Slugfest

Twenty-three

I guess if you were a cop in New York City a sense of humor came in handy. Either I’d been stalked and had escaped grievous bodily harm, thanks to the siren call of oregano and baked ziti, or more likely J. C. and I had summoned the police to protect us from a couple of overzealous but harmless menu deliverymen. It was a toss-up.

J. C.’s cats explored Lucy’s apartment while Wilson and Vargas took our statements. Then their walkie-talkies crackled with a more serious call, so they declined J. C.’s offer to stay for ziti. They cautioned me not to leave the front door open again—even for a quick trip downstairs—and recommended a buddy of Wilson’s who did construction to finish the apartment renovation. Given Lucy’s last contractor, I almost asked if the man was good-looking, but I didn’t want the cops to get the wrong idea. The cop scribbled his friend’s name and number on his own card.

“You decide if you want to call him. Tell him I sent you. He’ll give you a price.”

By this time I was less sociable and J. C. was perceptive enough to realize it, so she left soon after the cops did but returned minutes later with half a tray of pasta and the bottle of wine.

“I can’t eat all this.”

“Sure you can. Just don’t eat it all tonight. And I think you need the wine more than I do. Watch your back.”

I would. I’d lost my appetite but not my thirst. I double-locked the door, put the ziti in the fridge, and poured myself a drink. I’d told Connie Anzalone that I’d help her choose an outfit for the Friday night reception, but I didn’t have the first clue what I’d be wearing so I started rifling through Lucy’s closet for something to borrow.

New York closets were notoriously small and Lucy had rather ingeniously installed a drapery rod and curtain that partitioned two feet from one end of the bedroom, thereby creating a giant closet. Presumably this was done without the help of her former paramour, since the number of holes in each side wall rivaled the number of holes at the Alamo. Still, it worked, especially if you didn’t mind the occasional clump of dry wall. Maybe I’d be a really good houseguest and fill them in with Spackle.

Some women were inordinately proud of their linen closets or china cabinets. Others had rows of shoes lined up in formation like some phantom Busby Berkeley routine. Lucy could rightly be proud of this closet. Her clothes were arranged by color and length. Skirts, dresses, and slacks were hung with boutique precision on matching flat, black velvet hangers for maximum efficiency. I thought of my closet in Springfield: T-shirts, sweatshirts, painter’s pants, and jeans folded in slightly listing stacks, the bulk of my work clothes from my previous life still in boxes and garment bags.

I hadn’t had a nine-to-five job even when I worked in television, but occasionally I had to look professional and for me that meant jeans, boots, and a good jacket. It was all in the accessories. These days I was more likely to accessorize with a pair of nippers and Womanswork garden gloves than an Hermès scarf or pricey handbag, so shopping in Lucy’s closet would be fun—and free.

Luckily we were about the same size. We even had the same coloring. Not that that mattered much. Ninety percent of the items in Lucy’s closet were black—she did, after all, live in New York and work in the media. Three items that weren’t black caught my eye. I put down the wineglass and stripped to my underwear to try on the first: a lilac one-shoulder number held together on the left side by sequined Velcro tabs. In its way, it looked fabulous. I could decorate the booth with lilacs from the Koreans and be color coordinated. But then I worried about the Velcro tabs opening and David having to duct-tape me back together, so I said no to the dress.

On and off quickly was a beige lace sheath. Pretty but practically see-through. The third nonblack item was a sleeveless red dress, short and made of spandex. I flashed on Scarlett O’Hara being forced to wear a red dress to Miss Melly’s party after being caught in a clinch with Ashley Wilkes. And a brazen Bette Davis as Jezebel daring to wear red to the Olympus ball, even though uptight fiancé Henry Fonda warns she’ll be ostracized. “But this is 1854 … 1854!” Bette trumped Henry; I had to try it on.

I wriggled into the dress and slipped off my panties to eliminate VPL, visible panty line. I went the whole nine yards with a pair of strappy stilettos. Jeez, the truckers at the Paradise Diner would have heart attacks if they saw me in this instead of my Old Navy tops and Columbia Sportswear bottoms. But could I really pull off this look? It was one thing to parade around in fancy dress in a fitting room or at home, quite another to go out into the world. I took a swig of wine for courage and did a modified runway walk in front of Lucy’s full-length mirror. It was ridiculous enough when rail-thin models did it but downright impossible for a normal-sized woman. Ah, that’s because we have thighs. I posed, I preened, I parted my lips and practiced looking lobotomized. I reached for the wine again with one hand on my hip, fingers splayed in the standard celebrity pose. Lucy’s phone rang. I imagined it was her telling me which purse to wear with the dress.

“Hello?” There was silence for a beat. “Is this the guy from the convention center? Are you calling about the bag?”

There was a huge intake of phlegmy air and a gravelly voice said, “I prefer the red.” Click.

It took me three full seconds to realize what had happened. I dropped the wine, kicked off the shoes, and ran downstairs to J. C.’s, banging on her door like a crazy woman. “Call nine one one, call nine one one!”

Wilson and Vargas were back in less than thirty minutes. Once again, we received them in J. C.’s apartment, this time J. C. in her jammies, clutching her door bar, and me, barefoot and in a red spandex dress.

“If we’d known you were dressing for dinner we would have stayed for the ziti.”