The Ladies' Man (32 page)

Has she considered a younger man? Nash asks. Not a kid, and definitely not a guy in the market for the mother of his child. Watch out for those guys. That guy is looking for a uterus. Hmmm, maybe older is better—fifty to seventy. But beware, in that range, of crazy grown children—not crazy literally, but jealous, spoiled brats who worry about the money and always take their mother's side. She should show him the ad first before she places it; better yet, let him write it! He knows what buttons to push. He's a guy! Insist on a photograph; anyone who doesn't comply is too old or too ugly. And while he's at it? One more piece of advice, Lo, not immaterial? Your hair.

N
othing better to do on a Monday night than star in a little drama of his own design, Richard figures. And what could be easier for Senior Deputy Sheriff Dobbin to ascertain than whether Marty Glazer is working late? After dropping Adele off at home, he drives to 'GBH to devote the postdinner hour to the cause, happily. Security's better than it used to be, but still he doesn't even have to flash his badge to get the guard to confirm, “Mr. Glazer hasn't left yet.”

Richard knows exactly what he needs to project—his unthreatening, lanky, boyish, winning self. A loving brother waiting. A ride. At 8:42
P.M.
, Glazer, or at least the guy Richard studied on Adele's VCR, comes through the front door of the station in a banker's suit, raincoat over one shoulder, stuffed briefcase tilting him leeward. Short. Pleasant and approachable enough. No movie star.

Richard does
hopeful
as the door opens, then
crestfallen
as it shuts. Marty stops and asks this disappointed, well-dressed fellow, “May I help you?”

“No, thanks,” says Richard. “I'm waiting for someone. I thought this might be her. Leaving.”

“Sorry.”

“Must've got our signals crossed.” He waits a few seconds, oozes devotion from every pore before saying, “Adele Dobbin. I thought I was picking her up, but maybe I got the time wrong.”

Richard won't swear to it, but, in the dim light of the entryway, he thinks the guy looks a bit shaken by his invoking Adele. Now Glazer sets his briefcase down and looks at his watch. “I don't think anyone's up in Development. In fact, I'm sure of it.”

“Gee,” says Richard. “You don't think I should be worried, do you?” He presses his lips together, frowns. Takes a few steps back on the sidewalk to look up at what could be Adele's window. “You're right. I don't see a light. She wouldn't have left through another door, would she?”

“She usually leaves between five-thirty and six. And actually, that's our American Experience unit.” He offers his hand. “I'm Martin Glazer.”

“Oh! Right right right. The big guy. Nice to meet you. Richard Dobbin, the brother.”

“That's right—the state trooper.”

“Sheriff's Department.”

“As billed,” says Marty, and points to Richard's car and its “Suffolk County Sheriff's Department” seal.

“Just got off,” says Richard.

“Long day,” says Marty.

“You, too,” says Richard.

“Loose ends,” says Marty. “Loose ends and spread sheets.” He jerks his thumb back toward the door. “Do you want to call upstairs?”

“I'll use my car phone. Try her at home.” Richard smiles. “You have sisters?”

“One,” says Marty.

“So you know.” He retreats a few steps, walking backward, grinning in good-natured brotherly fashion, then asks, “Need a lift?”

“No thanks,” says Marty.

“Got your car?”

“I walk. I live right over on Memorial Drive.”

Richard dangles his keys at shoulder level. “Ever ridden in a cruiser?”

Marty hesitates.

“It's on my way. And if it wasn't? I'd want to give my sister's boss a ride anyway. Win points.”

Marty doesn't contradict him; doesn't reassure Richard that Adele, of all people, needs no leg up in the good-relations department. So Richard himself offers, “Not that she needs help, I would imagine.”

“You're right,” says Marty.

“I mean, I watch her on TV; never miss a fund-raising weekend or the auction, and I have to ask, with all due modesty, is she good or what? I'm a little prejudiced, of course, but I think she's the best you've got.”

“All true,” says Marty.

“Get in,” says Richard. “I could have had you home by now.”

“If you're sure—”

“I insist. And this way, you'll find out if she made it home safely.” He disengages the cell phone, presses one button, doesn't press the “send” button. He pretends to wait, count the rings, then brightens. “Kathleen? It's me. Is Adele home?… Taking a bath? No! Don't bother her. I'm calling from the station, and I think I might have screwed up.… No? She didn't work late?… Okay. Whew. I must've got the days mixed up.” He pauses. “You can say that again.” He winks at Marty and hangs up. “Taking a bath,” he repeats. “This says to me”—he looks at his watch—“at
this
hour,
this
early: She had a rough day.”

Marty doesn't respond; gives the buckling of his seat belt his full attention.

“You married?” Richard asks.

“Divorced.”

“What happened? If you don't mind my asking.”

Marty does appear to mind. “Ancient history,” he snaps.

Richard does a U-turn in front of the station and heads toward the river. “What number Mem. Drive?”

“Ten-ten,” says Marty.

Richard whistles appreciatively.

“You know it?”

“I've had business there; had to repossess some artwork. Big stuff. Wall-sized.”

“Whose?”

Richard smiles. “The artist? Or the deadbeat owner?”

“The latter.”

“Can't remember. Gray hair, ponytail, yappy dog.”

“Interesting,” Marty murmurs.

