Wiseguys In Love (4 page)

“I'm gonna buy me one of those condos down in Florida. I been working my whole life for this. When my Gino died, God bless, he didn't leave me nothin'. That's when I got my job here. All my life, I been planning for this. I got enough saved for the condo, and I figure, with the pension I got coming, I don't gotta do nothin' for nobody.”

“Do you have children?”

“Naw, Gino and I never did. My sister's got a son, my godson Tony.”

They walked quietly the rest of the way, and Lisa sat down at the desk as Mrs. Morelli tapped on the door. She began proofreading the articles on her desk. After ten minutes, she watched Mrs. Morelli slip out. The older woman gave her a smile and left.

Lisa sat still, feeling a weight lifted off her chest, when she heard Henry's door open.

“Get me Carol Horney on the phone,” he barked at her, and slammed his door again.

Lisa felt her shoulders hunch up and her muscles constrict as she reached for the phone list. He had a phone, she thought, as she looked up the number. Was that too much for him to do himself, dial a damned phone? she thought as she dialed the number. This was one of the many things that had somehow become her job description over the past four years. This and coordinating his laundry pickup and his dates and his rent. At this point, she was more of a personal secretary than an editorial assistant.

“Mr. Henry Foster Morgan on the phone for Ms. Horney,” she said, and waited for her to come on the line.

She connected the calls and hung up, then picked up her red pencil and began proofreading some stupid, inane story Henry had solicited.

Twenty minutes later, Henry sped out of his office, slamming the door behind him.

“I'll be at lunch,” he barked back to her.

She cringed over her desk until he was out of sight.

*   *   *

Henry Foster Morgan had made his way up the publishing ladder the old-fashioned way: His family bought him a job.

At first, Heckett Publishing had him working in their children's book division. In one month, he'd managed to alienate their most successful author so much, he'd switched publishers.

In an effort to keep Henry “working” and soothe the firm's ire, his family had supplied the backing to spruce up a small, floundering magazine called
Scope.

It had a deadly serious social commentary, which was way above anything Henry wanted to deal with. He renamed it and changed the contents to allow himself the flexibility of not really having to show up and do anything at his office. Henry hated working. He hated offices and the people who worked in them. He resented his family's tiresome insistence that he actually pretend to make a living. The fact was that his “salary,” plus anything he could gouge on his expense account, was merely pocket change for his nightly rounds of Manhattan hot spots.

Unaccountably, it had begun to take off.

Smug Magazine
had the same persona as Henry: sloppy, hungovery copy, which cared about nothing and no one. It billed itself as
the
magazine for the “young and useless.”

Pages of glossy pictures of the Buffys, Biffys, Blaines and Ashleys of this world were featured in every issue. But, unlike the serious society pages, with shots of them demurely being led into their coming-out ball, they were shown with straws stuck up their noses at parties, drunk in clubs, caught in bed with their coke dealers or the business partners of their parents. It was taken as “the inside look at the real world of the CHILDREN OF WEALTH,” or COWS, as they were acerbically called by the old
Scope
magazine editors, who hated it.

Henry loved it.

For the first time in his life, he could carouse till six in the morning and say he was “doing research.” He had also been brutally pushing out the old
Scope
magazine staff by making life so unpleasant, most of them had quit. This made him the darling of management, who were saving a fortune on unemployment.

It was now 11:30
A.M.
Henry was sitting in the corner table at his favorite private club. He ordered a Bellini, lit a cigarette, and waited for Carol.

He was ready for her.

He'd hopped over to his health club from the office, after telling his dolt of a secretary, or whatever the hell he'd called the position, that he was leaving.

His head hurt. He hadn't been to sleep for a day or two. He tended to lose track of everything at the end of summer. There were so many events to cover before the fall. But within two hours, he'd had a sauna, a rubdown, gotten a new suit. He was back and he was ready. A waitress set down the champagne glass of Moët and fresh peach juice, and he swallowed it in one gulp.

“More. And bring me a bottle of … Perrier-Jouët, and some osetra.” He winked at the waitress and she flashed a smile at him.

“Aren't you Henry Foster Morgan?” the waitress asked, her eyes wide.

Henry gave her his “embarrassed” smile and nodded.

“Wow.” Her voice shook. “I saw your picture in the paper today.… I read
Smug
every month. It's my favorite magazine.”

“Thank you,” he said, and winked at her.

“Well, if you need anything—” she began.

“I'll let you know.”

He watched her walk away, her high skirt flapping against her ass. Growing up wealthy was fine, but the perks from fame really allowed him to have anything he wanted. He snapped out of it and went back to his cigarette.

Good, a nice bottle of champagne—not the top of the line, but Carol Horney wouldn't know that—a couple of ounces of caviar—not beluga, but she probably wouldn't know that, either, he thought as he watched the waitress appear with a tray. She set down the caviar platter and champagne bucket, then held out the bottle to Henry.

He nodded as he saw Carol across the room. He waved and stood up as she came over.

Carol was a perfect office machine, impeccably dressed for the corporate world. A cluster of fake gold held the collar of her stiff white shirt together tightly right under her chin, totally concealing any skin. Her large boxy jacket covered her torso and her hips, assuring that no hint of breasts or a waist or any female quality was noticeable. A straight skirt was hemmed to a no-nonsense length at her knees, and her shoes were, as always, black pumps. Her pinched nose was straddled by a pair of silver wire glasses that just screamed, This is the head of an accounting department. Dyed blond hair, her only puzzling concession to femininity, was cropped very short on the sides and top, making her long, bony face look even more parched for food and life.

But there was something under that crisp, correct, sexless exterior that no one but Henry knew about.

Given a couple of drinks, Carol Horney was exactly what her name implied.

