Chapter Three

 

When Angelo arrived at the office building it appeared dark from the outside. He slid his key into the lock only to find it already unlocked. He switched on the waiting room lights. The fluorescent bulbs slowly brightened as he made his way down the hall toward the alarm box. Before he set the alarm, he peered down the stairs. “Hello, is anyone there?”

The stairwell was dark and quiet. At first, he assumed Stanzione was correct in thinking Demetre had forgotten to set the alarm but leaving the door unlocked seemed careless. He returned to the alarm box and punched in the code. Outside, he put his key in the lock and secured the door shut.

“Can I help you?”

A dark figure stood behind him. Startled in a paroxysm of fear, Angelo stumbled back against the door.

“Angelo, it’s me.” The soft cadence of his voice, those piercing brown eyes set under a canopy of thick black eyebrows belonged to Demetre. A wave of relief washed over Angelo but still, the shock precipitated a sudden release of sweat. “I’m sorry if I scared you. What are you doing here?”

Angelo’s heart pounded inside his chest. “What are you doing here so late?”

“Moving in. It’s taken me all weekend. I must have this place up and running by Tuesday. It’s not like I have my very own Steven to do all the grunt work.”

Angelo let loose a snort of amusement. It appeared everyone knew Steven was more than just the office manager. Stanzione had taught him how to take vital signs: blood pressure, weight, and temperature. Steven recorded them in the chart along with their chief complaint. In addition, Steven was a certified biller, handyman, a one-man cleanup crew and the boss’s wife. He ran the entire office, handling the stress with a conciliatory manner and a perpetual smile. Stanzione was lucky to have him.

“Next time let the alarm company know if you’re staying late,” Angelo said. “Otherwise, they’ll notify Stanzione or worse, dispatch the police.”

Demetre nodded as though he were listening, but Angelo could see his eyes graze over him. “Well, let me back in. I have to grab my stuff.”

Angelo followed him downstairs where he disappeared into one of the rooms. It was impressive how Demetre had managed to transform the space in such a short amount of time. The small waiting area was decorated with silver metal chairs arranged along the far corner, black-and-white nude forms hung on the walls, and over the receptionist’s desk, there was a sign that read: SKINDEM.

“How did you come up with the name?” Angelo asked.

Demetre poked his head out. “It’s an interesting story. Do you have a minute?” He motioned for Angelo to have a seat. “Wait. I have a better idea. We should have a celebratory drink.”

“Sorry, I’m on call.”

Demetre shrugged. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“I can’t.”

Demetre sauntered over to Angelo and stood close. “Listen, one sip is not going to hurt you. There’s no medical board watching us on closed-circuit TV.”

“Okay, but just one.”

“I’ll be right back.” Once again, Demetre disappeared into one of the rooms. When he returned, he was holding a bottle of brown liquid. “Do you like bourbon?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”

“Seriously?” Demetre paused for a half a second with a look that made Angelo wonder if he thought he was kidding. “Well, this is Maker’s Mark. It’s from Kentucky, and it’s the best bourbon on the planet.” He set the bottle down on the receptionist’s desk and sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He returned, holding two plastic cups. “Sorry but I don’t have any snifters.” He poured enough to fill a third of the cup and handed Angelo one. “Sniff it first.”

The scent reminded Angelo of burnt caramel. “Smoky.”

Demetre snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “It does have a smokiness about it. Sniff it again.” This time they did so at the same time. “Do you smell the spicy chocolate? There’s also a hint of tobacco.”

Angelo couldn’t smell anything beyond the burnt caramel, but he was too nervous. Demetre’s eyes were searing in their focus. Angelo felt like Demetre was administering a sort of refinement test and Angelo was failing.

“Well,” he said, lifting his cup. “Here’s to new beginnings and new friendships.”

Angelo took a sip. This time he tasted the chocolate, the hint of tobacco, and even something that reminded him of leather, or maybe it was all in his head. “Wait!” he blurted out. “I’m the one who should be toasting you.”

“It’s not too late,” Demetre said, holding up his cup.

Angelo cleared his throat. “When climbing the hill of prosperity, may we never meet a friend coming down.”

Demetre drew his head back, looking impressed. “I will drink to that.” They shot back the rest of the bourbon. “Would you like another?”

“No, I shouldn’t have even had that one.” Just then Angelo’s cell phone rang. Tammy again. Angelo silenced the ringer and slipped the phone back in his pocket.

“Go ahead. Answer it. Is it your boyfriend?”

“No, it’s just a friend.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Demetre asked.

The question lingered unanswered as Angelo involuntarily relived his latest encounter with Miles. Finally, he shook his head. “Not for a while.”

“Sounds like there’s a story there.”

“More like ancient history.”

Demetre held Angelo’s stare. He didn’t press him further. Instead, he poured another round of bourbon while Angelo shifted uneasily in his chair.

“Handsome, single doctor like yourself shouldn’t be tied down anyway. There’s plenty of time for relationships. Enjoy yourself now while you’re young. In fact, you should be out collecting phone numbers instead of sitting here with some old man.”

Angelo picked up the plastic cup and downed the bourbon in one gulp. “You’re not old.”

“Old enough to be your father.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I’m at least fifteen years older than you.”

“How many fifteen-year-old fathers do you know?” Angelo asked.

“Still.” Demetre stared into his cup briefly and downed the bourbon in one shot like Angelo had. “Okay, why don’t you run along? I have to finish up here, and I promise to set the alarm.”

“Thanks for the drink.”

Angelo moved to walk past him, and Demetre came in for a hug. It was an unexpected and awkward moment that was made even more uncomfortable when Demetre stepped back and said, “You smell nice. What kind of cologne is that?”

“It’s called dollar store soap. I took a shower right before I came here.”

Demetre stared at Angelo. “Wait a minute. Were you going out when Stanzione called? Did I ruin your plans?”

“It’s okay.”

Demetre wiped his hand down his face. For a moment, his eyes were fixed on an empty space. Suddenly he snapped his attention back on Angelo. “That call you just received . . . you were supposed to meet someone?”

“Honestly, it’s no big deal.”

Demetre shook his head. “No one smells that good for no big deal.”

Angelo chuckled, thinking if only Demetre knew he was meeting his lesbian best friend and her girlfriend. “My friend will understand.”

“Go and salvage your night.”

“But you never told me how you came up with the name SkinDem.”

“Oh, it’s nothing really.” He shook his head at first, shrugging it off, but then he peered up and saw Angelo staring back at him expectantly. “Once I decided to leave my former employer, a nasty cunt by the name of Dr. Kathleen Eichhorn, I took six close friends out to dinner. I asked them to write down what they thought I should call my new company. Everyone agreed it had to have the word skin in it. Tim came up with the idea to add ‘Dem’ for Demetre, and there you have it.”

“SkinDem,” Angelo repeated. “SkinDem like kingdom. Right?”

“Something like that.”

“Who’s Tim?” Angelo asked.

“Tim?” Demetre repeated, running his hands through his hair. “He was my lover of five years.” Demetre turned away, moving toward the stairs. “Okay, so now you know the story. Please, go and meet your friends. I feel horrible as it is.”

“Don’t feel horrible,” Angelo said, taking the stairs. “Thanks again for the bourbon.”

“My pleasure,” he said, bowing, “and once again, my apologies to your friend.”

Angelo glanced back, then looked at him with his physician’s eyes, and for a split second he detected regret in Demetre’s face, a forlorn expression like some brooding character from a Jane Austen novel. Angelo felt a vibration. The kind you sense between yourself and another person, but it was much more than that. He wanted to stay with Demetre but knew he couldn’t. The moment, both ambiguous and delicate, would be ruined by any attempt to prolong it.

While walking to Henrietta’s to meet Tammy, it occurred to him that what he felt was a spark. Something he hadn’t felt toward another man since Miles, and knowing how tragically that relationship ended, Angelo was cautious not to make more out of it. The next man would have to prove himself. The next man, Angelo swore, wouldn’t hurt him.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

On Monday morning Stanzione called Angelo, again in a panic. For someone who presented himself as larger than life, Angelo noted that Stanzione’s carefully crafted exterior easily cracked under pressure to reveal a man who masked his inferiority with muscle.

“You have to go and admit a patient for me,” Stanzione said, shakily. “He’s having a procedure on Tuesday.”

A half hour later, Angelo was standing over an ICU bed containing a man named Cal Hudson.

Cal was thirty-five, a fashion designer, and had severe lung disease related to HIV. Stanzione had been treating him with an experimental course of prostacyclin, which required monthly infusions under close ICU observation to monitor for life-threatening arrythmias.

At first glance, Angelo thought that Cal didn’t look as ill as his medical history implied. Squared jaw, hazel eyes, and thick auburn hair that looked perpetually windswept.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Cal asked. Angelo could feel the blood rushing to his ears as he focused on writing admitting orders. “I’m guessing no.” Cal spoke slowly accentuating his southern drawl. “Don’t worry. Cute guy like you won’t have trouble finding one.”

Angelo remained silent, feeling badly flustered. “I need to examine you.”

Cal threw back the sheets, exposing his sinewy body covered in a perfectly symmetrical distribution of hair the same color of a red fox’s pelt. He was wearing red silk boxer briefs and nothing else.

“Ready when you are Dr. Dreamboat,” Cal said, clasping his hands behind his neck. “I even wore clean underwear. Just like my mamma told me to.”

