Al’s Blind Date: The Al Series, Book Six (12 page)

Still, several women scuttled into the dressing room and came out with their clothes clutched under their arms, not wanting to stop to change.

The burly lady with the headphones on her hat moved toward Al, not in any hurry. We saw her say something to him, then we saw him push her toward the door with a series of short, sharp jabs.

“Let's get out of here,” I said.

“He's loco,” Al said. “Either that or he's drunk.”

“I don't think he's drunk,” I said. “He sure looks funny, though.”

“Maybe he's having a heart attack,” Al said. All the time we were talking we were moving toward the door.

It seemed to me Al's face was turning purpler by the minute. I tried to think what that was a symptom of and couldn't. I didn't think it was anything the Heimlich maneuver could help. I practice the Heimlich maneuver on Teddy quite a lot, when he lets me, because if ever I'm in a restaurant and somebody chokes on a piece of steak, I plan to save his life. Or hers, of course.

The rush of cold air felt good on our faces. We stood on the sidewalk, undecided, looking back at the health club. Several angry stragglers joined us, talking to anyone who would listen.

“We pay good money, you think he'd treat us right, right?” a man said. “What's with the guy? He's loony, if you ask me. They oughta come and haul him to Bellevue. I wouldn't come back here if he got on his knees and begged me. There are plenty of fitness places you can go, have a relaxing workout, tone yourself up. Who needs it.”

“Maybe we should stick around,” I said.

“Nah.” Al started walking toward Third Avenue. “No sense hanging around. I bet all it is is he had a fight with his wife and she called him up and said ‘Get your buns home, else I toss the pot roast out the window.'”

“You think?” I wasn't convinced.

“Sure. It's something simple like that,” Al said. “Marital discord is rife. You're lucky your mother and father don't fight.”

“They do,” I said. “Only they fight quietly.”

“That's the neatest trick of the week,” Al told me.

A long, shiny limo cruised down the street toward us, as black and sleek as a snake.

“Whaddya want to bet that's some celeb who heard about Al's freebie and he's going there now to check it out,” Al said. “Boy, is he in for a shock.”

Al and I turned to watch as the limo slowed in front of the health club. Maybe Al was right, maybe it was Elizabeth Taylor or Woody, up for a free workout. Woody sure could use one. So could Liz, if you ask me.

The window on the passenger side rolled down slowly and an arm came out. There was something in the arm's hand. With one quick, expert toss, the something sailed out the window of the car and shattered the window of Al's Health Club with a tremendous roar. Flames shot up and the building shook.

“Down!” Al shouted and pulled me into the shelter of a nearby doorway.

We hit the deck, the way they do on TV. My nose scraped the pavement and began to bleed.

The street was filled with noise. People ran back and forth, mouths wide, eyes wild. Some ran as fast as their feet would carry them, crouching low, making themselves small.

“What is it! It's a bomb! It's the Russians!” Those were some of the things we heard.

“Look! Up there!” One man paused in his flight and pointed to the sky. “It's one of them bombers, long-range bombers. See?” and he shook the little boy in his arms. “See, up there. Sooner or later, it had to happen.”

Al and I cowered in the doorway. Blood dripped out of my nose. Someone tapped on the glass. We looked up. A face was pushed against the pane, distorting the features.

“Get outa here!” the face hollered. “I want no trouble here. Get outa here or I'll call the cops!”

Al and I clutched one another.

I put a hand on my nose.

“I think it was a fire bomb,” Al whispered. The face was still there and words came out of its mouth, but we huddled there, not knowing what to do, where to go.

We heard a key rattling in the lock. The person was coming to get us. Al took my hand and pulled me out of the doorway and down the block.

“Someone threw a fire bomb at Al's Heath Club and it just missed us,” Al said, struggling to stay cool.

“My mother said be home before dark,” I said. “We better get home right away. It's almost dark.”

Al gave me a strange look.

“The sun just came out,” she said.

I felt very cold.

“I don't care what you say,” I told her. “I'm going home. My mother worries about me if I'm not home in time. I don't want her to worry about me.”

