Play Dead
Page 16
He pushed his chair away from his desk. There were patients waiting. Mr. Campbell was waiting in room five and Mrs. Salton was in three.
The phone buzzed.
“Dr. Ayars?” the box cawed.
“Yes?”
“Your wife is on line two.”
“Thank you.” He swallowed away his fear, picked up the receiver, and pressed the flashing light. “Mary?”
“Hello, James.”
“Where the hell are you?” he asked. “I was trying to reach you all night. I thought you were staying at the Four Seasons.”
“They were having some sort of wild convention. Noise all night long, so I moved over to the Hyatt.”
James closed his eyes and rubbed them. He did not mention that there had been no listing under her name at the Hyatt either. “I have some rather bad news.”
There was a pause. “Oh?”
“It’s about David.”
“What’s happened?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh, my God! How? Was it . . . was it suicide?” Predictable enough response, James thought. “He drowned off the Australian coast.”
“But he was such a good swimmer.”
“I guess he misjudged the current.”
“Or . . . ?”
“Or what?”
“How awful,” she continued. “How’s Laura handling it?”
“I don’t think it’s fully hit her yet. David’s friend T.C. is there with her. He’s handling all the arrangements.”
“She’s going to be devastated, James. We have to help her through this.”
“Of course we will.”
“She’ll snap out of it,” Mary said hopefully. “She’s always been a very strong girl.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he replied without much enthusiasm.
“I’ll catch a flight back home tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to meet you at the airport?”
“No need, James. I’ll grab a cab at Logan.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then.”
He hung up the phone, leaned back, and took a deep breath. Mary had never been a very good liar. She had not even bothered to ask why Laura and David were in Australia. James Ayars looked down at his hands. With some surprise he realized that they were shaking.
STAN Baskin woke up with a start. He tried to remember the dream that had caused him to wake, couldn’t, then gave up. What’s-her-name in the bed next to him was still asleep, thank God, her face turned away from him. He tried to remember what she looked like, couldn’t, then gave up.
He must have been having a nightmare about last night’s Red Sox game. Damn, that had been a sure thing. Stan had studied the match-up carefully and had concluded that there was absolutely no way the Brewers could beat the Sox. Milwaukee could never hit a lefty pitcher with a 7-0 lifetime record against them. Combine that with the way the Sox had been beating up Brewer pitching and then add that they were playing in Fenway Park. It was a sure thing.
The Sox had lost 6-3.
Stan had dropped a thousand bucks on that game. And even worse, the B Man (so named because of his fondness for breaking bones) was after him just because Stan had been late on a few payments. Stan knew that all he needed was one more chance. He knew that today’s game between the Houston Astros and the Cards in St. Louis was a sure thing. Mike Scott was ready to explode. He might even hurl a no-hitter against St. Louis today. And there was a horse in the fifth at Yonkers Stan absolutely loved.
He silently slipped from under the covers, urinated, flushed, then looked at his naked body in the mirror. Not bad for a man in his late (very late) thirties. Everything was still firm this morning (even Mr. Happy) and his handsome face still drew the women. Witness last night, his very first in Boston.
He moved back into the bedroom. What’s-her-name had not yet stirred. Good. He searched her dresser for some aspirin, found some Tylenol, and quickly downed three in the hopes that it would kill his hangover. He turned on the television, flipped the stations until he found what he was looking for, and sat on the edge of the bed. What’s-her-name finally began to stir from her hibernation as the television warmed up.
The anchorman was talking about his brother again. For chrissake you would have thought the President of the United States had died the way they covered David. He grabbed a cigarette off the floor (how the cigarette had ended up there he had no idea) and lit it as the television droned on:
“The sports world is still shaken and shocked over the tragic drowning death of basketball great David Baskin. Today, our city pays its last respects to Mr. Baskin, the Celtic legend who provided us all with so many memorable moments and world championships. A public memorial service will be held today at noon at Faneuil Hall. Thousands are expected to be on hand to say good-bye to David Baskin. Scheduled speakers include Senator Ted Kennedy, Celtics president Clip Arnstein, and two of David Baskin’s teammates, center Earl Roberts and shooting guard Timmy Daniels.”
Stan shook his head. A whole city mourning for that schmuck. Unbelievable. His eyes suddenly grew large when the television flashed a picture of Laura on the screen.
“A spokesman for the team said that Baskin’s beautiful widow, fashion mogul Laura Ayars-Baskin, will come out of seclusion for today’s ceremony and the private burial that will follow. Mrs. Ayars-Baskin and her husband were on their secret honeymoon when the tragedy occurred. She has not been seen since returning . . .”
Stan was held spellbound by her image. He might not have liked his brother (hated him actually), but oh, man, was his bride a different story. Just look at that body! Christ, she had to be a great lay. No question about it. And a girl like that would be crawling walls soon without a steady fuck. A girl like that would want a real man sharing her bed this time.
And David’s dear older brother, Stan, was just the man for the job.
He stood up.
“Where you going?”
So she was finally awake. Stan tried like hell to remember the name he had used last night, couldn’t, then gave up. “Huh?”
“Did you sleep okay, David?”
He suppressed a laugh. David. He had used the son of a bitch’s name. “Just fine.” He turned and faced her, seeing her for the first time since the night before.
Oh, shit.
First the Red Sox lose and now this beast. He could have sworn she was a whole lot better-looking last night.