After a brisk but thorough exam, Angelo hung his stethoscope around his neck. “That’s all for now. Do you need anything?”

Cal aimed his head at the door where a muscular policeman was stationed outside the next room. “How about him?”

“I meant a pillow or extra blanket.”

Cal pouted with disappointment. His eyes scanned the room briefly. There was an empty paper cup on his tray. Cal snatched it up and crumbled it into a ball. Just as Cal was about to hurl it at the policeman, Angelo intercepted it.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m trying to get his attention,” Cal said in frustration.

“You can’t just throw objects at strangers, let alone a policeman,” Angelo argued. He took the crumpled paper cup and threw it in the trash.

“You’re nothing like Tony,” Cal said petulantly. “He would have been circling around that number like a vulture.”

“I doubt that. Dr. Stanzione is happily married.”

“So am I, sugar.”

“Why don’t you rest,” Angelo suggested.

“They’ll be plenty of time to rest when I’m dead,” Cal said flatly.

It was then Angelo caught a glimpse of fear in Cal’s eyes. It got him wondering if Cal’s playful attempt to engage the policeman was his way of distracting himself from his upcoming procedure.

“Listen, if you want to talk . . . .”

“Come by later and meet my better half,” cut in Cal. “Carlo is going to love you. He has a thing for scars.” Instinctively, Angelo reached up and touched his cheek. Cal read his reaction. “Damn me and my big mouth,” he said, sitting upright. “I have no filter, and sometimes I say things without thinking first.”

“It’s okay.”

“What a horse’s ass I am,” Cal cried, pounding his fist against the mattress. “Listen, if it’s any consolation that scar is pretty darn hot.”

“Well, I need to call Dr. Stanzione. If you or your partner need to speak with me later, just have the nurse call me.”

Cal’s eyes narrowed. “I’m gonna get that policeman’s name. Just you wait. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you arrived.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Angelo took in the policeman’s appearance: average height, muscular body, and a face as cheerful and rugged as a Norman Rockwell painting. Part of him was astonished he hadn’t noticed how handsome he was before.

Later that night, Angelo returned home and tried studying. His internal medicine boards were less than two weeks away, and the burdensome yolk he carried was wearing him down. There was so much riding on this one exam.

He tried to focus, but he couldn’t.

For so long, he’d been manically dedicated to work and avoiding any social circumstance that would have allowed him to reclaim a life for himself. Cal’s words, still fresh in his mind, razed through the truth he had always known. That after his relationship with Miles Scribner, Angelo had avoided any opportunity for intimacy. Speaking with Demetre and today with Cal, he was surprised how easily they saw through him—like he was made of glass even though he had worked so hard to shed his pathetic past. After he ended his relationship with Miles, Angelo had made a conscious choice to pursue the only thing that mattered—his career. And now that he had the job he always dreamed of, he refused to risk losing it over another failed relationship. Whatever Cal or Demetre thought, it didn’t matter, because his priorities remained the same.

Dr. Stanzione had returned from vacation a day early. Angelo met him at the hospital the next day. By now, Cal’s room was cluttered with get-well cards, flower arrangements, and a silver Mylar balloon bouncing gingerly against the ceiling. Cal’s partner, Carlo, was sitting on the bed when they arrived. Carlo was a slender man with a dark complexion that matched his curly hair and downturned eyes. He held Cal’s hand while Dr. Stanzione explained the high-risk procedure.

Once Cal signed the consent, Stanzione excused himself, but not before he leaned forward and muttered, “What does a guy have to do to get arrested around here?”

Stanzione’s head comically twitched toward the door. Standing there was the same policeman guarding the room next door.

Cal dropped Angelo a wink. “Told you. Tony don’t miss nothing.”

Once Stanzione exited the room, Carlo draped himself across Cal’s body and kissed him. They were quiet for a while. Angelo was about to excuse himself, but Carlo stopped him. “Cal tells me you don’t have a boyfriend.”

Angelo shook his head, exasperated. “It’s completely by choice.”

“Get over yourself, honey,” Carlo said. “Once Cal is discharged, we’d like to invite you to our apartment. We know many eligible men, like yourself.”

Once again, Angelo felt the heat rolling up his back. How could he have been dragged into a conversation about his private life when it should be the last thing on their minds?

“Or . . . I can ask that handsome policeman if he’s single?” Carlo said.

“No,” Angelo said emphatically. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Told you he was a toughie,” Cal said to Carlo.

The realization Angelo had no social life outside of his friendship with Tammy was never more apparent. He subsisted in a funnel of focus with only one purpose: passing the internal boards. But deep down, he craved the embrace of a man’s body against his.

He thought about it more later that night. Excitement crackled inside him like a campfire, thinking he might have met a pair of new gay friends in Cal and Carlo. For the past four years, Angelo’s social life was limited to the small circle of medical residents that worked alongside him. Long hours with only one full weekend off a month hampered any chance of making friends outside the hospital. Miles had introduced him to his friends, but he lost contact with them after the breakup. Maybe Cal and Carlo heralded a change? At the very least they had been an influence for him to try.

Angelo arrived at the hospital bright and early the next morning only to find Carlo in the lobby arguing wildly with a security guard, hands flailing, shouting in a hybrid of English and Spanish. Once their eyes met, Carlo bounded toward him.

“Dr. Perrotta, they’re not letting me up to see Cal because I’m not family.”

Angelo pulled in an impatient breath, annoyance that Carlo had been denied access because he was the gay lover and not a “real” relative triggered a swell of anger that was atypical of his personality.

“Too many people in the ICU at the moment,” explained the security guard. “There were several traumas brought in overnight.”

“My name is Dr. Perrotta . . . .”

“Doctor,” said the security guard in a tone that reeked of end-of-shift weariness, “I don’t care who you are. I have my orders, and right now I’m not letting anyone up unless they’re family.”

“But he is family!” Angelo insisted.

“Not according to this hospital.”

Then Carlo interrupted, shouting in Spanish. The security guard clenched his teeth. Sensing the tempest forming around him, Angelo grabbed ahold of Carlo’s arm and pulled him away. “What time is Cal’s procedure?”

“Now!” Tears streamed down Carlo’s cheeks. “He’s up there all alone. Why are they doing this?”

The tension in Angelo’s gut stretched like saltwater taffy. He had to do something, but what? Then a solution occurred to him. “Wait here. I have an idea.” Angelo rode the elevator up to the ICU.

Once the doors opened, he walked into the din of chaos: policemen congregating in the waiting area, doctors encircling two ICU beds, a swarm of nurses working in tandem to adjust intravenous lines and attach electrocardiogram leads. Only the handsome policeman seemed unfazed, standing in the same position where he had been all week.

“What’s going on?” Angelo asked him.

The policeman looked over his shoulder to see if there was anyone standing next to him. “You talking to me?”

“Who else would I be talking to?”

The policeman laughed at Angelo’s directness, but quickly sensed his urgency. “A couple of cops got shot last night.”

“Are you busy?”

“Not right now,” he replied. “The perp . . . I mean, the patient I’m guarding is in surgery.”

“You’re guarding a criminal?” Angelo asked.

“Drunk driver,” the policeman whispered.

Angelo was keenly studying the policeman’s blue eyes, when he spotted a transporter—a spry, serious-looking man with gray hair—helping Cal into a wheelchair. “I need you to do me a favor?”

“Favor?” The policeman laughed mockingly. “I don’t even know you.”

“Name’s Angelo,” he said holding out an unsteady hand.

The policeman looked at it, noted the tremulousness, and said, “I’m . . . .”

Cal cut in. “They won’t let Carlo up to see me,” he sobbed, grabbing ahold of Angelo’s pant leg. “Why are they doing this?”

Angelo leaned forward. “I’m working on it.”

The transporter went to push the wheelchair, but Cal locked the brakes. “Excuse me, but I’m talking to my doctor.”

“Please, just give us a minute?” Angelo pleaded with the transporter.

“You got ten seconds,” replied the transporter with his hands on his hips. “I’m due for a break.”

Angelo stood up and looked squarely into the policeman’s chiseled face. For a moment, he forgot what he was about to say. “You’ve been here all week,” Angelo began. “Do you remember what this man’s partner looks like?”

“Latino? Slim? Five foot nine or ten?”

“Good memory,” Angelo said impressed. “I really need your help.”

One side of the policeman’s mouth slid into a grin. “Are you always this forward?”

“Why?” Angelo asked. “Do you like forward guys?’

“Excuse me,” interjected the irate transporter, “but I got more important things to do then to watch you two speed date.”

Angelo squeezed his eyes, embarrassed. “Sorry,” and then with pleading eyes said to the policeman, “I can explain everything but not right now. Won’t you please just do me one favor?”

“Only if you promise to buy me a cup of coffee.”

“Jesus H. Christ,” the transporter cried.

“Hush up,” Cal hissed to the transporter. “Angelo, if you don’t promise this officer a cup of coffee, I swear I’m going to explode.”

Angelo smiled. Turning back, he held out his hand again. “You have my word.”

The policeman shook Angelo’s hand, holding it long enough so that Angelo felt a trill of excitement shoot up his arm. “What do you want me to do?”

“Find this gentleman’s partner. His name is Carlo. They won’t allow him up so you have to escort him to the service elevators. They’re on the other side of the main elevators. We’ll meet you there in two minutes.”

