Impersonal Attractions (24 page)

“I think I need a home-cooked chicken,” he’d said. That was about as close as he ever came to saying he needed some mothering, and she was happy to accommodate. She’d certainly cried on his shoulder before.

He’d listened to her on the subjects of Bert and Mario. He’d disapproved of David. Had wanted to punch out Harry.

He was one of the strongest supporters of her writing, had encouraged her in the move from teaching. Of course,
she hadn’t bothered to tell him of her latest sideline, amateur sleuthing. He knew that Lola had been her friend, and had been shocked and sympathetic at the news of her death. But he knew nothing of Sharder, Port Costa, their nudging Sean for news. If he did, he would have locked her in her apartment and thrown away the key.

Tom arrived right on time, beeping a quick shave-and-a-haircut-six-bits on the downstairs buzzer. As she opened the apartment door, she could hear him pounding up the last flight of stairs. He never used the elevator. It was part of his schizophrenic fitness routine, which consisted of major athleticism tempered by cartons of cigarettes.

His curly head poked around her kitchen door and he wheezed hello as he leaned down to kiss her.

She frowned at him.

“Unless you’ve stopped smoking I don’t want to hear a word about my wheezing,” he said. “Besides, is a frown any way to greet a man with a bottle of champagne?”

Annie turned from the sink and really looked at him for the first time.

She was stunned. It was a totally new Tom Albano.

“Holy Thomas Aquinas! You’re absolutely gorgeous. Is the champagne to celebrate the union between you and Elizabeth Arden?”

He gave her a bear hug to cover his embarrassment.

“Shut up, Annie.”

“No, really.” She pulled away to look at him. “What happened?”

Tom turned to rummage in her cabinet for wineglasses, pretending to ignore her.

“Hold still.” She stepped back and appraised him. “The beard is gone. The mustache and sideburns are shorter. New glasses! They must have given you a wonderful trade-in for your old ones, especially for the Scotch tape.”

Tom pressed a glass of champagne upon her.

“Go ahead, let’s hear it all.”

“Well, I don’t know where to begin. New loafers. Oh, wait, turn around.”

He did. She could almost see the grin through the back of his head.

“Your pants fit! And congratulations, you do, indeed, have a perfectly lovely fanny.”

They drank to it. Tom continued to grin at her.

“So,” she said, “what brought all this on? The nurse’s handiwork?”

He nodded. She was surprised. No one else had ever been able to effect any changes in Tom’s appearance. A man with a beautiful eye for design who never seemed to look at himself in the mirror. Must be
some
woman.

“I finally gave in, and Sandy and I spent two weeks on this,” he gestured. “The new me. I’ve got suits, too, ties, shirts, sweaters, the whole works.”

“Well, Sandy should be very proud of herself. She has excellent taste in more than men.”

“She does,” he agreed. “In clothes, I mean, but…well…I’m not seeing her anymore.”

Why did that secretly please her?

“I just wasn’t the right man. Or she wasn’t the right woman. Actually, I think we bored one another once we got through shopping. But,” he leaned past her and opened a pot on the stove, “I didn’t come over here to bore you too. I came to eat dinner.”

“I think I can take a hint.”

As she finished in the kitchen, he set the table. The roast chicken, his favorite, was done to perfection. While doing the dishes, they talked about his latest project.

“They really don’t care how much money it costs, these electronics people. They’ve got it to burn.” In the plant’s
recreation area he was doing an Olympic-size pool, four tennis courts, a weight room. “They’re all workaholics, never go home. So the company’s more than willing to provide a total environment for them. And I’m proud to carry their money to the bank.”

She turned with soapy gloves to look at him. It was amazing, the difference. Not that he hadn’t always been an attractive man. But those little things. They really did change him.

They settled in the living room with cognac. He lit cigarettes for them both.

“You ever miss teaching, Annie? Ever want to go back?”

She shook her head. “Not that way. I like the classes at State, but when I’m asked I don’t say I’m a teacher anymore. Nope, I’m a writer. I get in much more interesting conversations that way, instead of the same old dreary one.”

“What do you mean?”

“At parties if you tell people you teach they always want to tell you how horrible the system is, how their kids can’t read and write. When
they
haven’t seen or spoken to them in the last six months except to yell at them to turn down the television.”

“I guess that could get pretty old.”

Annie warmed to the subject. “Or they think all teachers are like Kotter—or Diane Keaton.”

“Pardon?”

“Diane Keaton. Remember in
The Godfather
when Corleone comes looking for her after she’s gone back to teaching? She’s in a park with all these little kindergarten kids and Corleone drives up and crooks his finger, and she jumps in his limo and drives off—just leaves those little boogers in the park.”

He laughed. “I’d forgotten that.”

“The woman has single-handedly ruined the rep of teachers in this country. Let us not forget Mr. Goodbar. Not only is she a slut, but an irresponsible slut. She teaches these special kids, and one day she can’t make it to school because she spent the whole night screwing her brains out. So when they flash to her classroom the next day, the little kids are running all around the room, throwing things. There’s no substitute teacher, no one.”

“And the lesson is?”

“Good teachers have no sex life. Didn’t you know that?”

“Well, do you want to spend the rest of the evening writing a letter of protest to Diane Keaton, or would you rather play gin rummy?”

She reached for the cards.

“Good,” he said. “I’ve got to pay for these new threads somehow.”

Fat chance. As if she ever intended to pay off her gin debt.

She watched him as they played. She still couldn’t get over the change in his appearance. He really did look wonderful.

She picked up her cards, brushing his hand.

