Cosmo's Deli (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Georgie fidgets with his glass of Glen Livit, causing the ice cubes to collide like sumo wrestlers in a liquid ring. Across the table his agent, Ben Crothers, gives the waiter his order, using the exaggerated hand motions that have become his trademark. “I'd like the filet, medium well.”

“That's light pink, sir.”

Ben L-shapes his pointer and thumb in shotgun approval. “Perfect. And no mashed potatoes for me. Do you think the chef could put together some nice grilled vegetables instead?” Ben turns to Georgie. “I started The Zone diet two weeks ago. I tell you, I feel fucking great.”

Georgie sips his scotch. Ben needs to be dieting a hell of a lot longer than two weeks, Georgie thinks. With his tanning bed skin and wide ass, Ben looks like a toasted almond in an Armani suit. But appearance aside, Ben's been an agent for twenty-five years and he's a legend.

“That's not a problem, sir.” The waiter nods at Georgie. “What can we get for you this evening?”

He rattles the ice left melting in his glass. “Nothing, just another drink.” Georgie's appetite is gone; sensing that Ben has dragged him here to deliver a lecture. It figures, Rockin' must have complained to the station brass again. And now they've gone crying to Ben to rein Georgie in.

Ben waits for the waiter to be out of earshot. “Okay, I'm going to get to the point.”

“If it's about that shit at the Ford dealership, Rockin' started it. He needs to clear guests with me first, especially Tawney. He's a weight around my neck.”

“Forget the stuff with him, that's not what this is about. The station got their book last week, and your numbers are down. That's the second book in a row with shitty ratings.”

“So, let the powers that be know that I'm okay with dumping Rockin' and going it on my own. Another bad book and the station will want to shake things up anyway.”

Ben sighs. “Georgie, I know you talk for a living but now you need to shut up and listen to me. The station brass hired a consultant a few months ago and they held focus groups. According to the research, the weak spot in the morning is you.”

“Me?” Georgie slams his drink down sending waves of smoky yellow liquid onto the crisp white linen tablecloth.

Ben nods.

“That's ridiculous. Who the hell are they talking to, old ladies in Queens? Don't tell me the station is going to listen to a bunch of consultants who wouldn't be able to find a listener if they popped into the crapper with their last dump. Consultants are the reason stations play only twenty-five songs a week.”

“Basically what they found is that the man on the street likes you better with Tawney. They want to see you two get back together.”

“But we're not together. In fact we've been falling apart all year.”

“I know that, so does the station and so does your audience. But you're the morning jolt in their coffee and since this last break-up, listeners feel like they're getting decaf. They miss the titillation.”

“Well then I guess they have to find someone else to help them jerk off. Besides, I'm seeing someone else.”

“Get real, Georgie! You've slept your way through a zillion girls in the seven years I've been representing you. If you want to cut Rockin' loose, take Tawney back, now!”

“I've got gold records and a top show in the number one market in the country.” Georgie pounds his fist on the table. “To hell with them, I can write my own ticket.”

Ben waves his hand. “Keep it down, the whole restaurant doesn't need to hear this. Georgie, if the station drops you, the only thing you'll write will be a one way ticket to the graveyard shift in East Bumfuck. I've seen it before.”

“I'm Georgie!”

“And as Georgie your behavior hasn't helped you. Not showing up for events, cursing at fans during promotional tours, that has hurt us. And were you thinking career suicide when you walked out of the dealership?” Georgie opens his mouth, but Ben cuts him off. “It's done. Listen to me, shave off the attitude, get back together with Tawney and let her star power rub off. In a year you'll be all shiny and new and the numbers will be back up. That's when we'll force the station to reevaluate. Trust me. I'm your agent. I want what's best for you.”

“They can't fire me. I have a contract, I'll sue their asses.”

“Three bad books in a row gives them the option, and if you get canned no one else will touch you.”

“Rockin' and I will go elsewhere.”

“Rockin's not going anywhere with you. He hates you more than you hate him.” Ben glances at the front of the restaurant and tells Georgie in a low voice. “Now, don't get all pissed, but I asked Tawney to stop by and she just walked in.”

“You what?” Georgie follows Ben's gaze and catches sight of Tawney as she breezes past the maitre d', turning heads as if the world were her catwalk. Her locks sway against her shoulders and her breasts strain against the confines of a body hugging beige halter dress that at first glance make it appear as though she is gliding through the restaurant in the nude. Georgie knows that Tawney feeds on this public adoration like a vampire, sopping it up with a slight curl of her full crimson lips.