“I do it every day,” says Richard. “You wouldn't believe what I see.”

“Sounds dangerous,” says Marty.

“Our uniformed guys do more of the lowlife stuff. I more or less take the white-collar crowd. The doctors and dentists and executives who need finessing rather than strong-arming. Sometimes it's going to a beautiful house in a wealthy neighborhood and letting someone walk out with a little bit of dignity left, no handcuffs, and get into an unmarked car so he's not humiliated in front of his neighbors.” Richard checks for audience reaction, but his passenger is staring straight ahead into the traffic.

“On the other hand,” Richard continues, “I couldn't do what you do—run a station; deal with a big staff, the creative crazies; get up in front of a camera and ask for money.”

“I don't do much of that,” says Marty. “Thank goodness.”

“I thought you did,” says Richard. He feigns mild perplexity. “I saw you the other night—was it last Saturday?—and I thought you looked pretty damn happy up there, rubbing shoulders with the professional fund-raisers.”

“Did I?”

“Sure. And I know Adele thought you did a great job.”

Marty stares out the passenger window at Harvard houses, Harvard brick walls. “It sounds as if you were watching quite closely.”

“I can't help it. And you know why? I have a lot of sisters, but if I had to put my hand on a Bible and testify as to which one—”

“Don't get in the right-hand lane yet,” says Marty.

“I know this must sound hokey, spending a Saturday night watching my sister do the same thing she's been doing for a dozen years. Which reminds me, Marty—if you don't mind the firstname basis—call me hyperobservant, an occupational hazard, but during one of the pledge breaks? You went to a phone and I wasn't paying all that much attention, but I read lips pretty well and I think you may have said ‘Adele Dobbin' to whoever you were talking to. And because I serve a lot of restraining orders, I thought,
‘Holy shit! Did this guy just announce to some potential stalker that this damn attractive woman is named Adele Dobbin?' ”

Marty mumbles, “Our on-air fund-raisers introduce themselves every few minutes.”

“I know they do—”

“As far as I know, it's never gotten anyone into trouble.”

“Hey,” says Richard. “Now I've embarrassed myself. And probably you. You have to excuse it as the paranoid ramblings of a guy who sees a lot of awful stuff, and doesn't want his sister taking any chances.”

“Understandably.”

“Because you have a sister! I had hoped at some point to run into you, so it's amazing that I did so soon. Because here's another question, Marty: I picked up on a little something myself. I'm a good reader of faces—I have to be in my line of work. I ring doorbells and wives say, ‘He hasn't lived here in months,' and I have to know when they're lying.”

Marty waits.

“And you know what I saw when I was watching, Marty? Which I know you'll keep in complete confidence. But I know my sister, and I don't often see a look on her face like I saw on TV the other night. And I don't think it had anything to do with the tally on the pledge board.”

Marty freezes and offers nothing; asks for no amplification; doesn't ask the name of the rare look on Adele's face.

“Maybe I shouldn't have opened my big mouth,” Richard tries, and is not contradicted.

I've blown it, he thinks; no question. Major diplomatic blunder. Something's bothering this Glazer guy. Can't even bring himself to ask what any kid in junior high would want to know: Does she like me back?

“Anywhere along here is fine,” says Marty, fifty yards before Ten-ten Memorial Drive.

“Let me pull up.”

“Thank you,” says Marty.

Richard puts the car into park with a jolt. After a short silence he says, “Guess you have no reaction to any of this.”

Marty has his left hand on his briefcase, and his right on the door handle. He waits, exhales a labored breath. “I
was
saying her name when I was on the phone, but it was just a little old lady asking, and completely benign.”

“By the name of?”

Marty opens the car door, gets out. Just before closing it, he leans in to say, as if it were his thanks, “Pearl Glickman Glazer.”

He can't find a comfortable position, even with the orthopedic pillows. His left knee feels funny; not a pain, exactly, but as if the kneecap is slightly askew. He takes two coated ibuprofen, 200 milligrams each, with seltzer. Why hadn't he asked the brother up for a drink, a Coke, a beer. Why hadn't he just walked home, as always. Yet …

It was interesting to see this male version of Adele's physical properties: tall, long fingers, faded freckles, auburn-haired; the same eye color, if one could tell at night—not brown, not green. A dry lawn. Now he's embarrassed himself, waxing poetic. He thinks it was a setup. The brother wanted to feel him out. Adele didn't need a ride home. Her brother didn't live with her, or chauffeur her around.

But he was smooth. Adele has a modicum of that charm, without the cockiness, and happily for the station, her highest wattage shines on-air. Viewers love Adele and write in to say so. He has a file of such letters, which he has perused more than once. Had she ever seen her fan mail? he'd asked her. Did his predecessor send her cc's? “Some,” Adele had said. She had smiled sardonically and added, “The ones that wouldn't inspire me to ask for a raise.”

He'd made copies himself after his secretary had gone home for the day, and put them on Adele's desk. “FYI, Marty” was all his note said. The truth was, he'd kept the Post-it note she'd returned with it. “But did they enclose checks?” she wrote with characteristic modesty and job devotion, and signed it only “A.”

But what a pickle he'd made at work today! He hadn't realized until his mother called—Jesus, of all the humiliating moments, of all the clichés—that he was handing out valentines on live TV. So goddamn embarrassing.