CHAPTER FIFTY
Like a kid showing up for a blind date, Al paced the hallway outside of her apartment for a good ten minutes before he composed himself enough to rap on the door. It wasn't that he was nervous. It was only that he just couldn't face her with anything but a glowing smile on his face. The last thing you wanted from an ex-wife was pity.
A smile was hard to find. He'd lost Chester again, though his attorney was looking for reasons for another appeal. Al wondered how long this could go on. Sooner or later a judge was bound to realize what a waste of the justice system it was to have this terrier bouncing back and forth like a far-too-wanted child. Al hoped with all his heart that when that day came, Chester would be sitting on his lap, but he didn't hold out much hope.
It was hard to hold out hope of anything when you were having more and more trouble sleeping. The nightmares kept coming and they were getting worse. Four days ago he'd awakened with every nerve on fire after reliving a vicious session of the torture known in some parts of the world as bastinado, or "fangala", or, as Charlie's eloquent little interrogator had put it, "beat feet; hard". Gina, the leggy redhead from Typesetting, had awakened, roused by his panicked gasps and muffled moans of torment. Thinking he was in the mood for Act Two of their little drama, she had wrapped her hands around his waist. The pressure against his spine had been almost akin to hellfire, and he had writhed right out of her grasp, off the bed, and halfway across the bedroom floor before he had regained enough control to immobilize his limbs. It had taken a whole lot of sweet talk to smooth that one over in the morning.
Having flown out to New York the following day, Al really had no idea whether she was spreading that story around the Project or not. He prayed that she wasn't. He couldn't fathom the depths of humiliation that the mere thought that everyone might find out about his nightmares sent him into.
At least here, when he picked up a girl he wasn't likely ever to see her again. That helped him relax a little. Ironically, the less he worried about having a dream, the less likely he was to do so. Last night, aside from the one where he was bound in the shape of a human pretzel and falling through endless emptiness, he had escaped the night terrors.
Today was a day off between banquets, and so Al had been able to trade in the dress blues and fruit salad for a zoot suit and overcoat. He had hopped in the rental car that he had paid for out of his surplus per diem, and sped down the turnpike to Jersey. He had a bottle of Chianti in one hand, and a box of caramels in the other, and he was going to spend the morning with an old friend. She had a meeting at two, but five hours was more than ample to do a little… catching up.
He took a deep breath and knocked. There was some shuffling from within, and the door opened. Chocolate-colored eyes sparkled and the pretty face framed by dark hair broke into a gratified smile.
"Ruthie!" Al said suavely. "How you been, beautiful?"
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMAt a quarter after one Al was out on the street, roaming free with an unopened bottle of Chianti on the seat next to him. When Ruthie had told him she wasn't allowed to have it, he had gawked.
"You're pregnant?" he had exclaimed. He hadn't even realized she was seeing anyone.
She'd laughed. "No! No. I'm not supposed to have red wine with the new meds."
His ex-wife had bipolar affective disorder, and had been put on an antidepressant days before they had decided on divorce. As far as Al was concerned, her condition hadn't played into the decision at all. It had been a clear-cut case of "you go your way, I'll go mine": Ruthie wanted to return to Jersey City and go back to work as an editor, and Al had wanted to move to Arizona and take on Starbright. The divorce was supposed to have made them both happier.
At least Ruthie seemed happier. That was something to be grateful for. She was a good kid and she deserved a happy life, unlike certain naval officers. Al had forgotten how much he wanted Ruthie to be happy. He'd forgotten what a wonderful person she was. Whatever the female version of the word mensch was, that was his Ruthie.
Only she wasn't his Ruthie now, any more than Sharon was his Sharon or Chester his dog.
Al sighed and pulled over into one of the angled parking stalls. Without realizing it, he had found his way into the downtown core. He scrubbed his forehead with thumb and finger. He didn't care what the courts said: Chester was his dog. He had to get him back. He just had to. Even if it was only for six weeks until Sharon wrangled another custody hearing.
Part of him knew it was stupid to fight like this over the dog, but there was another part, some fragment of what was left of his heart, that needed that little terrier more than he had needed anything or anybody in a long time. Well, anything or anybody attainable.
He climbed out of the rental and locked it, then started up the street. There had to be a bar or something around here, somewhere he could sit in peace and let his dinner settle. Ruthie—God bless her!—had cooked up his favorite for the noon meal: her very special gefilte fish with all the trimmings. How she'd managed to get food on the table between listening to the story of his life and making fond and tender love in the sunny bedroom Al didn't know. The woman was a miracle worker.
