WARREN BENNETT STOOD IN THE QUIETEST CORNER OF THE ballroom, an untouched martini in one hand and a strained smile glued to his face, as he pretended to be interested in the swirl of guests carrying on animated conversations throughout the room. The muscles on the right side of his face twitched several times in a row, making it appear that he was grimacing. Without his consciously thinking about it, a finger on his free hand inserted itself between his neck and the unfamiliar and uncomfortably stiff collar of the tan button-down Brooks Brothers shirt the butler had laid out for him that afternoon along with a blue Saint Laurie blazer, blue tie, and tan slacks.
He would have preferred not to dress up, but he knew better than to argue the subject with his autocratic mother. It would have been a waste of breath and time. And as he rarely returned to his wealthy parents’ 15,000-square-foot mansion in the town of Purchase in Westchester County, he didn’t think it worth making what little time he did spend any more unpleasant than it already was. He’d be out of the suit and into his blue jeans, a stained World Champion Yankees ’99 sweatshirt, and worn-out high-top sneakers soon enough.
Neither Purchase—one of the wealthiest communities in New York and thus the United States, with a median income of near $200,000—nor the mansion was a happy place for him. It wasn’t home, not even now in April, when the warming days and gentle rains reminded him of early childhood playing on the manicured lawns as the hardwood trees turned lima-bean green with new foliage. Back before he was “afflicted.”
No, he was content living in a low-rent one-room walkup on the Lower East Side of Manhattan and operating his newsstand in front of the Criminal Courts Building. And to be honest, his parents were just as happy to keep it that way.
Turning slightly, Warren caught a reflection of himself in one of the room’s many mirrors. A young man in his mid-thirties, with a long, pointed nose and pale skin, stared back at him with watery blue eyes magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. He was a little surprised by the reflection, as if seeing someone he once knew in an unexpected place. As his father had remarked, he’d “cleaned up nicely” for the party, with a fresh shave and by combing his thinning brown hair back with what his sister, Shannon, called “product.”
But the well-tailored, well-heeled son of a Top Ten insurance company president in the mirror wasn’t him. He was “Dirty Warren,” the Tourette’s-afflicted, foul-mouthed, constantly twitching news vendor at 100 Centre Street. Laughed at and ridiculed by some, feared by others who thought he was “crazy.” All because of a neurological disorder characterized by involuntary movements, or muscle spasms, and vocalizations called tics.
In his case, the tics included twitches in his facial muscles, the sudden jerking of his head to the side or up and down, and shrugging his shoulders for no apparent reason. When particularly agitated, he hopped from one foot to the other like a child needing to use the restroom. But it was the foul language and accompanying “whoops” and “oh boys” that had the most deleterious impact on his life, as it could seem to those who didn’t understand the disorder that the cursing was purposeful or a sign of being mentally unbalanced.
The Tourette’s had first manifested itself when he was about ten with mild outbursts at inopportune times, such as in the classroom at the private school he attended or while sitting in the pews at the White Plains Presbyterian Church or, most unforgivably, during his parents’ many formal dinner parties attended by all sorts of important people. The most unfortunate example was probably the time when the governor had politely asked him about his studies, and he’d proudly replied, “I’m getting . . . eat my ass fucker whoop . . . straight A’s, thank you for asking.” The boy and the man had sat for several seconds blinking at each other—one of them involuntarily—and not saying a word until Warren’s mother literally picked her son up by his arms and removed him from the dinner table. He’d been deposited in his room, where he received a “for your own good” spanking and no dinner.
Indeed, corporal punishment and verbal castigations were how the Bennetts had dealt with their once-perfect boy’s “willful and inappropriate behavior” for the next year. Then, one day when he was in the fifth grade, they’d been called into the office of the vice principal. As Warren sat in a corner seat with his head bowed and tears streaming down his face, they were told that their son was being expelled because of “continued disturbances in the classroom.” The final straw had been during the Pledge of Allegiance, when he said, “and to the republic for which it stands . . . oh boy ohhhh boy, my aching balls . . . one nation, under God.”
The vice principal had shaken his head. “I’m sorry. The fact is that most of the time, Warren is a very nice young man and a good pupil. However, his . . . behavior of late has become too disruptive, and it’s not fair to our other students and teachers. And to be honest, and I don’t know if he’s talked to you about this, we’ve received reports that his . . . um . . . language has resulted in his being assaulted by other students, off school grounds where we can’t monitor what happens. Frankly, I’m concerned for his safety.” The man had leaned forward and looked earnestly from mother to father. “I’m suggesting that your son see a psychiatrist who can perhaps determine the cause of his outbursts—it could be a chemical imbalance or something—and correct it before it affects his life more than it already has.”
