Slugfest

Forty-nine

Lucy Cavanaugh put the kibosh on pizza from Carmine’s, Chinese takeout, or Thai food, claiming all of the above were loaded with carbs that would expand in her stomach like rising dough and render her new white jeans permanently unwearable. She was given to hyperbole. In the end we settled on the Silver Moon diner, which had something for everyone, even J. C., who thought it a sign of moral turpitude for single women to order in, believing we should either cook wonderful meals for ourselves or go out. On this she was firm. Clearly both women had issues with food; Jamal and I were less picky.

Lucy brought her suitcase upstairs, then came back down in yoga pants and mukluks, drying her long hair, which was still wet from the rain. Three of us jumped as the downstairs buzzer shrieked, announcing our food had arrived, and Lucy jokingly asked if we were expecting to be raided.

“They don’t usually ring the doorbell in a raid, dear. Generally, they just knock down the door,” J. C. said, as if she knew. By now nothing J. C. did or said surprised me, but it was apparent Lucy hadn’t spent much time getting to know her neighbor.

“Go out of town for a few days and all sorts of interesting stuff happens.”

“So,” Lucy said, “let me get this straight. The cops think Jamal here bashed in some guy’s head—maybe two guys—and you’re looking for a warm place for him to sleep tonight. The dead guy’s girlfriend was here and takes off down the fire escape, and you think she’s one of the bad guys because she knocked down a plant? If I didn’t know Paula my entire adult life, I’d think there was some strange logic going on here.”

I picked at a chicken and sun-dried tomato salad that wasn’t half bad. Note to self, ask Babe to put this on the menu at the Paradise Diner.

“Not that it isn’t always lovely to see you, Lucy, and it is, in fact, your apartment, but what are you doing here? I thought you weren’t due home for another week.”

Lucy had been off on another adventure. This time to a spa that guaranteed a seven-pound weight loss to guests who paid a tidy sum for a one-week stay that included a secret Mayan treatment.

“I’m keeping the world safe from unscrupulous and unhealthy diet factories,” she said, one arm raised, the other hand plucking a rippled chip from Jamal’s deluxe burger platter.

“Does it work?” I asked.

“Of course it does. The Mayans didn’t have a Walgreens or Burger King, much less a decent restaurant in sight. They barely feed you and what they do let you eat and drink has you running to the bathroom all day.”

She turned to J. C. and Jamal. “Excuse me … but somehow I feel as if we’ve fast-forwarded and it’s okay to mention bodily functions even at this early stage of our relationships.” They agreed.

“No probs,” Jamal said. “They talk about manure all the time at the flower show.”

Lucy didn’t recommend the program unless you were going to an awards show or an event where your old boyfriend was expected with his new and younger girlfriend, but even then the weight would all come back the minute you ate a normal meal or drank a glass of water.

“There was more smuggling going on at that spa than there was in … I don’t know.”

“Tijuana, dear,” J. C. said. “So you left early?”

“Hell, no. Seven pounds is seven pounds. I wanted to see that lower number on the scale, even if it only lasted for a few hours. Look, I have proof.” She pulled a cell phone out of the waistband of her pants and, after pressing a few buttons, passed around the still-warm phone so we could all be witnesses to her success. “We weren’t supposed to bring cell phones—how ridiculous is that? How could I not take a picture?”

“Nice pedicure,” I said, handing the phone back.

Lucy yanked off a mukluk and wiggled five perfectly painted toes in a color I would have called Jungle Red. She looked around the room for approval.

“This is okay, right? I haven’t offended anyone. I thought having already discussed the smallest room in the house…”

She replaced her boot and looked at our plates to see what else she could nibble on, clearly subscribing to the “if it’s on someone else’s plate, the calories don’t count” rule. This time it was a pickle slice from me.

“I know this probably isn’t the hot issue—and I’ll admit I haven’t done much decorating upstairs—but what’s the deal with the duct tape and the plastic tablecloths in my bedroom? Did you guys have a party? Not that I mind, but poor Harold will be crushed to have missed it.”

“Who’s Harold?” I asked. It was unlike Lucy not to share romantic details.

“I never told you about Harold?” she said. I shook my head.

It turned out Harold was Harold Bergstein, the one neighbor she had connected with. He was a former editor at Glamour magazine.

“I don’t usually read it,” she said. “Too many articles and not enough pictures.”

Harold lived around the corner and had a direct line of sight into Lucy’s bedroom. Given the fact that he was in his eighties, Lucy had never minded the occasional fashion advice in her mailbox and had even left her card once so she could make sure she got Harold’s expert opinion right before going out.

“It’s a joke. C’mon, the guy can barely see, for Pete’s sake. I bumped into him once at the Food Emporium with his caregiver—unless that was some other old guy giving me the eye.”

Did I want to know that my best friend was an exhibitionist? Or that she was dancing around in her undies, as the cops had suggested? For an old guy who might have a heart attack if she modeled some of the things I saw hanging in her closet? Lucy didn’t see the problem with it.

“He’s a friend. All he can see are the colors anyway. I tested him once. All he ever says is, ‘I like the green’ or ‘I like the black.’ He’s very partial to red.”

Sounded like Guy Anzalone was off the hook as my Peeping Tom.

“I have nothing to be ashamed of,” Lucy said.

Jamal thought it was a riot. J. C. wasn’t so sure. “No, dear, you don’t, but we’ve had enough personal revelations for one evening.”

She was right. We needed to decide what we were going to do next. In an attempt to redeem herself Lucy suggested she call a friend of hers, a fledgling novelist who taught writing at Penn State, to see if she knew anything about a professor who sounded like the one Emma had described.

“He may not even exist—that young girl probably wouldn’t know the truth if it came up and bit her on the butt.” J. C. was still fuming over the lattice she’d have to repair.

“Maybe not, but the best lies are the ones that have a grain of truth in them,” I said. “Lucy, do you mind calling her?”

“We’re overdue for a phone call anyway. Sarah knows everyone. If this guy was within a hundred miles of her, she either knew him, dated him, or knew someone who did.”