We chatted a bit, but I watched my consumption of scotch, in the event I had to rise to the occasion. I can’t do it when I’m loaded, which is frustrating because that’s usually when I want to do it the most. Alcohol is a cruel drug.
I said, “Look, I asked you up here to cover myself with those two goons. Understand?”
“I think so. Do you want me to fake orgasmic noises, then leave?”
“Well . . . no. I enjoy your company. But . . . I just wanted you to know why I invited you here.”
“So now I know. Do you know why I accepted the invitation?”
“You find me interesting.”
“That’s right. Very interesting. Intriguing. You intrigue me.”
“Well, that’s good news. You may not believe this, but I used to be dull.”
“That’s not possible.’’ She smiled. “When was that?”
“Oh, back in March, April. I was really dull. That’s why my wife left me.”
“You said you didn’t know anything about that.”
“Well, I haven’t been home in a few days. Maybe I should call my answering service.”
But I didn’t. We talked about this and that, bantered and teased, but we never talked about Frank Bellarosa. However, it occurred to me that there was more than one way to put a knife into his heart. I mean, I could use this woman as a conduit to the news media. I could remain anonymous, and she would vouch for the reliability of her source. I could feed the media all sorts of things that could put Frank Bellarosa into jail or into the grave. And that would take me off the hook for the perjured alibi, and Bellarosa would be out of my life. I mention this because it did cross my mind. I guess I had been hanging around Bellarosa too long. But I was determined not to let my life become obsessed with vendetta the way his was. Whatever he had done to me, he had to live with it, and perhaps one day, he would answer for it.
Vengeance is Mine, saith the Lord.
So I dismissed my thoughts of revenge (for the moment) and got back to the business at hand. I said to Jenny Alvarez, “There’s no payoff, you know. I mean, even if you spend the night, I’m not telling you anything.”
“I told you I’m here because I want to be with you. I don’t really give sex for stories and you don’t really proposition women who need something from you. That was a game downstairs.”
“And it’s another game up here. And I’m out of practice.”
“You’re doing fine. I’m still interested. By the way, did you see yourself on TV?”
“Sure did.”
“Your hair was messy.”
“I know. And my tie looked the wrong color, but it wasn’t. I can show you the tie.”
“Oh, I believe you. That happens on TV sometimes.”
The phone rang, but I didn’t answer it. Jenny made a call to her studio and told them she was through for the night. I had a club soda, and she had another scotch. We both kicked our shoes off at some point. There was a TV in the bedroom and we watched her news show at eleven. The Bellarosa story got a minute, mostly reports about the published stories in the newspapers, including my press statements. Ferragamo, who was good at the ten-second sound bite, said, “We are investigating Mr. Bellarosa’s alibi for the day in question, and if we find evidence that contradicts that alibi, we will ask that bail be rescinded, and we will take Mr. Bellarosa into custody again, and we will consider action against the individual who supplied the alibi.”
Ten seconds on the head. The man was a pro.
Ms. Alvarez inquired, “He means you, doesn’t he?”
I replied, “I think so.”
“What sort of action? What can they do to you?”
“Nothing. I was telling the truth.”
“So the five other witnesses were lying? No, don’t answer. No business. It’s a habit. Sorry.’’ She seemed lost in thought, then blurted out, “But it just doesn’t make
sense
, John.”
“Does it make sense that Frank Bellarosa would commit murder in broad daylight?”
“No, but . . . you’re sure you saw him?”
“Is this on the record?”
“No, off the record.”
“Okay . . . I’m positive it was him.”
She smiled. “If you’re going to keep talking business, I’m leaving.”
“My apologies.”
The sports came on, and I was delighted to discover that the Mets trounced Montreal again, nine to three. “They’re going all the way,’’ I said.
“Maybe. But the Yankees will take the first four of the Series.”
“The Yankees? They’re lucky if they finish the season.”
“Baloney,’’ she said. “Have you
seen
the Yankees this year?”
“There’s nothing to see.”
We discussed this for a few minutes, and though I could tell she was knowledgeable, it was obvious that she was very biased. I explained, “They don’t have one long-ball hitter on the team.”
“Pitching is the name of the game today, buddy, and the Yankees have real depth in the bullpen.”
This was very frustrating. I tried to explain the facts of baseball life to her, but she said, “Look, I can get us into the press box at Yankee Stadium. You come and see the Yankees play, then we can discuss this intelligently.”
“I wouldn’t go to the Bronx if you paid me. But I’ll watch a Yankee game with you on TV.”
“Good. I want you to watch them against Detroit next week.”
Well, anyway, it was a good night, and we had fun, and the next morning I felt a little better than I had the morning before.
Capisce?