Zapwired, p.5
Zapwired, page 5
*
He paused at the entrance to the house and waited for Abdul Masri to approach. The man was dressed in a gray sweatshirt and black slacks.
“Has the problem been rectified?” Yassin asked in Arabic.
“Without a hitch,” Masri replied quietly so as not to be overheard. “Sala has been terminated. I found out that most of the people he recruited weren’t vetted properly. They’ve been terminated as well. We have to start the process over again.”
Yassin rocked back on his heels. It’s my own fault, he was thinking, for having blind faith in Sala. “How long will this take?”
“Not long.”
“There’s little time left and no room for error, Abdul.”
“I know that.”
“Make sure everyone else knows it, too,” Yassin warned.
14
I was back in New York fighting jetlag, awake on Saturday morning before 7:00 a.m., when I took a call from my daughter.
“D-Daddy? It’s me.”
“What’s wrong, kitten?”
“N-Nothing.”
“Are you sure? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“Can you keep a secret, Daddy?”
I wondered where this was going. “You can tell me anything.”
“It’s not good news.”
God! I almost blurted aloud.
“I don’t think I should be telling you.” She hesitated. “Mommy said not to.”
“Please, darling, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”
Another long pause, then she said, “Mommy’s taking me out of school!”
“Huh?”
“We’re moving far away. To California. I … I’ll probably never see you again.” She started to cry.
“Wait a minute, Sandra. Please. Don’t be upset. How soon did your mother say this would happen?”
“Very soon.”
“Today?”
“N-Not today.” A hiccup in her voice.
“This week?”
“I ... don’t know.”
Mandy had been talking about the two of us getting back together, trying to make a go of it again. Is this revenge, I wondered, because I’d said no?
“Can you stop this, Daddy?”
“I’ll do my very best.”
“But what if Mommy won’t listen?”
“Then I’ll come visit you as often as possible.”
“Will you?”
“I will. You can count on it.”
“Even if we’re a—uh—bazillion miles away?”
“Even then.”
“Okay.” Sandra’s voice brightened. “I love you, Daddy.”
15
My jetlag was pushed to the back burner as I fought to control my anger. How can Mandy do this? I asked myself. Arbitrarily pull up stakes and move away?
It was too early to call Andrew and I couldn’t sit still. I grabbed my bag and headed off for a workout at the local gym. Despite the early hour, there were quite a few people already there; not one over the age of twenty-five.
It must’ve been my mood, because wherever I looked, I caught what seemed to be self-satisfied posturing. On the treadmill, elliptical cross trainer, and stationary bike. Men and women alike, some sweating profusely, some not at all. Most had pampered physiques that at another time I might have admired. Now, all I wanted to do was call them out for being narcissistic.
I kept exercising for a good hour, then went home where I showered and shaved. I hadn’t had breakfast yet, so I soft-boiled an egg and gobbled it down with a single piece of toast. Hi-test coffee gave me new life. I checked the time and punched in Andrew’s cell number on my house phone.
“How was your trip?” he asked.
I didn’t want to get into the possible knockoff until Jeremy got back to me with some specifics, so I told him it went okay. “But there’s something I need to ask you.”
“What is it?”
I explained what my daughter had told me.
“Is the move set in stone,” Andrew asked, “or was Sandra just guessing?”
“I don’t know.”
“How soon?”
“Another unknown.”
“Well, you’d better talk to your ex, ASAP.”
“I plan on doing that. But, in your opinion, where do I stand here?”
“You were granted liberal visiting rights. Mandy would have to clear this move with the court, most likely with the same judge who heard your divorce case. You talk to your ex and see if this is what she’s really planning to do. If it is, I’ll file a motion on your behalf to enjoin Mandy from leaving New York. Is there anything you’ve done that might sway the court’s decision?”
“Noth—” I started to say, then stopped myself. “I was late on a recent child support payment. There was also a mix-up on a few others. But everything’s up to date now.”
“Talk to your ex and call me back. And Blair—”
“Yes?”
“Slow down, okay? You sound stressed out.”
“I am stressed out! Christ, this is my daughter we’re talking about.”
*
I hung up and tried to reach Mandy. No answer at work or on her cell, so I left messages. I should’ve felt better after talking to Andrew but my anxiety wasn’t abating one bit. What tumbled in my head was the old Peter Principal: If anything could go wrong, it would, and usually at the worst possible time.
I watched a little television, then began to read a novel by John Sandford. I dozed on and off. The time crept by. Evening approached and Mandy still hadn’t gotten back to me.
16
I wasn’t sure what brought me here, to Billie’s. The walls started closing in on me at home, so I went out to grab a bite at a joint I frequented near my office. I was walking back and there was the bar. A voice in my head told me one drink wouldn’t hurt.
My favorite establishment was quite different on the weekend from what it was like during the week. The businessmen had been replaced by couples and the odd single looking for a good time.
