close by, he just might pick that moment to make his move.
“How well do you know this Gelman?” Carla Bene dict asked.
“Just by reputation. A real sleaze ball.” He'd heard stories about Dr. Stanley Gelman almost from the day he'd opened his own cosmetic surgery practice three years earlier. All of them from other doctors, none for attribution. God knows Gelman wasn't the only shrink around who went beyond supportive hugs and hand-holding. But Gelman was much worse than most be cause the line on him was that he fundamentally de spised women. Dried-out Barbie dolls, he called his Westport patients. Self-absorbed whiners. Whenever he had a patient who was at all attractive, and at all unsure of it, sooner or later he'd plant the notion that the acid test of her sexual allure would be a private evaluation by her therapist. How else could he offer remedial advice? Perversely, there were stories of marriages he'd de stroyed by advising female patients to cut off sexual contact entirely. There were worse stories. He would suggest to certain of his patients that the key to sexual liberation was to go and seek sexual adventure wher ever they could find it. Try the delivery boy. The meter reader. A black man. Try two, even three men at a time. Then try a woman.
The urgent call from Molly Farrell, once she men tioned Gelman's name, had not surprised Dr. Russo in the least. A woman, a regular at Mario's off the 5:44 from Grand Central, divorced, fairly attractive, nor mally well-behaved if she stayed within her limit of three whiskey sours, had suddenly and most awkwardly begun propositioning some of the male commuters at the bar. Uncle Billy, which was what nearly all the Mario's regulars called the popular bartender, gently took her drink from her hand and led her back to the office for some strong coffee and a good talking-to.
There, to his horror, the woman made a pathetic and near-hysterical attempt to seduce him as well. He ran back into the restaurant, where Molly Farrell was in the process of serving a table of six, and nearly wrenched her arm dragging her back to the woman in the office. The woman, by this time, was sobbing out of control. It took a full twenty minutes, with both Molly and Billy sitting with her, holding and stroking her, for the halt ing details of her treatment at the hands of Dr. Stanley Gelman to emerge. Billy McHugh listened, his own eyes moist. He stood up, kissed her lightly on the forehead, then turned and left the office. Because Billy had been better these past three or four months, Molly assumed that he'd returned to his place at the bar. She made the woman stretch out on the office couch and covered her with a coat. By the time she turned out the light and stepped back into the restaurant, Billy McHugh was gone. She hurried out the door and, seeing nothing of Billy, crossed to the public phone on the Westport sta tion platform.
Three hours had passed since then. It was more than enough time for Billy McHugh to have picked up his tools, get into his working clothes, and locate Stanley Gelman. Russo had very mixed feelings about trying to stop him this time. If anyone ever deserved Billy, it was Gelman. But Russo had made a promise and he'd do his b est to keepit.He owed at least that much to Paul Bannerman. ·
“Where would you look for Gelman?” Carla Bene dict touched his arm. “If you were Billy, I mean.”
“I'd have to start right here.”
“Then what? What if he wasn't home?”
“I'd stay right over there.” He pointed through the windshield. “Back in those trees. Sooner or later Gelman would pop that garage door and I'd go right in behind him.”
“But Gelman just popped it. Why wouldn't Billy have done that, too?”
“I don't . . . shit!'* Gary Russo ran a hand across his mouth. “Because he's better than that, that's why.”
“You think he's already
“How well do you know this Gelman?” Carla Bene dict asked.
“Just by reputation. A real sleaze ball.” He'd heard stories about Dr. Stanley Gelman almost from the day he'd opened his own cosmetic surgery practice three years earlier. All of them from other doctors, none for attribution. God knows Gelman wasn't the only shrink around who went beyond supportive hugs and hand-holding. But Gelman was much worse than most be cause the line on him was that he fundamentally de spised women. Dried-out Barbie dolls, he called his Westport patients. Self-absorbed whiners. Whenever he had a patient who was at all attractive, and at all unsure of it, sooner or later he'd plant the notion that the acid test of her sexual allure would be a private evaluation by her therapist. How else could he offer remedial advice? Perversely, there were stories of marriages he'd de stroyed by advising female patients to cut off sexual contact entirely. There were worse stories. He would suggest to certain of his patients that the key to sexual liberation was to go and seek sexual adventure wher ever they could find it. Try the delivery boy. The meter reader. A black man. Try two, even three men at a time. Then try a woman.
The urgent call from Molly Farrell, once she men tioned Gelman's name, had not surprised Dr. Russo in the least. A woman, a regular at Mario's off the 5:44 from Grand Central, divorced, fairly attractive, nor mally well-behaved if she stayed within her limit of three whiskey sours, had suddenly and most awkwardly begun propositioning some of the male commuters at the bar. Uncle Billy, which was what nearly all the Mario's regulars called the popular bartender, gently took her drink from her hand and led her back to the office for some strong coffee and a good talking-to.
There, to his horror, the woman made a pathetic and near-hysterical attempt to seduce him as well. He ran back into the restaurant, where Molly Farrell was in the process of serving a table of six, and nearly wrenched her arm dragging her back to the woman in the office. The woman, by this time, was sobbing out of control. It took a full twenty minutes, with both Molly and Billy sitting with her, holding and stroking her, for the halt ing details of her treatment at the hands of Dr. Stanley Gelman to emerge. Billy McHugh listened, his own eyes moist. He stood up, kissed her lightly on the forehead, then turned and left the office. Because Billy had been better these past three or four months, Molly assumed that he'd returned to his place at the bar. She made the woman stretch out on the office couch and covered her with a coat. By the time she turned out the light and stepped back into the restaurant, Billy McHugh was gone. She hurried out the door and, seeing nothing of Billy, crossed to the public phone on the Westport sta tion platform.
Three hours had passed since then. It was more than enough time for Billy McHugh to have picked up his tools, get into his working clothes, and locate Stanley Gelman. Russo had very mixed feelings about trying to stop him this time. If anyone ever deserved Billy, it was Gelman. But Russo had made a promise and he'd do his b est to keepit.He owed at least that much to Paul Bannerman. ·
“Where would you look for Gelman?” Carla Bene dict touched his arm. “If you were Billy, I mean.”
“I'd have to start right here.”
“Then what? What if he wasn't home?”
“I'd stay right over there.” He pointed through the windshield. “Back in those trees. Sooner or later Gelman would pop that garage door and I'd go right in behind him.”
“But Gelman just popped it. Why wouldn't Billy have done that, too?”
“I don't . . . shit!'* Gary Russo ran a hand across his mouth. “Because he's better than that, that's why.”
“You think he's already
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