The policeman looked over at Cal who bulged out his lower lip. “Okay,” the policeman said. “See you in two minutes.”

Angelo followed behind the transporter as he wheeled Cal into the service elevator. Just after the transporter entered his key, Angelo pressed the first-floor button. Then he leaned against the wall and offered Cal a reassuring wink.

“Wonderful,” the transporter said, reeking with sarcasm. “If I get fired for this, I’ll want more than a cup of coffee.”

Before the elevator doors closed, the very security guard who wouldn’t let Carlo up to see Cal, stuck his foot in between the doors. “Going down?” Angelo was stunned into silence as the security guard entered. Over the next several seconds, as the elevator motor hummed, Angelo closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. When the elevator doors opened on the first floor, Carlo was standing there, waiting. The policeman had escorted him around back to the service elevator without anyone questioning him.

Carlo and the security guard were now face to face. “Hey, weren’t you the one . . . .” and then looking at Angelo added, “I thought I told you . . . .”

Sensing the conflict brewing, the policeman intervened. “Are you getting out?”

“What’s going on?” he replied suspiciously.

The policeman held out his arm to prevent the doors from closing.

“Important police business,” and then he gestured to the open doors like a maître d’ at a fine restaurant. “After you.”

The security guard harrumphed, staring Angelo down as he exited.

Once the doors closed, Angelo breathed a sigh of relief. “You two only have a few seconds.”

Carlo squeezed in between the scuffed metal wall and Cal’s wheelchair. In the time it took for the elevator to reach the fifth floor, he watched those two men share a proper good-bye. Carlo kissed Cal on the sides of his face, on his eyelids and on his mouth while Cal stroked Carlo’s cheek with the back of his hand. The doors opened. Carlo and Cal shared one last kiss.

“Jeez Louise,” the transporter said, wiping his eyes. “Leave it to gays to make a five second elevator trip into an abridged version of Romeo and Juliet.”

Every teary eye in the elevator locked onto Cal’s wheelchair as the transporter wheeled him away. “He’s going to be all right,” Angelo reassured Carlo.

Carlo hugged him. Angelo glanced over at the policeman. “Thank you,” he mouthed. Just then, Angelo’s cell phone rang. When the elevator doors opened again, he excused himself. “I have to answer this.”

“I take my coffee with cream and no sugar,” the policeman shouted as Angelo hurried off.

Stanzione remained at the hospital for the rest of the day while Angelo saw patients at the office. Steven helped, but Angelo felt overwhelmed not only by the number of people in the waiting room, but by the way the events of the morning had played out. Not only had he successfully united Carlo and Cal before his procedure but he was also finally introduced to the policeman, though he didn’t know the policeman’s name or how to get in touch with him.

And his internal medicine boards were in less than two weeks. Stanzione had promised Angelo he could take this week off to prepare, but clearly he hadn’t factored in the chance of an emergency that would pull him away from the practice.

He hoped this wasn’t indicative of all Stanzione’s planning skills.

Once the last patient was gone and Angelo had completed all his notes, he threw on his backpack and walked up front to say good night.

Steven still toiled away at the billing and limply waved without looking up. “See you tomorrow.”

Angelo stepped out into the chilly night. A dark car was double-parked in front of the office. “Dr. Perrotta?”

Angelo squinted to see who was calling him. “Do I know you?”

The man seated behind the wheel smiled brilliantly. “You owe me a cup of coffee.”

Angelo regarded him carefully. It was New York after all. A memory clicked. “I didn’t recognize you without your uniform.”

“I try not to wear it when I’m off duty.” They stared at each other for another second. “Do you not recognize me now? I can show you my badge if you want.”

“What’s your name?” Angelo found himself fighting not to blush.

“Jason Murphy.

The policeman had thrown him, he could hardly deny. Even in the dim light of evening he was ridiculously handsome. “How did you find me?”

“Um, I am a policeman.”

Angelo shook his head, embarrassed. “Of course.”

“Listen, do you need a ride home? I’m more than happy to drive you.”

Angelo stood under the streetlight contemplating the long walk ahead, but also considering this is how most victims get murdered. Despite the nag of suspicion, Angelo couldn’t resist this genial, attractive, and interesting man. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Jason smiled. “Get in.”

Angelo stepped inside the black SUV and sank back against the leather interior. For a second, he closed his eyes as exhaustion washed over him. Jason pulled away. At the stoplight, Angelo glanced over and found Jason staring back at him. “Tired?”

“Beyond tired. Too tired to study, but I have to.”

“Doctors take exams?”

“Not just any exam. The exam of all exams. My internal medicine boards,” Angelo said, pulling down the visor to assess himself in the mirror. “Whoa, how did you recognize me when I look like this?”

“Why don’t we grab a cup of coffee?” Jason asked. “It’ll wake you up.”

Though coffee was exactly what he needed, Angelo was too preoccupied with his upcoming exam. “I’d love to, but there’s too much riding on this exam. I really need to study.” Jason didn’t push. He asked Angelo for the address. Minutes later, the SUV pulled up to Angelo’s apartment building.

Jason grabbed ahold of Angelo’s arm before he had a chance to open the door. “What you did today—for those two men—that made my heart explode inside.”

Angelo grinned suddenly, wide, and gleeful. “I couldn’t have pulled it off without your help.”

“Is there any possibility you might be free . . . after your exam?”

Angelo opened his mouth to speak, but his cell phone rang, giving both of them a jolt. “I’m sorry. It’s my boss.”

“I understand.”

“Yes, Dr. Stanzione. Is everything all right?” Without thinking, Angelo got out of the SUV still listening to his boss prattle on about Cal. Inserting the key into his building’s front door lock, it occurred to Angelo he hadn’t thanked Jason or acknowledged his invitation to go on a date. Angelo let go of the door and turned around to catch him, but he was already gone. Fate had stepped in and made the decision perfectly clear.

 

 

Chapter Five

 

The next morning, Angelo hopped out of the cab, all too aware of the grinding urgency churning in his stomach. After speaking with Stanzione the night before, it was clear Cal’s health was not improving. The alarm he felt was only exacerbated by Stanzione’s long-winded explanation about how this wasn’t his fault. Never once did Stanzione mention if he had spoken to Carlo.

“Hey Tiffany,” Angelo said. There were two patients waiting. “Just give me a second to settle in.” Based on his conversation with Stanzione, Angelo assumed he’d be at the hospital most of the day. Throwing his backpack on top of his desk, a note caught Angelo’s eye.

Meeting in Dr. Stanzione’s office. Now!!

Angelo knocked on the door and ventured in.

“Come in. Come in,” Stanzione said.

Stanzione’s office was a mirror image of his next door, but larger. A massive L-shaped desk took up most of the space. There was a small sofa to the right and two consultation chairs positioned in front of the desk. Bookshelves overstuffed with medical textbooks. Diplomas, certificates, awards, and magazine articles touting Stanzione as Top Doctor hung on the wall behind Stanzione’s chair.

Demetre and his assistant, Laura, a middle-aged woman with dark hair faintly streaked with gray, and enormous blue eyes that seemed perpetually concerned, were already seated. Laura had a yellow legal pad on her lap, taking notes. Demetre appeared exhausted. Dark lines etched under his eyes. He wore scrubs and looked like he had just rolled out of bed.

“We were just talking.” Stanzione stood behind his chair as if it was a podium. Steven sat legs crossed on the sofa, appearing completely disinterested and thoroughly annoyed. All eyes were on Angelo as he entered the room and sat next to Steven. “Now that SkinDem has officially moved in,” Stanzione began, “I wanted us to meet. Demetre and I had some preliminary discussions about my medical spa idea. Angelo, the reason I asked you to join us is because I want you to spend every free minute you have downstairs shadowing Demetre. You need to learn what he does. Also, I was thinking you should attend an aesthetic workshop. They have them all the time. Usually, they’re at some Marriott over a weekend. Am I right, Demetre?”

“Um, yeah.” Demetre was slouched in the chair, fiddling with the drawstrings of his scrub pants.

“I can reach out to Abby from Silverlight,” Laura offered as she wrote, “or the rep from Illuminesance and see if they know of any upcoming courses.”

“Good,” Stanzione said, clapping his hands together. “I want Angelo to be familiar with the different types of lasers, and what they’re used for. Plus, he should learn how to administer Botox and fillers. Am I right, Demetre?”

“Sure,” he said, peering over at Angelo. “That is, if Angelo is interested in performing those types of procedures.”

“Of course, he’s interested,” Stanzione insisted. “Right, Angelo?”

Before he even had a chance to open his mouth, Laura interrupted, “Who will be the medical director?”

Demetre reached over and placed his hand on Laura’s knee. “There’s no need to worry about that right now.”

“But we need—” Laura started.

“Not now,” Demetre said, firmly.

Angelo sensed a deeper concern in Laura’s tone. Her cheek flickered as if zapped by an invisible current.

Stanzione seemed mildly confused and offered, “I would be the medical director, of course.”

Laura’s face relaxed. “Oh, that’s wonderful news. That solves everything.”