Even after that, Warren’s parents had resisted the idea of seeking psychiatric help. “There has been no madness in the Todd and Bennett families for three hundred years in this country, and we’re not going to start having any now,” his mother had declared, as his notoriously acquiescent father mumbled his agreement. But as the boy bounced from one private school to another—many echoing the suggestion of that first vice principal—it had become clear that his condition was worsening. So they’d finally bundled him off to a renowned psychiatrist in Manhattan who’d diagnosed Tourette’s syndrome.
Told that there was treatment but no cure, the Bennetts had decided that a second opinion was needed, which led to a bevy of psychiatrists and neurologists, and even a “child whisperer,” being consulted. Current research had pointed to “abnormalities in certain brain regions” disrupting the communication between nerve cells as a cause, but no one suggested that a cure was imminent. The Bennetts had been assured, however, that in ninety percent of Tourette’s cases, the tics were worst in the early teens and then got progressively better as the patient got older.
Unfortunately, Warren fell into the ten percent whose condition didn’t improve, and, in fact, it had grown worse as he went through his late teens and entered his twenties, despite all efforts to treat him. Under the guidance of a behavioral psychologist, he’d worked to control the tics by consciously suppressing them when he felt the urge coming on. However, there were two problems with that. One was that he didn’t usually get much warning of the onset of tics or vocalizations, and by the time he tried to focus on the mental exercises he’d been given to maintain control, it was often too late. The second issue was that suppressing tics only caused the urges to grow until they burst from him in a torrent that was much worse than if he’d gradually released the pressure. And if he was agitated or frightened, or even when he was happily excited, nothing really helped; the Tourette’s was likely to turn into a runaway freight train of spasms and swearing.
Warren had also tried several varieties of medications, but they’d made him feel sedated and dull-witted. So he’d decided that if he had to live as a zombie, he’d just as soon be dead and tried to kill himself by swallowing a bottle of the latest pills. But all it had done was make him ill, and after getting his stomach pumped at the hospital, he’d been forced under penalty of “eternal hatred otherwise” to promise his sister, Shannon, that he’d “never do such a fucking stupid, selfish, cowardly thing again!”
It wasn’t always the easiest promise to keep. Tourette’s had been tough on his social life. Even his most loyal childhood friends had abandoned him by high school. He was no River Phoenix, the teen male film idol he had most wanted to be at the time. He might have made up for his lack of looks with his quick-witted sense of humor and genuine smile, but his guy friends had been dealing with their own teenage insecurities and didn’t want a foul-mouthed “spaz” to make it tougher. And girls hadn’t wanted a boyfriend who might suddenly cut loose with “lick my ass” in front of their parents and then start twitching and hopping.
Lonely and ashamed, he’d spent much of his teenage years reading books and watching films alone. Even what little human social interaction he got going to the movies had ended because his outbursts disturbed other patrons, and he got tired of being asked to leave the theaters. After that, he’d been relegated to watching films he bought or rented in his room or the mansion’s state-of-the-art home theater.
Tutored at home for the last two years of high school and with so much time on his hands, he’d quickly gone through current films, then recent releases. Finally, he’d come to the black-and-white and early color classics—at first out of necessity and then from a love of the era. He’d had many favorites old and new, some of which he’d watched so many times that he could recite the dialogue, and his room’s shelves had contained all manner of books on film, which he read repeatedly.
Even now, watching movies in his Lower East Side efficiency—where he kept them neatly and alphabetically arranged on a bookshelf—was still his greatest pleasure. That and reciting obscure movie trivia to his current crop of friends and acquaintances, most of them “street people” like himself who were tolerant of his behavior. He considered himself a film expert and knew of only one man whose knowledge and breadth of movies surpassed his own: Butch Karp, the district attorney of New York, with whom he’d been playing a movie-trivia game—without a single success by Warren—since they’d met years earlier.
Growing up, he’d had to rely on Shannon, his pretty, smart, perfect sister, for someone he could talk to without being judged first for his speech and physical quirks. Although five years his junior, she was probably the only human being who truly knew him, the only one who cared to know him. Even his street friends, such as the Walking Booger and Edward Treacher, only knew so much, and that didn’t include his dreams.
The only girl who’d been kind to him in high school had been Michelle Oakley. She’d grown up in the neighborhood, the daughter of a brokerage-firm president, but they didn’t become friends until seventh grade. A few days into the school year, he’d been off to himself on the playground when he noticed that a girl was being harassed by an older boy. Stepping in and demanding that the bully cease, he’d promptly got his ass kicked, but the pain was forgotten when the pretty blond girl helped him off the ground and declared him “my hero.”
