He stopped when he saw me. He was breathing hard, sweating hard as well. Mrs. Decker had been right. He didn’t look well. He spoke to me. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. I need to talk to you.”
The room went quiet.
“You’re sure everything’s all right?”
I nodded.
He exhaled. “Give me five minutes.”
I nodded again. “Should I wait here?”
“Yeah.” He regarded his secretary. Her complexion had gone pale gray. “It’s okay, Amber. You did the right thing. Take the rest of the day off.” A glance over at the guard. “Both of you, take the day off. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The guard stood up. “Are you sure, Mr. Donatti?”
“Very sure. Here.” He gave them each a fifty. What I could have done with that money. “You can leave now. She’s fine by herself. Have a good time.” To me. “Five minutes.”
“Take your time.”
“Do you want anything? Are you hungry?”
“I’m fine.”
He held up his hands and disappeared behind the door.
Amber gathered up her belongings, giving me an expression that wavered between confusion and awe. I knew what she was thinking. Who is this ponytailed bag lady with the strange feline yellow eyes, dressed in oversize chinos, a black ribbed crewneck sweater, worn sneakers, and a threadbare peacoat? Her clothes look like they came from a thrift shop.
In fact, they did. Right now, Chris was paying tuition not only for my medical-school education but also for Gabriel’s private schooling, as well as his piano lessons with a very sought-after maestro. Chris was paying my rent, my utilities, my child-care needs, and our health insurance. He paid off my undergraduate loans and gave me whatever spending money I asked for. He never questioned what I needed. His largesse allowed me to be job-free so I could concentrate on Gabe and my studies exclusively. I kept a microscopic watch on where each dime went.
I had known Chris for almost nine years. We met in high school back in my native Los Angeles. I had been incredibly naive in every sense of the word, and I think that was why he was attracted to me. My face didn’t hurt, either. Things progressed at a very messy pace and I thought I was in love. By the time I wanted to cut bait, it was too late. I was pregnant.
By now, I was aware of what Chris did, although we never discussed it. Donatti was a newsworthy name, and from time to time, I came across it in print. When Joseph Donatti had initially been indicted for murder six years ago, Chris had also been indicted as a co-conspirator. Six months later, his charges were dropped for insufficient evidence. Eventually, Joey was acquitted. The picture of Chris and him hugging had made the front page of the Trib. I had seen several sidebar articles about Chris’s magazine and the implications about his pimping and pandering. Nothing ever stuck.
No, we never talked about what he did, but we both knew what he was.
Ten minutes later, he accompanied two young boys and a girl out of his main digs, his arm around the girl, talking to all of them in whispered tones. The girl sneaked a sidelong glimpse at me. I smiled, but she did not. After everyone had left, he motioned me in but put his finger to his lips. He picked up his ubiquitous bottle of scotch and we walked into a sizable but windowless office-neat as expected-with lots of security equipment. A ceiling fan added some air to the place, but the fluorescent overhead lighting was harsh. When he saw me squinting, he turned it off and elected to go with a soft pole lamp. I sat on one side of the square table; he lowered his body into a cushy chair on the other side. He gulped some booze, then followed it with an Evian chaser.
“Where were you hit?” I asked him.
His laugh was muted. “She called you. Rina did.”
I cocked my head. “You’re on a first-name basis with her?”
“Actually not. That’s her doing, not mine.”
“You like her?”
“She’s very attractive.”
“She sounds very nice.”
“She is very nice.” More water. “Where’s the kid?”
“Your son,” I corrected him. “I left him at home with a baby-sitter.”
“That’s nice. I like being alone with you.”
“Your paternal devotion is touching.”
“That’s assuming that I’ve acknowledged paternity.”
I gave a long, suffering sigh. “Will you please take a simple blood test so we can be done with this? Why do you like to torture me? Why do you enjoy torturing yourself?”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t yell at me. I hurt.”
I stood up and walked over to him. I put my hands on his strong, tight shoulders. “Let me see.”
“You’re not a doctor yet. Leave me alone-”
“Chris-”
“Leave me alone.”
“Please?”
He stood up and held my chin. He brought my face to his and kissed me hard. “No.”
“You’re being stubborn.”
“You look gorgeous, Terry. You always look great-”
“Let me see-”
“Jesus, you’re impossible!”
He attempted to lift up his shirt. When I tried to help, he slapped my hand away. He showed me his wound.
“I’m not taking off the bandage.”
“You should,” I said. “The wound is weeping through the gauze. Do you have any medication or replacement bandages or salves?”
He held out his hand in exasperation, then gave me a bag filled with medical material-tape, bandages, medicines, salves, ointments. I went through the supplies, then wiped down my hands with a new bottle of Betadine. I started to take off the outer layer of adhesive. He winced.
“I’m sorry. Hopefully, it won’t take long.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked me.
“Yes.”
His expression was dubious, but he stood still. I peeled back the layers. “Who dressed this? He did a good job.”
“She.”
I laughed. “God, I can’t believe what a sexist I am. Who’s she? Mrs. Decker?”
“Yeah.”
“Does Lieutenant Decker know about this?”
“Nope. Doesn’t know about his wife being here, doesn’t know that I’ve been shot. There’s a lot that Lieutenant Decker doesn’t know.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s complicated.”
“My plane doesn’t take off for a while.”
He talked to me while I worked. His sentences were terse. I was getting the encapsulated version. Probably the sanitized version as well. Twenty minutes later, I had patched him up. He sat down and took another swipe of booze.
“You shouldn’t drink and take painkillers at the same time,” I told him.
“I gave up cigarettes for you. Leave me alone.”
“I care. It’s not safe.”
“My system’s impervious to drugs. It’s a wonder I’m still alive.”
I took the bottle out of his hands, brushed my fingers over his grizzled face. “I’m glad you are.”
He regarded me, scrutinized me. A long time ago, his penetrating eyes made me nervous. Not anymore. Years of dealing with Chris’s unpredictability had hardened me. I needed him-as my son’s father, as my bank account. Initially, my grandparents had supported my son and me. They are lovely people, and I knew we were a burden. After eighteen months, I assured them that I would be fine and convinced them to move to a retirement community in Florida. Immediately, I was plunged into poverty. For almost two years, I put myself through college while trying to put bread on the table. Debt took on a life of its own. I was drowning, and Chris was watching. As I exhaled my last breath-a heartbeat away from eviction-Chris offered me a life preserver. I took it and haven’t looked back, although someday I’m sure I will. It will not be a sterling moment in my moral history. Still, being his courtesan was better than choosing between quitting med school or suffering through another frigid Chicago winter without decent heat.
His hands went to my face. He kissed me… long and gentle. I could feel the ball of his tongue pierce as he swept through my mouth. He loosened my hair from the ponytail holder and ran his fingers through my long tresses. He kissed me again and again. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”