Slugfest

Thirty-seven

“Did you say anything to her?”

“And hello to you, too.”

“Did you tell her?”

“What’s there to tell? We shared some cashews in the lobby of a very public hotel with your wife upstairs, not five minutes away. That’s hardly the stuff of tabloid newspapers.” I was talking tough but not really feeling the part. What was he doing here? How did he even know where I was staying? Had I mentioned it and forgotten in my champagne buzz? Happily, whatever dramatic showdown Guy Anzalone had built up in his mind while waiting for me evaporated. I credited the red dress.

“You’re getting a lot of mileage out of that outfit. Most women I know wouldn’t wear the same dress two nights in a row.” It didn’t seem to bother Guy and his eyes moved appreciatively over the spandex. “She was pretty ticked off,” he said.

“By she, I take it you mean Connie. And that’s my fault, how? This was a big night for her. Maybe she was disappointed you weren’t there.” I was cold and hungry and wanted the conversation to end. I glanced up at J. C.’s window and terrace garden. If it had been warmer, she might have had the windows open and would have been able to hear us in case Guy got too friendly and I needed to borrow her door bar.

“Anything else?”

“Why are you so nasty to me? What did I ever do to you besides buy one of those crazy Lego sculptures and compliment you on your dress?”

“I know your wife, and you’re hitting on me.”

“First of all, I’m not necessarily hitting on you. Second, does that mean you’d say yes if you didn’t know my wife?”

Even I had to crack a smile at that one. “Look, I’m tired and hungry, and please—no ‘bed’ or ‘I can fill you up’ comments.”

He agreed to keep the frisky chat to a minimum and I agreed to walk around the corner with him to Carmine’s, a pizza joint he described as not half bad. Given his proclivity for understatement, I took that to mean it was one of the best in the city.

“They still sell by the slice. I can remember when a slice and a Coke was fifty cents,” he said. Good manners kept me from asking how long ago that was.

We sat in orange plastic chairs and I looked for a clean place on the Formica table for Lucy’s handbag and the flower show directory Rolanda and I had retrieved from the booth.

Our slices came—pepperoni for me, two with extra cheese and a calzone chaser for him; he’d already had dinner. The waiter brought two large Diet Cokes.

“I cut back wherever it hurts the least. I don’t want to get too big.” He ran his hands over his substantial belly in a way that perversely seemed like flirting.

“That reminds me. I think I saw a friend of yours tonight. After hours at the convention center—Fat Frank?”

“After hours? I’m shocked. Maybe he forgot something. You should be careful. It’s not always safe in those big buildings late at night. You could get in trouble.”

The slice stalled inches from my lips. I put it down and wiped my hands on a wad of paper napkins.

“C’mon. What am I saying that your mother didn’t tell you? You should just be careful, is all.”

He’d wolfed down his two slices and waited for his calzone. “You know, I dated a girl named Calzone once. Nice girl, but too many people made fun of our names. It never would have worked out.” He picked up the directory and spun it in his hands, tapping the spine on the table each time the book made a complete revolution.

“You catch any other suckers tonight, or am I the only one who bought something?” I assured him he was in rarefied company and none other than the famous Mrs. Moffitt had been interested in the piece that he and Connie had purchased. She had to settle for something similar but even more expensive.

“I’m glad you didn’t show us that one. That was a little slippery of you the other night.” He wagged a finger at me. “That’s okay. She’ll be happy.”

He rarely used his wife’s name but referred to her as she as if that made her somehow less real. He continued to spin the book and I worried he’d drop it on his greasy plate and I’d wind up smelling like garlic for the rest of the flower show, the way Nikki had smelled of fish fertilizer.

“She made me take an ad in this thing. She even sicced this broad on me. Madon’, good-looking girl but wouldn’t shut up until I took the ad. And she kept harping on certain aspects of my work. I do construction, lend a little money. So what? So does Citibank. Doesn’t make me John Gotti.”

I assumed this last she was Kristi Reynolds. Maybe all women were she to him. “You people even look at this thing?” It was a fair question. I hadn’t cracked the spine for two days and might never have if it hadn’t been for Garland Bleimeister.

Guy leafed through the book and quickly came to the dog-eared page where coincidentally his wife’s entry was listed.

“Look at this. It’s like she’s always there, watching me. ‘Brooklyn Beach Garden, Connie Anzalone, Brooklyn, New York,’ blah, blah, blah. She changed the name of the garden, but it was too late to fix it in the book. She changed the design, too. I made her add more stone yesterday.” He said it proudly, his contribution to the garden.

“Nice touch,” I lied.

“These things never tell you the real story. Newspapers neither. You gotta read between the lines.” He tossed the book on the table, narrowly missing my plate.

Guy was right. There were six stories on those pages and one of them led to Garland Bleimeister. Someone had to read between the lines. What was Bleimeister’s hurry to get into the show before it opened? Who stole his bag and what was in it? And was that why he—and maybe even Otis Randolph—had died?

I picked up the book and started to leave.

“Is that it? We’re done?”

“We’re done. Go home to your wife, Guy. Her name’s Connie. Thanks for the pizza. You should pick up a couple of calzones for Fat Frank—that man needs to put on some weight.” I pushed my chair back from the table and headed for the door. “My friend will take that order to go.”