Unlike me, I was dressed casually in jeans and a sport shirt. My first drink of the night was a double Johnnie Walker Black. Before I could take a sip, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Excuse me, are you Richard?”
She was gorgeous and I figured it might be fun to pretend. I saluted her with my glass. “I am,” I said.
“It’s nice to finally meet you.”
I couldn’t look away. There was the silky blond hair, the shape of her dainty nose, her full lips. Even her style of clothes appealed to me—her red dress falling a few inches above the knee, a black belt pinching her waist. The only imperfection to be found was in her hazel eyes, the left being ever so slightly crossed.
“I loved your last e-mail,” she said.
“Why, thank you.”
“That’s what attracted me to you.”
“What? My salutation?”
“No, silly. The romantic in you.”
“Oh—that.”
“The way you write. With a poetic flair.”
“‘Jack and Jill went up the hill.’”
She laughed, then said point-blank, “You’re not Richard, are you?”
“No,” I shrugged, “but I’ll be happy to keep pretending until the real Richard shows up.”
She smiled.
“May I buy you a drink…” I waited.
“Lisa,” she responded.
“Lisa—hold on.” I signaled the bartender and he approached. I turned back to her. “What’ll it be?”
“Fuzzy Navel, please.”
The bartender nodded and started to prepare her drink.
I asked Lisa how she and Richard had connected.
“Through a dating site.”
“So, why’d you think I was him?”
“His picture was far from a close-up. It was a he-man pose at the helm of a sailboat. ‘Come sail away with me,’ I think was the inference. Anyway, from what I could tell, he really looks like you.”
“He does?”
“Yes. Five eleven. A hundred and seventy pounds.”
“That is close. What else?”
“Dimples, actually.”
“And…”
“The same build as yours.” She paused. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“Dick.”
She burst out laughing. “C’mon now!”
“Blair.” I tipped an imaginary hat.
“Blair—is it really Blair?”
“I swear on my firstborn.”
“You … you’re married?”
I shrugged. “Was.”
“Why’d you split up?”
“Uh-uh. That’s far too personal—and I hardly know you.”
*
The more we drank the friendlier we became. I was sure Lisa wouldn’t be able to keep up with me, but she did, never once saying she’d pass. It got to the point where I just had to nod at the bartender and our refills would magically appear.
Nearly 45 minutes had gone by and Richard was starting to look like a no-show. Fortunately for me, Lisa didn’t seem to mind, claiming she’d give him an hour, tops.
“What d’ya do?” Lisa asked, now a slight slur to her words.
“I play with toys.”
“No, seriously, Blair.”
“I am serious. What do you do?”
“Masseuse.”
“Oh yeah? In a m-massage parlor?”
She grinned. “Silly boy. I work for one of New York’s top physiotherapists: Henry Fontaine. Ever … hear of him?”
For the first time I noticed the definition of her shoulders and arms. “No, can’t say that I have. Is he well known?”
“Very. His clients include muh … members of the Mets, Yanks an’ Rangers.”
My eyes went wide. “No kidding?”
“I impressed you?”
“Yeah. Wowzer!” God, the drink was getting ahead of me.
“Well—” we both said at once.
Lisa looked at her wristwatch. “Hour’s up.”
“Game over,” I quipped. “Looks like Richard’s lost, eh?”
“Eh? Are you Canadian?”
I brushed an imaginary hair away from her forehead and kept her guessing. I really didn’t want her to leave. I touched her glass. “Here’s to poor Richard.”
“Uh-uh,” she objected.
“Uh-uh?”
“Here’s t’ us.”
*
Brandt was Lisa’s last name and she was an only child. She came from a working-class family, both parents born and raised in New York City. She was thirty, she said, but I found her demeanor to be that of someone older and wiser. There was a genteelness about her, something old-fashioned, yet refreshing.
I told her about the toy industry, how I’d started my career with a distributor in Canada, explained how I surprised myself, finding I had a knack for the product. “Stayed with the man for five years … b-before opportunity presented in New York,” I continued. “And … now I own the company.”
“Are you good at what you do, Blair?”
“I made it in the ‘Mean Apple,’ didn’t I?” I took her hand in mine.
“I like you,” she said.
“I like you, too.”
She covered my hand with hers. “Can we go somewhere quieter?”
I stood abruptly. “Thought … you’d never ask.”
When I stumbled, Lisa put her arm around me.
How much did I actually drink? I wondered, no longer able to feel my feet.
*
I know Lisa paid for the cab. But how we ended up in my condo was a mystery to me.
I actually liked the fact that she took charge, leading the way through the hallway, past the den and kitchen, into the master bedroom.
Conversation was moot at this point. She helped me off with my clothes and I flopped down on the still-made bed, belly first. Lisa said something about wanting to make me feel better. It seemed innocent enough ... until an iron-fisted set of knuckles began to knead my shoulders.