“I mean, really, who better than me?” Stanzione asked. “I own the office. I own the practice. Therefore, I should be the medical director. Demetre and Angelo will be associate directors. Then once we’re up and running, we’ll hire masseurs, facialists, and whatever else we need to have a fully functioning medical spa.” Stanzione took a breath that seemed to portend there was still more to discuss, but his gaze was directed toward the door where Steven now stood, tapping his watch.

“Okay,” Stanzione said. “That’s all for today. This was a great meeting. Really great everyone.”

When Angelo stood up, Demetre’s eyes were fixed on the floor.

“Angelo,” Stanzione said. “I need to speak with you.”

Steven said, “There are patients waiting, Tony.”

“We’ll only be a moment.”

Steven slammed the door on his way out.

“Sit down,” said a subdued Stanzione. “Cal Hudson died.”

“Oh my God,” Angelo’s voice went soft. “When?”

“Early this morning.”

The news of Cal’s death was a pain Angelo had not felt before, though he couldn’t quite articulate the feeling. Instead, he experienced a series of memories: Carlo draped over Cal’s bed as they questioned Angelo, Carlo crying because they wouldn’t let him up to see Cal the day of the procedure, and Cal and Carlo kissing right before he was wheeled into the operating room. Scraps of earlier memories—the get-well cards, the red silk boxer shorts, a silver Mylar balloon—whirred through Angelo’s mind until he heard the jarring voice of Stanzione calling out his name. “Angelo!”

“How is Carlo?”

Stanzione clenched his jaw. “Death is a delicate matter. My lawyer suggested I not engage with Carlo. I don’t have to since they weren’t legally married.”

Stanzione’s callousness stunned him. Minutes earlier, he was outlining a plan for a medical spa with the enthusiasm of someone planning a surprise birthday party. All the while, he knew Cal had died; to shift so seamlessly into the role of the doleful doctor who had lost a beloved patient was horribly incongruous.

“The use of prostacyclin is controversial,” Stanzione continued. “I’m meeting with the chief of critical care to review the case with the hospital’s legal team later today.”

“Legal?” Angelo repeated. “Do you feel culpable?”

Stanzione bristled. “Of course not.”

“I’m sorry . . . it’s just when you mentioned legal, I thought . . . .”

“You thought what?” Beads of sweat appeared just under Stanzione’s synthetic hairline.

“Nothing,” Angelo backtracked. “I . . . I don’t know what I meant.”

“Let me tell you something,” Stanzione said, and although he wasn’t yelling, his voice was deep and intense. “You don’t get to be where I am without making critical decisions. That’s what being a doctor is all about.”

Stanzione reached for the door, opened it, and dismissed Angelo with a sweeping wave of his royal arm. Angelo found himself being pulled out of the office like he had been jettisoned.

Angelo paused at the threshold. “I know this isn’t a good time, but I had asked you if I could take off a few days to study before my boards . . . .”

“Under the circumstances that’s no longer possible.”

“But you agreed.”

Stanzione’s eyes fastened on Angelo’s. “Do you know why I hired you?”

“Dr. Stanzione, I’m not complaining . . . .”

“It was because you said that you would do anything for this job, that I was the one who made you want to become an HIV specialist. I don’t know if you realize this, but I feel a certain responsibility towards you.”

Stanzione asserted his paternal authority, against which the fatherless Angelo had no defense.

“I’m forever in your debt for this opportunity,” Angelo said, “but keeping this job is contingent on passing the boards.”

“There were several board-certified candidates, but I chose you. Maybe it was your Italian background. Maybe I saw myself in you, and after your interview I thought, this kid is going to work his ass off. One day he could be big, like me.” Angelo was embarrassed. By the crazed look in Stanzione’s eyes he felt, often, as if their interactions together were being timed, and that his job was to perform as quickly and efficiently as he could and never question his boss.

“I won’t let you down, Dr. Stanzione.” Angelo saw no use in arguing. Stanzione had made up his mind.

“By the way,” Stanzione added before closing the door. “If you’re not ready by now, then a few extra days studying won’t matter. Now get to work. There are patients waiting.”

Angelo had nothing to say to that.

Later that afternoon, Angelo sat alone in his office. Normally, Steven would have tidied up his desk, stacking his mail and messages neatly in a pile. Like a maid in a five-star hotel, Steven’s turndown service occurred reliably at three every afternoon.

But not today.

Through the wall, Angelo heard Steven and Stanzione arguing. If he remained perfectly still, he could make out bits of their conversation.

“ . . . is a nasty bitch . . . don’t like the way she talks to Tiffany . . . .”

“ . . . give them a chance to settle in . . . .”

“And I don’t like that he calls himself doctor . . . he’s a tech. Laura calls him Dr. D.”

“You’re making much more out of this . . . a relief that we’ve rented . . . they’re paying us forty grand a month.”

“He still owes the first month’s rent . . . haven’t seen a penny yet.”

And suddenly, he could hear them perfectly as the pitch of their voices grew louder.

“Why can’t you just be optimistic for once?” Stanzione shouted. “This is what we wanted.”

“No, this is what you wanted,” Steven countered. “Don’t make it sound like I had any choice in the matter.”

“Goddamn it! What do you want from me? Everything is on my back: the mortgage for this office, our apartment, my mother’s apartment. All the bills come in my name. This fucking job is killing me. What would happen if I had a heart attack? Who’s going to pay the bills then?”

There was an extended silence. Angelo hadn’t worked there long enough to experience firsthand the interior quarrels of these two men. Since July, he saw Steven as the central figure bridging the man Stanzione was at home to the doctor he portrayed at work. Now it seemed that Steven was a shaky bridge, rattled easily under pressure. Angelo stood up and quietly closed his office door. He attempted to busy himself by reviewing labs, but it was impossible.

“I’m sorry,” he heard Steven say. His voice, shucked of its usual undercurrent of sarcasm, sounded like someone else’s. A little boy? Perhaps that was what Steven really sounded like when they were alone.

“Ste-ven,” Laura called. “Ste-ven, oh, Ste-ven.”

“I’m in Dr. Stanzione’s office, Laura.”

Laura clattered down the hall. “There you are.” She settled right outside Angelo’s door, firing off questions. “Why is there no one at the front desk? Is Tiffany gone for the day? And if she is, who will be directing Dr. D’s clients downstairs? I just can’t keep leaving my desk in search of clients.”

“I’m sorry Laura. I’ll make sure Tiffany lets me know when she leaves for the day. Try to be patient. It’s going to take time for everyone to get used to all the changes. I’ll be up front in one second.”

“Thank you, I’ll tell Dr. D.” As she retreated, her heels clicked on the marble floor echoing down the hall like popping fireworks.

Angelo was reminded again that Steven called Demetre a tech. What kind of technician was he after all? Angelo brought up the SkinDem website online:

At SkinDem Skin Care and Laser Center we are dedicated to providing the highest quality of care to our patients. Our professional staff is specially trained to offer the latest medically based, scientific technologies that are customized to fit your individual needs. With a passion for beauty, we offer expert skincare and laser treatments for blood vessel removal, electrolysis, laser hair removal, laser skin treatments, tattoo removal, and facials.

Owner and Chief Laserist, Demetre Kostas, CPE has a Master of Science in engineering from RPI.

Angelo reread Demetre’s credentials. For whatever reason, he had assumed Demetre was a doctor. But why? Then he tried to recall if anyone had said he was, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had made that assumption on his own. And, of course, Laura’s persistent use of the title had not added to his clarity.

Online, Angelo discovered that Demetre’s CPE degree stood for certified professional electrologist, which he had earned in 1993, but Angelo was unable to confirm whether Demetre had a master’s degree from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute or whether Demetre had graduated from college. What Angelo did find was that anyone could purchase a laser, but that a licensed physician had to oversee its proper use as the medical director. Now it all makes sense, thought Angelo. That’s why Laura was so eager to have Stanzione designated as SkinDem’s medical director. But who was the medical director now?

Steven knocked on Angelo’s door as he entered.

“Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Angelo replied.

Steven switched on the lights. “Tony just left, but he wanted me to remind you he won’t be seeing patients tomorrow. He has a haircut appointment, and then he’s coming to the office, but only to take meetings.”

Angelo’s eyes never veered away from his computer screen. Great, he thought to himself. Another day working alone in the coal mine.

Steven stood in the doorway. “I’m heading out soon. It’s been one of those days.”

As much as Angelo wanted to avoid getting caught up in the tangled relationship between these two men, he realized that was not possible. “Change is stressful.”

“You probably heard us arguing,” Steven said. “We don’t usually argue like that . . . it’s just, like you said, this has been very stressful for me . . . and Tony.”

“It’ll get better.”

“I hope.” Steven turned to walk away but stopped. “You know. Sometimes I paint to relax.”

Angelo’s internal scowl melted to pity once he saw Steven’s hopeful expression. “I had no idea you were an artist.”

Steven lit up like an old jukebox. “I collect things out of people’s trash. You wouldn’t believe what people throw away. I make things out of the stuff I find. That’s all I did while we were in P-town. I’m hoping Tony buys a place there. I think it would be great for him. You know . . . to have a place where we could go with the dogs. He could have a garden, and I could do my art stuff.”

“Have you been looking for a house?” Angelo asked.

“Kind of.”

“What’s holding Dr. Stanzione back?”

Steven glanced over his shoulder. “If I tell you, will you promise not to tell anyone?”

Angelo wasn’t prepared to hear a secret disclosure, and yet, he was riveted. “Yes.”

