Play Dead
Page 6
They had met on a humid Boston night in July 1986 at a gala black-tie party for the Boston Pops. The place was packed. Everyone who was anyone in Boston society was there.
Laura hated such events. She especially hated the reason she attended them (she felt she had to), and she hated the phony smiles and the phony lines everyone handed out. Even worse were the men who showed up for such functions—cocky, persistent, and overbearing neo-playboys with egos that were nearly as vast as their insecurities. She had been hit on so many times at these things, she felt like a stubborn nail jutting out of a piece of plywood. Over the years, her manner of dealing with such approaches began to border on the rude. But at times, only a cutting phrase could slow down a charging bull.
Laura had built a wall around herself—more like a fortress with a shark-infested moat. She also knew that she was developing a reputation of being a “cold bitch,” a woman who “knew she was hot and thought her shit didn’t stink.” This reputation was well-known and, in her mind, untrue. But Laura did little to discourage it since it helped keep some of the animals at bay.
At this particular party, she had been standing a few yards away from the buffet table, watching with disbelief as the well-dressed patrons attacked the food like the poor in Bangladesh. That was when she turned away and bumped into David.
“Excuse me,” she said without looking at the man.
“Grim sight,” David replied motioning toward the ravenous savages at the buffet table. “Welcome to Day of the Locust.”
She nodded and began to walk away,
“Wait a minute,” David called after. “I don’t mean to sound like a groupie but aren’t you Laura Ayars?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is David Baskin.”
“The basketball player?”
“The same. Are you a basketball fan, Miss Ayars?”
“Not in the least bit, but it would be impossible to live in Boston and not hear your name mentioned.”
“I blush in modesty.”
“I’m sure you do. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
“The brush-off already? Before you go, Miss Ayars, may I just say that you look enchanting this evening.”
Her voice was tainted with sarcasm. “Original line, Mr. Baskin.”
“David,” he replied calmly. “And for the record, I’m not handing out lines.” He paused. “May I ask why you don’t like basketball?”
Typical jock, Laura thought. He thinks that the planet Earth could not possibly spin without grown men grunting and sweating while running back and forth in a meaningless wave. This guy shouldn’t take long to get rid of. He’s probably not used to carrying on a conversation that involves complete sentences.
“It’s inconceivable, isn’t it?” she began. “I mean, it must be impossible for you to imagine a thinking person who doesn’t enjoy watching illiterate men whose brain capacity is in adverse proportion to their height try to jam a spherical object through a metallic circle.”
His expression did not change. “Aren’t we a little cranky today?” he replied. “And all those big words. Very impressive. Have you ever been to the Boston Garden to watch the Celtics?”
Laura shook her head in mock self-pity. “I guess I haven’t really lived yet.” She looked at her watch but did not even see the time. “My, my, time does fly. I have enjoyed this little chat, but I really must be go—”
“We don’t have to talk about basketball, you know.”
The sarcasm was still there. “We don’t?”
His smile remained unfazed. “No, we don’t. Believe it or not, I’m capable of discussing matters of greater substance: economics, politics, peace in the Middle East—you name it.” He snapped his fingers and his smile grew. “I have an idea. Why don’t we talk about something really intellectual—like modeling! But no, I mean, it would be impossible for you to imagine a thinking person who doesn’t enjoy watching people whose brain size is in direct proportion to their body-fat level try to look as much like a mannequin as humanly possible.”
For a moment their eyes met, and then Laura lowered her head. When she looked up again, David was smiling in such a way as to soften his words.
“Lighten up, Laura,” he said gently, an expression she would hear so many times in the future. “I wasn’t trying to do anything but talk to you. I’ve read a lot about you and Svengali—yes, some basketball players can indeed read—and I thought you would be an interesting person to meet. I wasn’t looking for anything else, but with your looks, I’m sure you think this just another line. And I don’t blame you. Maybe it is.”
He bowed slightly and began to turn. “I won’t bother you anymore. Enjoy the party.”
Laura watched him walk away, hating herself for being so defensive, for not trusting the motives of even one man. He had spoken her mind as though her forehead was a window in which he could see her thoughts. But even so, this man would be all wrong for her. A jock? Forget it. She decided simply to push David Baskin from her mind. Strangely, she couldn’t do it.
Back in Australia, a near-naked Laura leaned over and reached for the clock.
Ten fifteen p.m.
The sound of the bush penetrated through the darkness that had blanketed her window. If it were anybody else but David, she would be seriously worried. But David was a superb swimmer, an Olympic participant, and more to the point, he was masterfully unpredictable, always throwing a surprise at those who knew him, always tossing an unexpected curve into life. And this was one of the reasons the sports media loved him so. He was the player whose locker the reporters rushed to after a game, the man with the perfect quote for the morning edition. He was the polite yet cocky superstar who always managed to live up to his off-color predictions.
Laura threw a blanket over her body. The night air was cool, tingling her nerves as it gently caressed her skin. Hours came and left, taking with them the excuses that had staved off Laura’s panic and dread.
SHE got dressed at half past midnight and headed down to the lobby. The same receptionist was still on duty and Laura wondered if he ever slept.
“Excuse me,” she began. “Have you seen my husband?”
“Mr. Baskin? No, ma’am. Haven’t seen the mate since he went swimming.”
“Did he say anything to you before he left?”
