entertainment.
Gusty wind greets our arrival at beach level. Beyond the surf, white caps toss the gray water.
Kelly has something on her mind. I hope it’s not Mexico again. Can this woman really expect me to run away with her? I’ve known her less than two weeks. Sure, I like her. The sex is awesome. But the truth is, I wouldn’t leave my kids for Shania Twain, the fantasy love of my life. I mean what the hell is Kelly thinking?
We’re waiting for our drinks, Kelly saying, “You’d love Vera Cruz. Gerry took me there on a business trip last year. I just loved the restaurants and beaches, this one nightclub. We went every night for the music. I could have danced my way down to a hundred and fifteen pounds.”
“Feel that Latin beat, do you?” I say.
Her eyes spark. “I like a strong steady rhythm, yes.”
Whew. Sex is like salt and pepper to this woman. She sprinkles it on everything.
The drinks arrive and I take a big gulp of my martini. The alcohol stings my mouth and burns my throat on the way down, churns my stomach when it hits bottom. I take a second gulp and everything hurts a little less.
“I know what you’re worried about,” Kelly says.
“Worried?”
“You’re concerned about the money. Would I dole it out in Mexico, put you on an allowance.”
I look up from my martini. “Kelly, I am not worried about money or Mexico or anything like that. It’s about my children.”
Her eyes shift from me to the storm outside. “Whatever. But just so you know, I would be totally dependent on you as far as the money goes. You know what to do with it, how to hide it, keep it safe. You’d be in charge. It would be like your money, really.”
I finish the martini and decide to try a new approach. I give her the full-boat Carr grin. “Are you sure you trust me? I mean we’ve only been lovers for what, ten, eleven days? I’ve been a conniving stockbroker more than seven years.”
She smiles. The redhead does think I’m amusing. It’s a quality in women I like very much.
“In my house that night, I loved the way you looked at the Renoir,” she says. “It’s the same way I stare at it sometimes when I’m alone. Wanting to be like those people. Happy in the sunshine.”
I wave at the waiter for another martini. Kelly hasn’t touched her cosmo. She’s tougher than me, getting used to all these doctors, hospices, stiffs, and the smell of antiseptic. The trappings of death. That little visit to the hospice today was gruesome. I need medication.
Kelly saying, “That Renoir was what I thought my life would be like when I hooked up with Gerry. But I was wrong. I had money enough, just no one to enjoy it with. Gerry was always working.”
I pick up the menu.
“Oh, I’ll admit I would have stayed with Gerry forever. I like being pampered, living well. But the man never talked to me, Austin.”
I look up from Clooney’s list of steaks. I haven’t had a Porterhouse in six months. Lot of mac and cheese, but no Porterhouse. “And in one week, you know me?”
She shrugs. “We enjoy a lot of the same things—good food, champagne, art, sex. I think we would enjoy Gerry’s money together. You share your feelings with me. That’s what I want most.”
My second martini arrives. I enjoy a long, slow, two-swallow guzzle.
“I’m not saying we’d be together forever,” she says. “I’m saying it would be good while it lasted.”
Okay, let’s see. On the plus side of this “Do I? Or don’t I?” ledger is the good sex. The big money. Living in Mexico. The end of dialing for dollars. No more Rags, Psycho, or end-of-the-month shit swaps.
Wow. That’s a long and strong list of positives.
On the minus side, I would no longer see my kids.
“Sorry, Kelly. There’s just no way.”
TWENTY-NINE
“ACCIDENT KILLS SHIP’S MATE”
I’m waiting for Rags to follow me inside his office and approve Gerry’s transfer papers when my eyes find the above newspaper headline on
Gusty wind greets our arrival at beach level. Beyond the surf, white caps toss the gray water.
Kelly has something on her mind. I hope it’s not Mexico again. Can this woman really expect me to run away with her? I’ve known her less than two weeks. Sure, I like her. The sex is awesome. But the truth is, I wouldn’t leave my kids for Shania Twain, the fantasy love of my life. I mean what the hell is Kelly thinking?
We’re waiting for our drinks, Kelly saying, “You’d love Vera Cruz. Gerry took me there on a business trip last year. I just loved the restaurants and beaches, this one nightclub. We went every night for the music. I could have danced my way down to a hundred and fifteen pounds.”
“Feel that Latin beat, do you?” I say.
Her eyes spark. “I like a strong steady rhythm, yes.”
Whew. Sex is like salt and pepper to this woman. She sprinkles it on everything.
The drinks arrive and I take a big gulp of my martini. The alcohol stings my mouth and burns my throat on the way down, churns my stomach when it hits bottom. I take a second gulp and everything hurts a little less.
“I know what you’re worried about,” Kelly says.
“Worried?”
“You’re concerned about the money. Would I dole it out in Mexico, put you on an allowance.”
I look up from my martini. “Kelly, I am not worried about money or Mexico or anything like that. It’s about my children.”
Her eyes shift from me to the storm outside. “Whatever. But just so you know, I would be totally dependent on you as far as the money goes. You know what to do with it, how to hide it, keep it safe. You’d be in charge. It would be like your money, really.”
I finish the martini and decide to try a new approach. I give her the full-boat Carr grin. “Are you sure you trust me? I mean we’ve only been lovers for what, ten, eleven days? I’ve been a conniving stockbroker more than seven years.”
She smiles. The redhead does think I’m amusing. It’s a quality in women I like very much.
“In my house that night, I loved the way you looked at the Renoir,” she says. “It’s the same way I stare at it sometimes when I’m alone. Wanting to be like those people. Happy in the sunshine.”
I wave at the waiter for another martini. Kelly hasn’t touched her cosmo. She’s tougher than me, getting used to all these doctors, hospices, stiffs, and the smell of antiseptic. The trappings of death. That little visit to the hospice today was gruesome. I need medication.
Kelly saying, “That Renoir was what I thought my life would be like when I hooked up with Gerry. But I was wrong. I had money enough, just no one to enjoy it with. Gerry was always working.”
I pick up the menu.
“Oh, I’ll admit I would have stayed with Gerry forever. I like being pampered, living well. But the man never talked to me, Austin.”
I look up from Clooney’s list of steaks. I haven’t had a Porterhouse in six months. Lot of mac and cheese, but no Porterhouse. “And in one week, you know me?”
She shrugs. “We enjoy a lot of the same things—good food, champagne, art, sex. I think we would enjoy Gerry’s money together. You share your feelings with me. That’s what I want most.”
My second martini arrives. I enjoy a long, slow, two-swallow guzzle.
“I’m not saying we’d be together forever,” she says. “I’m saying it would be good while it lasted.”
Okay, let’s see. On the plus side of this “Do I? Or don’t I?” ledger is the good sex. The big money. Living in Mexico. The end of dialing for dollars. No more Rags, Psycho, or end-of-the-month shit swaps.
Wow. That’s a long and strong list of positives.
On the minus side, I would no longer see my kids.
“Sorry, Kelly. There’s just no way.”
TWENTY-NINE
“ACCIDENT KILLS SHIP’S MATE”
I’m waiting for Rags to follow me inside his office and approve Gerry’s transfer papers when my eyes find the above newspaper headline on
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