“Ow!” I called out, quickly sobering.
“Your muscles are tight.”
“They are?”
“Yes. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“You haven’t?”
“Not really.”
“Ow!”
“Don’t be a baby.”
The pain was bringing tears to my eyes.
“This will do you some good,” she promised. “It’s therapeutic.”
“It is?” I tried to distract her. “Lisa—”
She was humming to herself.
“Hey?”
“Yes, Blair?”
“Could you—uh—quit for a while? Let me catch my breath?”
“I will. Almost done…”
She dug in and I groaned.
“Feeling better?” she asked when she finally stopped.
“Oh, yeah,” I gasped, the relief profound. “Much better.”
“Perfect. Now—close your eyes.”
“Huh?”
“Close your eyes and keep ‘em closed.”
There was a rustle of clothing. Then the warmest body imaginable was lying next to me.
I cheated and opened my eyes. Lisa wasn’t quite naked, unfortunately. She still wore her bra and panties.
I went to kiss her.
She avoided me by pressing a gentle finger against my lips. “Sleep,” she whispered.
I made a half-hearted grab for her breast.
She pushed my hand away … gently. “Goodnight, Blair.”
“But—”
“But, what?”
“Nothing. Goodnight, Lisa.”
In the morning, she was gone.
17
I stayed in bed longer than usual on Sunday, my head pounding from too much booze, my sore limbs reminding me of the so-called therapeutic massage.
I tried sitting up, felt a wave of nausea, slowly lay back down.
I thought of Lisa’s hands kneading my flesh, her warm body lying next to mine, her slightly crossed eye.
Was it the left one, or right?
I couldn’t recall. And why did it matter? For the first time since my divorce, I was attracted to someone. Call it unusual, call it chemistry, call it what you will....
Call it too much booze, a silent voice inside my head interrupted.
“No!” The word popped out of me like a shot. True enough, I’d had a lot to drink. But there was a connection there; I’d swear to it.
The urge to urinate was overpowering, so I stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. Afterwards, holding onto the wall for support, I headed off in search of a note from Lisa. From the hallway throughout the house. No note. No business card. Nothing.
*
I went into the kitchen, made myself a coffee and sat down at the table. The phone caught my eye and I was reminded that I still hadn’t heard from my ex-wife.
I tried her number at home; it went to voicemail. I called her cell. When she didn’t pick up, I left a message, telling her it was urgent, and that she needed to call back.
My cell was lying next to the house phone. I turned it on and checked for messages; something I should have done first. There was just one from Andrew, asking if I’d heard from Mandy yet.
Then my phone buzzed while still in my hand. CALLER I.D. revealed a familiar Montreal number. I picked up before it rang twice.
“Happy Birthday, darling.”
It hurt, hearing my mother slipping backwards again. “It’s not my birthday, Mom.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It is. I should know when you were born.”
There was no point in arguing. My mother, barely into her seventies, had been suffering with Alzheimer’s Disease for the better part of three years. It was distressing to hear her this way. There were still some lucid moments; but far too many, like now, where there was no talking sense to her.
I did everything I could to help financially. People who didn’t know better raved about the Canadian medical system, not understanding that socialized medicine came with a hidden cost. Taxes in Canada were exorbitant, yet the caliber of healthcare was worsening annually. It often took months to see a general practitioner, let alone a specialist. And the system didn’t cover private care facilities like the one my mother was in. The hefty monthly expense was taking a toll on my bank account.
“Are you planning to visit today?”
My mother, before the Alzheimer’s, knew I lived and worked in New York. I had to tread lightly. “I can’t today, Mother, dear. But I will soon.”
Her tone became strident. “When? When will you come?”
“Soon, I promise.” The last time I’d visited, a little over a month ago, she hadn’t recognized me.
“Your father dropped in today. We had a lovely time together.”
My dad died of cancer five years ago. “Mother—”
“Please? I’d really like to see you.”
This was getting more and more difficult. “I’ll come see you soon. Okay?”
Silence.
“Mother?”
From her sonorous breathing, I could tell she’d fallen asleep.
18
Monday morning at my office I was finally able to reach Mandy and asked what she was trying to pull.
“You going to lower your voice, or am I gonna hang up?”
“Sorry,” I said, not aware I was fuming. “You’re traumatizing our daughter, Mandy.”
“Traumatizing our daughter? What are you talking about?”
“What’ve you been telling her?”
“Who—Sandra?”
“No. Kim Kardashian!”
“Frank’s been offered a great job opportunity in California and asked us to move with him. I thought it would be a good change.”
Change? “What does that mean? A change from what?”
There was no hesitation. “From everything. From you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. And you’re raising your voice again.”
One minute my ex is trying to seduce me, the next she’s following her boyfriend to the other side of the country. “I thought you said you and Frank broke up!”