“Tony had a heart issue last year,” Steven said cautiously.

“Heart issue,” repeated Angelo. “You mean, a heart attack?”

Angelo saw Steven’s expression change. His clarification seemed to dredge up memories Steven likely had suppressed. His eyes welled. His lower lip trembled. “Uh-huh,” Steven confirmed in a timid voice. He gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles blanching. “Tony’s doctors said he had to avoid stress.”

Angelo stood up and closed the door. He pried Steven’s fingers from the desk and gently sat him down.

“Listen to me,” Angelo said reassuringly. He was holding Steven’s hands in his. “You need to speak with Dr. Stanzione. Not here, but alone. It’s okay for you to be concerned, especially if he had a heart issue. But arguing with him, here, about work is only going to make the situation more stressful.”

“I guess you’re right,” Steven said

“I know I’m right,” Angelo confirmed. “Continue to make your art. It’s very therapeutic. In fact, why don’t you make something for the waiting room and get rid of those tacky paintings?”

For just a moment, Steven seemed ready to disclose something else, but then he cast his eyes downward. “Yeah, I guess those paintings are kind of old anyway.” Steven turned to leave. Looking over his shoulder he said, “I think it would be good for Tony to have a place away from the city, away from the stress. Don’t you?”

“I do. I really do.”

Angelo sat in his office long after everyone else had gone home. The news of Stanzione’s heart attack was stunning. Angelo could only imagine the impact it had on a man like Stanzione. A man who portrayed himself as strong and virile but was actually frail and sickly. It occurred to him that Stanzione’s medical spa might be a great idea after all. What if Stanzione planned to finance the spa and retain ownership as the medical director, leaving the co-directors to run the day-to-day operations? When Angelo considered that possibility, and the very real possibility that he and Demetre would work closely together, he found himself smiling. With Stanzione and Steven living part-time in P-town it would give him and Demetre the ability to run the spa as they saw fit.

When it came to Demetre and SkinDem, there were still many unanswered questions, but that didn’t stop Angelo from imagining what a budding relationship might look like between them. Again, he thought of himself lying naked with Demetre pressed against his body. He had convinced himself once that an office romance would only end in tragedy, but why couldn’t this one be different?

And then Angelo was reminded of Jason, the police officer who had aided him in uniting Cal and Carlo. Had he dismissed Jason’s advances in order to make room for Demetre? It seemed to Angelo that was exactly how the events played out.

The next morning an unexpected thunderstorm wreaked havoc on Manhattan. September was notorious for hurricanes that swept up from the southeast. Most times, the storms subsided by the time they reached New York landfall, but that didn’t stop the rain. Crowds rushed for busses that splashed them with water. Unwieldy umbrellas collapsed against the gusty winds.

By the time Angelo arrived at the office, he was drenched. It was no surprise when Tiffany informed him that several patients had canceled their appointments. Angelo sat alone in his office, studying. A knock at the door startled him back to the present. “Hiya handsome,” Jill whispered, the five-star drug rep. “Is this a good time?”

“Come in.”

Jill wandered in with her hands behind her back as though she was browsing for antiques. She was wearing a well-tailored emerald-green pantsuit. “This is a beautiful office.” Then she pointed to the skylight. “Uh, well, that just changes everything. How fabulous is that!”

“It’s more than I could have ever dreamed of.”

She sat across from Angelo. Legs crossed. “So, a little birdie told me that Mount Olympus has granted you guys a gift from the gods.”

“You mean Demetre?” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Yes, SkinDem has officially moved in.”

“Good for you,” she said, scrunching her nose. “Good for all of you.”

“If Dr. Stanzione’s happy, then I’m happy.”

Then Jill turned serious. “You don’t think Tony’s idea of a medical spa is a good one?”

Angelo marveled at the remarkable way she was able to shift her demeanor so quickly. She was either slightly crazy or utterly brilliant, he thought.

“I have no idea, Jill. I just started working here. I’m still trying to get the whole private practice thing down.”

She stared at him keenly then, tapped her finger to her temple, and pointed at him.

“Gotcha. I heard about Jackie the other night at dinner.” Jill pressed out her lower lip. “I liked her.”

“It was a surprise to me too.”

“But what a coup for you.” Jill slid forward so that she was sitting on the edge of her seat.

“If by coup you mean more work then, yes, it was quite a coup.”

Jill rested her elbows on the desk, staring directly into his eyes. “You know when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade.”

“I’m not following you.”

Jill tossed her head back, shook out her hair. “How can I explain this without sounding . . . okay, forget that. Let me just state the facts. Now that Jackie is no longer the one enrolling patients into the clinical trial, that makes you the research coordinator. As the RC, you are obligated to attend the annual meetings. By the way, the last one was at the Four Seasons in San Diego.” Then she winked. “Not bad, huh? Heard it was a blast. In addition to that, you automatically get assigned to our speaker’s bureau so that you can deliver talks to other providers, nurses, and physician’s assistants, regarding the outcomes of the clinical trial. Get where I’m going with this?”

Her forwardness was jarring. Angelo found this entire conversation somewhat inappropriate. “Why wouldn’t you just have Dr. Stanzione speak? He is the lead investigator.”

She laughed at the troubled expression on his face. “It’s not a matter of choosing, sweetheart. We can use you both. There’s plenty to go around.” Then she made a twirling motion with her finger. “I’m talking twenty-five hundred for a one-hour dinner lecture, and if we fly you out of town that number doubles, plus airfare and hotel accommodations.”

“I’d have to discuss this with Dr. Stanzione.”

“What’s there to discuss?” Jill smiled wryly. “All I need is your social security number. Lectures are always after work. Checks will be sent directly to your home. No one has to know.” She raised an eyebrow and sat back. Dark clouds had converged overhead. The room was dim except for a stream of gray light filtering from above. Half of Jill’s face was obscured in darkness, glowing through it, her blue eyes shone. “You’re an up-and-comer. After a year or two you’ll be a thought leader, just like Tony.”

“I see.” But what kind of thought, he wondered.

When she snapped her fingers, Angelo felt it like a thunderclap. “I knew you would.”

“You’re being very optimistic,” Angelo said, smiling. “Remember, I haven’t even passed my boards yet.”

“Minor details,” Jill replied.

In the hall, Angelo heard Stanzione cursing. Seconds later, he appeared in the doorway, drenched. “Can you believe this goddamn weather?”

“Time to build that ark,” Jill said.

Immediately, Angelo noticed Stanzione’s hair looked different. It was unnaturally black, like a Vampire wig, but much shorter with a crop of spikes on top.

“Did you get a haircut?” Jill asked.

Stanzione reached to touch his hair but caught himself. “Oh yeah, I did. It’s a mess now because of the rain.”

“No, I like it,” she said, standing up to scrutinize it closer. “It makes you look . . . younger.” Stanzione reacted with a visceral throb of excitement as if that was his intention all along.

“I don’t know about that,” he replied sheepishly.

“Do you need a moment to collect yourself or should I follow you into your office?”

“No, come in.”

“We’ll chat again,” Jill said to Angelo before exiting, but not before she turned an imaginary lock to her lips and threw away the key.

 

 

Chapter Six

 

By early October, Angelo was consumed with only one thing: the results of his internal medicine board exam. He returned home every night with a mounting trepidation. Each time he unlocked his mailbox, the warning voice of Stanzione echoed resoundingly about their agreement. The wait was driving him mad.

One afternoon, he slipped out to eat lunch by himself. Steven reminded him there was a pharmaceutical rep waiting, but he made an excuse about a dentist appointment. He strode through Union Square, the crisp fall breeze scouring his ears. He entered McDonald’s and ordered two cheeseburgers, small fries, and a Diet Coke. Strolling through the square, amidst skateboarders abrading the concrete while attempting kick flips down steps, he ate lunch. The thought of eating fast food was brewing all morning, having dreamed of his mother with heartbreaking clarity and those afternoons she took him and his older sister, Camille, to McDonalds on special occasions.

His mother paid with crumpled dollar bills she pulled from her jeans, and the loose change they had recovered under the sofa cushions. She’d sipped coffee as young Camille and Angelo swiveled back and forth on school-bus-yellow fiberglass seats, holding a French fry in one hand and a cheeseburger in the other.

Now on the south corner of Union Square, Angelo sat on a bench overlooking the mega music store, chewing his straw when he saw the date flash overhead in the giant digital clock. October sixth. It was his mother’s birthday. She would have been sixty-two.

Despite his disdain for reminiscence, his subconscious seemed tethered by it. It had been fourteen years since her death, and he still dissected the choices she had made in the months before she died, refusing chemotherapy, and telling him that she didn’t want to die in a hospital. It was bewildering to think that the woman who encouraged him to become a doctor was the same person who refused to take their medical advice.

That year, he hated her for being a coward. In hindsight, he knew she had made the right decision. Still, that didn’t quell the slap of disappointment he experienced when she told her children how long she had left to live. If only he could have compartmentalized his feelings then, the way he did now.

Then suddenly, cutting through his apparition of nostalgia, was Jason Murphy. The policeman from the hospital was heading toward him, smiling brightly, which rendered him even more attractive to Angelo. Though he had a narrow waist, his muscular arms and broad chest gave him a solid looking build, which was only accentuated by his fitted uniform. “Well, if it isn’t Dr. Perrotta.”