“Not a peep, ma’am. He just handed me the key and that note I gave you. He didn’t even look up.” The receptionist saw the worried look on her face. “Has he not shown up yet?”
Laura hated such events. She especially hated the reason she attended them (she felt she had to), and she hated the phony smiles and the phony lines everyone handed out. Even worse were the men who showed up for such functions—cocky, persistent, and overbearing neo-playboys with egos that were nearly as vast as their insecurities. She had been hit on so many times at these things, she felt like a stubborn nail jutting out of a piece of plywood. Over the years, her manner of dealing with such approaches began to border on the rude. But at times, only a cutting phrase could slow down a charging bull.
Laura had built a wall around herself—more like a fortress with a shark-infested moat. She also knew that she was developing a reputation of being a “cold bitch,” a woman who “knew she was hot and thought her shit didn’t stink.” This reputation was well-known and, in her mind, untrue. But Laura did little to discourage it since it helped keep some of the animals at bay.
At this particular party, she had been standing a few yards away from the buffet table, watching with disbelief as the well-dressed patrons attacked the food like the poor in Bangladesh. That was when she turned away and bumped into David.
“Excuse me,” she said without looking at the man.
“Grim sight,” David replied motioning toward the ravenous savages at the buffet table. “Welcome to Day of the Locust.”
She nodded and began to walk away,
“Wait a minute,” David called after. “I don’t mean to sound like a groupie but aren’t you Laura Ayars?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is David Baskin.”
“The basketball player?”
“The same. Are you a basketball fan, Miss Ayars?”
“Not in the least bit, but it would be impossible to live in Boston and not hear your name mentioned.”
“I blush in modesty.”
“I’m sure you do. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
“The brush-off already? Before you go, Miss Ayars, may I just say that you look enchanting this evening.”
Her voice was tainted with sarcasm. “Original line, Mr. Baskin.”
“David,” he replied calmly. “And for the record, I’m not handing out lines.” He paused. “May I ask why you don’t like basketball?”
Typical jock, Laura thought. He thinks that the planet Earth could not possibly spin without grown men grunting and sweating while running back and forth in a meaningless wave. This guy shouldn’t take long to get rid of. He’s probably not used to carrying on a conversation that involves complete sentences.
“It’s inconceivable, isn’t it?” she began. “I mean, it must be impossible for you to imagine a thinking person who doesn’t enjoy watching illiterate men whose brain capacity is in adverse proportion to their height try to jam a spherical object through a metallic circle.”
His expression did not change. “Aren’t we a little cranky today?” he replied. “And all those big words. Very impressive. Have you ever been to the Boston Garden to watch the Celtics?”
Laura shook her head in mock self-pity. “I guess I haven’t really lived yet.” She looked at her watch but did not even see the time. “My, my, time does fly. I have enjoyed this little chat, but I really must be go—”
“We don’t have to talk about basketball, you know.”
The sarcasm was still there. “We don’t?”
His smile remained unfazed. “No, we don’t. Believe it or not, I’m capable of discussing matters of greater substance: economics, politics, peace in the Middle East—you name it.” He snapped his fingers and his smile grew. “I have an idea. Why don’t we talk about something really intellectual—like modeling! But no, I mean, it would be impossible for you to imagine a thinking person who doesn’t enjoy watching people whose brain size is in direct proportion to their body-fat level try to look as much like a mannequin as humanly possible.”
For a moment their eyes met, and then Laura lowered her head. When she looked up again, David was smiling in such a way as to soften his words.
“Lighten up, Laura,” he said gently, an expression she would hear so many times in the future. “I wasn’t trying to do anything but talk to you. I’ve read a lot about you and Svengali—yes, some basketball players can indeed read—and I thought you would be an interesting person to meet. I wasn’t looking for anything else, but with your looks, I’m sure you think this just another line. And I don’t blame you. Maybe it is.”
He bowed slightly and began to turn. “I won’t bother you anymore. Enjoy the party.”
Laura watched him walk away, hating herself for being so defensive, for not trusting the motives of even one man. He had spoken her mind as though her forehead was a window in which he could see her thoughts. But even so, this man would be all wrong for her. A jock? Forget it. She decided simply to push David Baskin from her mind. Strangely, she couldn’t do it.
Back in Australia, a near-naked Laura leaned over and reached for the clock.
Ten fifteen p.m.
The sound of the bush penetrated through the darkness that had blanketed her window. If it were anybody else but David, she would be seriously worried. But David was a superb swimmer, an Olympic participant, and more to the point, he was masterfully unpredictable, always throwing a surprise at those who knew him, always tossing an unexpected curve into life. And this was one of the reasons the sports media loved him so. He was the player whose locker the reporters rushed to after a game, the man with the perfect quote for the morning edition. He was the polite yet cocky superstar who always managed to live up to his off-color predictions.
Laura threw a blanket over her body. The night air was cool, tingling her nerves as it gently caressed her skin. Hours came and left, taking with them the excuses that had staved off Laura’s panic and dread.
SHE got dressed at half past midnight and headed down to the lobby. The same receptionist was still on duty and Laura wondered if he ever slept.
“Excuse me,” she began. “Have you seen my husband?”
“Mr. Baskin? No, ma’am. Haven’t seen the mate since he went swimming.”
“Did he say anything to you before he left?”
“Not a peep, ma’am. He just handed me the key and that note I gave you. He didn’t even look up.” The receptionist saw the worried look on her face. “Has he not shown up yet?”
