Dating Dead Men (29 page)

chapter thirty-nine

“I
t was dangerous for you to know my name. I knew early on that if things got dicey—” He stopped pacing the shop floor and came over to me. “Here, let me do that.”

“No. Go away.” I stood on a ladder, unwinding a string of icicle lights from the ficus tree. I would not look directly at him. Many people clean up well, but there are men truly transformed by a suit. Thomas Flynn was one, even with jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled up.

“Go away,” I repeated.

He didn't go away. He stood below me, the top of his head even with my bruised rib cage. He said, “If someone questioned you, and you didn't even have my name right, they'd be less likely to pump you for information. I did it to give you credibility.”

“As what, a dumb blonde? You can let go of the ladder, I won't fall, I'm three feet off the ground.” He let his hand drop, but stayed where he was, so close I could smell the menthol shaving cream he used. “And when did you plan on telling me your name? Ever?”

He transferred Margaret to his other shoulder and looked up. “Before I asked you to marry me, at least. That would only be fair. Of course, now that Ruby's talking, it was just a matter of time before—whoa. Watch it there.” His hand returned to the ladder.

“Marry? What is that, a proposal? Are you
kidding
me?”

“I didn't mean to make you mad. Let's back up a minute.”

“You're not kidding? You're serious?” I stared openly at him now.

“You don't need to say yes or no right away. We'll date first.”

“Are you on drugs?” Blood seemed to have rushed to my head. “You come in here, you tell me, in the most patronizing way, that yes, you've been lying to me since the day we—”

“If you're going to yell, I wish you'd get off the ladder, you're scaring Margaret.”

She did look scared. She quivered in his arms and blinked at me. He spoke calmly. “I'm not on drugs, Mr. Gomez is. Valacyclovir. But let's do this in order.” From his shirt pocket he pulled a tattered piece of paper. “For the record, I never actually lied. You made an assumption about my name that I didn't correct—a small distinction, but I thought it might matter. On that note: number one, A Good Name.” He looked up. “Tommy Flynn. Not distinctive, but probably not objectionable, unless you have a problem with the Irish.”

“My God. That's—where did you get that?” I reached for the List. He stepped back.

“Number two, Not a Convicted Felon. Okay, I screwed up there. I took money from my students, stuck it in a joint checking account, didn't bother getting permission slips signed, all kinds of irresponsible behavior. Did the crime, did the time, got a loan, paid everyone back with interest, apologized profusely, so I assume you'll give me credit, generous girl that you are. Next, No STDs. I'm fine, but Mr. Gomez seems to have herpes, judging by the prescription pinned to the inside of his bar mitzvah suit. But since you're just now finding this out, I'd like to know what you were thinking, having unprotected sex with me three nights ago.”

“Look! Just—”

“Sorry, was that patronizing? Four, Has Car. Bought it yesterday—preowned Acura, four years, thirty thousand miles. Five, Has Job.” He looked up. “Now this is interesting. High schools share your antifelon bias, so I'm now forced to work in the movie industry, a mechanical engineer for a special effects company at two and a half times my former salary. Six, Not Homeless. Modest bungalow in Los Feliz, three bedroom, we move in the first of the month, you'll like it. Seven, Five-nine or Above. No help there. Eight, Good Shoes.” He displayed one black loafer. “Ferragamo.”

“Look, Doc—Gomez—Flynn—”

“Call me Tommy. Nine, No Pets. Oh, well. Ten, No Smoking. I quit ninety-seven hours ago; that's probably why I've seemed stressed out lately. Eleven, No Guns. The Weasel stole it, so that takes care of that. Twelve—”

I stepped off the ladder and advanced toward him. “All right already.”

“Well Hung.” He backed up. “One of the few things you already—”

“
Okay!
Let's just—”

“—know about me, so we'll let you be the judge. No points on numbers seven and nine, so depending on which way you go with two and twelve, I score from sixty-six point six percent to eighty-three point three.” He handed me the List, followed by Margaret. “Not a brilliant score, but let's look at yours.” From his pants pocket, he produced what looked to be a grocery receipt. “I've got three items. Number one: Law-abiding. Sorry. You're harboring a ferret; they're illegal in California.”

“They're what?”

“Number two: Sees her body as a temple. You drink a lot of coffee.”

“So do you.”

“This is my list, not yours. I also found artificial sweeteners in your cupboard. Along with a dried milklike substance—whitener, it's called. Hard to cope with one's soul mate drinking whitener. Number three: Good driver.” He looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Enough said.” He crumpled the piece of paper and tossed it across the room. It landed perfectly in an open trash bag. He leaned back against the counter and loosened his tie.

I caught myself folding my own list into a very small rectangle. I crossed the room and settled myself amid the pile of giveaway items, with my back to him. I pulled out a big black trash bag from an industrial-size roll, and started piling stuff in. Margaret climbed up my shoulder. “So what did you do with the suit?” I asked. “The bar mitzvah suit.” That had been my stupidest moment, finding the dry-cleaning receipt in my car and not realizing poor Gomez's name had been borrowed, along with his suit.

“Returned it to the cleaners from whence it came,” he said. “Ask me more.”

Margaret nuzzled my neck, wrapped around it like a mink collar. “Ruby seems to think I should open another store,” I said. “It's not going to happen. I loved this shop. It was the only place I ever—” I stopped, suddenly unsure what I'd been about to say.

