The Wild Zone (15 page)

Who’s using
whom
? she heard Dave correct.

Suzy groaned, long and loud.

Yes, she could do it, she decided in that instant, opening the car window and breathing in the rush of warm, humid air. She could use Jeff, use Tom, use Will—hell, she’d use all three, if necessary—to help rid her of Dave. She pulled away from the curb, speeding down the street in the direction of I-95.

Only two questions remained: when, and how?

“
OKAY, NORA. ONE
leg in front of the other, not so far apart, that’s right. Keep your back straight. Good. Now, squat. Ten each side.”

“I hate squats.”

“I know,” Jeff said, looking toward the clock on the wall opposite the mirrors. It was almost four o’clock. Was Suzy still with Will in his apartment? Had anything happened between them?

“They don’t do any good,” Nora Stuart whined.

Another five minutes and she’ll be out of my hair, Jeff thought, praying for patience. Nora was one of his least favorite clients, a pear-shaped harridan, always complaining about something: the room was too warm, the music too vulgar, the exercises too tough.

“Trust me, squats are the best thing for your glutes,” he said, picturing Suzy standing beside the reception desk, remembering the way she’d looked at him in the bakery.

You think I’m here because of you?
she’d asked.

Damn right he did. He knew enough about women to know when they were interested. Suzy was definitely interested. And no matter what she said, or how much she protested otherwise, it wasn’t in Will.

Nora Stuart rolled her heavily shadowed brown eyes toward the ceiling, her large, red lips stretching toward her chin in a pronounced frown. Her unnaturally black hair hung limply past her rounded shoulders, making her look every one of her forty-three years. “If squats are so damn good for you, how come my ass is still two feet off the ground?”

“That’s a foot higher than it used to be,” Jeff said, hoping for a laugh.

“Is that supposed to be funny?” Nora asked instead, hands on her wide hips. “Larry, I think I’ve just been insulted.” Her tone made it difficult to determine whether or not she was joking. Kidding on the square, his sister used to call that.

Larry glanced over from his position on the other side of the room, where he was loading four twenty-pound steel plates onto a hundred-pound bar. He pulled his iPod out of his ear. “Sorry. Is there a problem?”

“I don’t know,” Nora said, looking at Jeff. “Is there?”

“What say we skip the squats for today?” Jeff said.

“Good idea. Squats don’t do squat.” Nora laughed at her own joke.

She was still chuckling as Jeff threw a mat across the floor and instructed her to lie on her back.

“What? That’s it? You’re going to stretch me out already?” Nora asked. “We’re done?”

“It’s four o’clock.”

“So? We didn’t start till ten after three.”

“That’s because you were ten minutes late.”

“I told you—that couldn’t be helped.”

“I understand, but I have another client waiting.” Jeff nodded toward Jonathan Kessler, already warming up on the treadmill.

“I pay a lot of money for these sessions.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“Is there a problem?” Larry asked again, ambling toward them.

“I’d like to make a change,” Nora told him. “Starting next week, I’d prefer if you were my trainer.”

Larry looked from Nora to Jeff and then back to Nora. “Did something happen?”

“Just not a good fit,” Nora said.

Larry nodded, as if he understood, and smiled. “Talk to Melissa. She has my schedule. I’m sure we can work something out.” When he looked back at Jeff, his smile was gone. “We’ll talk later,” he said.

FIFTEEN

“Y
OU
WANT TO TALK
about it?” Kristin asked, leaning across the bar, her impressive cleavage on full display. A bountiful bosom, a sympathetic ear—normally a winning combination, guaranteed to produce a generous tip. Yet the middle-aged man sitting on the stool at the far end of the bar, nursing his glass of single-malt, seemed curiously unimpressed.

“Hmm?” he replied without looking up. He was pasty skinned, balding, and perspiring into his pale blue shirt. He’d been sitting at the bar for the better part of an hour, his pale jowls sinking despondently into the palms of his nervous hands.

“Thought you might like that drink freshened,” Kristin said.