“What would you like me to make you for breakfast?”
The phone buzzed.
“Dr. Ayars?” the box cawed.
“Yes?”
“Your wife is on line two.”
“Thank you.” He swallowed away his fear, picked up the receiver, and pressed the flashing light. “Mary?”
“Hello, James.”
“Where the hell are you?” he asked. “I was trying to reach you all night. I thought you were staying at the Four Seasons.”
“They were having some sort of wild convention. Noise all night long, so I moved over to the Hyatt.”
James closed his eyes and rubbed them. He did not mention that there had been no listing under her name at the Hyatt either. “I have some rather bad news.”
There was a pause. “Oh?”
“It’s about David.”
“What’s happened?”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh, my God! How? Was it . . . was it suicide?” Predictable enough response, James thought. “He drowned off the Australian coast.”
“But he was such a good swimmer.”
“I guess he misjudged the current.”
“Or . . . ?”
“Or what?”
“How awful,” she continued. “How’s Laura handling it?”
“I don’t think it’s fully hit her yet. David’s friend T.C. is there with her. He’s handling all the arrangements.”
“She’s going to be devastated, James. We have to help her through this.”
“Of course we will.”
“She’ll snap out of it,” Mary said hopefully. “She’s always been a very strong girl.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he replied without much enthusiasm.
“I’ll catch a flight back home tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to meet you at the airport?”
“No need, James. I’ll grab a cab at Logan.”
“Okay, I’ll see you then.”
He hung up the phone, leaned back, and took a deep breath. Mary had never been a very good liar. She had not even bothered to ask why Laura and David were in Australia. James Ayars looked down at his hands. With some surprise he realized that they were shaking.
STAN Baskin woke up with a start. He tried to remember the dream that had caused him to wake, couldn’t, then gave up. What’s-her-name in the bed next to him was still asleep, thank God, her face turned away from him. He tried to remember what she looked like, couldn’t, then gave up.
He must have been having a nightmare about last night’s Red Sox game. Damn, that had been a sure thing. Stan had studied the match-up carefully and had concluded that there was absolutely no way the Brewers could beat the Sox. Milwaukee could never hit a lefty pitcher with a 7-0 lifetime record against them. Combine that with the way the Sox had been beating up Brewer pitching and then add that they were playing in Fenway Park. It was a sure thing.
The Sox had lost 6-3.
Stan had dropped a thousand bucks on that game. And even worse, the B Man (so named because of his fondness for breaking bones) was after him just because Stan had been late on a few payments. Stan knew that all he needed was one more chance. He knew that today’s game between the Houston Astros and the Cards in St. Louis was a sure thing. Mike Scott was ready to explode. He might even hurl a no-hitter against St. Louis today. And there was a horse in the fifth at Yonkers Stan absolutely loved.
He silently slipped from under the covers, urinated, flushed, then looked at his naked body in the mirror. Not bad for a man in his late (very late) thirties. Everything was still firm this morning (even Mr. Happy) and his handsome face still drew the women. Witness last night, his very first in Boston.
He moved back into the bedroom. What’s-her-name had not yet stirred. Good. He searched her dresser for some aspirin, found some Tylenol, and quickly downed three in the hopes that it would kill his hangover. He turned on the television, flipped the stations until he found what he was looking for, and sat on the edge of the bed. What’s-her-name finally began to stir from her hibernation as the television warmed up.
The anchorman was talking about his brother again. For chrissake you would have thought the President of the United States had died the way they covered David. He grabbed a cigarette off the floor (how the cigarette had ended up there he had no idea) and lit it as the television droned on:
“The sports world is still shaken and shocked over the tragic drowning death of basketball great David Baskin. Today, our city pays its last respects to Mr. Baskin, the Celtic legend who provided us all with so many memorable moments and world championships. A public memorial service will be held today at noon at Faneuil Hall. Thousands are expected to be on hand to say good-bye to David Baskin. Scheduled speakers include Senator Ted Kennedy, Celtics president Clip Arnstein, and two of David Baskin’s teammates, center Earl Roberts and shooting guard Timmy Daniels.”
Stan shook his head. A whole city mourning for that schmuck. Unbelievable. His eyes suddenly grew large when the television flashed a picture of Laura on the screen.
“A spokesman for the team said that Baskin’s beautiful widow, fashion mogul Laura Ayars-Baskin, will come out of seclusion for today’s ceremony and the private burial that will follow. Mrs. Ayars-Baskin and her husband were on their secret honeymoon when the tragedy occurred. She has not been seen since returning . . .”
Stan was held spellbound by her image. He might not have liked his brother (hated him actually), but oh, man, was his bride a different story. Just look at that body! Christ, she had to be a great lay. No question about it. And a girl like that would be crawling walls soon without a steady fuck. A girl like that would want a real man sharing her bed this time.
And David’s dear older brother, Stan, was just the man for the job.
He stood up.
“Where you going?”
So she was finally awake. Stan tried like hell to remember the name he had used last night, couldn’t, then gave up. “Huh?”
“Did you sleep okay, David?”
He suppressed a laugh. David. He had used the son of a bitch’s name. “Just fine.” He turned and faced her, seeing her for the first time since the night before.
Oh, shit.
First the Red Sox lose and now this beast. He could have sworn she was a whole lot better-looking last night.
“What would you like me to make you for breakfast?”