“Wollie, you can cry over it if you want, but this place was nothing, it was a canvas. You're the artist. What you've got, you take with you. If you want to start again somewhere else, you can. If not, don't. Anything else you want to ask me?”

I couldn't look at him. I stuffed a Styrofoam Frosty the Snowman into the trash bag. Would Goodwill even want it? “You do realize you can't remarry in the Catholic Church, not until your current wife dies?”

It was a long time before he answered. “I can live without the Pope's blessing. I'm not sure I can live without you.”

I turned around.

Empty of furnishings, the room echoed with the ticking of the Minnie Mouse clock, so loud she seemed in danger of a heart attack. I was able to look at Tommy Flynn now. I took him in piece by piece, as if I were going to draw him. His shirt was white, the rest of him so dark, he made me think of a fallen angel. Black Irish, it was called. I could see the altar boy he'd been some thirty years before. I wondered what he'd look like in another thirty years.

Oh, what the heck, I thought.

I decided to find out.

acknowledgments

It took me a long time to write this book, due to interesting day jobs and a dawdling nature—so long that the list of those who helped me out along the way is also . . . long. It took so long that several people actually died waiting for it and several others were born (to me). To the former, I apologize for not writing faster; to the latter, for typing while breast-feeding.

Thanks to my teachers, Claire Carmichael, Jim Krusoe, Phyllis Gebauer, Karen Joy Fowler, Michael Levin, Tony Barsha, and Robert Crais; my family, especially Ann Kozak, John Kozak, Mary Coen, Pete Kozak, Joe Kozak, Ruggero J. Aldisert, Andy Goodman, Jona Turner, Dory Goodman, Lisa Aldisert, Leah Goodman, Julia Coen, Susannah Coen, Ruth Goodman, Dianne Kozak, Andrew Kozak, Tony Kozak, Beth Karish, Agatha Aldisert, Rob and Jenny Aldisert, Batt Johnson, Sandy Brophy, and Alessandra Brophy; my partners in crime, Mike Milligan, Mike Tennesen, John Snibbe, Jamie Diamond, Abigail Jones, Sherry Halperin, Susan Jaques, Harry and Susan Squires, David B. Carren, Bob Shayne, Jonathan Beggs, JoAnn Senger, Roger Angle, John Shepphird, Linda Burrows, Kirsten Dahl, Celia Chapman, Tori Hartman, Nathan Walpow, and Gregg Andrew Hurwitz; the home team, Julie Renick, Nelly Valladares, Catrina Boca, Susanna Crumrine, Jessica Novak, Laura Lemon, Stefanie Pinneo, Molly Haldeman, and Uli Buchta; the professionals, Neil Genda, Det. Paul Bishop, Dr. Barry Fisher, Dr. Barry Schoer, Dr. Pam Boyer, Gregory W. Avale, Ivan Eafon, the Wildlife Way Station, the Pittsburgh Coroner's Office, Steven & Co. Jewelers, Sanctuary Psychiatric Centers of Santa Barbara, and the former Camarillo State Mental Hospital; those fifty-some blind dates (you know who you are); the generous Kelly Link; my friends Sharon Samek, Dr. Tara Fields, Griffin Dunne, Gavin Polone, Tanino Privitera, Carolyn Clark Shoemaker, Tany'á Wells, Dr. Stan Passy, Kate and Paul Cirzan, Meghann Haldeman, Ed Steinbrecher, Andy Parks, Josh Young, Victoria Vanderbilt, Denise Fondo, Allyson Adams, Dan Proett, Hawk Koch, Chuck Lascheid, Cynthia Tarr, Wendy Tigerman, Gary Tigerman, Icel Dobell, Dan Reinehr, JoBeth Gutgsell, Doug Rohrer, Linda Silver, Rob Nau, Jonathan Levin, the Meano Man, Ron Fujikawa, Dylan Sellers, George and Millie Nikopoulos, Laurie Hudson, Patty Flournoy, Heike Knorz, Kim Stanwood, JJ Harris, Robin Lyn, Jackie Caine, Bo and Sita Lozoff, Elizabeth Dickey, Michael States, Emanuele Portolese, Rick Rose, Jeanne Rains, Hanna Elias, E. Mike Dobbins, Jane Gideon, Christina Panis, T. Jefferson Parker, and Monica, Angel 231; my agent, Renee Zuckerbrot; my editors, Stacy Creamer and Beth Buschman-Kelly; my attorney, Jason Baruch; my other agent, Amy Schiffman; Carol Topping; the ones who couldn't wait around, including Robert Stein, Rosalind Neroni, and Mom; the inimitable Bobby Goodman; Jinn and Fez, April, Eddie, and Rice; and the four who are my whole world: Greg, Audrey, Lorenzo, and Gianna.

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DOUBLEDAY and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kozak, Harley Jane, 1957–
Dating dead men / Harley Jane Kozak.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Women artists—Fiction.         2. Commercial artists—Fiction.
3. Greeting cards industry—Fiction.         I. Title
PS3611.O75D37 2004
813'.6—dc21
2003046236

Copyright © 2004 by Harley Jane Kozak

All Rights Reserved

eISBN: 978-0-385-51253-4

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