Dying to Call You (12 page)

Vito poked her back with a meaty finger, and she parroted his words. The woman bought a five-year supply. Helen wished she hadn’t.

“You made the sale,” Vito said. “Great way to end the night.” He turned to Jack. “And how did you do on your first night?”

“I sold six,” Jack said, with the proud air of a retriever that brought home something smelly.

“Phenomenal,” Vito said. “You’re a natural.”

He was. Helen rarely made more than four sales on one shift, and she was good.

“Congratulations,” she said when the computers shut down.

“Thanks,” Jack said. “Like I said, sales is sales. Listen, would you like to go for coffee or a drink?”

Helen started to say, “I don’t know you.” But she did.

Helen had worked with men like Jack Lace for almost twenty years. She thought of Sarah’s luncheon lecture about her love life, and worse, of another night alone with her cat.

“Yes,” she said. “I’d like that very much.” She was glad she was still wearing her good black pantsuit from her lunch with Sarah.

“What about your car?” Jack said.

“A friend dropped me off at work,” Helen said. She couldn’t admit she didn’t even have a clunker.

“Good,” Jack said. “We’ll take mine.”

Jack’s car no longer looked threatening, shining in the moonlight. It looked rich and comforting. For the second time that day, Helen sank into luxurious leather seats and listened to the hum of a well-tuned engine.

“I thought we’d go to the Pier Top Lounge.”

“Jack, can you afford that?” Helen knew from bitter experience that it took time to realize you no longer had money.

Soon, he would have to sell this extravagant car. He’d never be able to afford the upkeep.

“Hey, I’m the top seller in the boiler room.”

Jack was a fast, aggressive driver, weaving in and out of traffic, cutting people off, refusing to give anyone a break.

They were at the Pier Sixty-Six resort in ten minutes. Jack pulled into valet parking, another outlandish expense.

I won’t say anything, Helen thought. He’ll learn the same way I did. A few missed meals and he’ll figure out he needs to budget.

Jack handed over the keys to the valet and reached into the backseat for his suit jacket and a Ralph Lauren tie. Now he looked complete. Even at ten thirty at night, he had no beard shadow. How did he do that?

It was fun to take a hushed elevator to the penthouse. The Pier Top was a revolving bar with a panoramic view of Fort Lauderdale. Helen had forgotten the simple, overpriced pleasures of sitting in a lounge chair and drinking cosmopolitans. They kept the conversation impersonal at first, discussing the view and their work. Then Helen asked, “Do you live in Lauderdale?”

“I do now,” he said, “in a crappy apartment near I-95. I used to live in a big house in Coral Springs. My wife got it.

She got my Range Rover, too. And both kids. Like the song says, she got the gold mine, I got the shaft.”

“You must miss your children,” Helen said.

“I do. But she’s turned them against me. It’s like they aren’t even my kids anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Helen said. “My marriage was a mess, but at least there weren’t any kids.”

“I’m not going to sit around feeling sorry for myself, Jack said, and stood up. He held out his hand. “Come on, let’s go out on the observation deck.”

They were alone on the windswept deck. The Pier Top was seventeen stories above the city, a skyscraper by Lauderdale standards. Helen felt queasy. She backed away from the edge, wondering if anyone had ever jumped off the deck.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jack said.

It was. She forgot her fear, caught by the glittering view: the sweeping glory of the Seventeenth Street Causeway, the splendor of the cruise ships. The sparkling tourist hotels and the outrageous mansions. And the black, shining water that made all this wealth possible.

Helen shivered. It was cold up here, so high above the city. All this beauty, and no one to share it with. She wondered if she would ever find someone to love, or if she would die alone. There are worse things for a woman than being alone, she reminded herself. But that thought didn’t warm her.

Jack took off his suit coat and put it around her shoulders.

It smelled of some manly cologne, with a hint of citrus. He put his arms around her and pulled her close. He felt warm and strong. He felt right.

This was happening awfully fast, she thought. But she’d watched Jack today. He was decisive. He knew what he wanted—and he wanted her. She was flattered. She was forty-two, but she made this man act like an eager young lover.

“Helen, I promise you, the telemarketing is only temporary,” he said. “I’ll be back on top of the world soon and you’ll be with me.”

He believes it. She liked his promises, even if they could never come true. He seemed hopeful. That’s what her life was missing. Hope. The promise of something better.