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“My partner and I were driving around, looking for a place to eat lunch.”

“Your partner?”

“Yeah.” He pointed to the patrol car where a Black woman sat in the driver’s seat.”

“Oh, your work partner.”

“You thought I meant partner, as in boyfriend?” Jason asked.

“Yes, I did,” Angelo said. “Except I never got used to the idea of gay men referring to their partners as ‘boyfriend’.”

“Too sissy for you?”

“No,” Angelo said, realizing he had insulted Jason. “It’s just . . . if you decide to be in a relationship with a man, aren’t they your partner?”

“I like the sound of boyfriend,” he said, sitting down. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you since you roped me into that . . . I don’t know what you call it but . . . .” Jason wagged his finger at him. “You’re a sneaky guy.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“Whatever happened to your patient?” Jason asked.

Angelo raised a fist to his mouth to choke back the unexpected emotional swell.

“Are you okay?”

Angelo remained quiet, fearing he might begin weeping if he uttered a word.

“I didn’t mean to bother you on your lunch hour,” Jason said. “I just wanted to say hi.” He got up to leave.

“Don’t go,” Angelo said. “Would you like a fry?”

“I’d rather take you out to dinner.”

“Can I ask you a question?” Angelo asked.

Jason smiled unevenly. His blue eyes seemed to reflect the sun and sparkled. “Can you answer mine first?”

Angelo inhaled sharply. “Cal . . . my patient, died.”

Jason sat back down. They remained quiet in the charged silence that followed. “That’s awful news,” Jason said finally. “I’m so sorry.”

“I still haven’t recovered completely.”

“I don’t know how doctors do it,” Jason said. “You must get so close to your patients, and for one of them to die . . . that must be like losing a family member.”

“It is,” Angelo confirmed. “Likewise, I can’t imagine how scary it must be for you to go to work every day. It’s not likely one of my patients is going to kill me. Isn’t it exhausting, living in fear?”

“I don’t see it that way,” Jason explained. “The thing is, I see my job like yours . . . I’m helping people. It’s not all cowboys and Indians. Remember, I was stationed outside a criminal’s ICU room for a week.”

“Is that part of the job?”

Jason’s partner slapped her hand against the car door. “I’m starving here!”

“One minute,” he replied. “To be honest, I had . . . a situation last year where I discharged my weapon. I had what they call a problematic recovery, so I see a mental health care practitioner. After an internal affairs investigation, it was determined that I had acted impulsively. So, I’m on a one-year probation, which includes seeing a therapist once a month. Good news is that I feel great, and my final evaluation is in six months.”

Jason’s partner honked the horn, startling them. “Doctor, please say you’ll go on a date with him so I can eat.”

“My partner’s hangry,” Jason said. “I should go.”

Angelo fixed his eyes on Jason’s, and for that one moment, everything seemed both possible and indescribably confusing. Why hadn’t he accepted Jason’s invitations? Was it to make room for Demetre? “Jason, wait.”

And as if the cosmos were colliding at that very moment, Angelo saw something completely unexpected. Ambling across the square was Demetre, escorted by a short, stocky woman. Angelo felt buoyed by anxiety, a jittery sense that events were unfolding inexorably, and there was nothing he could do.

Demetre’s eyes skittered from one person to the next, smiling, until his gaze fell upon Angelo, and then he wasn’t smiling anymore. He turned away, and Angelo knew Demetre had seen the real Angelo Perrotta: poor white trash from Staten Island. He cast a rueful glance at his unfinished fries, the crumpled bag soused with grease, and the oversized soft drink in his hand. The clues were all there in the blinding nimbus of McDonald’s golden arches.

Just as they passed, Demetre took one final glimpse and Angelo waved, buckling under the weight of his humiliation but determined to sustain an air of breezy indifference. And then they were gone.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Jason asked.

Then something else happened. Angelo received a call from Tammy. “Did you pass?”

“You got your exam results?”

“Yes, just now. I passed!”

“Congratulations!” Angelo yelled.

“Get your ass home and check the mail.”

Click.

“I’m so sorry, Jason, but I have to run back to my apartment. That was my friend, Tammy. She got her exam results.”

“Well, what could be faster than a police escort?”

“Police escort,” Angelo repeated disbelievingly. “You’re not serious?”

“Only if you’ll let me take you out to dinner tonight to celebrate.”

“Deal.”

They hurried toward the police car. “Mary, this is Dr. Perrotta,” Jason said to his partner as he opened the rear door.

“When I said ‘Say yes’ to going on a date,” Mary kidded, “I didn’t mean this very minute!”

As they drove away, Angelo glanced up again at the digital clock. He heard his mother’s voice. It’s okay. It’s okay.

“You’re late,” Steven said as Angelo walked into the office. “There are patients waiting.”

“Tell them it was worth the wait.” He slapped his exam results on the front desk and winked at Tiffany. He could hardly contain his exuberance, but in the short time he had been a doctor, he learned there was little time to wallow in self-pity or celebrate major victories when patients were waiting.

Two hours later Angelo listened to a patient explain why he was abandoning his HIV treatment in exchange for ozone therapy baths, when he heard a knock at the door.

“Sorry to bother you,” Demetre said, “but when you’re done can you find me?”

“Sure.”

Fifteen minutes later, Angelo ventured downstairs. Laura sat behind her glass desk looking more annoyed than usual. Without a single utterance, she pointed a pen at the first exam room.

“Come in,” Demetre said after Angelo knocked. On the exam table was an older woman, positioned on her right side. The slit in the blue paper gown revealed her leopard print bra and panties. “Violet, this is Dr. Perrotta. Doctor, meet Violet.”

Violet was a reedy woman in her late seventies with a weathered face, red lipstick bleeding into the creases around her mouth, and varnished orange skin that was as thin as parchment. She wore magenta nail polish and strands of gold necklaces.

“So, you’re the famous doctor I’ve been hearing about,” she said in the husky voice of someone who’d smoked for decades. “You’re a cutie.” Then Violet did a double take, squinting up at him. “Where’d you get that scar, kid?”

“Violet,” Demetre warned. “We’re here to discuss you, not Dr. Perrotta.”

“It’s okay,” he replied to ease the tension. “I got bit by a dog when I was two.”

She stared at his face with cold appraisal. “Why don’t you let Dr. D take care of it with his laser?”

Demetre glanced at Angelo, assuming the posture of a weary son embarrassed by his irrepressible mother.

“Moving on,” he said. “I’m in the process of removing this hideous tattoo from Violet’s hip.” He gestured to a faded heart with the name, ‘Sam’, written in the center.

“It’s a stupid tattoo for a stupid ass,” Violet groused as she wrestled with the gown. “Not mine. The one I married.”

“Well, you’ll be rid of both soon,” Demetre said.

“I’ve already gotten rid of one Sam,” she said, followed by a long rickety breath. “Now, I just need you to get rid of the other pain in my ass.” Then she launched into a coughing fit. “Well, get on with it,” she said in between jagged breaths. “I ain’t got all day.”

“Okay, Violet,” Demetre said. “Let’s take it down a notch.”

She jerked her head at him, insulted. “Watch your mouth or I throw you over my knee and show you who’s boss.” This was followed by wheezy laughter, another coughing fit and then, the expulsion of fresh mucous into a tissue she had tucked in her bra.

“There, there,” Demetre said. “See what happens when you get yourself all worked up. Come on now. Let’s show Dr. Perrotta.” With surprising agility, Violet sat up without assistance. It was then Angelo realized just how small she was, probably no taller than four foot eleven and weighed at best ninety pounds. Demetre pulled the gown off her shoulder, exposing a constellation of various sized freckles, and in the center of this Milky Way of moles was a dark incongruous sun over her left scapula. “She noticed this a month ago but says it hasn’t gotten any bigger,” Demetre stated. “What do you think?”

Angelo leaned forward, pinching his chin as he examined the irregular borders and darkly pigmented center. “You obviously enjoy sunbathing.”

“I told Dr. D to hit it with the laser,” she croaked. “Can’t stand the sight of it.”

“It’s nothing, right?” Demetre whispered.

“It looks fairly benign,” Angelo said to Demetre. “Can you remove it using a laser?”

“What do you mean, can you remove it using the laser?” Then Violet yanked up her gown and turned her head to Demetre. “Is this guy a real doctor? I didn’t come all the way downtown to be a guinea pig for some medical student.”

“Settle down, Violet. Remember your pressure.” Demetre gripped Angelo’s arm, ushering him out of the exam room. “Let me talk to Dr. Perrotta privately.”

Just outside the exam room, Demetre muttered, “Oy vey. I’m so sorry I dragged you into this.”

“She’s quite a character.”

“She’s what my mother would have referred to as a prickly pear.” They laughed but were quickly hushed by Laura. “Listen,” Demetre said. “What are you doing after work?”

“Dr. D,” Laura said, tapping her wrist. “Clients are waiting.”

Demetre tilted his head back—“Thank you, Laura”—then he goggled his eyes at Angelo.

“I’ll let you get back to Violet.” Then Angelo had a thought. “Come to think of it, you really should send her to a dermatologist. It’s always best to err on the side of caution.”

“I’ll handle Violet Trautman,” he said. “Come by later, after you’re done for the day. I’ll show you how to use the blue light laser.”