We heard the sirens. It sounded as if every ambulance and fire engine and police car in the entire city was racing to where we were.

“I'm going,” I said, but I didn't move. My feet were made of lead.

Al put her hand to her head. “My hair's burning,” she said. “I can smell it.”

The whole block smelled of fire.

“Come on,” I said, tugging at her sleeve.

To my surprise, she came along.

We wobbled homeward. Halfway there, Al stopped dead.

“I wonder if Al's O.K.,” she said.

“They'll take care of him,” I said.

“Pretend nothing happened, when we get home,” Al said.

“She didn't want to let me go,” I said. “My mother didn't want to let me go.”

Al didn't seem to hear me. Her eyes were huge as she poked a thumb behind us and said, “You want real life, that's real.”

“You were the one who wanted real,” I reminded her. I felt as if I might be sick. “Now that you know what real's like, maybe you better settle for make-believe.”

Eighteen

“Pretend nothing happened,” Al whispered. As the door opened, I could hear my mother and father talking in the kitchen.

“Just pretend nothing happened,” Al said again, very tense, very anxious. She kept running her fingers through her bangs, checking to see if they were stilll there. She was driving me crazy, doing that. Stop, I wanted to say. Stop. Stop. I didn't have the strength.

Be cool, I told myself. I moved my shoulders to loosen them up. Get cool and stay there. Impossible.

“Hi,” I said, standing in the hall, not wanting to go all the way into the brightly lit room.

“Here we are,” Al said.

“What on earth happened to you?” my mother asked. She put down the spoon she was holding. My father was taking something out of the oven.

“You're just in time,” he said.

“I'll make some tea,” my mother said. She always makes tea in a crisis.

“No, thanks,” I said.

Before I swallowed anything, I'd have to get rid of the lump in my throat.

“Could I please have a glass of water?” Al said.

My mother got it for her.

“Sit down,” she said. We sat at the kitchen counter.

“I'd like some ice cream, please,” I said. “How about you, Al? Want some?”

Al nodded. Her bangs looked strange. Usually they lie flat on her forehead. Now they stuck straight out, as if she had on her homemade head band, which she didn't.

“Is your mother home, Al?” my father said.

“No,” she said. “I don't think so. She told me where she was going, but I don't remember what she said. Maybe she's at a matinee with Stan.”

“What's your number?” My father went to the telephone. Al told him and he dialed and let the phone ring quite a long time before hanging up.

“Maybe she's taking a tub,” I said.

Teddy wandered in, looked at us, and blinked.

“You guys get caught in a tornado?” he said.

Trust Teddy.

“Shut up,” I said.

Teddy slitted his little eyes at us.

“You look like you got totaled in an avalanche,” he said.

“Mom, can't you make him shut up?” I said. “He makes my head hurt, he talks so much.”

“Teddy, I think it might be a good idea if you turned the TV on,” my father said. Teddy gawked. This was a first, all right. Usually he was told it would be a good idea if he turned the TV off.

“What happened to her nose?” I heard Teddy say as my father propelled him out of the kitchen. “She get caught in a dog fight or something?”

My mother gave us tea and ice cream, without an argument. It was mint chocolate chip. I put a spoonful of ice cream into my tea and watched it disintegrate. It didn't taste too bad. I'd never tried putting ice cream into hot tea before.

My spoon made a loud noise in my cup. Al drank her water, then ate some ice cream. I could hear her swallowing.

“You're home early,” my mother said after a long silence. She kept swabbing down the counters with a sponge, although they looked perfectly clean to me.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked. “Tell us what happened.”

“No,” I said.

“Actually,” Al said, “it was kind of bizarre. Not your basic Sunday-afternoon outing, if you get me. There was this enormous limo coming down the street, and somebody threw something out the window and there was this gigantic burst of flame and a big loud noise. Like a bomb going off.”

She got off the stool and began to pace.