“Good idea.” He handed over his glass without lifting his head.

“Any particular preference?”

“Whatever,” the man said.

Kristin retrieved a bottle of Canadian Club from its glass shelf and poured the man another drink, giving him a slightly more generous serving than required. Poor guy, she was thinking. He looks like he could use it. She filled a bowl with peanuts and pushed it toward him. “Everything okay?”

The man looked from the bowl of peanuts to the fake Rolex on his wrist. “What time do you have?”

Kristin checked her watch, an old Bulova she’d been wearing for more than a decade. “Five after six.”

“That’s what I’ve got.”

“Somebody’s late?”

“Somebody’s been stood up,” he said, his eyes reaching toward hers.

Kristin gave the man her most sympathetic frown. “What time were you supposed to meet her?”

“Five thirty.”

“Well, she’s not that late. Maybe she got stuck in traffic. Or maybe she’s having trouble finding a place to park.”

“Or maybe she’s not coming,” the man said.

“Have you tried calling her?”

“I’ve left three messages.”

The front door opened and a gorgeous woman with long red hair walked inside. She was about thirty, tall and willowy, wearing black satin shorts and thigh-high, black leather boots. “Is that her?” Kristin whispered, trying not to sound too surprised.

“God, I hope so,” the man said, sucking in his stomach and preparing to stand up when the front door opened again, and a curly-haired man with slim hips and a sly smirk ambled inside, slid his arm around the redhead’s waist, and kissed her full on the mouth. They were laughing as they walked—seemingly joined at the hip—to a table near the back of the room. “Guess that wasn’t her,” the man said, sitting back down, letting his stomach relax over the top of his gray slacks.

“You don’t know what she looks like?”

“We met on the Internet,” the man admitted. “Her name’s Janet. We’ve been exchanging e-mails for months. This was supposed to be our first date.”

“She might still show up.”

“Nah. She’s not coming. I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” Kristin said. Yeah, you are, she thought. “What’s your name?”

“Mike.” He tried to smile. “She calls me Mikey.”

Kristin looked toward the entrance, willing the front door to open and Janet to walk through, looking for her Mikey. But the door stayed resolutely closed. “I’m sorry,” she said after another minute had passed.

Mike shrugged, as if to say, What are you gonna do?

Half an hour later, the bar was filling up, and Janet still wasn’t there. Kristin poured Mike another glass of whiskey. “On me,” she was about to tell him when the front door opened, and a stylishly dressed, middle-aged woman with frosted hair and tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses walked up to the bar. “Could I have a gin and tonic, please?”

“Your name wouldn’t be Janet by any chance, would it?” Kristin asked hopefully.

“No,” the woman said. “It’s Brenda. Why—do I look like a Janet?”

“Just a little game I sometimes play with myself,” Kristin told her, trying to signal to Mike with her eyes. “One gin and tonic coming up.”

“I’ll be over there.” Brenda pointed to a nearby table.

“So, what do you think?” Kristin asked Mike as soon as Brenda was gone.

“What do I think about what?”

“Brenda,” Kristin stated, pouring several ounces of Beefeater gin into a glass.

“What do you mean?”

Kristin lifted her eyes toward the ceiling. Were men really this dense? “You’re alone. She’s alone. She looks very nice.” She added the appropriate amount of tonic to the clear fluid. “You could take this over to her. . . .”

The man glanced in Brenda’s direction without lifting his head. “Not interested.”

“Why not?”

“Not my type.”

“Why not?” Kristin said again.

“Too old for me.”

“Too old? What are you talking about? How old are you?”

“Forty-six.”

“So? She can’t be more than forty.”

“Too old for me,” he repeated. “Thirty-five’s my limit. Besides, she’s hardly a beauty.” He reached for his glass of whiskey.

Are you kidding me? Kristin demanded silently. Have you looked in the mirror lately? What is it with men? she wondered. Were they innately programmed to see only what they wanted to see? “That’s twelve dollars,” she said, bristling.

Mike pushed a twenty-dollar bill across the counter. “Give me six back,” he told her.