Michelle had captured his heart at that moment, but while he longed for something more, they’d remained “only friends.” But they were good friends. She seemed not to notice his tics or his profanity—except when he’d occasionally catch her by surprise, which usually elicited a surprised look and then a laugh. She was the only person other than his sister whom he could confide in.
Although they ended up at different schools after he was expelled yet again, she would call to see if he wanted to hang out down at the park or take in a movie. That summer had been the best of his life. She’d even let him kiss her once, though when he tried for another, she’d laughed and gently pushed him away.
When Michelle entered high school in the fall, everything had changed. He was the recluse, ashamed of a condition he could not control. She was the cheerleader, dating the captain of the football team, a straight-A student and homecoming queen. She still called from time to time, sometimes just to talk but other times to see if he wanted to go to a party or just hang out with her and her friends. But he turned down most invitations that had meant interacting with other teens, so the offers had grown fewer with each passing year.
She’d remained friendly whenever she saw him. Although their friendship had begun with his interceding on her behalf with a bully, she was the one who defended him on the few occasions he agreed to meet her or if she and friends bumped into him in public. No one was allowed to laugh at or tease him when she was present without receiving her full fury, which could be considerable and accompanied by language that left even Warren blushing. She’d actually dropped the football captain when she learned that he’d been part of a group that harassed Warren on his way home once from the video store.
Of course, she hadn’t always been around to protect him, and it wasn’t just from mean words or teasing. The Tourette’s had cost him beatings throughout his life. Without intending to or sometimes even knowing it, he’d say something offensive and get punched in the nose or be subjected to even more vicious assaults.
Once it had nearly cost him his life. And that was the first time he met David Grale.
It was a cold November night a few months after he’d moved to Manhattan. He was in his mid-twenties and living on the streets, unable to keep a job because of his outbursts. Penniless, he had nowhere to go at night and was trying to sleep in the alcove outside St. Bartholomew’s Church on Park Avenue. Shivering, hungry, and tired, it had taken him a moment to see the robed figure materialize out of the shadows, the light of a streetlight glimmering off the long curved blade of a knife.
Warren hadn’t known it at the time, but the man in front of him believed that demons inhabited the bodies of some men and that it was his God-given duty to send them back to hell. And Grale had been told by one of his “Mole People”—who lived with him in the sewers, tunnels, and caverns beneath the city of New York—of a newcomer who spoke in profanity-laced tirades and whose body twitched and jerked as though possessed. So he had come to St. Bart’s, intending to send another demon back to hell if the reports were true.
His face twitching with fear and his head jerking to the side, Warren had sat up and looked upon the pale, drawn face and bright, haunted eyes of David Grale. And he’d believed that he was about to die. “I don’t have . . . fuck asswipe . . . any money!” he’d cried out. “But you can have my wallet and shoes . . . oh boy whoop whoop kiss my balls . . . they’re the only thing I have that’s worth anything. But please don’t kill me. I don’t know why . . . cocksucking whore whoop . . . but I promised my sister I’d keep this fucked-up life as long as I could.”
The executioner had paused and looked into his eyes for what seemed like minutes but was probably only a few seconds. Then the madman’s eyes had softened as he lowered the blade, smiled, and extended a hand. “Come, brother,” he’d said. “The night is already cold, and it’s going to get worse. I can offer a warmer place to sleep and get some food in your belly.” And that’s how Warren Bennett, scion of a wealthy businessman and his imperial wife, had come to be living among the Mole People.
For the first time since the fifth grade, he’d felt as if he belonged. The Mole People came from all walks of life and bore many different types of crosses. Some had been wealthy and respected but lost it all to alcohol or drugs. Some had been born poor and disadvantaged or were abused as children and had never overcome their rough start. Some had been criminals, though Grale did not allow the unreformed to stay. Others had suffered physical deformities or mental illnesses. All of them had found themselves living on the streets, cast from the circle of “normal” society whose individual members could pass within inches of them on the streets and look right through them as though they were invisible.
Whatever they had been, whoever they were, they had come under the leadership of the charismatic but at least partly deranged David Grale, who had organized them into a community based on early Christian concepts of everybody working for the common good. Everybody had a job. It might be dumpster diving, looking for anything that was useful or could be sold. Or begging restaurants and grocers for food they would have otherwise thrown away. Or, for the stronger members, robbing criminals such as drug dealers and pimps, who counted themselves lucky if “those crazy bums” caught them unaware in some dark alley and they lived to tell the story.
Grale had instilled pride in them, preaching that they were the vanguard of the ultimate battle between good and evil. That they were not outcasts and derelicts but society’s invisible saviors. And in truth, their “invisibility” on the streets and sidewalks was an asset—they saw and heard things when those being monitored thought no one was paying attention.
