s married.”

“Yes.”

“To you.”

“Yes.”

She shakes her head. “I can think of at least ten ways to get a woman interested in Ben. Surprisingly, none of them involve disclosing your marital status.”

“Go figure,” I say.

“Have you in fact spoken to Ben yet?”

“No. But here’s the thing—”

She waves my words away with her hand. “If any part of your explanation involves the analogy about the lemon in the vodka bottle, I might emit a loud scream.”

“Orange.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s an orange, not a lemon. In the vodka bottle.”

“Whatever.”

“If you think about it, it’s a beautiful sentiment. He’s the bottle, I’m the orange. The only way I can get out is by crushing me or shattering him.”

“There’s another way to look at it,” she says.

I wait.

“You’re the orange, right? And he’s the bottle?”

I nod.

“He’s holding you prisoner.”

I raise my eyebrows. Sophie might be onto something. I think about it while she pours the last bit of Sauterne in my glass. Then I say, “I’m meeting a woman from my yoga class.”

“About Ben?”

“Yup.”

“When?”

“Thursday morning after class.”

“Are you going to screw it up?”

“Probably.”

She shakes her head. “Can I make an observation?”

“No.”

She laughs. “It’s my birthday, I get to make an observation.”

“Go ahead. Pretend you’re my mom.”

“The deal with the women? It’s not working.”

“That’s your observation?”

“No. My observation is it’s not going to work.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You need to tell him, Dani.”

I nod.

“You won’t be happy till you do.”

“I know.”

“Say you’ll do it.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Do you mean it this time?”

I nod. Because it’s easier to nod than to ask your loving husband for a divorce.

Sophie starts to say something, changes her mind.

“What?”

“Nothing. I’m the slightest bit tipsy.”

“No secrets, Sofe. That’s the cornerstone of our friendship.”

She winces. “I was just going to say, if you ever find yourself in that type of situation where someone might be after you…”

I’m trying to follow. “You mean like Joe Fagin?”

“Yes.”

“What about him?”

“If you think he’s going to be a problem…”

I give her an amused look. “What, you’ll set him straight for me?”

I laugh.

She laughs.

Then says, “Not me. My uncle.”

“What uncle?”

“Uncle Sal.”

“Sounds like a quiet, older guy who wears a sweater and runs a deli.”

She laughs. “Forget it.”

We’re both glowing from the buzz. I say, “Your best friend is in trouble, but don’t worry?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” she says, “Because I know a guy who knows a guy!”

“Uncle Sal from the deli?”

“Exactly.”

“Gee, I wish I’d known that, Sofe. I could’ve scared the shit out of Joe and Carter. ‘
You
threatening
me
? I’m
connected
. Ever hear the name Uncle Sal?’ And Joe’s face would go white, and he’d say, ‘The deli guy? Oh, shit, Ms. Ripper, not the deli guy!’ But it’s too late because Sal has already called in sick. By sundown he’ll force them to eat an unusually tough cut of pastrami.”

She chuckles. “You’re too much.”

I laugh, and say, “So who’s uncle Sal? Really?”

She looks around, then lowers her voice, and whispers, “Sal Bonadello.”

“
What?
The
mob boss?
”

“
Shhh!
Jesus, Dani, lower your voice, will you?”

I lower my voice. “You’re
joking
, right?”

“He’s my uncle.”

I frown at her. “How long have we been best friends? A year?”

“More than a year.”

This time I look around before lowering my voice. “You’re related to a
mob boss
? How could you not
tell
me that?”

“It’s not the sort of information that encourages close friendships.”

“How close are you?”

“Me and Sal?”

I nod.

“He’s my father’s brother.”

“Um…your parents are deceased, right? Like mine?”

“In Italian families, it’s as if no one ever dies. Sal and Marie wanted to take me in. He wanted to take an interest in my career. So I moved here.”

I push my nose to one side, like a gangster, and try to sound like one. “My niece, Sophie. Got a voice like a songbird. You oughta hire her. Be a shame if your club burned down.”

“Exactly.”

“Last time I checked, Alexander’s not an Italian name.”

“It’s my stage name. My real one’s Sophie Bonadello.”

I shake my head. “Mafia princess?”

She shrugs.

“You could have me whacked?”

She frowns. “See? This is why I don’t tell you things. Forget I ever brought it up.”

“You mean Fuhgeddaboudit?”

She shakes her head, laughing. “You,” she says.

“What?”

“You’re something else, you are.”

I’VE GOT A bedroom at Sophie’s house. This is where I come on Mondays and Tuesdays to get away. It’s how I stay sane. I’ve got clothes in the closet, personal items in the bathroom, got my own sheets and pillows on the bed.

Sophie’s a singer-songwriter, living in Nashville. But she’s not really a singer. I mean, she’s got a fine, melodic voice, and she sings around town when she can. It’s just that she can’t support herself singing.

Songwriting’s a different story.

Sophie’s famous. You might not know her name, but you know her songs. She’s written hits for all the young country stars, and a couple of pop stars as well. She’s won three Grammys, same as Elvis.

But unlike Elvis, Sophie’s in love with me.

We’re not lovers.

Sophie’s made it clear she’s interested. You know, in a relationship. A sexual relationship.

I’ve never done that. You know, with a woman.