Figures, Kristin thought, counting out six one-dollar bills. And to think I felt sorry for the weasel. She handed Brenda’s gin and tonic to a passing waitress. “Table three.”

“So,” Mike said, raising his glass. “What time do you finish up here?”

“We close at two o’clock.”

“That’s a little late for me. Think you could beg off early?”

“What?”

“I asked if you could leave early.”

“Why would I do that?” Is he coming on to me? Kristin wondered, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. This is what comes from being nice to people, she thought.

“I thought maybe we could grab a late bite somewhere.”

“Sorry. I can’t do that.”

“Another time, maybe?”

“I don’t think my boyfriend would be too happy about that.”

Mike downed his scotch in two quick gulps, then pushed himself away from the bar and stood up. “Yeah, well. Can’t blame a man for trying, can you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Kristin said. “Take care.”

She watched Mike weave his way toward the exit and hoped he had enough brains to take a cab home. She glanced over at Brenda, sipping gingerly on her gin and tonic and staring wistfully at the empty seat on the other side of the table. Nah, she thought. Mike’s brains were all in his pants. Why were men smart enough to rule the world yet too stupid to know what was good for them?

“You handled that very well,” a man’s voice said, breaking into her reveries.

Kristin snapped to attention.

“I guess you get hit on a lot,” the man continued. He was in his late thirties, maybe forty, bookishly handsome in his seersucker suit and navy blue tie. She hadn’t seen him come in, wondered how long he’d been sitting there.

Kristin ignored the remark, which was generally a come-on of its own. “What can I get you?”

“Vodka, rocks.”

“Vodka, rocks, it is.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I didn’t hear one.”

He laughed. “You’re right. It was a guess.”

She handed him his drink. “Then you guessed right. Twelve dollars,” she said. “Unless you want to run a tab.”

He handed her a fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change,” he said.

Kristin pocketed the money before he could realize he’d made a mistake or change his mind. Her expression betrayed no sign of surprise or undue gratitude.

“These clowns really think they have a chance with someone like you?” the man asked.

“Can’t blame a man for trying,” Kristin said, echoing Mike’s words. “Or so I’ve been told.”

The man laughed. “Must get pretty old though.”

“I guess there are worse things.”

“I’m sure there are.”

“Hey, Kristin,” a man at the other end of the bar called out. “Can we get a couple more beers down here?”

“Coming right up. Excuse me,” Kristin said to the man in front of her.

“Take your time. I’ll be right here.”

It was almost ten minutes before she returned. “Rowdy bunch,” she said, laughing over the increasing din from the far end of the bar. “How are you doing with that drink?”

The man held up his glass. “Just about ready for another one.”

“Another vodka, rocks, on the way.”

“Your name’s Kristin?” he asked.

“It is.”

“Pretty name.”

“Thank you.”

“So, tell me, Kristin,” the man said, the name settling comfortably on his tongue. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Kristin groaned silently, although her smile remained steady. She’d been expecting a much better caliber of line than that. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m pretty much grown.”

“Oh, I noticed. You’re very beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Too beautiful to be tending bar.”

“Is this where you hand me your card and tell me you’re a photographer or a modeling scout?”

He laughed. “I’m not a photographer or a modeling scout.”

“Movie producer? Talent agent? TV director?”

“You’ve met them all?”

“Every last one.”

“You meet any doctors?”

“What kind of doctor?”

“Radiologist. Over at Miami General.” He extended his hand. Kristin noted the bruises around his knuckles. “Dave Bigelow,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

JEFF WAS JUST
getting out of the shower when the phone rang. Probably Will, he was thinking as he wrapped a flimsy white towel around his waist and raced toward the phone in the bedroom. Will hadn’t been there when he’d returned home at just past six o’clock. There’d been no note. Probably off somewhere with Suzy, Jeff had thought, deciding he’d been a fool for delivering her right to his brother’s doorstep.
My
doorstep, he thought now, grabbing the phone from the nightstand beside the bed and raising the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”

“Jeff? It’s Ellie. Please don’t hang up.”