He watches the maitre d' trip over his chubber to personally escort her over. “I hope you haven't been waiting long for me. My driver tried everything, but the traffic is horrific.” Tawney sits next to Ben and gives him a peck. “Ben, L.A. agrees with you. You look fabulous. Did you lose weight?”

Ben blushes.

What a putz, Georgie thinks. “So is your director back from Paris yet?” Georgie was elated when he read that the idiot's show crashed and burned in just three nights.

Tawney tosses her hair. “I have no idea. We haven't seen each other in ages.”

Georgie smirks watching her face tighten.

Ben moves his steak knife to his other side and out of reach from his warring dinner companions. “Georgie and I were just talking about you.”

“Shut up, Ben.” Tawney faces Georgie. “You're so smug. Well face it, your ass is nowhere without me. You're finished. But we both know that love is so screwed up. That's why I came. Believe it or not Georgie, I still care for you. So I told Ben I'd take your sorry ass back, but I'm not going to lick your balls about it the way he does. You want me to save you? Well today's your lucky day, because here I am.”

“Fuck you.” Georgie spits.

She sits back smiling. “Yeah? Well without me you're the one who's fucked.”

Ben gulps his water. “Okay you two, can we try and do with without making a scene. Neither of you need the report of a brawl appearing on page six.”

The waiter comes over and sets Ben's food down in front of him. He asks Tawney, “Can I get you a menu?”

“I don't think so,” Tawney says. As the waiter leaves their table, Tawney leans in close to Ben's sweat glistened face. “Don't worry, Ben. I know Georgie and his little head comes first. I've never had any trouble communicating there. He and I will be back together before midnight.” She leans over the table toward Georgie. “I bet you already have a hard on for me.”

“I don't need this shit.” Georgie shoves his chair back and leaves.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

How did I get here, Gaby wonders, as Annette tugs her through the lingerie department of Bloomingdale's.

They met at one o'clock in the Four Seasons Hotel. Gaby was all set for a leisurely alcohol-infused lunch on Annette's
Rock Notes
expense account.

Her plans were shattered when Annette called out across the lobby, “Let's go shopping.” Gaby knew she should beg off.

She didn't. Now eight hours later her hands are laden with shopping bags, as a rainbow of bras and underwear float past her in a blurry haze.

Annette dashes to a table of metallic colored underwear. “These are fabulous.”

Oversized lemons and limes dance off a pair of pajamas and into Gaby's peripheral vision. Her mother had a pair just like them. She had so many pairs of pajamas. They were her obsession and she bought them for everyone. As a kid Gaby loved it, but by the time she was a teenager, it became one more thing that they fought about. After all, what sixteen-year old wants to wear the candy cane and snowflake pajamas her mama picked out?

Two days after her mother's funeral, Millie insisted they sift through there mother's clothes so her father wouldn't have to do it. They found drawer after drawer stuffed with pajamas, many still with the tags on them.

Her sister's words hurl through time, gut punching Gaby in the here and now. “I'll take Mama's pjs. I know how much you always hated them.” Gaby watched Millie weed through them, putting the ones she wanted in one pile and discarding the rest in a box for Goodwill. A lone lemon peeked through a crack in the top of the carton as Millie closed it and ripped packing tape against metal teeth with a sound of finality that eerily reminded Gaby of the dirt that landed on the shiny wood casket only forty-eight hours earlier.

Gaby leans her nose into the pajamas on the rack in front of her as though that could somehow bring the scent of her mother to them.

A saleswoman appears next to her. “Can I help you find a size?”

Gaby looks at her. “No, I was just looking.”

“We can barely keep this pair in stock. Every time they come in, they fly right back out. Technically we close at nine, but if you would like to, you still can try them on.”

Gaby hears tape ripping in the distance.

Annette calls across the aisle. “What do you think of these?” She holds up a skimpy bra and thong trimmed with red fur. “They're hot, aren't they?”

Riippp.

Gaby whirls around.

The saleswoman leans in, “Should I put these in a fitting room?”

“Is someone taping something?”

“Excuse me?” The saleswoman asks puzzled.

“Taping?”

Annette yells over, “I'm going to go try them on.”

