Sex, Lies & Serious Money

10

Theresa arrived home a little after six and at a run. As she closed the door behind her, she caught sight of a man in her living room. He was short, clipped bald, and had a flat nose: much like Curly of the Three Stooges, but with a more sinister mien. She stalked into the living room and found him pouring Butch a drink.

“Hey, sis,” he said, waving his glass. “This is my pal Curly. You can see where he gets the name. We shared a cell for the last year. I thought that, since there are twin beds in my room, he could stay a couple of nights with us while he gets reoriented.”

“You thought wrong,” she said. “I want you both out of the apartment NOW, and when I get home, about ten, you’d better be here alone. Got it?”

Curly raised both hands in submission. “Hey, I don’t wanna be where I ain’t wanted.”

“I’m glad you understand. Butch, get him out of here.”

Butch tossed off the Macallan 12. “We’re gone,” he said.

Theresa saw them out and bolted and chained the door behind her. She ran into her bedroom, threw her dress at a closet, stripped and dove into the shower. When she came out and went to her dresser for some things, she noticed that her underwear drawer had been disturbed. Someone had been searching for something. She did her hair, got into a dress, grabbed a jacket, and let herself out of the apartment. As she came out the front door, a green Bentley glided to a halt, and Laurence got out and held the door for her.

“I would have come up for you,” he said.

“Not necessary. My apartment is a mess, anyway. Butch brought home a friend, and they got into my scotch and God knows what else.”

“Butch is staying with you?”

“He’s moving to the Y tomorrow, but he doesn’t know it yet.”

“Oliver, the Monkey Bar,” Laurence said, then turned back to Theresa. “I would not deny you shelter, should you need it.”

“Would you like to shelter Butch and his friend Curly?”

“Thank you, no.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Who’s Curly?”

“You remember the character from the Three Stooges?”

“I do.”

“Him, but not in the least funny.”

They arrived at the Hotel Elysée, and Oliver had the door open in a flash.

“Hover, please, Oliver,” Laurence said.

“Yes, sir.” He handed him a card. “My cell number, sir.”

“Get something to eat,” Laurence said. “We’ll be a couple of hours.”

The Monkey Bar was crowded with handsome young people, some of them waiting for their tables. They checked in, were inspected and shown to a good table. The walls were hung with period paintings, and good jazz played in the background. They ordered drinks.

Butch let himself and Curly back into Theresa’s apartment. “I’ll get packed,” he said. “You get your stuff together.”

“Where we going?”

“The Y, unless you have a more affordable idea.”

“Why?”

“Did you get the impression that my sis didn’t like you?”

“Sorta.”

“That’s why. I’d be thrown out tomorrow anyway, so we may as well go now.” He went into the kitchen, opened a tea canister and shook out two hundred dollars, leaving an IOU.

“So tell me about this mark you got,” Curly said.

“Nothing to tell yet, except he’s well heeled. I’ll need to do some research.”

“When?”

“I’ve got a job interview tomorrow morning. I’ll know more after that. You might look around for a way to make a reasonably honest buck. I can’t support you, Curly.”

“I still know how to pick a pocket. I’ve been practicing.”

“I don’t understand how someone who looks like you could get close enough to anybody to pick his pocket.”

“All I need is a crowd. I’ll go over to the theater district about curtain time and case the bunch leaving the theaters. They’re always in a hurry.”

“You’re going to get busted, and there goes your parole.”

“I told you, I didn’t get paroled. I served my time. I’m free as a bird.”

“Until you get caught picking a pocket. And remember, I don’t have bail money for you.”

They dined on excellent beef and a very fine wine. Laurence had decided that his newest regular indulgence would be never to drink plonk again; he had had enough of cheap wine at Oxford to last him a lifetime.

“Is your mother still alive?” she asked.

“Very much so, and married to the man she married when I was eight.”

“Who is he and what’s he like?”

“His name is Derek Fallowfield. He’s a very nice guy, who I think of as more of an uncle than a stepfather. He has his own successful ad agency in London and knows everybody.”

“I had a stepfather, too, but not nearly so nice a guy. I hated him.”

“No longer with us?”

“No, thank God. When he died he left my mother with enough to get by on, but not much more.”

“Where does she live?”

“In Greenwich, Connecticut, but not on the best side of town. At least she’s got the house, but it’s mortgaged. He was a traveling salesman — hale fellow, well met, you know?”

“I know. Derek is a bit that way himself, but in a charming and sophisticated way. He took me to his tailor when I left Oxford and had some clothes made for me. It was his way of sending me off into the world. He gave me my first car, too — his ten-year-old Mercedes Roadster, which I drove into its grave in a few years.”

“Were you a hell-raiser at Oxford?”

“I wasn’t exactly a Hooray Henry, but I partied my share. I was very busy — I played in a jazz trio, and we worked two or three nights a week, then I had to get up early and be greeted by the shining faces of Eton boys, not all of them eager to learn.”

“Were you eager to learn?”

“Not terribly, except music and art history. I got a first, but just barely.”

“A first-class degree?”

“Right.”

“Something like the dean’s list?”

“I guess.” They finished dining, and Laurence asked for the bill.

Theresa looked at her watch.

“Early day tomorrow?” he asked.

“No, it’s my day off.”

“Then you must let me show you my new apartment.”

“I believe I’ve seen it.”

“Yes, but not with the new furniture and pictures. It’s much better now.”

“All right, but no ravishing.”

“We can always ravish each other at a later date.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“I’ll take that as an expression of affirmation.”

Back at the Fairleigh, he took her around and showed her the fruit of his shopping.

“It looks very different now,” she said.

“Like somebody lives here?”

“Like that.”

He took her in his arms and kissed her.

She kissed him back, then said, “Remember, no ravishing.”

“But I’m off to war,” he said.

“War?”

“War with a flight simulator. I have to go to Kansas for a couple of weeks of flight training.”

“You’re learning to fly?”

“I’m already licensed, but I have to get a type rating for my new airplane.”

“And you consider that war?”

“Those simulators are dangerous. You can crash and burn.”

She laughed. “And it takes two whole weeks?”

“Sixteen days, to be more precise, and then I have to get some hours with a mentor in the new airplane before I can fly it alone.”

“It’s beginning to sound like a long time before I’ll see you.”

“Tell you what, take some off time, and I’ll come back and get you, and we’ll fly around the country.”

“Well, I do have some vacation time built up.”

“Then it’s a date, in sixteen days, starting day after tomorrow.”

“You’re on,” she said.

“You won’t need a nightgown, you’ll be too busy to use it.”

“Promises, promises,” she said.

“No, vows.” He took a key from his pocket, one with a Fairleigh fob and the number 15 embossed on it. “In case you need shelter from the storm,” he said.

“I won’t, but thank you.” She tucked the key into her handbag.