Too Easy (6 page)

He stares some more, amazed at how she touched the big question and just went past it. He embraces her almost feverishly, from desire and confusion and something else, gratitude perhaps. For what she's given him; and that she keeps on giving more.

She seems sometimes to think for him, which is frightening. But still a gift. Or they're so attuned that their thoughts arrive at the same point? Maybe, he thinks, that's what real love is. Oh, no question about it, he does love her.

The decision is like a canyon in front of his feet, but in that instant he sees himself somehow on the other side, leaving his wife behind. He and Kathy will always be together, locked in an endless embrace.

Kathy gives him a final kiss. “You go first,” she says, “catch your train.”

•  •  •

Kathy takes a cab to a restaurant near Penn Station. To meet Louise again, quiet her down. Goddamned Keith.

Louise is waiting inside, smoking nervously.

“Alright, alright,” Kathy says, “how bad is it? You're here, in one piece. Louise! You are sure he didn't follow you, right?”

Louise smirks. “I'm sure.”

They hug, then Kathy says, “Relax. You're here to live it up.” She tells the girl with the menus, “Looks like we need the smoking section.”

They get a table by the far wall, nobody close. Fold their coats over nearby chairs. “This looks good, Louise. Now we can carry on.”

They order martinis. Louise lights another cigarette. “Nice place,” she says, glancing around at the black and chrome decor. She plays with the matches, rests her elbows on the black table. Sort of nervous, but giving Kathy this smug
look. “Well, don't you look all rosy-cheeked? Been doing anything you wouldn't tell Mom about?”

Kathy laughs. “Alright, now tell me about Keith.”

“Let's wait for the drinks. Look at men.”

“You got it.”

Kathy feels good, fairly calm. Nothing but time, now that Robie's on a train home. The martinis come and the women touch glasses. “To you,” Kathy says.

“Thanks, I need it.” Louise sips half her drink, goes back to puffing on the cigarette. She's always a little high-strung. Her face pretty enough but tense, watchful. Too much mascara. Always strutting her shoulders so nobody misses the boobs. Kathy never knows what she'll say next, or what mood she'll suddenly land in.

Louise sighs at length.

“Like I said, I have a long day. I'm beat to hell. Probably a good thing in the circumstances. I come home and there's your ex-man sitting on the sofa, watching the basketball game, having himself a beer. One of mine, I think. I do happen to have two locks on my door.”

Kathy shakes her head. “Resourceful guy.”

“Oh, yeah, Kath. Thank you for sharing that.”

“He's just showing off.”

“Yeah, he can get in my place any time he wants and kill me. He showed me that much.”

“Louise, be calm, be serious. The man's probably on probation somewhere. He is not going to do anything that would hurt him. He's selfish like that.”

“He pointed out he could rape me and beat me up a little and nobody would do a thing. He also said I'd like it.”

Kathy laughs. “What a guy. . . . Sorry.”

“You can laugh. I'm on the front line here.”

“The guy's a dinosaur. Totally obsolete. And he doesn't know it. Gives him a certain power, I guess. Charm, too, I guess. Look, Louise, it doesn't do us any good to be upset. If he ups the ante, you'll tell him where I am. That's all. Then
I'll have to deal with him. Really. I appreciate you trying to keep him off.”

“He wants you back, Kath. You get this or you don't?”

“Doesn't matter. Maybe he wants to own the New York Yankees. Same difference.”

Louise makes her evil grin again. “He thinks you want him back. ‘Don't let her kid you,' he tells me. ‘Girl goes to sleep thinking about this,' he says, grabbing you know what.”

“What, Louise . . . his Harley?”

“Yeah, right, Kathy.”

“Give me a cigarette.”

“Touch a nerve, sweetie?”

Kathy lights up, takes a deep drag, then mostly plays with the cigarette. “Jesus, Louise, you are something. You think I'd let a low-life like Keith threaten what I've got going?”

“And what is that, Kathy? I'd like to know.”

“Don't be so tough. I hope you're not pissed because I'm trying to improve my life. Come on.”

“I love you. No, I'm not pissed about that. But I'll tell you. My brother comes home and says he's born again, I'd want some
particulars.
Guy's almost as bad as Keith, so you understand my point.”