Angelo stood there, feeling a thrum of excitement, but only in the way a harmless office flirtation causes a frisson of pleasure. “Is that the one you use to treat scars?”

Demetre reached up and ran his finger along Angelo’s cheek. “I wouldn’t change a thing on that face. Don’t let anyone try to change you.”

Angelo crept down the stairs after his last patient. The office was dark and shadowy. “Hello?”

Demetre called out. “I’m in here.”

Angelo headed down the dimly lit corridor and pushed open the door. Demetre was reclined in his chair, bare feet up on his desk with two cucumber slices over his eyes. Angelo laughed. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No, come in.”

“I wish I had brought my camera,” he said, easing into a chair. “This would make a great advertisement for SkinDem.”

Demetre sat up, popped off the cucumber slices and blinked repeatedly as though he’d just walked out of a dark movie theater. “Ah, that feels so much better. Even with the eye shields, I know the laser light is wreaking havoc on my eyes.”

“Is that the blue light laser . . . the one you’re going to show me how to use?”

Demetre waved away his words and opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He poured two glasses of bourbon and slid one over to Angelo. “Congratulations, I heard you passed your boards.”

“Thank you.” Angelo tipped his cup and drank.

“Besides, you’re a fucking doctor,” Demetre added. “I’m not going to teach you how to operate a laser like some trained monkey. Stanzione should be ashamed he even suggested such a thing.”

Angelo stared confusedly. “I thought you’d agreed.”

“I know he’s your boss and all, but he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“So, you’re not going to train me to use the blue light laser?”

“Angelo, if you want to learn how to remove hair then I’ll be happy to show you, but I’m not going to force you to do something because of some bullshit scheme Stanzione cooked up.”

“What about the medical spa?” Angelo asked. “I thought you were all in.”

Demetre rubbed his chin. Angelo detected mischief in his eyes, and for a moment he wondered if Demetre was pulling his leg.

“So, what did you think of Violet?” Demetre asked, navigating away from the topic of the medical spa. “Some piece of work, right?”

“She’s a colorful woman.”

“That she is,” he said, holding the cup to his lips before taking another swallow. “Her ex-husband, not Sam, the one before, owned a chain of stereo stores in Phoenix. After he died, she inherited everything and sold them off to PC Richards. You know how much that old bitch is worth?”

“I can’t imagine.”

Demetre snapped his fingers. “Hey, are you accepting new patients?”

“You’re not thinking of pawning Violet Trautman off on me?”

“No, she has an arsenal of doctors already,” Demetre said, laughing. “I do have lots of attractive male clients I can refer to you.”

Angelo took another sip instead of responding. The warm syrupy taste coursed through his body so that he felt flushed. Starting with you, I hope, Angelo wanted to ask.

“Oh, that’s right,” Demetre said. “You’re not looking for love.”

“I never said that.” Angelo cocked his head from side to side, cracking his neck. “I said, I’m currently not dating anyone. Besides, it’s unethical to date patients.”

Demetre walked behind Angelo and began massaging his shoulders. “Why so tense? Now that you’ve passed the boards you should feel relieved.”

Angelo sat up. It was disconcerting to feel Demetre’s strong hands kneading his muscles like they were clay.

“I am relieved,” he said right before he moaned with pleasure. “It’s these damn shoes . . . I have a blister.”

“Come with me.” Demetre grabbed the bottle and walked into an exam room. “Take off those shoes and lie down.”

The cushiony, leather-upholstered exam table was nothing like the outdated ones in the exam rooms upstairs. Angelo kicked off his shoes and removed his socks, dusting the black lint off his feet. Demetre poured them another round.

“Here,” Demetre said. They drank shots in unison. Demetre took the cups and set them aside. Pulling up a stool, Demetre ordered Angelo to lie back. “Let me see your foot.”

“Seriously?” Maybe it was the bourbon or the utter relief he felt now that he had the boards behind him. Angelo let out a long exhalation of air and propped up his feet.

“Well, you have a blister on your heel,” Demetre said, opening a drawer. He removed a packet, tore it open, and squeezed the ointment on his finger. Angelo sank into the cushion as if he were set in gelatin. All at once, he felt like he was floating.

“How does that feel?” Demetre asked as he applied the ointment to Angelo’s blistered heel.

“Like heaven.”

With Demetre kneading his thumbs into the sole of Angelo’s foot, the tension faded.

“It’s those cheap shoes,” Demetre said. “You should spend a little of that hard-earned money and buy better shoes. Your feet will thank you in the end.”

Angelo didn’t respond. He was lost in the swell of the bourbon and the tingling running up his leg. He was neither insulted by Demetre’s comment nor did he believe he was referencing his impoverished upbringing. At that moment, he didn’t care about anything other than being touched.

“You have to take better care of yourself, Doctor.” Demetre moved on to Angelo’s other foot. “You want to end up a nervous wreck like Steven?”

“Steven is stressed out by all the changes,” Angelo said. “Plus, Laura gets under his skin.”

“Steven is a shelter dog. Cute. Sad. Eager to please. Except he has no identity. It’s like Stanzione rescued him from certain death, and from that moment on, Steven ceased being an individual. Tell me, what do you know about him other than being a control freak?”

“I know he likes to paint,” Angelo declared proudly.

Demetre chuckled. “You mean the trash art?”

“See, you do know something about Steven.”

He leaned in, leering down at Angelo. “I wouldn’t hang that shit in my waiting room.”

“Those pieces upstairs are Steven’s?”

Demetre cocked an eyebrow. “Original trash art by Steven.”

Angelo sat up, his head spinning. “I told Steven to get rid of them. Fuck. I called them tacky. Why did I say that?” Angelo cringed as his spirits sank further, recalling Steven’s wounded expression when he told him the paintings were tacky.

Demetre’s eyes were bright with relish. “Don’t ever stop being honest. The truth is brutal but necessary.” He poured them another round. “Come on. Drink up. Let’s toast to Steven, the shelter dog and his trash art.”

“Now, you’re being cruel,” Angelo said. “Stanzione doesn’t treat Steven like a dog. They’ve been together fifteen years. Okay, so maybe there’s a power imbalance in Stanzione’s favor, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.”

Demetre jerked up. Feet planted firmly on the floor. “You think Steven and Tony are really in love?”

“Yes, well . . . .”

“They sleep in separate beds.”

“Well, how would I know that?” Angelo asked.

Demetre sat back down, grinning like he’d just beat Angelo in cards. “You know, for a doctor you’re not very observant.”

Angelo stood up quickly. For a moment, he felt wobbly. “I am very observant. I observe people all the time.” Without realizing, he had doused his shirt in bourbon.

“Okay,” Demetre said, reaching up to grab several paper towels and handing them to Angelo. “So, Dr. Observant, you think Steven and Tony are really in love?”

“Yes, I do,” he said petulantly as he blotted his shirt.

When Angelo looked up, he was met by Demetre’s eyes, studying him narrowly. “Tony is so miserable he looks perpetually constipated, and disguised under that strip of AstroTurf he calls hair and buried under that armor of artificial muscles is a sad little fairy his macho Italian father rejected years ago. But instead of realizing how lucky he is, how fucking amazing his life could be, what does the great Stanzione do? He bitches and moans and whines. And at the end of the day, he drags that poor little shelter dog home with him and projects all that anger and frustration upon him, throwing scraps of food on the floor when he’s done eating so that Steven can chew them. Does that sound like love to you?”

Angelo clenched his cup with his teeth and began a slow clap. “That was poetic and harsh.”

“I only speak the truth.” Demetre stood up and took a bow. “Kid, if you learn anything in life it’s that in order to survive you have to be indefatigable if not indestructible. When that bitch, Kathleen Eichhorn, refused to make me partner, even though I was doing most of the work, I saved my money and bought a laser. Now I own my own company, and every single one of my clients followed me. Having a Park Avenue address was the next step. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I had to fight for everything I have, and I would do anything to keep it.”

“So, where does the medical spa fit in?” Angelo asked.

“Forget the spa,” he said quickly. “What do you want? What are your dreams?”

Angelo cleared his throat. The conversation had veered from casual and celebratory to serious and interrogatory. “I don’t know.”

“Bullshit. Everyone has dreams.”

So, drunk, he said the first thing that came to mind. “I hope to become partner one day.”

“Good.” Demetre drew a deep breath. “So, you have a goal in mind.” Angelo hoped that Demetre would leave it at that, but then he said, quite softly and without inflection, “And you think Stanzione is going to let you become his partner one day?”

“Yes,” he said timidly. “Why not?”

“Face it, kid,” Demetre said, chuckling, snidely. “He’s never going to give you that.”

Angelo shook his head, fiercely. “We have a deal.”

“Oh, so you signed a contract?”

“No, it was a verbal agreement,” Angelo said. “I had to pass the boards first.”

“And Stanzione said he would make you partner?”

“It was implied.”

Angelo suddenly felt like Demetre knew more than he was letting on. Assessing his responses as though he was taking mental notes.

“Why do think Stanzione hired you?” Demetre asked.

“What kind of question is that?”

Demetre sat there grinning, a look of amused pity on his face. “I’m not here to burst any bubbles, but the truth is that Stanzione doesn’t do anything unless there’s something in it for him. Why didn’t he hire someone already board certified? Did you ever think about that?”

“Yes, Stanzione said he hired me because he knew I’d work harder than any of those board-certified candidates.”

