His voice calmer now, Charles Perrone said, “See, I’ve got a friend coming over in a little while.”
Tool shrugged. “Goodie for you.”
“What I meant is, maybe you could put on some clothes.”
Tool glanced down at himself. “Actually, I’m pretty damn comfy as is. Mebbe I’ll just go to bed.”
“Thank you,” said the doctor. “Thank you very much.”
Chaz went into the bathroom, shut the door and dug the blue pills out of his pocket. His golfing buddy had said it would take about an hour; said to go easy the first time, figure out your tolerance level. Chaz gulped two of the tablets and washed them down with tap water. In the mirror he saw that Tool had pissed in the toilet bowl with the seat down and hadn’t bothered to flush.
“Pig,” Chaz grumbled. He swathed one hand in tissue and vehemently pressed the lever.
What was that moron doing in here anyway? Chaz wondered. He probably clogged the toilet in the guest bath with all that goddamn oily hair.
After a hurried shower, Chaz phoned Ricca and asked her to come over.
“Have I got a surprise for you,” he said.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Oh, come on.”
Ricca said, “I don’t feel good. I’m going to bed early.”
Chaz Perrone wasn’t particularly astute at reading women, but he picked up on the fact that Ricca was upset.
“We’ll talk when you get here,” he said. “I’ll make it all better.”
“I told you, Chaz. I’m staying home.”
“Not tonight. Please? Don’t do this to me.”
“Call me over the weekend.”
“Wait, Ricca—if it’s about what happened at lunch? Everything’s back to normal, honey, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Bigger and better than ever, I promise—”
“You’re not listening,” she said curtly. “I’m whipped. I’ve had a shitty day, and now I’m saying good night.”
The line went dead. Chaz Perrone cursed and slouched on the bed. It was for Ricca that he’d purchased the blue pills. He had wanted to demonstrate to her (and, admittedly, himself) that his problem was temporary and easily surmountable.
Now there was movement inside his underwear; slow but deliberate, the way an awakening snake uncoils. Anticipating the mother of all erections, Chaz despaired at the prospect of having no one with whom to share it. The clock was ticking inexorably toward readiness, but the possibilities for a partner were woefully limited. Unlike some of his friends, Chaz had no female fuck buddies to call upon in times of sudden need. The women with whom he had sex typically stopped associating with him as soon as the seedy core of his character came to light, usually within two or three months of the first assignation. Consequently, the names in Chaz’s little black book fell into two categories: former girlfriends who detested him, and current girlfriends who would eventually detest him.
With Ricca mysteriously out of commission for the night, Chaz’s only backup was a dippy New Age reflexologist who went by the name of Medea. He’d met her during a round of golf at Boca North, where she offered massages at a juice bar between the ninth green and the tenth tee. Chaz had slept with Medea only three times, with mixed reviews. While she was avid enough as a lover (and as lithe as a howler monkey), she owned several annoying habits, including a proclivity to hum during intercourse. Her favorite tune was called “Tribal Dream,” which Medea claimed had been written secretly for her by a man named Yanni. Another unendearing trait was the ritualistic lathering of her unclothed self (and, by contact, Chaz) with warm patchouli oil, the minty stink of which clung to the skin as obstinately as gum turpentine. No less distracting was her flamboyant taste in fashion. Chaz shuddered, recalling the night that her earrings (which could have doubled as hang gliders) first snagged and then painfully uprooted a tuft of his chest hair.
Finally, there was her goofball devotion to reflexology, which she insisted on practicing upon him before every sexual encounter; brutishly wrenching his limbs and fingers, clumsily corkscrewing his neck. For days afterward, Chaz would gulp Advils like popcorn.
That was Medea. She couldn’t have sounded any happier to receive his phone call.
When she arrived at the house, Chaz was waiting at the door with the bottle of wine and a world-class boner.
Joey’s memories of her family had lost detail over time, but in her mind she carried an indelible image of her parents arm in arm and smiling. That was how they appeared in most of the photographs she had saved—a close, contented couple. She remembered constant laughter in the house; her mother, in particular, found abundant humor in everyday life. Such an outlook must have been useful for operating a casino, a factory of human folly.