What was that?

That was Tom, stupid. Comfortable old Tom. Old-shoe Tom. Sitting on your sofa, beating your fanny at gin rummy, drinking your cognac. As always.

What was she thinking about?

About screwing up one of the best friendships she’d ever had?

“Hey, hey, hey. Where’s your mind tonight? I like taking your money, but this is ridiculous.”

“Sorry.”

She smiled. He smiled back. Their gaze held.

What did that mean?

What was
he
thinking about?

“My mind’s on the book. Sorry, I guess I am a little distracted,” she said.

“Do I get to read some more tonight?”

“Sure. Let’s play a few more hands and give me a chance to get even.”

“Honey, we don’t have enough years for you to get even.”

He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

Her face burned.

He never did things like that. Or if he did, they didn’t feel like this. Was she crazy, or was he different? And what was she feeling? What was going on here?

Three more hands. Tom poured more cognac for them both. They were drinking a little more than usual.

Annie ginned on the third hand, put down her cards, and yawned. But she wasn’t tired. Actually, she was very nervous. Was he bluffing? Was she?

“It’s getting late,” she said, stretching elaborately. Was she showing him she was sleepy or was she showing off?

“You’re right.” He watched her long arms, her body in full extension. Then he looked at his watch. “What time is it?”

“It’s midnight. Awfully late for you to drive all that way.”

What if she had misread this? Was he going to laugh at her? Would it become part of the mythology of their friendship—the night Annie put the make on him?

“Do you want to spend the night?”

“Sure.” Tom nodded. He didn’t look her in the eye, but stood and headed for the john.

Maybe he thinks I mean for him to sleep on the sofa, she thought as she poured him another cognac. Had he ever done that before? She couldn’t remember.

He read the chapter she had waiting for him on the coffee table in two minutes flat.

“I love it.”

“Do you want to read some more?”

“Not now, Annie.” He turned and cupped her face in his hands and looked her straight in the eye. “Right now I want to go to bed with you.”

Well, of course. Didn’t they do this every night?

She led him by the hand into her bedroom, chattering away about nothing. She started unbuttoning casually, trying to hide her nervousness, still talking all the while.

“Stop,” he said, taking her hand away from her blouse. “And shut up.”

Oh, Jesus, this is going to be awful, she thought. I’ve always loved this man, but he never made my blood sing. He’s my friend, not my lover.

For a big man, Tom’s touch was like a baby’s breath as he gathered her to him.

“Relax,” he whispered into her hair. “I know what I’m doing, lady.”

“Ladies don’t do this.” She giggled.

“They most certainly do,” he said, slowly running his tongue down the side of her neck.

She felt the long, strong muscles in his shoulders, his back.

He slipped her blouse off her shoulders.

“How do you know they’re ladies?”

She unbuckled his belt.

“They leave a tip.”

They fell laughing to her bed, half dressed, half drunk.

Tom was right, as he was right about most things. He did, indeed, know what he was doing.

*

Sometimes when she made love, when it was very, very good, as this was, Annie saw visions. It was as if she had a little videotape machine in her head, flashing pictures.

This time it was a rerun of her dreams. She was running down a hill in a sheer dress, carrying a big, floppy hat. He was beside her, the faceless, big-shouldered man, laughing as they tumbled down, down through the grass. But this time she could see his face. The face of her beloved. She’d known him all along.

Afterward Tom slept soundly, but she was too excited to close her eyes, running and rerunning the lovemaking in her mind. Then the gremlins crept in.

It will be different in the morning. It always is. He’ll wake up and wonder what the hell that was all about, if he remembers it at all, and then he’ll pull on his clothes and go home.

She kissed his shoulder, savoring the sweetness while she had it. He stirred and rolled over.

“Annie,” he murmured, “you’re still here.”

He gathered her to him, into his warm, snuggly cave in the bed, as if he were trying to squeeze them both into the borders of one cookie cutter. He kissed her fingertips and nose.

“Didn’t you know that I’ve always loved you?” His voice was middle-of-the-night hoarse.

“Yes, but…”

“But not this way, right? Well, now you know.”

“I’m…” She hesitated. Was it stupid to admit it?

“What?”

“I’m scared.”

“I know you are. But don’t be. Trust me.”

With that, he pounced on her and they rolled and giggled and wrestled, eventually falling off the bed. Finally Bunny, on the other side of the wall, got her chance to bang with righteous indignation.

Annie laughed and shushed Tom. It was about time.

THIRTY-EIGHT

S
am frantically punched the story into her terminal. She’d never get used to the thing glowing at her and breaking down. Her old Smith-Corona never failed her, especially at times like this.

Another light flashed—her phone.

“Samantha Storey here. Lunch? Christ, Annie, didn’t you read the paper this morning? No, nothing major. Headlines and most of page one, that’s all. The real Mt. Diablo killer, that’s what. The genuine article. Yes, sure, but I can’t talk now. Is it important? Okay, meet me at John’s at noon and we’ll grab a bite. I’m going to be here all night. Good. Great. In the meantime, Annie, read the paper. It’s the all-time Samantha Storey special.”

*

It was big, all right. The headlines screamed at her. Big and grisly, terrifying, shocking, sad. And depressing. Annie slumped onto her elbows on the dining-room table.

The killer’s whole story was there. His lonely childhood, his problems in connecting with people, his frustration, and then the release that he found—in rape and murder. The pattern, over and over. Twice convicted and jailed for rape, attempted murder. She looked closely at the photos. She wanted him to look like a monster. He looked like a nerd.