“Of course, I've never heard a real live bomb go off before,” she said. “I've only experienced it in the movies or on the tube. But it was definitely a bomb, probably a fire bomb. I've read about fire bombs. He went around shouting for everybody to get out, flapping his arms and acting sort of crazy.”

Al pushed her bangs back so they stuck up straight. She looked funny, but I didn't laugh.

“He knew, I guess,” Al said. “Somebody warned him. Otherwise, it might've got us.”

My mother went after an imaginary spot on the counter as if it had been a rodent. Or a cockroach.

“The good Lord was watching out for you,” she said.

“Good Lord, heck,” I said. “It was Al watching out for us. That's his name, Al. He owns the health club. He gave us a freebie. We took our teacher, Ms. Bolton, too. We worked out and everything. He's looking for word-of-mouth customers. He just opened.”

Al licked her hand and ran it over her bangs.

“You can't kid me,” she said. “It was the mob. Bet you anything. Bet you a thousand big ones,” she said to me.

“Sure,” I said.

“That's just the kind of thing the mob's famous for,” Al went on. “It's on TV all the time. You do something they don't like, they fire-bomb you. Those bozos don't fool around.”

My father stood in the doorway, listening.

“Do you think I should call the doctor?” my mother asked my father.

He shook his head. “They're all right,” he said. “They'll be fine.”

I wanted to lie down in the worst way, but I knew if I did my mother would freak.

“Let's play Russian Bank,” I said to Al.

“What?” she said.

“Russian Bank,” I said. “Like we played last night.”

“No, thanks,” Al said. “I think I'll go home and take a shower. I feel sort of dirty.”

“I'll go with you,” my mother said. “I don't think you should be alone right now.”

“I'm fine, really,” Al said. “Thanks anyway, but I'm really fine.”

I went to the door with her.

“I'm not telling my mother anything,” she said fiercely. “She can't handle violence. Mum's the word.” And she laid a finger on her lips.

Al was halfway down the hall when the elevator door opened. Out came Al's mother and a man. That must be Stan, I thought. He's not so cute.

“Well, hello!” Al's mother said gaily. She was smiling and laughing and having a good time with Stan.

Al tucked her head down and fumbled for her key.

“Hi, Ma,” she mumbled.

“Alexandra,” her mother cried. “What on earth's happened to you? Look at you. Something bad has happened. Tell me.”

It was on the evening news.

The reporter was new; young and blond and sounding like Diane Sawyer. I think there's a school they go to where they all learn to sound like Diane Sawyer.

“A health club on New York's Upper East Side was fire-bombed this afternoon,” she said. “No one was seriously injured, although several people were treated at the scene. The club's owner, Albert Anaconda, alias Big Al Carlucci, alias Allan Smith, managed to warn the patrons so they could get out before the bomb hit. He'd been warned in an anonymous telephone call that the place was going to be hit by a fire bomb. It is thought the bombing was perpetrated by members of the mob. Mr. Anaconda had mob connections and apparently was behind in his monthly payments on a debt. The bombing was a warning that if he didn't pay up, more bombing would follow. Mr. Anaconda was taken to the hospital for treatment, and the police are questioning him further. The health club had been in operation for only a short time. Damage was extensive. For further details, tune in at eleven tonight.”

The blond reporter smiled. Maybe it was the real Diane Sawyer, I thought. Hard to tell.

Teddy's eyes never left my face.

“It was Mafia business,” he said.

“Enough, Teddy,” my father said.

“Mafia, mafia, mafia,” Teddy muttered under his breath.

“I better call Craig,” Teddy said when the news program was over. “He won't believe it. Craig'll flip. He thinks the Mafia's only up in Connecticut. Wait'll he hears you got bombed by the real Mafia right here in New York City. The real thing.”

“If I call him,” Teddy said, “will you tell him? If I tell him, he'll probably think I'm making it all up. If you tell him, he'll believe you. Will you, please?”

I lay back on the couch. My mother had put some stuff on my nose and it felt better. I was being treated like a princess. Teddy had said please. This was a day and a night for the books.

“It's Polly on the phone,” my mother said. “Do you feel like talking?”