She had wanted to know all about Stevie and his struggle with leukemia. Al had been only too glad to oblige. For one thing, the lady deserved to know why her two-hundred-dollar cheques had suddenly stopped. Also, though, that story had a happy ending. It was just about the only story Al had that you could say that about.
In the glove box of the car was a present Ruthie had sent for Stevie. It was a copy of Green Eggs and Ham that she had purchased for one of her numerous nieces or nephews. Al had tried to protest, but Ruthie had talked him into it. Now he wondered whether she wasn't right. What if he could teach Stevie to read? He'd never read well, of course: not Crime and Punishment or The Scientific Journal, but if he could even learn, someday, to read at a third or fourth grade level…
Almost without realizing it, his hands found the door of a dark little pub wedged between two boutiques. Al moved into the gloom and found his way to the counter, where he took a seat in the far corner. He ordered a scotch and water, and went about constructing his castle in the air.
If Stevie could learn how to read a little, just enough to fill out a job application form and find a number in the telephone book, then who was to say the kid couldn't grow up to have a normal life? Al wanted so desperately to give Stevie a future. The kind of future he'd been unable to give Trudy.
"Your first major failure, Calavicci," he muttered, knocking back the drink and signaling for another. Poor little Trudy. She'd counted on him. Depended on him. Damn it to hell, he was her big brother! He should have looked after her! Should've helped her! Not left her to die, alone and unwanted, neglected, frightened…
He could see it so clearly, though whenever he pictured her death she was always the little girl he remembered, five years old, the way he had last seen her. He could see orderlies in clinical white, going about their business on a shabby and overcrowded ward in an insane asylum, not caring that she was dying, not pausing to look at her, his dear little baby sister…
When he thought of her, too, he thought of himself in 'fifty-three. Living in a garret room in Greenwich Village, on the stage in the evenings, out with girls every night, free and having the time of his life. Sure, he couldn't really feed himself, let alone anyone else, but he should have gone for her, should have saved her….
He ordered another scotch. Then another.
At last, drunk enough that he couldn't feel the pain anymore but still sober enough to walk, he stumbled, blinking, into the sunlight and wandered up the street. He smoothed his hair and tried to saunter, blissfully unaware of the disapproving glances he garnered from his fellow pedestrians. He was Albert Calavicci, and the one thing he had left was his sex appeal!
He smiled at a petite brunette in a miniskirt, and indulged in a wolf-whistle as a couple of university students passed him, backpacks riding low over soft round buttocks. The sunshine warmed his skin and reminded him that there was goodness in the world, even if it wasn't really meant for the likes of him.
An older couple passed, and Al's heart almost stopped. They had a Yorkie on a leash between them… a Yorkie that could've been Chester's brother. Al looked wistfully after them. He wished he had his little guy. He wanted Chester back.
He leaned back against a display window and rubbed his chin unhappily. He dug a cigar out of his pocket and chomped off the tip. As he rooted around for his lighter, he turned to see whose premises he had been using as a crutch, and a wicked smile spread across his face. It was a tattoo parlor.
Some rational corner of his mind told him that the idea was one of those ones that seemed much better when you were drunk, but he didn't heed it. A little tangible pain, pain for a purpose, was just what he needed. He put the cigar back where it had come from and opened the door.
The front shop was small, sporting trays of body jewelry and charts of suggested designs. A blackboard was hung over the beaded curtain leading to the back. In neon chalk, it proclaimed: Your artists today are Lance and Candy. A skinny girl wearing a black leather minidress and fishnet tights was seated on a stool behind the cash register, ogling at the liner notes of a King Thunder record. Her hair was pink and cropped close to her head. She had a large silver ring running through her left nostril. As Al entered she looked up.
"Your kid ain't here, mister," she said boredly. "We only got the one customer right now, and she's way over twenty-one."
Al shook his head. "I'm not looking for anyone," he said. "I want a tattoo."
"Oh, yeah?" the girl asked skeptically. "So what, 'Mother' or something?"
"I hadn't given it much thought, but that's an absolutely not," Al told her. "I was thinking maybe a dog."
"A dog?"
"You're a great salesman, you know that?" Al asked.
"Do I care? You can't get a tattoo right now, anyways," the girl said, turning back to her liner notes. "We only got the one room, and there's somebody in there getting done."
