Play Dead
Page 17
Christ, she was a cow. “I gotta go.”
“Will you call?”
Moo. “Sure, sweetheart.”
She lowered her head. “I mean, if you don’t want . . .”
Listen to this cow nag. How had he ended up with her anyway? If Stan didn’t know himself better, he would have sworn he was slipping.
He looked at her again. Now he noticed that she had big tits. Real big. Well, that did count for something, but right now it was time to teach her a lesson, time to teach her who was boss. “How about if we go out tonight?” he asked.
Her eyes lit up, her face beaming. “Really?”
“Sure. Dinner, dancing, formal dress, the works. Go out today and buy yourself a new gown. Sound okay?”
She sat up eagerly. “That sounds wonderful. What time?”
He suppressed another laugh. The cow was buying it. “How’s eight o’clock? I have a business appointment, so I may be a few minutes late.”
“Okay.”
He pictured the cow waiting all night in some new dress for a knock that would never come. This time, a chuckle did manage to escape from his lips.
“Anything wrong, David?”
David. He chuckled again. “Just thought of something funny.” He looked at her again, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Maybe he was being unfair. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should reconsider. After all, she did have big tits. . . .
Nah.
It would be more fun to stand her up. Besides, he had big plans for tonight. It was time to introduce Stan Baskin to the city of Boston, to the press . . .
... and to Laura Ayars.
IT made international headlines.
David’s death was truly a story no newsman could resist. More than any other athlete, David Baskin had gained international fame through not only his pro-basketball excellence, but for his Olympic heroics, his domination of European basketball during his stint as a Rhodes scholar, and most of all, his tireless work with handicapped children. Add to this the fact that he was married to gorgeous supermodel Laura Ayars, the founder of the Svengali line, and just watch the reporters salivate.
What could make the story even more stimulating? Tragedy striking the happy couple. While eloping and secretly honeymooning in Australia, the great White Lightning drowns in a freak accident, leaving behind his beautiful widow to mourn the cruelty of it all.
Newspapers from Warsaw to New York, from Bangkok to Leningrad, gave the story prominence. Every spectrum of the journalist world—from supermarket tabloids to government-run newsletters—covered the sad event.
There were all kinds of clever headlines about how White Lightning would strike no more, how nature was finally able to stop David when no man in a basketball uniform could, but more than any of the others, Laura thought that the Boston Globe, the Celtic’s hometown newspaper, struck closest to the bone. In simple, huge, sad block letters, the front page screamed in pain:WHITE LIGHTNING DEAD
Laura laid the newspaper on the bed, leaned back against the pillow, and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes blinked spasmodically. Serita had tried to keep the newspapers away from her, but Laura had been insistent and Serita was hardly the type to tell her what she could and could not do. Now as she lay in the spare bedroom in Serita’s apartment for the third straight day, she recalled one particular paragraph she had read claiming that David’s body was found “bloated” and “mutilated beyond recognition.”
The tears started to come again and yet they did not seem to come from her. She was too numb, too anguished merely to cry. Crying served her no purpose. The pain went far beyond anything tears could help to drown out. She knew the media were searching for her, but very few people knew where she was hiding, and Serita watched over Laura like an Israeli airport security guard.
She also knew that today she would have to rise from this bed, that today she would have to leave the protection of Serita’s apartment and face the world for the first time since her David had . . .
He can’t be dead. He just can’t be. Please tell me it’s not true. Please tell me that this is just a stupid joke, and when I get ahold of him, I’m going to beat the shit out of him for scaring me like this. Please tell him enough is enough, that I know he’s okay, that I know his body was not shredded on coral and rocks.
“Laura?”
Laura looked up at her longtime friend. Serita was a devastating beauty—one of the few woman in the world who could compete with Laura in the looks category. She was nearly six feet tall, her body thin and very muscular with the most beautiful ebony skin. Serita (she never used a last name) had been the world’s top black model since she and Laura had first met six years ago on the modeling circuit. Serita had also become good friends with David over the past two years. In fact, David had liked her so much, he had set her up with his closest friend on the Celtics, Earl Roberts, the seven-foot center.
“Yes?”
“Honey, you got to get out of bed now. Gloria called. She and your father are going to pick you up in an hour.”
Laura did not respond.
“And Gloria wants to speak to you first.”
“About what?”
Serita paused. “Your mother.”
Laura’s eyes grew angry. For the first time since David’s death, they showed some sort of life. “What about my mother?”
“She wants to come to the memorial service.”
“Fuck her.”
“That’s your answer?”
“That’s my answer.”
Serita shrugged. “I’m but the secretary. Now get your ass out of bed.”
Though Laura had spent the past three days in this bed, sleep never visited her, never gave her an opportunity to escape the nightmare that reality had become. And now she did not want to get out of the bed, did not want to get dressed, did not want to attend a public memorial service at Faneuil Hall.
I love you so much, David. You know I can never love anyone else. Please come back to me. Please come back and hold me gently and tell me all over again how much you love me and how wonderful our life together is going to be. Tell me again about the things we’re going to share, about the children we’re going to raise.
“They’re expecting massive traffic delays,” Serita continued. “I think everyone in Boston is going to be jammed into Quincy Market for this. I sure hope Earl doesn’t screw up his speech.”
Try as she might, Laura felt the tears sliding down her face again.
“Come on, Laura.” Serita gently pulled the covers off her friend and helped her sit up. “You have to be there.”