Then Jack kissed her. The city sparkled below, just for her.

It was after midnight when Helen wove her way to her apartment, giggly from kisses and cosmopolitans. The night had been perfect. There was a slight awkwardness when Jack had wanted to come back to her place. But she’d said, “Not tonight,” and he’d obeyed.

Then he’d kissed her so hard she’d almost changed her mind. But she wasn’t that drunk. She’d had too many wrong men. She wasn’t going to hop into bed with this one. Not right away, anyway.

She passed Phil’s door and inhaled deeply. “I’m higher than you are.” She was startled that she’d said it out loud.

She unlocked her door and nearly fell inside.

“Hi, cat. Did you miss me?” Thumbs sniffed her with disapproval.

“Don’t look that way. I deserve a good time. I’ll tell you all about it. Just let me sit down a minute.” She flopped into the turquoise Barcalounger.

She woke up at six A.M. She’d slept in her pantsuit. It was covered with wrinkles and cat hair. Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with fur. Thumbs had slept on her chest, judging by the large patch of cat hair on her suit. The ten-pound tom was gently patting her face with his huge six-toed paw.

“I’m sorry, boy,” she said. “I know it’s breakfast time.”

She stood up. The room had a funhouse tilt. Her stomach lurched like Savannah’s Tank. Savannah. She forgot to call Savannah last night.

I didn’t really promise I would, she thought. Not a firm promise. But she remembered what Savannah had said, “My baby sister’s lying somewhere in an unmarked grave. I’ve got to find her.”

And what had she been doing? Drinking cosmopolitans in a penthouse, like some subtropical Marie Antoinette.

Helen stumbled into the bathroom. She didn’t have the courage to look in the mirror. She ate an inch of toothpaste straight from the tube. Coffee. She needed coffee. It tasted funny, but Helen didn’t think that was from her Crest breakfast. It was going to be a long day.

She clocked in at seven fifty-nine and sat down at her desk. There was a half-eaten slice of pizza draped over her phone like a pepperoni tea cozy. It left a trail of orange grease on her desk. Her stomach flip-flopped when she dropped it in the trash.

“Good morning,” Jack said. He was smiling. She hated cheerful people in the morning. Once again, he was beautifully shaved. His skin was a healthy pink, his eyes clear, his shirt crisp. It was unnatural.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” he said, and handed her a single red rose.

“Oh,” Helen said. It was all she could manage. The rose looked so velvety dark and perfect in this boil of a boiler room. It made the scuffed walls and shabby carpet look worse.

“It’s lovely,” she said, as the computers flipped on.

“OK, people. Get your heinies in gear,” Vito screamed.

“We’re starting with Vermont this morning.”

“Hi, Mrs. Cratchley,” Helen said. “I’m Helen with Tank Titan—”

Mrs. Cratchley said, “Well, isn’t that lovely?”

Helen stopped in surprise. She wasn’t used to kind words.

“And how long have you been a telemarketer, dear?”

“Several months now. I sell a product that...” Helen tried to get back on track.

“It must be difficult, a single woman like yourself,” Mrs.

Cratchley said. “You are single, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Helen said. “And Tank Titan is the single most popular—”

“I thought so,” Mrs. C said. “My daughter Rita’s single, too. She has to support herself and my grandson, Jerrod. That poor girl works so hard. We never get to sit down and visit any more. Jerrod is four now, and he’s...”

Help! Helen thought. I’m trapped by a nice person. Nasty, I can handle. I don’t know what to do with nice.

“And then Jerrod said to me, ‘Granny’—he calls me Granny—”

“Mrs. Cratchley,” Helen said, “I’d love to chat with you, but my boss is here and I have to go.”

“I understand, dear,” Mrs. Cratchley said. “You call anytime.”

Helen’s next call let loose with a string of profanities that nearly wilted her rose. She felt better. She was used to that.

When she got her five-minute break an hour later, Jack was still on the phone, happily peddling septic-tank cleaner.

Helen dug a plastic soda bottle out of the trash can and walked back to the battleship gray bathroom.

She was filling the bottle with water for her rose when Taniqua came out of a plywood stall. A boiler-room diet of junk food was slyly putting pounds on her slender figure.

Taniqua definitely filled out her powder-blue halter top and tight low-rise pants. Helen wondered what brought this beauty to this beastly place.

“That rose from the new guy?” Taniqua said.