Al pointed at the chalkboard. "You've got two people on duty," he said mildly.
"Yeah," the girl allowed. "Maybe Candy could do you, but we only got the one room, and the lady who's getting done needs her privacy."
From behind the curtain, a twanging voice let out; "I don't mind! I'll share a room—so long as he's cute!"
The girl with the pink hair looked Al up and down. "I dunno!" she shouted back. "Candy! Get out here and tell me if you think this guy's cute!"
The curtain rustled, and a bionic woman came into the front store. She was about thirty, and covered with so much metal that she had to be endangered by any kind of proximity to magnets. She looked Al up and down, and stepped forward to brush one black-lacquered fingernail over his lapel. "Hey, there," she said. "I'm Candy. You looking to get something pierced?"
"A tattoo, actually," Al said.
"Mmh. Well, we'll have to see some I.D. You know, to make sure you're old enough."
A tiny, sober voice told Al to run. The drunken voice that wanted to do something fun, youthful and irresponsible was much stronger. He dug out his wallet and gave her his driver's license.
"Albert Calveck—Calavkk…"
"Calavicci," Al said.
"Ooh!" Candy cooed. "Mambo Italiano!" She turned to shout over her shoulder. "He's cute, baby! He's cute!"
"Bring him on in!" the other female voice said.
Candy grinned. "Right this way. You said you were thinking a dog. Bulldog? Mastiff? You look like the Rottweiler type to me."
"Yorkshire terrier, actually," Al said, following her into a neat white room with two examining tables. A tray of instruments and cast-off sterile packaging stood between them, and a tall, bony man was bending over the other customer. Then Al got a good look at the other customer, and for a minute he couldn't focus on anything else.
She must've been "way over twenty-one", but only from the perspective of a sixteen-year-old clerk. Al wouldn't have guessed she was much over twenty-three. She was a blonde with a fine nose and striking blue eyes, and her hair poured like liquid gold over the table she was lying on. She had long, slender, athletic legs, and the most sculpted abdomen Al had seen in a long time. She was wearing a hot pink tummy-tickler and neon orange ankle socks… and nothing else. A white napkin covered her right hip and the super-private areas of her anatomy, but her left hip was bared, and the tattoo—an Art Deco rose in vivid blue—was being applied to the crest of her pelvis.
She was watching him with a look of cynical amusement, and Al realized how unashamedly he was gawking. "Yumola!" he exclaimed. "They didn't tell me they had Miss Universe back here."
The girl blushed delightfully. "You're right, Candy," she said. "He's cute. I guess we can keep him."
"So, where do you want this Yorkshire terrier?" Candy asked as Al winked at the girl on the table. God, she was gorgeous… she was a little piece of perfection, right here in Jersey City. "Hey, earth to Albert Calavicci. Come in, Calavicci!"
The other tattoo artist turned away from his subject. "Albert Calavicci?" he echoed. He was maybe four years younger than his colleague, and far less decorated. "You're Albert Calavicci?"
"That's me," Al said warily. "Call me Al."
"Al Calavicci…" Venus de Jersey said, rolling the name over her tongue in a way that made Al want to take her in his arms and kiss her. "You're… a movie star, right? I mean, you were in… oh…" She snapped her fingers. "The Werewolf of Washington! You were in The Werewolf of Washingon!"
Al laughed. "I don't think so," he said.
"He's an astronaut," Lance exclaimed. At least, Al assumed he was Lance. Ironic name for a tattoo artist… "He was on the last Apollo mission. You're a national hero!"
Al shrugged uncomfortably. "It's a living," he demurred.
Candy's eyes went wide. "The Silent Warrior of Cham Hoi!" she exclaimed. "I knew I'd seen your name somewhere before! Hang on!"
She ran from the room. Al looked after her, for a moment stricken by a pang of anxiety and anticipation. He couldn't figure out why, though, so he turned back towards the vision of loveliness draped over the table.
"You're an astronaut?" she said, clearly impressed. The old lines were still the best lines.
Al nodded. "You betcha. First man to throw a baseball on the moon."
She giggled and writhed a little. She wasn't wearing a brassiere under that shirt, either… "That's amazing!" she said.
"Amazing!" Lance agreed, eyeing Al with respect.
Candy came back into the room. "You have to sign it for me!" she gushed. "You're a champion of the American way of life! You're a crusader in the war against communism! You're—you're—" She gestured helplessly and thrust a book and a pen into Al's hands.
