just melt in a puddle on the floor.
And then he pushes himself away from me. “Damn it to hell, woman,” he says. “You could have just given me the ring.”
I could have, I think to myself. But I wouldn’t have gotten kissed like that if I had.
He shakes his head at me. “Damn it,” he says again, grabbing up his jacket and heading for the door.
“Drew,” I say, wanting to tell him about what Frank Greco said about Wednesdays, like Joe met someone regularly, and what the other man by the casket said, but he doesn’t turn around. He just waves his hand over his head.
“Damn it all to hell,” he says again and then slams my door.
At 10:00 a.m. I call two potential clients and then answer a bunch of questions on my Web site about shelving, including why Miss Stake’s shelves look like the library’s instead of her sister’s. I tell her to arrange the books by size instead of alphabetically, and to pull all the spines to the front edge of the shelves. And she wants to know how to stop them from making the room look smaller (paint the backs of the units the same color as the walls and put very few items on them).
Then I meet Mark Bishop, my carpenter, at The Steak-Out.
Mark is young, big and strong, and he’s built well enough that seeing a bit of his butt when he bends over is still a treat. He’s got a million girls calling him and showing up to “help him work,” and he is two hundred percent male.
The best part is that he’s a tease and a flirt, always coming on to me, always pretending he’d throw over all his little chickies for one roll in the hay with me.
He takes one look at me today and he can see that I’m already done in. “Come to papa, gorgeous,” he tells me, and I let him give me a big bear hug. “When are you going to give in and let me take care of you?”
I tell him that on what I pay him, he can’t afford to take care of me. “Who’s talking about financially?” he asks with a wink.
“I saw Drew Scoones this morning,” I tell him. Having heard Bobbie’s description of Drew in the past couple of months—which included words like creep, louse, user and stud—he’s ready to go beat the man up.
“Just say the word,” he tells me, like I haven’t been stupid enough when it comes to Drew.
I can hear Tony, the owner of The Steak-Out, shouting from the kitchen and I tell Mark it’s time to get to work. I open my portfolio to show him the designs I’ve worked up.
Even though it’s a steak house, I didn’t want to do the usual Western theme. No Ponderosa, no O-K Corral. Instead, I want to do a gentlemen’s club look. After all, it’s men who think they can eat a side of beef without consequence—not women, who daintily order a nice salad nicoise. So I figure that Tony needs a setting in which men feel like men. Big men. Chairman-of-the-Board kind of men.
Meanwhile we can hear Tony shouting. “I got spoilage,” he’s yelling. “Three times in one week is too much for perishables. Last week you came Tuesday, you came Wednesday, you came Friday…”
I show Mark my favorite sketch. I ask if it doesn’t look like the kind of place Richard Bellamy would take his son to celebrate his commission in the army. Mark looks at me blankly and I realize the kids are right—I’ve been watching too much PBS since Rio left. It’s not likely that Tony will know his Upstairs from his Downstairs.
Tony is still shouting. “You think I can forget Wednesday? I’m not gonna forget Wednesday ever, a dead man in my restroom. Guns I find in there, drug pipes and tubes. Ladies’ personals I don’t want to think about. Used condoms. I thought I saw it all.”
Hmm. Guess I’ll leave the Bellamys out of the conversation. We try to ignore the shouting going on in the kitchen and concentrate on my drawings. At least, I do.
“Wednesdays I get fish, I get linens. I get flowers that will still be fresh for the weekend. Last Wednesday, I get produce from you schmucks that I don’t need and I won’t pay for.” He slams out the kitchen door to find Mark and me standing in the restaurant.
He apologizes for his language. Mark and I pretend we couldn’t hear him. I point toward the window to indicate that I just came in and as I do, I think I see someone watching me. I go closer to the window, wondering when Drew Scoones actually does any police work.
There’s no sign of him, so I shrug it off and show Tony some designs I’ve worked up for him. The first is a hacienda style, with a sort of stucco-and-log wall with a fireplace. He doesn’t seem thrilled, which is fine with me. I know you never lead with your best design because no one wants to take what they are offered first.
I show him another room, based loosely on the Cart-wrights’ place from Bonanza. This is more to his liking, and I’m a little nervous that he’ll go with it.
“And then there’s the upscale English Club look,” I say, pulling out what I consider the pièce de résistance. “Although it may be too classy for the clientele you service now. But it could be perfect for the one you’re hoping to attract once the renovations are completed.”
Tony’s eyes light up. They swell with tears. He closes them and puts his fist against his chest like this is too much to wish for.
I explain my theory about how he needs to appeal to men, the real carnivores these days. Scotch served neat. Bourbon served with branch. Rye and whatever the heck it is men drink rye with. A couple of drinks for the ladies, but only as an accommodation. No cutesy-poo chocolate-kiss martinis. He should court business lunches as well as dinners. Make it a place for serious conversations by setting off private areas where men can do business deals.
He loves the idea. Of course, I tell him, it will mean some construction, and this is where Mark takes over, talking time, money and permits.
“The best thing to do,” he tells me after Tony goes off to tend to some crisis in the kitchen, “is to hire an expediter to get the proper permits through and passed. It’ll take a little money under the table, but that’s life.”
I know I’m naive, but sometimes these things just smack me in the face. “Are you telling me that I have to pay someone to obtain permits that I have to pay someone else for?”
He chucks me under the chin. “For such a sexy woman, you sure are cute. Money makes the world go around, gorgeous, and greased palms turn the wheels. Happens all the time.”
I tell him he’s pretty jaded for such a young kid and he laughs at me.
“That guy who got killed down here?” he tells me. “Bet you anything he was on the take and he tried to stiff the mob their share of it.”
I tell him that this is Long Island, not New Jersey. And that it’s real life, not The Sopranos. And then I think about the men at Joe Greco’s funeral and recall my ex-husband’s association with The Nose and other men with animal and body part appellations from whom he borrowed sums of money without telling me. And I wonder who’s the one with the imagination—Mark or me?
I mean, thinking about Frank Greco’s reaction—that was really something. Clearly he believed that Joe was meeting some woman on Wednesdays and Frank didn’t like her. Well, I think he didn’t like me, actually, but was it because he thought I was the bag woman?
