Usually, Gloria sat beside him and watched too. But she never disturbed him when he was lost in his own thoughts. Gloria had an uncanny knack for knowing when he wanted to talk and when he just wanted to be left alone. Right now, she was at Svengali’s headquarters putting together a new marketing scheme for the teenage set. She would not be home for several hours yet.
Stan moved away from the window. He knew that he needed to find a job (or a good con) soon. The ten grand he had made from his part in the Deerfield Inn scam was running low. Shit, B Man had made a nice little profit on that one. He got the fifty grand Stan owed him, plus ten grand interest and another twenty grand net profit minus whatever minuscule amount he paid that Neanderthal Bart.
Stan picked up the newspaper from the couch. He had a tip about a horse in the seventh race named Breeze’s Girl. The horse, his contact had assured him, could not lose. But somehow it did not feel right. Stan rarely, if ever, bet on a filly. Be they human or animal, females could not be depended upon to come through for you.
The clock read three o’clock. Gloria usually came home between six and seven. At least three more hours until she was back. Stan shook his head, wondering why he would be counting the hours until she returned. If he did not know himself better, he could swear that he sort of missed her. But of course that was impossible. Stan Baskin did not miss women. They missed him.
He moved back into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of orange juice. When he was a little kid, his mother squeezed him fresh orange juice every morning because she knew how much he loved it. His poor old lady. She had ended up dying of cancer. What an awful fuckin’ disease, he thought. You’re either lucky enough to be in remission or you get to stay in bed and wait for the cancer to claim your life, wait as the disease eats away at you from within. Or worse, the doctors make you go through that chemotherapy shit. No way would I go put up with that, Stan thought. If I’m ever in her shoes, I’d go out and buy myself the biggest gun I could find and press it against my temple and pull the trigger.
Bam.
Dead. Quick and painless. Just like what had happened to his dad – or so they all thought. Only Stan knew better.
Every morning Stan’s mother squeezed him fresh orange juice. ‘It’s good for you,’ she would say. But Stan needed no encouragement to drink the pulpy liquid with the little pits. He loved Grace Baskin’s fresh-squeezed orange juice. But then his father died (was murdered) and all that changed. Stan had been only ten years old at the time – David not yet two.
The funeral had been jammed with thousands of people from the university: professors, deans, secretaries, students. All the neighbors were there too. Stan stood quietly next to his mother. She wore black and cried into a white handkerchief.
‘We have to think of David now, Stan,’ she said to him as they lowered the casket into the ground. ‘We have to make up for the fact that he is going to grow up without a father. Do you understand?’
Stan nodded to his mother. But in truth, he did not understand. Why should David be the one to worry about? He had never even known their father. David had never played catch with their dad. He had never gone fishing or to museums or to ball parks or to movies or even to the dentist with him. Fact is, David wouldn’t even remember Sinclair Baskin.
Grace Baskin did not see it that way. Never did. She decided to put all her energies into raising her precious David. She chose to be two parents for her youngest child, even if it left none for her oldest.
But Stan didn’t care. Who needed her anyway? For that matter, who needed women? As he eventually learned, women are basically worthless and cruel. They could all be lumped into two basic groups; parasites who wanted to suck you dry, or ball-breaking bitches who used words like love and togetherness when all they wanted to do was possess and control and destroy.
Therein lies the beauty of Stan’s livelihood (or scams, as those who did not understand liked to call it). He simply turned the tables on the female sex. He used women the same way they used men. And for that people wanted him to go to jail? How goddamn ridiculous! You talk about being equal and fair – why not arrest every gold-digging bitch who pretended she cared about a guy just to get his dough? Shit, there would be scarce few broads around then.
Yes, Stan had seen first hand the damage that a woman could do. He had learned from them. When he was just sixteen, he was seduced by a thirty-year-old divorcee named Concetta Caletti. Stan was convinced that Concetta was the smartest, most beautiful and sophisticated woman in the whole world. Young Stan Baskin was even foolish enough to think he was in love. He even went so far as to quit school and tell Concetta Caletti that he wanted to marry her. But Concetta laughed at his offer.
‘You are only a boy,’ the dark-skinned beauty said.
‘I love you,’ the sixteen-year-old Stan insisted.
‘Love?’ she said, her eyes scalding his heart. ‘Who taught you that word? You don’t even know what love is.’
‘Then show me,’ he pleaded.
‘There is no such thing,’ she flared. ‘Love is a word people toss around to fool themselves into believing that they are not alone in the world. It’s a lie.’
‘But I love you, Concetta. I know I do.’
‘Get out of here, Stan. You’re just a kid. When you start making some real money, then we’ll talk about love.’ The sound of the doorbell jarred away the image of Concetta’s angry face and left Stan standing alone in the present. He glanced at the clock. Still only three o’clock. Maybe Gloria had come home early from work.
Stan crossed the room and opened the door. His eyes widened when he saw who was standing in his doorway. ‘Well, well, isn’t this a nice surprise?’
Laura said nothing.
‘Your sister isn’t here, Laura. She’s at the office.’
‘I know that. I came to talk to you.’
‘How nice.’ Stan stepped back. ‘Do come in.’
‘I feel safer out in the hallway.’
‘No trust?’
‘None.’
‘Well then, Laura, you can stand out there with the door closed in your pretty face. If you want to speak with me, you’ll have to come in.’
Laura glared at him and then, hesitantly, she entered. Stan closed the door behind her. ‘Would you like to sit down?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Something to drink perhaps?’
‘No, Stan,’ she said impatiently.
‘Fine. Then why don’t we just get to the point? What can I do for you?’
‘I want you to leave my sister alone.’
‘I’m shocked,’ Stan said sarcastically. ‘Why on earth would you want to break up such a happy couple?’
‘Stop playing games, Stan,’ Laura snapped. ‘Gloria is vulnerable. If you have a problem with me, fine, let’s settle it. But leave my sister out of it.’
Stan smiled and moved closer to her. ‘Do I detect a note of jealousy on your part, Laura?’
She stepped back. ‘More like repulsion,’ she replied.
‘Quick, very quick. I like that. I really do. But your sister and I are in love now, Laura. Can someone place a value on that?’
‘I’m sure you can,’ Laura said wearily. ‘How much?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘How much do you want?’
‘I’m astonished, Laura, truly I am. Are you trying to bribe me?’
‘Last time I ask: how much?’
‘Oh no, Laura, it’s not that easy. I want more than money this time.’
‘Oh?’
‘I can get all the money I need now. Your sister has plenty of dough. And now that Gloria and I are so close, I just know I can depend on my sweet sister-in-law to loan me a few bucks when I’m in need.’
‘Why should I?’
Stan shrugged. ‘Because I’m sure you want me to treat your sister kindly. You wouldn’t want me to make her feel like a piece of shit. Or beat her. Or get her hooked on drugs again. I can do any of those things, Laura, and you know it. So I’ll tell you to pay up and you’ll do it.’