"So you do commit fraud and waste."
Donald laughed. "If it hadn't been for the economy, Tess, I could have found a full-time job for you. Then you'd get six hundred dollars a week and benefits for the same job you do now for a hundred dollars. And I'd have some company."
"Thanks, Uncle D., but I don't think I would have made a very good state employee. I have a hard enough time getting the jargon down in these news releases. You know-‘accessing,' instead of just ‘getting' something. Or a ‘comprehensive service delivery' plan. I'd never be the kind of bright young thing to track down cheaper doughnuts."
She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. He smelled like an old lady's living room. Hair oil and musty upholstery, tinged with peppermint candies. Her mother's siblings were old, much older than Judith Weinstein, an afterthought born almost twelve years after Mickey, the youngest of the four boys. Donald was in his early sixties, Tess calculated.
At the door she turned back to look at him. He had been an important man once. A bagman, sure, but an up-and-coming one. If his boss hadn't been convicted of mail fraud, Uncle Donald might be in the state house today, whispering in the governor's ear instead of killing time in this barren room. Uncle Donald had been transferred so often he no longer brought anything personal to the office with him, except the Daily Racing Form and a legal pad. Ponies on paper, Uncle Donald called his habit.
"You ahead?" Tess asked.
"For the year. Bad week, though. I don't like these California horses. I can't get a feel for 'em."
"You're not betting any real money?"
"I bet my real money in the market. It's more exciting. Hey-you sure you don't want me to ask around, see if something's available with the state? I bet I could find you a nice little $30,000-a-year job, with good medical."
Tess looked at the bare office, with its one window and the racing form on the desk. She blew her uncle a kiss, then ran down eleven flights as if something were chasing her. Once on the street she slowed to a brisk walk, but she kept going until she was back at her apartment.
Seven hours later, her work for Uncle Donald already done, her evening run behind her, Tess again took up her post outside the garage at Eden's Landing. This time, however, she was in her Toyota, waiting to see if Ava was going to leave her apartment. She knew she was there, because Rock had gotten off the phone with her minutes earlier, then called Tess.
"She told me she didn't feel up to dinner out," he said. "Said she was just going to stay in all evening." He had not asked Tess to go watch, and she had not told him she would. He was paying Tess to think those unsavory thoughts for him.
Twenty minutes later she felt almost smug as Ava zipped out of the garage at Eden 's Landing in her silver Miata. Tess followed her about a mile, through downtown and into Federal Hill, to the Sweat Shop, a cavernous building where three women had died in a small fire at the turn of the century.
"Why lie about working out?" Tess asked Ava from inside her car. "That's one thing Rock always approves of, even if the gym's name isn't exactly PC."
When the Sweat Shop opened it had been deemed officially insensitive by the editorial writers at the Beacon-Light. Men and women claiming to be descendants of the dead women picketed. Television reporters swooped down on the place, but the handsome gym photographed so well that people clamored to join. Eventually someone remembered the victims had been teenagers, childless and unmarried, and the pickets disappeared. The Sweat Shop was an unqualified success.
Even when she had a job, Tess had never been able to afford such a glossy gym, but she knew how to gain entrance to one.
"I'd like some membership information," she told the anorexic-looking blonde at the front desk. The blonde sighed and depressed a button behind the desk. A mechanized roar, the sound a crowd makes when someone hits a three-pointer at the buzzer, echoed through the club. Great, Tess thought. Just alert everyone that I'm here.
Dale, as he was identified on his name tag, hurried forward. Short and muscle-bound, he wore a knit polo shirt so tight Tess could see each hair in the cleavage of his well-defined chest. There were seven in all. His white trousers were only a shade looser. Even his slicked-back ponytail, less than an inch in length, looked tight and flexed, curled like a bicep.
"I'm Dale, your fitness ambassador," he said, pumping Tess's hand enthusiastically. "Are you interested in our platinum or gold plan?"
"Probably the zirconium."
He looked at her blankly.
"A joke," Tess explained. "I'm sure I'll want the top-of-the-line membership. But I need a tour of the place before we start talking about fees."
"Of course." He put a proprietary hand on the small of her back, like a rudder. Tess removed the hand.
"I thought I could walk around by myself first. Check out the locker rooms, you know. I assume you do have them for men and women?"
Dale, sensing his commission slipping away, nevertheless kept his broad, peppy smile. "No problem! But I will need you to sign a liability waiver. So we have your name and phone number on file."
Tess took the clipboard he proffered. There was no waiver on it, only a blank piece of paper with a space for one's name and phone number. She had a sudden vision of nightly calls and entreaties from Dale, begging her to try the Sweat Shop for three months, two months, one month.
Tess Duberville, she wrote carefully, adding the phone number for the local weather service. Let Thomas Hardy and the forecasters deal with the sales pitch.
Free to take her own "tour" of the old factory, Tess walked through the gym, inspecting each machine while glancing around for Ava. She didn't have to fake her admiration for the sleek German equipment. The Sweat Shop was a well-kept place, filled with the thoughtful touches people expect when they pay upward of $2,000 a year for membership. Fluffy white towels, piles of current magazines by the stationary bikes, mounted color television sets. You could even rent headsets tuned to the TVs, making it easier to hear above the clanking weights and the whirring sounds of dozens of machines, all going nowhere. For someone like Tess, who spent up to three hours a day streaked with sweat, it was a tempting place. She would have preferred looking at the machines-and, in some cases, the men on them-to looking for Ava.
As it turned out she could do both. The aerobics room sat in the center of the gym, encased in glass, a bigger-than-life ant farm. There, front and center in a step class, Ava high kicked her way through the routine as if it were a competitive sport. Frail and sexy in her street clothes, she didn't look so helpless in white lace bicycle pants and a matching sports bra. Her leg muscles were long and defined, like a dancer's. Her biceps and abdomen were strongly cut, the current style for women's bodies. As for her breasts-impossibly large for such a tiny woman and indifferent to gravity-those appeared to have been fashioned somewhere outside the gym.
As the class moved into the cool-down phase, Ava rushed from the room, mopping at her sweaty face with one of the club's white towels. Only minutes later, glancing at her watch, she popped out of the locker room. She had not showered, although her makeup was fresh and her hair neatly combed. She still wore the tiny shorts and bra, with a filmy linen shirt thrown over them. The see-through shirt only emphasized all the bare skin beneath it.
No longer in a rush, Ava sauntered toward the lobby and stopped at the water fountain. Although she pressed her mouth against the arc of water, she didn't seem to swallow, Tess noticed, and her eyes were busy darting from side to side. When a Waspy white-haired man with a squash racket walked by her, she straightened up like a jack-in-the-box, greeting him in a sweet, clear voice.
"What a surprise! I didn't expect to see you here."