“We went out for drinks last night. He brought me this.

Wasn’t that sweet?”

“He nothing but trouble.”

“He’s romantic.”

“Huh,” Taniqua said. “A love rose. Oldest trick in the man’s book. Get those at the 7-Eleven for a buck. That makes you a dollar ho.”

“Taniqua! What’s he done to you?”

“He be a bailiff boy.”

“A what?”

“You find out soon enough. Just don’t be trusting no bailiff boy.”

Taniqua slammed the bathroom door.

Chapter 11

Helen’s morning started with a hangover. It ended with a mutiny.

Mr. Cavarelli slithered in at ten o’clock. He was one of the elegant reptiles from the New York office. His eyes were flat and yellow. Even his suit was a lizard-like greenish brown. He wore alligator shoes, which Helen thought was no way to treat a relative. She wondered if his silk-clad feet were covered with scales.

Mr. Cavarelli kept his upper lip curled as he walked through the boiler room. He glided into Vito’s office like a hungry predator and silently slid the door shut.

Helen did not see Vito for the rest of the morning. He didn’t even come out to monitor the telemarketers. Maybe Mr. Cavarelli had disemboweled him and was snacking on his entrails.

Helen made four sales in quick succession. She sold better when Vito wasn’t looking over her shoulder.

Vito did not emerge until the end of the shift. He looked mauled. His smooth pink skin was blotchy white. His shirt tail hung out. He seemed nervous. Well, who wouldn’t be, after three hours with Mr. Cavarelli? It probably felt like the intake interview from hell.

Vito plastered on a sick smile and started passing out commission-check envelopes. Helen could never figure out the commission pay schedule. It seemed to be based on sun signs and the position of the moon.

Taniqua eagerly tore into her envelope. “What’s
this
shit?

They be paying me for fifteen sales. I had seventeen. I got my list right here.”

Her “proof” was a tattered piece of paper with a handwritten list of names, addresses and dates. No supervisor had signed it. No supervisor would. Records were conveniently vague at Girdner Sales. Taniqua had no hope of getting that missing money.

“Goddamn crooks,” Zelda said, hugging her red sweater closer to her tiny body. “I didn’t get my commission on four sales.”

“They ripped me off.” That was from Bob, a huge tattooed biker.

And me, Helen thought. Her envelope was a little thicker than the others. I can’t complain, because I get my money in cash. Vito helps himself to a commission on my commission.

Panhead Pete, another biker, said, “Hey, I been cheated, too. I’m short three sales. I want my fuckin’ money.”

He crushed his check in a hairy paw, which made the death’s head on his bicep grin wider. Pete was a mountain of lard with a beer-keg belly. He loomed over Vito, who started sweating.

Mr. Cavarelli slid out of the office, elegant and evil. “Is there a problem?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” Pete said. “I’ve been stiffed outta three sales.”

“But you haven’t,” Mr. Cavarelli said, fixing his flat predator’s eyes on Pete. He smiled. His teeth looked sharp and pointed. “I personally calculated those checks.”

Pete shifted uneasily. Maybe he realized he was two hundred and eighty pounds of slow and tasty beef. Maybe he saw the slight bulge under Cavarelli’s well-tailored armpit. Helen certainly did. The lizard was lethal. Pete’s only weapons were his meaty fists, and they didn’t stop bullets.

“Well, it better be fixed next time,” Pete said lamely.

“I’ll look into it,” Mr. Cavarelli said with a flick of contempt.

Pete walked out, shoulders slumped. Zelda and Taniqua followed, too beaten down to protest.

“Wow, that was something,” Jack said. “That guy in the suit has real management ability. Did you see the way he handled those malcontents?”

“He had a gun,” Helen said.

“You’re kidding,” Jack said.

Helen wasn’t sure he believed her. It was too soon for Jack to get a commission check. He’d learn soon enough about Girdner’s curious accounting.

She was carrying her rose in its bottle vase. He blocked her way to the door, awkward as a schoolboy. “Uh, I wanted to see you today, but I can’t. I’ve got an appointment with my lawyer this afternoon. About the divorce.”

“I understand,” she said.

“And I can’t make it tonight, either,” he said.

“Jack, you don’t have to explain. We’re not going steady.”

“I want to see you all the time.” He looked so sincere, like a little boy all grown up. He was so neat and well-groomed, so different from the boiler-room dopers and losers.