Now Joey imagined Hank and Lana Wheeler looking down from heaven and whimsically wondering if their only daughter had gone off the deep end. There was no denying the comedy of her predicament—hiding under the bed while her husband was trying to line up a hot date.
“Have I got a surprise for you,” Chaz was saying into the phone.
Apparently the unflushed toilet had not alerted him to the presence of a hostile intruder. Joey watched his pale, blue-veined feet pace the carpet. How easy it would be to reach out with the steak knife and spear one of those plump, hairless toes.
“Oh, come on,” Chaz urged, in a tone well familiar to his unseen spouse. “We’ll talk when you get here. I’ll make it all better.”
Joey studying her husband’s toenails, hoping that some exotic swamp rot from the Everglades was pullulating invisibly beneath them.
“Not tonight. Please?” Chaz, turning it on. “Don’t do this to me.”
Ha! thought Joey. She’s blowing him off.
“Wait, Ricca—if it’s about what happened at lunch? Everything’s back to normal, honey, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Bigger and better than ever, I promise—”
Now Joey had a name to attach to the presence at the other end of the line. Ricca. It rang a bell. Wasn’t that the name of his hairstylist? Mrs. Charles Perrone idly flexed her fingers around the wooden handle of the steak knife.
“Shit,” Chaz muttered, Ricca evidently having hung up on him. The box spring squeaked as he sat down heavily on the bed.
Sulking, Joey surmised. She eyed his bony pink ankles with their faint circumscribed tan lines. One bare heel displayed a nasty blister, the result of an ill-fitting golf shoe. The blister looked raw and quite painful, Joey thought, absently testing the point of the blade against her thumbnail.
There had been an earlier opening to make a break, a ten-minute window of opportunity when Chaz was in the shower and his male houseguest—the one with the elephant footsteps—had clomped into the guest room. For an instant Joey had considered slipping away; crawling from beneath the bed and darting out the back door. That would have been the wise move, and she’d seriously thought about it. But, then, when would she get another chance to observe her cheating, murderous husband at play?
She heard a sequence of beeps on the telephone keypad; Chaz punching in a new number.
“Medea?” he said.
Joey thinking: Oh, this ought to be rich.
“What’re you doing tonight, hon?” he asked. “Wanna come over and listen to some music? Yeah . . . my place.”
My place? Joey felt her jaws start to grind. She observed that Chaz was unconsciously tapping his feet; the bastard, feeling cocky again.
“Here’s the address,” he was saying. “Got a pencil?”
Joey listened intently as he dressed and groomed. She knew the whole sound track of his routine: the brisk uncapping of his stick deodorant, the soft rotary whine of the nose-hair clippers, the rhythmic plucking of floss through molars, the plangent yodel of his gargling.
Realizing what lay ahead, Joey should have felt trapped, if not panicky, for she truly had no desire to hear her husband heaving and snorting on top of another woman. Yet she remained strangely calm and anticipatory. Wouldn’t it be the ideal
occasion on which to return her wedding band, which she’d been carrying around like a bad penny since Mick Stranahan had rescued her? The timing of such a symbolic gesture would be critical, as Joey hoped for the ultimate effect upon Chaz Perrone and his visitor.
Whose name, it turned out, actually was Medea.
Joey heard her husband open the front door, a bit of cordial chatter in the living room, the pop of a cork. Then came the music—Celtic folk ballads, of all things, irrefutable proof of Chaz’s wanton desperation.
It took him less than fifteen minutes to draw Medea to the bedroom. Scented candles and sticks of incense were lit, Joey forced to swallow a sneeze. As Medea fluttered about, preparing the love chamber, Joey appraised what little she could see—a gold ankle bracelet with a turquoise charm; a rudimentary tattoo of a rose; toenails glossed lavender; feet well tanned, though not dainty.
“I brought something,” Medea said to Chaz, and within moments their clothes began hitting the floor in separate piles. Joey stole a peek at the tag in the peasant-style dress (size 10) and wondered if the woman was as tall as she was.