He stared at it, his inebriated mind calling up recollections of having seen this volume before. The Men Left Behind, the cover screamed at him. The True Story of Robert White and Albert Calavicci. His hand shook as he scribbled his name on the endplate. It was easier than arguing. Suddenly, though, he didn't want a tattoo after all. She'd ask questions. He could tell by the hungry look in Candy's eyes that she had a million questions. He gave the book back to her. "Here you go, babe," he muttered.
"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" she gushed. "You're a hero, a real hero," she said. "Oh! Can you tell me what happened on the day you escaped up the river?"
Al could feel himself blanching. So Bobby had sold the story… who else knew about that? He shook his head numbly. "Down the river," he mouthed. "You woulda been a fool to take off upriver. Right back into Charlie's territory…"
Lance was taping a dressing to the blonde's tattoo, giving her murmured instructions. Candy was hanging on Al's every word.
"What happened? How did they catch you?" she pressed.
Al shook his head again.
Candy wasn't getting the hint. "I can't believe you had the guts!" she cried gleefully. "To take off downriver into the jungle alone, no clothes, no knife, no nothing—"
The blonde was sitting up now, napkin over her lap. She squealed in delight. "No clothes?" she exclaimed. Then her voice grew more sultry as she eyed him suggestively. "Naked?"
Al looked at her, more unclothed than clad herself, and inspiration struck. Here was a way to get out of here without question—and at the same time turn a lousy night into a pretty incredible one. "Say, is he done with you, beautiful?" he asked.
"All done," Lance said, tossing his expended needles in a yellow biohazard container.
"How'd you like to grab some supper?" Al asked.
"Me?" the blonde said.
"You see any other beautiful young thing in here?" Al asked. He realized too late that that would hurt Candy's feelings, but his pang of remorse was superseded by the knowledge of what she wanted from him. "What do you say?"
"Supper with an astronaut? I'd be crazy not to!" She sprung to her feet and had to scramble to preserve her modesty. She giggled a little. "Just lemme get dressed?"
"Absolutely!" Al said. "I'll be outside."
"Hey, hang on!" Candy called as he hastened from the building. "What about your Yorkshire terrier?"
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWWMMWMWMWMAl took his catch to the most expensive restaurant he could find. Good food and excellent wine were the ideal combination when served with charming company. She wanted to know all about NASA and his excursion to the moon—and better yet, she was completely ignorant of the subject. That meant Al could spend a long time explaining simple little things like the order of module separation, and that he could get away with omitting some of the more shameful aspects of the mission. She either hadn't noticed or didn't understand the incident with the book, and asked no questions about that.
When dessert was finished, Al made the obvious next move. As it turned out, she was living in Santa Fe, but was up in Jersey visiting her cousin. One phone call to said cousin was all it took, and she was a free agent until morning. They drove back to New York, and in Al's hotel room they polished off Ruthie's Chianti together. Drunk and laughing, they made mad, passionate and very… athletic love. It wasn't until they fell back among the pillows afterward the third bout that Al realized something.
"You're beautiful, you know that?" he asked.
The girl giggled throatily. She had a gorgeous, deep contralto voice. "Say it again," she said.
"You're beautiful!" he proclaimed.
She kissed him. "Thanks," she sighed. "One more time?"
"Beautiful. You're beautiful." He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. She flushed a little and moved closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder and stroking his chest. She hadn't said anything about the scars. It was almost like she hadn't even seen them. "So beautiful," Al repeated, kissing her fragrant hair.
"You're going to make me fall in love with you," she warned.
He chuckled. "Don't do that, baby. Goddesses shouldn't fall in love with mere mortals."
"Which goddess am I?" she asked.
"Aphrodite. Definitely Aphrodite." He kissed the tip of her perfect nose.
"And who does that make you?" the girl queried.
"Hephaestus?" Al tried, his inebriated mind forgetting what he had just said about mere mortals.
"Okay," she said contentedly. Either she wasn't up on her mythology, or she didn't care. "Hephaestus."
"Say…" Al murmured, sitting up a little. "What is your name?"
She laughed again. "Maxine," she said. "Maxine Delancey."
Al grinned and kissed her again, pulling back to admire her body in the glow of the streetlamps far below. "Maxine," he said, savoring the syllables. "Maxine Delancey." He looked into her crystal blue eyes. "You're beautiful, Maxine," he avowed.
She giggled and threw her arms around his neck.