As she neared, the memory of last year's office Christmas party—and the two of them alone—trickled through Henry. It was the sight of her in the mail room, lying half-naked and spread-eagled across the Xerox machine, her breasts under her half-unbuttoned shirt moving to the rocking gyrations of the machine as it frantically made copies of her back and ass, that came most vividly to mind.

“Carol,” he almost whispered, and held his hand out to her.

“I only came to open the lines of communication on a professional basis between us,” she said in that icy voice.

“I know, I know,” he said, looking as pathetic as he could.

He noticed that she did take his hand.

“What is this?” Her voice cracked as she sat down.

“I just thought—”

“I have work to do. I cannot—”

“You're right.” He slowly raised his hand. “This is a stupid, meaningless way for me to apologize for not having called. I will have them take this away immediately.” He lethargically kept his hand up, then winced, let out a whine of pain, and let the hand drop to the table.

“What's wrong with your arm?” she said harshly.

“Oh no, I don't want to discuss me.”

“We may not be … friends anymore, but I do have human compassion,” she said robotically.

“It's just from helping with my mother. She's quite ill.”

“I saw her picture in the society pages last week. She looked fine.”

“Of course she
looks
fine. Do you think a little thing like the early stages of breast cancer would kept my mother from her fund-raisers? Do you think all those charities give a damn—” He choked bitterly.

Carol Horney took off her glasses.

“Good God, you're serious.”

“I need a drink,” he said softly.

He watched her pour him a glass and then pause. She poured herself a glass.

He had her, just as easily as he had had her on the Xerox machine. Old Carol was as dependable as a ledger.

“It has just been a nightmare, Carol, these last seven months.” His voice was soft and deep as he watched her take a drink of champagne.

By the time lunch came, they had polished off the better part of a second bottle, and Carol had taken off her jacket and undone her collar and was playing footsies under the table.

“Listen, I have an extra invite to the Sonder wedding in East Hampton this weekend.…” Henry slugged back half the glass and looked at Carol's face.

It was wide-eyed.

The Sonder wedding had been front-page news ever since it came out that Mrs. Chase-Upwell, the bride's mother, was having fifty white doves dyed lilac to match the decor. At the crucial “I Do,” they were to be set free over the ceremony. And this was just one “little treat to show my daughter I care.”

“Do you want to go?”

Carol exhaled from her pinched little mouth.

She gulped at the thought. Henry could see Carol's head spin with the names of New York society who undoubtedly would be thrilled to know her.

“Would I want to go?” She laughed.

He leaned forward, putting his lips as close to her ear as he could.

“Just you, me, a limo, and some champagne,” Henry continued. “We'll make a weekend of it.… I'll give you a call Saturday when I've set up a limo.”

It was his; he could feel it. He smiled at her and kept looking at her lips, which she kept licking.

She was just like him under the skin.

Carol rambled on through a huge lunch of carpaccio, salmon en croute, and endive salad, topped off with two desserts. Henry drank his.

He waited until the check came.

“Oh, Carol?” he said, handing the waitress a gold card, “I need a little favor.”

“Anything, Henry. Just you name it.”

“There's a woman in your department I want you to get rid of.”

“Why?”

“I just don't like her,” he oozed.

“Well, who is it?”

“A woman by the name of Morelli.”

For a split second, he thought Carol was going to give him a hard time. Her chin fell just slightly, and he could see her searching through her mind to see whether she could personally identify the woman and whether it was someone she would feel hard-pressed to do without.

The golden carrot of the Sonders' wedding invite suddenly loomed large in her eyes.

“Sure, Henry. Consider it done.”

*   *   *

“Oh no. But what about the party, Andrew?”

“You know how Jerry is about these end-of-the-month reports.”

Lisa pulled the phone away from her ear. She thought seriously about slamming it repeatedly on the desk. She took a deep breath and put the phone back up to her ear.

“I hate that man, Andrew. I hate him.”

“I know, I know, but he's right. The figures are all in the computer system and it's just impossible to get the information and take it with me. My little laptop wouldn't even begin to be able to crunch those numbers.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“Look, honey, why don't you take the car and you can meet me at the train tomorrow. I know Ted and Laurie would love to have just you. I'll call you there tonight and tell you which train I'll be on in the morning, okay?”

“And you're sure you'll make it?”

“What do you mean? Of course I'll be there.”

“You will not let Jerry talk you into another weekend like the last two—”

“Absolutely not. I swear it.”

She looked at her watch. It was 1:40, and she had to get to the conference room for an editorial meeting. She put the phone back to her mouth.

“All right.”

“Honey, I know you're disappointed.”

“Tell Jerry I hope he never gets married and he never has a life.” She could hear his deep voice laughing.

“Wiseguy.… In February. Love you.” Click.

She knew what was going to happen. He was going to call tonight and tell her that he just couldn't make it. And she'd be there, alone again, with his friends, in his old beat-up station wagon.

Maybe she was just being depressed again, but it seemed like things had begun to cool off. And then there were nagging thoughts that hit her—like last week when she and Tom and Lynn had gone out for a drink and there was a man at the bar who kept looking at her and looking at her. And after a couple of drinks, she'd had the thought that she should go over and talk to him.

And then she began to feel guilty about it.

She had thought about Andrew and how she was just not that kind of person and they were just in a tough situation and that everything was going to smooth itself out. All she had to do was hold on and not say or do anything until February. And after that, she'd see what would happen. She'd told herself she shouldn't feel guilty about thinking about picking up some guy in a bar and maybe even taking him home—boy, she was thinking a lot about sex these days. She had really given it a great deal of thought in its absence from her life.

On the other hand, she didn't want to be alone out there.

And as these thoughts were running through her mind, she had watched the guy walk out of the bar.