When Chaz dropped his pants, Medea said, “Well, hello there!”
“I told you we missed you.” Chaz, insufferably pleased with himself.
“Here.” Medea, patting the bed. “Let me give you a rub.”
“That’s okay. I’m plenty relaxed enough.”
“Now, don’t argue. Momma knows best.”
Joey covered her mouth to keep from laughing.
“But I’m already ready,” Chaz said impatiently.
“And you’ll still be ready when we’re done flexing,” Medea told him, “and I’ll be ready, too. Now be a good little soldier and lie down while I warm up the oil.”
“Honey, please. These sheets are a hundred percent silk.”
“Oh hush.”
As Chaz stretched out, the springs of the bed emitted sparrow-like peeps. Nervously Joey wondered how much Medea weighed; her calves hadn’t looked chubby, but that was no guarantee. And what about that large stranger in the house? Joey hadn’t been able to hear what he and Chaz were discussing earlier in the kitchen, but she couldn’t rule out the possibility that her husband was acting upon his long-cherished fantasy of arranging a threesome.
What a pitiful irony, Joey thought, if the bed collapsed and I was crushed to death by an orgy.
“Wow,” she heard Medea say.
“Yeah,” Chaz agreed proudly.
“Is that normal?”
“Tell me you’re not complaining.”
“No, it’s just . . .” Medea began, sounding hesitant. “I don’t remember it being quite so—”
“Happy.”
“Yeah, boy.”
Chaz must be in hog heaven, Joey thought. He could chat about his penis all night long.
Joey cringed as Medea climbed on the bed, but there was no seismic aftermath. The conversation abated for a minute or two, then suddenly Chaz yipped in pain. “Geez, you’re killing me!”
“Why so tense?” Medea, in the sedated tone of a yoga instructor. “Tell me what’s the trouble, sweetheart.”
“It feels like you’re trying to unscrew my feet. Can’t we just skip this part?”
“Not our limbering-up exercises. No, baby.”
Joey regretted that her supine alignment afforded no view of the mirror on the bedroom wall.
“There’s only one part of me that needs exercising,” Chaz was saying, “or else it’s gonna explode.”
“Okay, okay. Chill out.”
Communications between Chaz and Medea became less verbal, and soon the commotion above Joey attained a familiar martial rhythm. Whatever jealousy or revulsion she might have felt soon was displaced by concern for her own safety. As Chaz’s exertions grew more forceful, Joey braced her palms and knees against the cross slats of the bed frame. From experience she expected this part of the proceeding to last between ten and twenty minutes, depending on how much wine her husband had consumed. Joey shut her eyes and tried not to visualize what was taking place an arm’s length away. Her plan required clearheaded calculation. She intended to wait until Chaz was on the verge of climax before making her surprise entrance, the cue being a low lupine growl that always preceded his seminal moment.
A melody, gaseous and discordant, rose from the bed and wafted through the room—Medea was humming, with Chaz’s grimly delivered grunts providing the percussion. Was it some sort of weird tantric mantra, Joey wondered, or merely an off-key rendering of an intrinsically awful song?
Suddenly she heard her husband gasp. “Christ, why can’t I feel anything?”
Medea interrupted her humming. “Huh?”
“I said I can’t feel a damn thing!” Chaz, panting furiously.
“Don’t you dare stop now. Come on, sweetheart.”
The bed springs creaked dolorously as he pulled away. Joey couldn’t imagine what might be wrong—once her husband got going, nothing short of a thermonuclear event would prevent him from finishing.
“I’m numb,” he said.
“Aw, it’s just fine. Come on,” Medea implored.
“Fine for you maybe.”
“Here, sweetheart, let me help—”
“No! Don’t!”
“For heaven’s sakes.” Serene Medea was beginning to sound annoyed.
Joey heard a muted thump and found herself staring at Chaz’s bare legs; he’d taken the radical step of vacating the bed.
“What perfume is that?” he demanded of Medea.
“I’m not wearing any. It’s the oil, or maybe the huckleberry candles.”
