Chapter 3
Fetish
12:20 P.M., FRIDAY
1 HOUR, 10 MINUTES EARLIER
“Gabby!”
She turned to see the pudgy redheaded man approaching through the aisles of the electronics superstore, near City Hall.
She thought again of her initial impression from a month or so ago, when they’d met. The round thirty-something had farm boy written all over him. A look you didn’t see much in Manhattan. Not that there was anything wrong with this image intrinsically (anything but the hipster look, Gabriela felt); the problem was just that it was too easy to picture him in overalls.
She smiled. “Hi!”
“What’re you doing here?” Frank Walsh asked her, smiling.
He wore a tan Polo shirt, which matched everybody else’s here. His name tag reported, F. Walsh, Computer Fix-It Dept. Manager.
She took his hand, which he turned into a hug.
Gabriela said, “Have a meeting downtown. Thought I’d say hi.”
His face seemed to glow. “No kidding! I was just thinking about you. Wow, Tiffany’s.”
She glanced down at the bag. “Just my comfy shoes.”
“I like the ones you’re wearing,” he whispered, noting the spiky high heels, which elevated her to his height. Stuart Weitzmans. They cost the same as one of the computers on sale at a nearby end cap.
“Try walking to work in them sometime,” she said with a laugh.
On the far wall scores of the same Geico commercial flickered from TV screens large and small.
Frank glanced at his watch. “You free for lunch?”
“No, I have to get back to that meeting. Got time for coffee, though.”
“Deal.”
They went to a Starbucks next door, collected their drinks — she a black coffee, Frank a frothy latte. They sat and chatted, amid the muted grind of blenders and the hiss of the steam device.
Despite appearances, Frank was about as far removed from the farm as could be. “Nerd” was a better descriptive, a word that she would have avoided but he’d said it about himself once or twice so maybe it was politically correct. Computers consumed him. His job here, of course. And he seemed to be an avid participant in online role-playing games; she deduced this from the way he had coyly asked her if she knew certain titles (she’d never played one in her life). Then, looking a bit disappointed, he’d changed the subject and didn’t bring the topic up again, probably embarrassed.
Frank Walsh was a film buff, too; he went to the movies twice a week. This they had in common.
They sipped coffee and chatted. Then he confided with a grimace, “I’ve got the weekend off... but I’ve got to visit my mother.”
“Congratulations. And all my sympathies.”
He laughed.
“She’s on Long Island?” Gabriela recalled.
“Syosset. But I’m back about noon Sunday. There’s a noir festival at the SoHo that starts then. You interested? Sterling Hayden, Ida Lupino, Dan Duryea. The best of the best.”
“Oh, sorry, Frank. Have plans Sunday.”
“Sure.” He didn’t seem particularly disappointed. “Hey, I’m making a mix tape with those songs you liked. Well, mix download. Mention ‘tape’ to a new clerk here and they’re like, ‘Huh?’ ”
“Wow, thanks, Frank.” Though she wondered: Which songs were those? She didn’t listen to much modern music, no pop at all. A lot of classical and jazz. Many old-time crooners and cabaret singers. Sinatra, Count Basie, Nat King Cole, Rosemary Clooney, Denise Darcel. She’d inherited a massive collection of marvelous albums. Hundreds of them, embraced by their beautiful, rich-smelling cardboard jackets. She’d bought a Michell GyroDec turntable a few years ago, a beautiful machine. When she cranked up the volume in her apartment, the sounds it sent to the amplifier were completely pure. Arresting. They stole your soul.
She may have mentioned this to Frank in passing and he’d remembered.
Conversation meandered: to De Niro’s latest film, to Frank’s mother’s health, to Gabriela’s plans to redecorate her Upper West Side apartment.
Then: “Funny you show up today.” Uttered in a certain tone.
“How’s that?”
“I was going to call you later. But here you are. So.”
Gabriela sipped the strong coffee. She lifted an eyebrow toward him pleasantly. Meaning, Go on.
“Ask you something?”
“You bet.”
“Any chance of us?” He swallowed from nerves.
“Us...?” Gabriela wondered if that pronoun was the end of the sentence, though she suspected it was.
Frank filled in anyway: “Dating, more seriously. Oh, hey, I’m not talking about marriage. God. I don’t even think that makes financial sense nowadays. But every time we’ve been out, it’s clicked. I know it’s only a few times. But still.” He took a breath and plunged forward. “Look, I’m not a Ryan Gosling. But I’m working at losing a few pounds, I really am.”
He looked down into his coffee. He’d made a show of using Equal, not sugar, and ordered with 2 percent milk, though Gabriela knew those were not the tools for fighting weight.
She told him, “Women like men for a lot of reasons, not just their looks. And I went out with somebody who was a dead ringer for Ryan Gosling once and he was a complete dick.”
“Yeah?”
“Hey, I like you, Frank. I really do. And, there could be an ‘us.’ I just want to take things real slow. I’ve had some problems in the past. You have too, right?”
“Hey-ay, I’ve been a mistake magnet.” He elaborated on what he’d told her a few weeks ago, about a difficult breakup. She couldn’t quite tell who was the dumpee and who the dumper.
As she listened, she counted sixteen freckles on his face.
“I respect that,” he said seriously.
“What?” Had she missed something?
“That you’re being reasonable. Taking time, thinking about things. And that you didn’t get all weird and run out of here.”
“How can I run? I’m wearing killer high heels.”
“Which’re pretty nice.”
And now that Frank had raised a Serious Topic and the matter had been debated, he dropped it, for which she was infinitely grateful. He rose, pulled three sugar packets out of the tray and returned, spilling the contents into his coffee, then stirring up a whirlpool. Before he sat, though, he whipped his Samsung phone out of its holster.
“Smile.”
“What?”
He aimed the camera lens at her and shot a few pictures, full length, from head to shoe, as she grinned.
Finally he sat, reviewed the pictures. “Some keepers.” Frank then sipped more coffee and looked up at her. “You know, that film festival’s going on all week.”
“Really? I’m free Tuesday if you like.”
“I’m working then—”
“Well—”
“No, if Tuesday works for you, I’ll swap shifts.”
“Really?”
“For you, yeah.”
“That’s really sweet, Frank. Really sweet.” She gave him a breezy smile.
Chapter 4
Fender Bender
1:30 P.M., FRIDAY
3 HOURS, 30 MINUTES EARLIER
The Prius, tinted in Toyota’s wan, innocuous light blue, eased through the winding streets of Bronxville, New York, past mansions nestled in spacious yards of yellowing grass, waning gardens, banks of crisp September leaves.
Accustomed to driving his Maserati, Daniel Reardon didn’t much care for the car, though he hadn’t expected power. It was mostly the quiet of the engine he objected to. He’d heard there were some cars that now added sound, sexy engine noises through speakers. This was a cheat and he thought it ridiculous. Daniel liked authenticity, for good or bad. The Maserati’s Tubi exhausts, for instance, resonated at a high pitch that could, in the upper gear ranges, threaten to pierce your eardrums.