“I don't like that, Louise. I'm not born again, okay? I moved to Manhattan, got a pretty good job, nice little apartment. Starting over, not born again.”

“Now how'd this happen—exactly? You maybe fuck somebody?”

“Louise, stop. I went to the paper in Bergen, got a job as a secretary, office admin. Boring bullshit job. But I figured—pretend I'm an adult, give it a chance. Suddenly they need somebody to help with some promotions. Slogans. I was in some meetings, pitched in my bit. And they say, now you're doing it full time. Eight months later I see an ad for a job over here, doing the same stuff. I figure, let's take a shot. I walked in like I owned the place. Smiled a lot. Looked everyone in the eye. Whatever they asked, I said, ‘No
problem.' Truth. That's the way it's been. No problem.”

Louise shrugs in surrender, maybe get Kathy back to what matters here. “I'm sorry. . . . Congratulations.”

“I think I'm on a roll. I feel good. Hell, I feel great.”

“Rolled right into Mr. Right?”

Kathy shrugs
yes.

“Uh, tingling all over?”

“Louise. Maybe you had some bedside manner.
Once.”
They stare at each other, smiling. “Hey, you jealous?”

Louise shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe.” Her expression softens. “Yeah, maybe. If it's real, what you got.”

“Oh, it's real.”

Louise smirks. “Oh, married guy?”

“Would you
stop?
I told you, he's not that married.” She smiles. “Less all the time.”

“Oh? He's leaving his wife for
you.”

“Hell,” Kathy says, “in his place,
I would.”

“Got to give it to you. You got good attitude.” She waits a few seconds, blows smoke up. “So you been fucking this guy. Like an hour ago. Which put the red in your cheeks.”

Kathy thinking, Funny, a few years ago, I'd be telling her the size of the guy's dick. Now it seems wrong. I live in Bronxville. We may fuck, but we do not talk so much.

“That smile means what?” Louise peers hard at her.

“He's a fine man. Sorry, but I'm not telling you”—Kathy starts laughing—“how high he comes.”

“What! Tell me. Seriously, you saw?”

“A joke. Louise. Listen to me. About Keith. The reason he can't find me is because I don't want to be found. I do not want to see him again, not ever. And I am not afraid of him. Are you getting this?”

“I think so.”

“You think I'm telling the truth?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Don't fucking guess, damn it. Believe it. Then convince him. Not such a big deal.”

“Oh, yeah. . . . Suppose he shows up in your house? What do you do then?”

“Whatever it takes, Louise. Whatever it takes.”

Louise sits back. “Really? Hmmmph. Maybe I am convinced.”

“Bet your last dollar, bitch.”

“Wow. . . . Bitch, is it? I guess you're buying.”

“Louise . . . of course, I'm buying.”

“This guy really a good lay? The married guy.”

“He's a wonderful man, Louise. He also happens to be six-one, a hundred and eighty-five or so. One does so appreciate a big man, don't you find?”

Louise shakes her head. “Kathy . . . Kathy . . . Kathy.”

•
 “Good, do it that way,” Robert tells the reporter. “Done. Next.”

He sits stiffly, trying not show how agitated he feels. Wearing a striped shirt, the tie knot loose. He's at the head of a large table, two reporters to his left, another two on his right. Only one woman. He's grateful he doesn't find her attractive. The state he's in, he might gawk at her.

“The aid package,” one of them says. “Alright, the money comes through, we say PRESIDENT TRIES TO BUY VOTES. The money's not coming, we say UP YOURS, PRESIDENT TELLS BIG APPLE. Or words to that effect.”

“Come on,” the woman says, “the President can't win.”

“Winning's not his job,” Robert says, his voice quiet, carefully controlled. “His job's selling papers.”

“Here, here.”

“How about PRESIDENT'S AID PACKAGE SAVES DEMOCRATIC MACHINE?”

“Shit, that's almost the truth. You can't put stuff like that in the newspaper.”

They all laugh. Energetic, restless, vaguely rumpled people. The kind of faces you see gambling in Atlantic City. Robert hopes they won't notice what has happened to him. No, they have to notice. He's coming apart in front of them, for Chrissake.