“It’s not a goddamn candle. I smell perfume,” Chaz declared. “The exact same stuff my wife used to wear.”
A glacial silence, then: “Your wife?”
“Late wife,” Chaz amended hastily.
“How come you never mentioned you were married?”
Joey found herself rooting for Medea. Tell her the truth, you coward.
“It’s a very painful memory,” he said.
“When did she pass away, Chaz?”
A different sort of silence followed, as uncomfortable as the first. Joey longed to see his expression.
He said, “I’d rather not get into it. Too depressing.”
“Obviously not that depressing,” Medea remarked caustically. “I see you’re still ready for action.”
“Yeah, well, he’s got a mind of his own.”
Medea sounded unamused. “Like I said, I don’t wear perfume. Whatever you’re smelling is in your imagination.”
It’s Chanel, Joey almost whispered.
Before leaving the island, she had innocently dabbed a fleck behind each ear. It was significant that Chaz had sniffed out her scent amid the putridly sweet fumes from Medea’s traveling head shop.
“Look, I gotta go,” Medea said abruptly.
“No, let’s try again.”
“I’m not liking the vibes here, Chaz.”
“Wait a sec. Now hold on. Please?”
The despair in Chaz’s tone was genuine. Hearing him get shut out was almost as good as a wedding-ring ambush, which Joey decided to postpone out of sympathy for Medea.
Who was now out of bed, briskly gathering up her candles and oils.
“You can’t go. You can’t,” Chaz was saying. “Just look at me!”
“Very impressive. You should get it bronzed.”
“You want to take a bath? We could try it in the bath.” He blocked her into a corner, his toes nearly touching hers.
“Chaz, I said no.”
“Hey, come on. Don’t be like this.”
Joey heard a guttural exclamation that elongated into a slow pleasureless moan.
“Stop!” Chaz blurted finally.
“You sure don’t listen very good,” Medea said.
“You’re—really—hurting—me!”
“In reflexology school they gave us special exercises to make our hands strong. Can you tell?”
“Oh my God,” said
Chaz.
“I bet I could snap it like a bread stick.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my wife. I’m sorry for everything.”
“Now, don’t get all mushy on me,” Medea said.
“You gotta stop. Those fingernails . . .”
“They’ve gotten long, haven’t they?”
“I’m begging you. I’m begging,” Chaz said.
Joey was enjoying herself. She liked the girl’s style.
“I’ll let go now,” Medea was saying, “but if you so much as wiggle that thing in my direction before I get out the door, I’ll damage you so badly that you’ll never have a sexual experience again. Not even with yourself. Understand?”
“Yes. Ouch! Yes!”
They dressed wordlessly. Joey could envision the dazed, whipped-puppy look in her husband’s eyes; she had seen it herself, that time she’d decked him for calling her a crude name.
“Well, good-bye,” Medea said, poised at the doorway. Joey noticed that she was wearing hemp flip-flops.
“Sorry about tonight. Honestly,” Chaz said. “Can I call you again?”
“Are you fucking serious?”
It was then the floor quaked beneath Joey, as if a refrigerator had been dropped from the roof. A wail of inhuman duration swelled up from elsewhere in the house.
“Oh Christ,” Chaz said weakly. “What now?”
Medea was already running by the time Chaz found whatever he was fumbling for in the drawer of the nightstand. Joey Perrone waited to hear him jog down the hall before she scooted from beneath the bed and peeked around the corner. The steak knife felt flimsy and ridiculous in her hand, but she didn’t dare put it down.
The shades were drawn on all but one of the bedroom windows.
Mick Stranahan looked inside the house and was discouraged by what he saw: a prodigiously heavyset man, stark naked and swilling from a jumbo bottle of Mountain Dew. Initially, Stranahan thought the man was wearing a tatty sweater, but on closer scrutiny it appeared to be an astounding cultivation of upper body hair. The man sat alone, watching country-music videos on television; no sign of Charles Perrone, the frizzy-haired woman or Joey. Stranahan ducked below the window and pondered his bleak options. A confrontation with the mountainous stranger seemed unavoidable if Stranahan intended to search the house.