“Will you call?”
Moo. “Sure, sweetheart.”
She lowered her head. “I mean, if you don’t want . . .”
Listen to this cow nag. How had he ended up with her anyway? If Stan didn’t know himself better, he would have sworn he was slipping.
He looked at her again. Now he noticed that she had big tits. Real big. Well, that did count for something, but right now it was time to teach her a lesson, time to teach her who was boss. “How about if we go out tonight?” he asked.
Her eyes lit up, her face beaming. “Really?”
“Sure. Dinner, dancing, formal dress, the works. Go out today and buy yourself a new gown. Sound okay?”
She sat up eagerly. “That sounds wonderful. What time?”
He suppressed another laugh. The cow was buying it. “How’s eight o’clock? I have a business appointment, so I may be a few minutes late.”
“Okay.”
He pictured the cow waiting all night in some new dress for a knock that would never come. This time, a chuckle did manage to escape from his lips.
“Anything wrong, David?”
David. He chuckled again. “Just thought of something funny.” He looked at her again, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Maybe he was being unfair. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should reconsider. After all, she did have big tits. . . .
Nah.
It would be more fun to stand her up. Besides, he had big plans for tonight. It was time to introduce Stan Baskin to the city of Boston, to the press . . .
... and to Laura Ayars.
IT made international headlines.
David’s death was truly a story no newsman could resist. More than any other athlete, David Baskin had gained international fame through not only his pro-basketball excellence, but for his Olympic heroics, his domination of European basketball during his stint as a Rhodes scholar, and most of all, his tireless work with handicapped children. Add to this the fact that he was married to gorgeous supermodel Laura Ayars, the founder of the Svengali line, and just watch the reporters salivate.
What could make the story even more stimulating? Tragedy striking the happy couple. While eloping and secretly honeymooning in Australia, the great White Lightning drowns in a freak accident, leaving behind his beautiful widow to mourn the cruelty of it all.
Newspapers from Warsaw to New York, from Bangkok to Leningrad, gave the story prominence. Every spectrum of the journalist world—from supermarket tabloids to government-run newsletters—covered the sad event.
There were all kinds of clever headlines about how White Lightning would strike no more, how nature was finally able to stop David when no man in a basketball uniform could, but more than any of the others, Laura thought that the Boston Globe, the Celtic’s hometown newspaper, struck closest to the bone. In simple, huge, sad block letters, the front page screamed in pain:WHITE LIGHTNING DEAD
Laura laid the newspaper on the bed, leaned back against the pillow, and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes blinked spasmodically. Serita had tried to keep the newspapers away from her, but Laura had been insistent and Serita was hardly the type to tell her what she could and could not do. Now as she lay in the spare bedroom in Serita’s apartment for the third straight day, she recalled one particular paragraph she had read claiming that David’s body was found “bloated” and “mutilated beyond recognition.”
The tears started to come again and yet they did not seem to come from her. She was too numb, too anguished merely to cry. Crying served her no purpose. The pain went far beyond anything tears could help to drown out. She knew the media were searching for her, but very few people knew where she was hiding, and Serita watched over Laura like an Israeli airport security guard.
She also knew that today she would have to rise from this bed, that today she would have to leave the protection of Serita’s apartment and face the world for the first time since her David had . . .
He can’t be dead. He just can’t be. Please tell me it’s not true. Please tell me that this is just a stupid joke, and when I get ahold of him, I’m going to beat the shit out of him for scaring me like this. Please tell him enough is enough, that I know he’s okay, that I know his body was not shredded on coral and rocks.
“Laura?”
Laura looked up at her longtime friend. Serita was a devastating beauty—one of the few woman in the world who could compete with Laura in the looks category. She was nearly six feet tall, her body thin and very muscular with the most beautiful ebony skin. Serita (she never used a last name) had been the world’s top black model since she and Laura had first met six years ago on the modeling circuit. Serita had also become good friends with David over the past two years. In fact, David had liked her so much, he had set her up with his closest friend on the Celtics, Earl Roberts, the seven-foot center.
“Yes?”
“Honey, you got to get out of bed now. Gloria called. She and your father are going to pick you up in an hour.”
Laura did not respond.
“And Gloria wants to speak to you first.”
“About what?”
Serita paused. “Your mother.”
Laura’s eyes grew angry. For the first time since David’s death, they showed some sort of life. “What about my mother?”
“She wants to come to the memorial service.”
“Fuck her.”
“That’s your answer?”
“That’s my answer.”
Serita shrugged. “I’m but the secretary. Now get your ass out of bed.”
Though Laura had spent the past three days in this bed, sleep never visited her, never gave her an opportunity to escape the nightmare that reality had become. And now she did not want to get out of the bed, did not want to get dressed, did not want to attend a public memorial service at Faneuil Hall.
I love you so much, David. You know I can never love anyone else. Please come back to me. Please come back and hold me gently and tell me all over again how much you love me and how wonderful our life together is going to be. Tell me again about the things we’re going to share, about the children we’re going to raise.
“They’re expecting massive traffic delays,” Serita continued. “I think everyone in Boston is going to be jammed into Quincy Market for this. I sure hope Earl doesn’t screw up his speech.”
Try as she might, Laura felt the tears sliding down her face again.
“Come on, Laura.” Serita gently pulled the covers off her friend and helped her sit up. “You have to be there.”