Their words are like a scrabble board sucked up in a twister.

Riippp.
Gaby nearly knocks over the saleswoman. Stumbling around the displays toward the cash register, Gaby suddenly rears back when she finds another saleswoman taping a package closed behind the desk. “Can I help you?” she asks, looking up from her task.

Gaby turns on her heels and leaves.

Annette calls after her. “Are you okay?”

But Gaby is already down the aisle. “I have to go.”

“Don't forget, we're going out tomorrow night.” Annette shouts.

Gaby waves and is gone.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Mommy!” Megan screams from her bedroom.

Sara hears her from downstairs. It is almost midnight and Sara is sitting in the dark kitchen. She has been there for the last two hours, exhausted, but dreading having to spend another night alone in her bed.

Entering her child's bedroom, Sara finds Megan sitting up, choking in between sobs. “Mommy!”

“It's okay, don't cry.” Sara reaches her arms around her, only to find that Megan is burning up.

The little girl coughs, belches and then wretches all over her comforter. “Aaaaahhhhh,” she screams.

“Megan, its okay, don't cry.”

“I not like it! I not like it!” Megan wails.

“I know. Mommy's here.” Gently Sara pulls the comforter away and finds Megan's pajamas have also been hit. “Let's get these off, okay?” Sara starts for her top.

She pulls away. “No! My flower pajamas!”

“You threw up on them. You have to put on clean ones.”

“No!” Megan cries harder.

“Megan stop!” Sara says, losing patience.

Megan's lip quivers, “Mommy…you…you…mommy…you…

“What?” Sara asks.

“You…you…you…”

Sara wishes she could reach in and pull her daughter's words out.

“You…mad? Mommy mad?”

Pangs of guilt stab at her. “I'm not mad,” she says stroking her daughter's hair. “Don't cry. Mommy's just a little cranky. Okay?”

“Okay.” Megan sniffles and her whole body shudders.

“I'm going to check the laundry room for another pair of pajamas. I'll be right back.” Sara lumbers down the hall to the laundry room and finds a clean pair of pink pajamas with hearts on them. She carries them back to Megan's room. “Here pumpkin, you have hearts. Mommy will wash the flower ones and you'll wear them again tomorrow.”

Megan sniffles and nods.

Like a soldier following a drill, Sara changes Megan's pajamas, takes her temperature to confirm the fever that her hand had guessed, and gives her a dose of children's Tylenol. Sara then musters her remaining strength to carry her daughter to the master bedroom, depositing Megan into the king size bed where she'll be near in the night. Sara whispers in her ear, “Mommy will be right back. I just have to put your pajamas in the wash.”

After stripping Megan's bed, she brings the sheets to the laundry room and assesses the mess. She is so exhausted that she considers leaving it all for Rosa to take care of when she comes on Monday. But Sara knows that tomorrow Megan will want her flower pajamas and she doesn't want to go through the hysterics that will ensue if they're not ready to go.

Operating on autopilot, puts the pajamas in the laundry room sink to soak and turns on the water. As she plugs the bottom of the sink, Megan's scream pierces down the hall. “Mommy!”

Sara flies out of the laundry room. “I'm coming Megan! Don't throw up again. Mommy's coming.” The last thing she wants to do is strip another bed. Sara finds her sitting up crying. “Lay down honey, I'm right here.”

The child slowly lowers herself down but as Sara moves to go, she grabs for her, “No, stay!”

Sara stretches out next to Megan and strokes her back. “Just for a minute. Then I have to go back to the laundry.” Sara yawns. “Go back to sleep, I'm right here.”

Megan manuevers her little face within an inch of Sara's and throws an arm as far around her mother's neck as it will reach. Her warm breath makes the stray strands of hair that hang in Sara's face sway to their rhythm. Slowly, Megan's eyes fall shut, only to fly open again as if she's making certain that her mother is still beside her.

Thoughts bounce through Sara's head as she lays waiting for Megan to fall asleep. Should she take Megan to the doctor in the morning? What if Megan's still sick when she goes into labor? What the hell will she do then? Sara forces her thoughts away and listens to Megan's light snoring. She sounds congested, Sara thinks. She must be getting a cold. Fatigue beckons Sara like a seductive wave from across the road. She gives in and crosses between consciousness and unconsciousness, discarding the lingering notion that she's forgetting about something.