Jeff’s chin fell toward his chest. “How are you, Ellie?” He pictured his sister swaying from one foot to the other, her top teeth biting down on her narrow bottom lip, her long slim fingers twisting the cord of the phone’s extension wire, her gray-green eyes already filling with tears. All he’d asked was how she was, and already she was crying.

Ellie swallowed the catch in her voice. “I’m fine. You?”

“Never better.”

“How’s Kirsten?”

“Kristin,” Jeff corrected her.

“Sorry. Of course. Kristin. I’ll have to meet her one of these days.”

Jeff said nothing, his wet hair dripping down his forehead onto his cheeks. He glanced at himself in the mirror over the dresser, thinking it was probably time for a touch-up.

“Will says she’s terrific,” Ellie said.

“Then terrific she must be,” said Jeff sardonically.

“Jeff . . .”

“How are Bob and the kids?”

“They’re good. Taylor’s going to be two in August. I can’t believe you haven’t seen her yet,” she continued when he failed to respond.

“Look, Ellie. You caught me at a really bad time. . . .”

“You have to come home, Jeff,” Ellie pleaded.

“I can’t do that.”

“Our mother is dying,” Ellie told him. “She took a turn for the worse last night. The doctor says she has maybe another week, two at the most.”

“What do you want me to say, Ellie? That I’m sorry? I can’t say that.”

“I want you to say that you’ll come home, that you’ll see her before she dies.”

“I can’t say that either.”

“Why not? Would it be so hard to hear her out?”

“Yes,” Jeff acknowledged. “It would be so hard.”

“She knows what she did was wrong. She just wants to apologize.”

“No. What she wants is forgiveness,” Jeff said. “That’s not the same thing at all.”

“Please, Jeff. She cries all the time. She’s so sorry for everything.”

“It’s easy to be sorry when it’s too late to do anything about it,” Jeff said.

“It doesn’t have to be too late,” Ellie insisted. “Not for you.”

“It was too late a long time ago.” Jeff lowered the phone to the nightstand.

“Jeff, please—” he heard his sister say before he disconnected the call.

He stared at his reflection. “It’s way too late,” he said.

“
NICE TO MEET
you, Dr. Dave Bigelow,” Kristin said, shaking the man’s hand.

“You can call me Dr. Bigelow,” he joked, and Kristin obliged him with a smile.

“So what exactly does a radiologist do at Miami General?” she asked.

“He reads X-rays, makes diagnoses, heals the sick, cures the afflicted, performs miracles on a regular basis.”

“Sort of like what I do here.”

“More or less,” Dave said, and laughed. “Have you worked here long?”

“Since it opened. About a year, I guess. This your first time in the Wild Zone?”

“It is. I just moved here a few months ago. Just starting to feel my way around.”

“Where are you from?” Kristin asked.

“Phoenix, originally. More recently, Fort Myers.”

“Really? I just met someone from Fort Myers. Suzy somebody. You know her?” She laughed.

“I might. I actually used to know a Suzy. And Fort Myers isn’t that big a place. You know her last name?”

Kristin shook her head. “I don’t think she told me.”

“What’s she look like?”

Kristin pictured the door to her apartment opening and Jeff ushering the young woman inside. “Pretty, dark hair, pale complexion,” she rattled off. “Very thin.”

“Doesn’t sound familiar. She come in a lot?”

“No. Just a few times.” She wondered what, if anything, had happened between Suzy and Will. By the time she’d returned to the apartment to get ready for work, no one was there.

“You ever go to a movie together?” Dave was asking.

“What?”

“The Suzy I knew in Fort Myers loved movies.”

Kristin nodded. “I love movies, too. Not that I get to see too many of them, what with the hours I work.”

“Somebody told me there’s a movie theater nearby that’s open all night.”

“Oh, yeah. The Rivoli. It’s great. One of those really old-fashioned movie houses. One screen, actual curtains, no stadium seating, great popcorn. You should go.”