"I did," Chip said with a solemn expression. "I'm sure McCabe did too," Chip said, glancing at him.
McCabe had never seen Chip intimidated by anyone. He'd been cocky and overconfident till his dad showed up, and now he was a different person, nervous and unsure of himself.
There was a group of students standing at the entrance as the Maybach pulled up, students glancing over to see what visiting dignitary had arrived in this $300,000 car. Chip got out first, approaching the group.
"We're baaack," he said, playing to his audience.
When McCabe got out, he looked over and saw Frank Rady, the dean of students, staring at him from the window of his first-floor office.
McCabe hadn't been in his room ten minutes when the RA, a straight-arrow former student named Mike Fagan, knocked on the door and said Mr Rady wanted to see him ASAP. Now McCabe was sitting across the desk from him, Rady shuffling through papers, keeping him waiting, a pair of reading glasses balanced on the end of his nose.
There was a nameplate on the desktop that said, Frank Rady Dean of Students. McCabe wanted to say, what's that for? In case you forget who you are. There was a pen and a pencil holder and assorted photographs of his family in matching gold frames on his tidy desk. Frank had been a high-school football coach for fifteen years and looked the part: a big, freckle faced guy with a strawberry-blond flat-top. He took off the glasses, leveled his gaze on McCabe.
"I assume you know why you're here."
McCabe didn't say anything.
"Well, let me enlighten you." He picked up a sheet of paper and started to read: "On September 10th you were caught sneaking out of the women's dorm after 2:00 a.m., a strict curfew violation. On October 7th you got in a fight with an
Italian soldier on a 913 bus."
McCabe said, "Guy was smashed, trying to take Celeste Laveccha's clothes off."
"Come on, a little harmless touching? It's the national pastime."
"He was humping her. Does that sound like harmless touching? You talked to Celeste, didn't she tell you what happened?"
"That could've caused an international incident."
"Come on?" McCabe remembered grabbing the soldier, pulling him off Celeste, telling him if he bothered her again he was going to throw him off the bus. That was it, the soldier sat down, kept to himself after that.
"And your latest move, stealing a taxi. What were you planning to do with it? Will you tell me that?"
"I didn't steal it."
"You didn't steal it, huh? That's why you spent five days in prison?"
Rady was dumb, there was no doubt about that, but it was his self-righteous tone that really annoyed McCabe.
"You have any idea how this reflects on the university?"
McCabe could see the maintenance crew trimming trees and cutting grass through the window behind Rady's desk.
"Seen the newspapers? Your story picked up in every one of them."
McCabe said, "You think the fact that a US senator's son was involved might have something to do with it?"
Rady stared at him but didn't say anything.
McCabe said, "Think you're overreacting?"
"Let me try to make it easy for you to understand. Screw up again, your scholarship's done and gone, and you're on a plane back to De-troit. Still think I'm overreacting?" He grinned at McCabe.
McCabe was going to say you can't help yourself, but decided to not say anything, keep his mouth shut for once.
Rady stood up. "I'm going to be watching you, McCabe. One more mistake and you're through."
Chapter Three
Sharon used her maiden name when she went out at night. She sat at the far end of the bar with the windows behind her, looking down the long stretch of granite and wood, studying the guys sitting there, scanning them in slow motion like a movie camera, stopping, holding on a face or passing it quickly, depending how old, interesting or good-looking the guy was.
Sharon had just completed her maintenances, had her hair colored and decided on a new style her hairdresser said was snappy. He said it with a lisp so she believed him, figured he knew what he was talking about and he did. Looking in the mirror when he was finished, she didn't feel "snappy" though, she felt sexy. She'd also had her nails done, a French manicure. She liked the satin finish and the white painted edge on the nail tips. It was classy. It was elegant. Sharon had been married for thirteen years — talk about bad luck — to a man she rarely saw and felt she hardly knew any more. He was out of town three out of four weeks, or more, and when he did come home he was usually stressed out. She'd be sitting at the kitchen table and see his car pull in the driveway and get nervous. She didn't know what kind of mood he'd be in, whether he'd be angry, drunk or what.
Over the years he'd been gone for her birthday, their anniversary — she doubted he even remembered when it was — Christmas, New Years, most national holidays. She'd gotten used to living without him around. Preferred it.
She hadn't had sex with him in nine months. When he was home, Sharon stayed on her side of the queen-size bed, her back to him, hoping he wouldn't touch her — thinking the last few times they'd tried to do it had been disastrous.
When he was home she felt like she was walking on eggshells. They'd have dinner, sitting across the table from each other, eating in silence. She'd say, "Come on, Ray, talk to me. How's the job?"
"Are you making conversation? You really want to know how the job is. Come on…"
"You've got to get out of there," Sharon said.
"I do, I lose my pension, everything I've worked for."
"You don't," Sharon said, "you're going to lose your mind."
"What do you care?"
He was right, she didn't. She'd given up. He was drinking Scotch, Dewar's with ice. "Dewar's-rocks," he'd say when he ordered a drink in a bar. He looked drunk, face puffy, eyes bloodshot. She said, "How many is that?"
"You counting my drinks now?"
"Somebody better." She was trying to remember why she married him. Trying to remember why she'd stayed with him so long-determined to get a divorce every time he left the house. But then changed her mind. Not sure why. It was weird, like he had some strange hold over her.
She lit a cigarette, sipped her wine and looked down the bar. There was a good-looking guy smoking a cigar, talking on his cell phone. He saw her looking at him and smiled. He closed the phone, put it in his pocket, got up with his drink and his cigar and came over to her. He was a big man and she liked big men.
He said, "Know what my horoscope said?"
Sharon said, "You’d fall in love with a mysterious blonde." She’d gone from blonde streaks to full blonde a month earlier and got more attention from men than she ever had in her life. Her mother thought she looked like a $20 hooker. Sharon wondered how her mother knew what hookers charged, but she liked her new look. Had her eyebrows done too, waxed and colored to match her hair. Sharon worked with a girl who dyed her muff with a product called Fun Betty that came in three colors. You could be red down there, brunette or blonde. Sharon thought that was going too far. She didn't care if the carpet and drapes didn't match. No guy she'd been with had ever mentioned it.
He said, "You're close. It said, 'You're starting to design a life for yourself that is truly custom-fit to your proclivities.'"
Proclivities, huh? She wondered if he had any idea what it meant. Sharon hadn't heard a guy use his horoscope as a pickup line in fifteen years. Maybe it was back in style. She said, "You just get a divorce?"
"No, I just met you." He puffed on the cigar and blew a cloud of smoke over the bar top. "Where're my manners?" He held up the cigar, pinched between his thumb and index finger. "This bother you?"
"I like it," Sharon said. "Reminds me of my father and uncles."
He said, "Good, we'll get along great. My name's Joey, by the way. Joey Palermo."