"It's under the bed, doll." He smiled at Paulina's grimace. She glanced under the bed, came up with a wrinkled blue shirt. She nodded toward the twenty on the bed.
"Take it."
"What's that for?"
"Whatever you want. A taxi. A beer. Doesn't matter."
He looked at the money. "Really, you don't have to."
"Listen, I spent the better part of an entire day talking to you and listening to the most boring shit on earth. I listened to you whine about your mean parents, your crummy job, how nobody will hire you as a model anymore. And I know you have less money in the bank than you have brains up in that head of yours. I don't think you'll say no to cab fare. So just say thank-you and go home."
He watched her for a moment, looked at the money.
"Thank you," he said. "But you don't have to be a bitch about it."
Paulina's mouth dropped, a startled laugh escaping her lips. "Bitch? You call me a bitch because, what, I just repeated what you've been blabbing about all night? If you don't like hearing the whole, cold, hard, clean truth, just continue to delude yourself. Facts are facts. Nobody wants to hire a forty-year-old has-been when twenty years old can be bought for less, and without the baggage. And if you didn't fuck Mitsy for a decade, you'd keep that irrelevant streak of yours going. So you don't want to believe the truth? Then, buddy, don't read the newspaper. But if you want a reality check, you little baby, what I say shouldn't hurt you any more than your life hurts you."
"See," Myron said. "That's what I mean. Most women, when you give them an orgasm, they don't treat you like you're a piece of, a, a dust ball or a termite or something.
Something they can pick up and throw in the trash like it didn't exist."
"Listen, Myron. You're a sweet guy. But sweet guys get as much out of life as a little teacup puppy that someone carries around in their purse. You get fed when your master wants to feed you, but pretty soon you're a nuisance and not quite as much fun to look at. If you want more out of life than that, you have to take it. If that means being a bitch, well, I'd rather be a bitch than a pussy."
Myron stared at her. "I'm looking forward to reading the article."
Paulina nodded. "It'll be a good one, I promise you that much. I'll make sure a copy of the Dispatch is delivered to you first thing Sunday morning." Then she strode across the room until she was nearly mouth to mouth with Myron.
"And if you so much as mention this night to anyone, I'll run a correction on Monday about your chronic herpes outbreaks."
"My what?"
"Exactly."
"Even you wouldn't stoop so low," Myron said, though he looked unconvinced.
"Try me," Paulina replied. "I love it when people think they're calling my bluff."
Myron nodded, put his shirt on, found his shoes. He thanked Paulina, grabbed the twenty and left. Paulina stood there in a room full of rumpled sheets, the air stinking of sweat and sex. Then she gathered up her belongings, went outside and caught a cab home.
21
By three o'clock, my legs were growing stiff. We'd watched countless people arrive and leave Yardley since that morning, with no sign of Dmitri Petrovsky. We'd taken turns going in to the cafeteria for cups of coffee and bathroom breaks, doing everything we could to stay alert without going insane, but I was growing impatient. And even worse, worried.
Doctors came and went, but nobody who looked like
Petrovsky.
At four o'clock, Amanda asked, "Do you think we might have missed him?"
I shook my head. "I hope not. Let's make sure."
I took out my cell phone, called the Yardley switchboard, asked to be connected to Pediatrics. When a woman's voice picked up, I asked if Dr. Petrovsky would be available for any more appointments today.
"I'm sorry, sir, he's got two more patients scheduled for this afternoon, then he'll be out again until Monday."
"Do you have any idea what time he'll be finished with his patients?"
"No, sir, I'm sorry, but if you want to come in next week
I'd be happy to schedule you for an appointment."
"No, thanks, I'll call back later." I hung up. "He's still there, but probably not for much longer."
Amanda nodded. She began to rub her shoulders.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Just a little stiff."
"Can I do anything to help?"
"Nah, thanks, though."
For a moment I had an ache to reach out, put my arm around her and rub her shoulders myself. Not too long ago it wouldn't have been a big deal at all, just something else that happened over the normal day of a relationship. Small gestures like that in the end meant so much, and it was only when they ended that I realized their significance.
"Henry, look," Amanda suddenly said, pointing in the direction of the entrance. "There he is."
Sure enough, Dmitri Petrovsky was leaving Yardley. He
Pinter, Jason – Henry Parker 03
The Stolen (2008) was easily identifiable with his bushy beard, ambling gait.
He'd changed out of his hospital whites and was wearing a bulky overcoat, carrying a stuffed briefcase. He trudged through the parking lot as our eyes followed him. He stopped for a moment to yell at another motorist whose
Saab edged a little too close, and for a moment I worried that the argument would escalate and our whole plan would be shot. Thankfully, after a heated exchange and a middle-finger gesture that left the driver steaming, Petrovsky continued walking, eventually stopping at a dark blue
Nissan.
"Do me a favor," I said. "Take my tape recorder out of my bag." She did so. "Now turn it on."
She clicked the record button.
I said, "I want to record the directions. Just in case."
"Smart," Amanda said.
I started the engine, waited until I saw the brake lights on Petrovsky's car turn red before I edged out of the parking space. I turned the corner of our row just as Petrovsky finished backing out. I allowed another car to move in front of us as all three vehicles headed for the exit.
"What if he sees us?" Amanda said.
"I don't know," I said truthfully. "Let's just hope he doesn't."
Petrovsky pulled up to the exit and put his right-turn signal on. He made the right, and the car in front of us turned left. I put my right blinker on, waited until Petrovsky's Nissan was about thirty yards away, then I pulled onto the exit ramp and began to follow the doctor.
Petrovsky kept an even speed as he circled the exit ramp that led away fromYardley. I stayed far enough behind that it would be tricky for him to see me in his rearview mirror.
Neither Amanda nor I spoke. We were both focused on the road, the car and what would happen next.
When the ramp came to an end, Petrovsky kept on straight and merged onto the freeway. He pulled into the left lane; I took the middle, kept pace three cars behind.
There was still light in the sky, sundown not yet for another hour, so I was able to make out his car pretty clearly. The hum of our engine seemed as loud as a bullhorn as we kept pace, threatening to give us away.
After a few miles, Petrovsky drifted over to the middle lane, then turned on his right-turn signal and headed toward a sign that read Exit 62. I relayed this to the tape recorder. When he pulled into the right lane, I allowed a silver Mercedes to do the same and I pulled in behind it.
I took the exit ramp behind both cars, watching Petrovsky closely. I could make out the man hunched over the steering wheel, felt lead in my stomach as I prayed we were being cautious, keeping out of sight.
I followed his car down a one-lane highway, our speeds decreasing as the road became more residential. The doctor was steadfastly observing the thirty-five-mile-anhour speed limit. The silver Mercedes was only a buffer for a few minutes, as it peeled into a strip mall soon after, leaving our car as the only one behind Petrovsky.