A reporter says, “I want to do something new on the drug wars.”

“Who cares?”

“Right! They keep shooting kids, that's the only story. They just kill each other, hell, you're happy to hear—”

“The city ought to regulate these jerks. You know, make 'em take shooting lessons.”

They're all laughing, arguing, interrupting each other. Robert likes it. People acting silly won't notice him.

“Look, the city regulates a business, they leave. Maybe it's an angle.”

“A Department of Drug Dealers. Yeah, it'll work. A whole new bureaucracy for the mayor's cronies. And finally the dealers move to the Sun Belt. Let's put the paper behind it.”

“Sweet. Genius.”

“Hey, I got a serious idea. Why don't we offer rewards, you know, for the baddest guys? Like those Old West wanted posters. Say $10,000. Information leading to arrest and conviction.”

“That's great. Better $25,000. Jesus, that'll get the community behind the cops.”

“I see it. We call it Dealer Lotto. Here's the pitch. Don't waste your dollars on those bogus gambling schemes, better chance of getting hit by lightning, et cetera. The
New York News
offers a real payout. Just rat on some fuck who should be doing ten to twenty anyway. . . . What do you think? Sure, it's a promotional gimmick. But it'll spin off a huge amount of copy for us, too. Human interest. Real news. It's got everything.”

“You're serious?” Robert says, happy to be doubting somebody else's sanity. Put the spotlight on this poor schmuck. Very gravely, Robert says again: “You're really serious?”

The guy looks around. “Yeah. What's wrong? Hey, $50,000 makes it guaranteed. Really. We'd get great press all over the country. Think about the photo op. The mayor giving some guy with a bag over his head a big check. Then we do follow-up, see if the guy
lives
to spend the money. Dealer Lotto, get it?”

A secretary Robert hardly knows comes in to relay a message to one of the reporters. She leans over to speak in the man's ear. Robert glances down her blouse, sees the swell of her breasts. Lovely. She stands and smiles pleasantly. At him? Yeah, she's saying, Use me, big guy. This is all yours. She turns to leave. A tight gray skirt. Robert studies the shadow marking the crack of her ass. Yeah, she wants him to follow her out into the hall, wrap her legs around him right there. His groin jumps. He sees himself springing out of the chair.

It's so real.
Too
real.

Robert drops his right hand, grips the front of the chair, hard. Steady, man. He feels like Dr. Strangelove, trying to hold his arm down. Or his dick. Or his life. His eyes jump to the ceiling and he shudders inwardly. Kathy! The woman's made me a maniac. Is this what sexual dementia is like? You want to hump everything.

All I do, I just call, leave a secret message. In an hour, maybe much sooner, we're on the 26th floor, she looks so beautiful, we're kissing, her hand's in my pants, we're doing
anything I can think of. . . .

No, no, hold it. We're meeting at five. Got to hang on. No, what I have to do is call Anne, tell her I'll be on the later train. Oh, God, Anne. . . . What excuse do I make this time?

“Robert, hey. Robert. Boss!”

One of the reporters is staring at him. A strange look on his face. See, they can tell. Robert's sure he stinks of sex,
like a man doused in some bad cologne.

Robert sighs as if he's been thinking over some deep problem of journalistic ethics. “Yeah, just running that around in my head. It's a stunt. But why not talk to the legal department. It's your idea, run with it.”

They talk story ideas for another thirty minutes, then Robert walks back to his office. Feeling like this obscene pulsing thing, sure that people are staring at him. He wonders who he can ask about it. Notice any change? Horns? Goat's feet? A tail? Hair sprouting everywhere? Damnit, there are huge tits in front of my face. You must have noticed. Are you blind?

Robert can't remember anything like this. He's obsessed, filled toe to head with thoughts of sex, with thoughts of her.

He slumps behind his desk. Tries to hold his head up, look intelligent. Oh, sure. A hard-on with an IQ of ten or twelve.

Think about it. When I was a kid, say sixteen, was that like this? Yeah, horny, horny all the time. But it's in the body. You jerk off and then you forget about it for a while. This is different. This is in my head, I think. Like a fever, a disease. I want Kathy all the time. I want
something. . . .

I've got to call Anne, tell her I'll be late.