“Or perhaps it’s because they asked for too much money, or maybe he picked you because you’re young, cute and eager to please.”

Angelo gaped at him for a wounded second. “Are you implying that I’m a shelter dog like Steven?”

“Are you?” Demetre asked. “I don’t know you well enough yet.”

“I refuse to eat anyone’s scraps.” Angelo sat up, insulted. He picked up his socks and proceeded to put them back on.

“Guess I hit a nerve,” Demetre mocked. “I’m sure you’re making more money now than you ever made in your life, but eventually, as the years pass, you’ll realize just how much Stanzione has been screwing you, and bitterness will fester inside you until you grow as old and miserable as him.” There was a long pause. Angelo fought to hide the hurt and confusion he was experiencing. “That’s enough shop talk for one night,” he said turning amiable and charming again. “We have bigger fish to fry.”

“What?”

Demetre leaned forward. The V of his scrub top buckled to reveal the deep cleft of his chest swathed in tufts of dark hair. “Listen to me,” he said, clutching Angelo’s knees. “Appearance is everything, and while you are an attractive man, you dress like a high school teenager attending the freshman formal.”

“You’re being cruel again.”

“Don’t act wounded. I’m just being honest. I believe you have dreams. You set your sights high and landed in a very good place, but what happens next depends completely on you. Being better than who you are sometimes means pretending to be someone you’re not. You’re a Park Avenue doctor. You should be eating caviar, not burgers from a bag, and dating princes not policemen.”

“Fuck,” Angelo said. He’d forgotten about his date with Jason. Angelo froze like a cornered mouse.

“Yeah, fuck him. Just don’t date him.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Angelo shouted, standing up. How could he have forgotten? It didn’t seem possible that a dinner date with Jason had slipped his mind like forgetting to call someone back. Was Demetre right? Was Angelo not as observant as he thought he was?

“What is it?” Demetre asked.

“I have a date with that cop tonight.”

“Cancel it.”

“Wait. What?” He couldn’t deny that was exactly what he wanted to hear from Demetre, that somehow it made his actions excusable. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Demetre asked. “Text him right now.”

“I’ve blown him off once already.” The hope he felt about this burgeoning relationship with Demetre felt worth it—like a microscope gone into focus—new and refreshing and with endless possibilities.

“You’re a doctor,” Demetre said, grabbing Angelo’s hips. He pulled him until their faces were so close Angelo could smell the bourbon on Demetre’s breath. “Tell him something came up at the hospital. Tonight, we celebrate like kings. The day after tomorrow, you and I have unfinished business.”

The next morning, Angelo woke up sticky and peevish, replaying events of the night before, as much of them as he could remember. He cringed at the thought of himself lying on Demetre’s exam table, slobbering like some moony-eyed drunk girl, his voice cloying and breathy. Angelo was disgusted and panicked. He jumped out of bed, ran into the bathroom, and threw up. Afterward, he stripped off his underwear and took a shower. He let the water envelope himself, but his body refused to relax under its calming stream. His stomach clenched, he vomited again. Brown saliva clung to his lips.

By the time he arrived at the office, Steven and Laura were conversing in the stairwell. It looked as if Laura was complaining. Her shoulders were practically touching her ears. As soon as they saw Angelo, she stopped talking and darted down the stairs like she’d forgotten to turn off the oven. “Morning,” Angelo said, walking to his office.

Steven followed and closed the door behind him. “Apparently there was a little party here last night.”

Angelo’s stomach convulsed. “What do you mean?”

Steven slid into the chair and leaned forward like a neighbor bursting with gossip. “When I got here this morning, I noticed the lights were still on downstairs. So, I went to turn them off, and that’s when I smelled the smoke.”

“Smoke?”

“Yeah, so I checked all the rooms, and wouldn’t you know, one of the exam rooms looked like there was a frat party: empty bottles of booze, cigarette butts and the worst smell of cigarette smoke.” Steven’s voice trailed off long enough for him to shiver with disgust. “I swear it’s like a saloon down there. So then, I came up here and guess who I find sleeping on Tony’s sofa?”

“Who?”

Steven glowered dramatically. “Demetre.”

“What!”

Steven put his finger to his lips and jerked his head toward Stanzione’s office. “Tony’s meeting with him right now. When I woke Demetre, he said that he had worked late and didn’t want to drive back home to New Jersey. Said he was worried about falling asleep at the wheel. I was like, oh yeah, working late, huh. Then I called Tony and told him he’d better get over here right away.”

From down the hall, Laura called. “Ste-ven? Ste-ven?”

He rolled his eyes ferociously. “Back here, Laura.”

She opened the door a crack and wedged her face in. “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have any more Lysol?”

“I’ll be right downstairs to help. Don’t worry, we’ll get rid of the smell.”

Laura pouted with exasperation. “This is why I hate basement offices. No windows. Now it truly feels and smells like a dungeon.” Then she disappeared, but Angelo could still hear her whining from down the hall.

“I’d better go help her,” Steven said, getting up.

“Wait,” Angelo whispered. “What do you think Dr. Stanzione is going to do?”

Steven shrugged. “He’s not happy, but it’s not like Demetre broke the law.”

It was then the door to Stanzione’s office opened. Demetre came out, hands in his pockets, bobbing along with a springy walk. Stanzione followed behind him. When he saw them staring anxiously, he stepped inside Angelo’s office and closed the door. “We had a long talk,” he said, gripping Steven’s arms. “Demetre apologized, and he understands that if it ever happens again, he’ll be asked to leave.”

Steven looked skeptical. “And what about the smoking?”

“I told him we don’t tolerate smoking, partying, or sleepovers.” Stanzione’s tone was imbued with a certain, fatherly tone as if Demetre was their reckless teenage son. But despite his assurance, Angelo could see by the look on Steven’s face that he didn’t believe any of it.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” Steven said facetiously. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go disinfect the dungeon.”

Once Steven was out of earshot, Stanzione looked at Angelo intently for a moment or two. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”

“What do you mean?” Angelo asked with hesitation.

“What I wouldn’t do to be your age again.”

Then he walked back into his office and closed the door. He hardly came out again for the rest of the day.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Seven

 

Angelo woke up Saturday morning with a visceral pleasure, anticipating the day ahead. “Finally,” he said, “I have a thrilling reason to get out of bed.”

Sweeping aside the events that unfolded the day before, he saw no need to pick and pry them apart. He’d leave that for Steven and Laura to hash out. All he remembered was that Demetre and he had drunk bourbon and talked for hours. They certainly hadn’t smoked, and if anything, Angelo remembered being in bed by midnight. What occurred after Angelo had left was unimportant to him even though Steven was buzzing over the scandal for the entire day. Angelo was less concerned with why Demetre slept on Stanzione’s sofa and more bothered that he hadn’t confirmed their plans to go shopping. He assumed Demetre would be there. He believed it wholeheartedly, but even as he showered, the doubt seeped in like the soapy water running in between his fingers.

He was still feeling good when he arrived at Barneys at noon. Making his way to the men’s section, he walked through the department store as though it was an airport, and he was leaving for vacation. As he stepped off the escalator onto the fourth floor, he told himself for the umpteenth time to relax, that there was nothing to worry about; he’ll be there. But once Angelo turned the corner and saw the crowd milling through racks of shoes, Angelo felt an unshakeable fear that Demetre had forgotten all about their date, and he was home sprawled out on the sofa reading a magazine. Though the bustling shoppers made Angelo smile, his eyes leaped from one to the next searching for Demetre.

“May I help you?” A clerk appeared, looking delighted to see him.

“Actually, I’m meeting a . . . .” in midsentence he saw the back of Demetre’s head. “Would you excuse me?” Of course he was excited and relieved, but as Angelo strode across the floor, he stopped to catch his breath. Angelo spoke casually, trying to contain his enthusiasm. “I bet you’re one of those people who can’t help but buy something for themselves even when they’re supposed to be helping someone else.”

Demetre turned around and smiled. He was wearing a black T-shirt with an obscenely deep V-neck and a pair of dark jeans. Immediately, he covered Angelo’s eyes with his hand. “What size shoe do I wear?”

Angelo wrung his hands, trying to imagine Demetre’s feet. “Ten?”

“Sorry Dr. Observant.” When Demetre withdrew his hand, Angelo saw he was shaking his head. “Good guess, but I’m an eleven and a half.”

“What’s your point?”

He shrugged, picking up a black loafer. “I wanted to see if you paid attention to detail.” Then he set the loafer back on the stand. “Okay,” he said, clasping his hands together. “Where shall we begin?”

Angelo felt a flicker of tension run across his neck. “This store is so intimidating.”

Demetre put his hand on Angelo’s shoulder, massaging it a little.

“What are you intimidated by? Shoes? Shirts? Suits? Don’t let anything intimidate you. You must learn to resist that. Don’t look at yourself through anyone else’s eyes except your own.” Angelo was staring in Demetre’s eyes when he felt that first scent of euphoria, an odd sensation intended for someone else, not him. “I know how you see yourself. Let me help you see who you really are.”

Demetre guided Angelo back to the clerk.

“Do you trust me?” Demetre asked.

Angelo trusted Demetre completely.

“Another bottle of Veuve, please,” Demetre said in a raised voice.

“I don’t think he’s our server,” Angelo said.