Everybody was expected to keep their eyes and ears open for useful information and to keep tabs on those “outworlders” considered friends and the activities of the “enemies of God.” And for those Grale handpicked to do “God’s work,” there was the job of sending evil men to hell.
Grale and the Mole People ruled the honeycomb of caves, sewers, and tunnels—natural and man-made—beneath the city. Although there were several smaller communities scattered throughout subterranean Manhattan, the main living area was a large cavern that had been carved out as part of an abandoned subway station. It even had electricity, stolen by tapping into a nearby active subway line.
No official count had ever been taken of the Mole People. The city of New York unofficially estimated that there were between five thousand and twenty-five thousand of them scattered throughout the tunnels and caverns beneath the streets, with more arriving when the economy tumbled.
Grale did not demand that those who found a place in the underground community—and did their fair share of work—believe in his apocalyptic vision or join his crusade against evil-doers. Some eventually left the Mole People and returned to “the world,” often following the practice of “tithing,” giving ten percent of their income to their former benefactor’s underground church and mission.
Warren was one of those. He’d never joined Grale’s hunting parties, not that he shed any tears for the evil men who died. Whether they were actually demons in men’s bodies, as Grale claimed, or simply evil men who preyed on others, it was one and the same to him, but he could not cross that moral line to take another life.
Ultimately, Warren’s reasons for leaving had more to do with being too much of a loner to fit in well in a commune. Nor had he wanted to spend his life scavenging or begging for subsistence. He’d wanted a job and a place of his own where he could watch his movies and read.
Warren had found a job as a night janitor, and, with Grale’s blessing, as soon as he could, he’d rented a walk-up efficiency on Pitt Street. He’d found a part-time day job helping the owner of the newsstand on Centre Street and finally saved up enough money to buy the old man out.
Warren loved working at his newsstand. It had come as a surprise to those who knew him—including his sister, who occasionally came into the city to visit—that he got into a business with so much public interaction. But he’d explained to Shannon that if he was going to “live in the real world,” he needed to find ways to cope with his issues, not hide from them.
“And to be honest, owning my own . . . oh boy ohhhh boy piss on me bitch . . . business has made me feel like I’m as good a person as anyone and that I shouldn’t have to be ashamed for something I can’t help.”
Along with tithing, Warren had repaid Grale’s kindness by being an invaluable source of information about the comings and goings at the Criminal Courts Building. But he was getting worried about his friend.
Having been examined by a dozen psychiatrists and psychologists, Warren thought they would have probably diagnosed Grale as bipolar, with a mental disorder manifested by wild mood swings. When he was up, Grale was a loving “father” and spiritual advisor to all who sought shelter and respite in his underground kingdom.
However, when the pendulum swung the other way, he brooded on his “throne,” an old overstuffed chair set on the edge of an abandoned subway platform, in moods so dark that he would either not talk for days or would rant about the approaching Apocalypse and the need to prepare. Then he might leap up and go in search of the “Others”—a sort of evil version of the Mole People who vied for the territory beneath the streets—or hunt killers and other violent criminals on the streets.
It was widely known among the Mole People that Grale held a special affinity for Karp’s family. He’d met Lucy in a soup kitchen where they both worked—she an idealistic teen and he a Catholic social worker on the verge of becoming a serial killer of murderers. He’d asked Warren and others, such as Booger and Treacher, to keep an eye on Karp, Marlene, and their children and warn him if they were in any danger. Warren knew that Grale sometimes kept vigil himself when he perceived the Karp-Ciampi clan was in jeopardy, watching their residence from the shadows of the alley across Crosby Street.
Several times in recent years, Grale’s plans had coincided with Karp’s efforts to thwart terrorist plots. But in the end, Warren knew, his friend had served only his concept of what God intended him to do.
The last time Warren had seen him, Grale was keeping Andrew Kane, whom he’d captured after the Brooklyn Bridge attack, chained by his neck to a wall on the old subway platform like some sort of dangerous junkyard dog. Occasionally, Kane, who was at least as deranged as his captor, would be dragged forward to crouch at the foot of Grale’s “throne.” There the two madmen would engage in theological discussions about the nature of good and evil and the end of the world. But Warren couldn’t see any purpose to Kane’s imprisonment other than as retribution.
Warren knew that Kane might have information that Karp and his colleagues could use, particularly regarding the workings and membership of the Sons of Man. He felt bad for lying to Karp about Kane’s whereabouts. The district attorney was one of the few “normal” people who always treated him with respect and even friendship; he was a busy man, and yet he almost always took a few minutes to play their movie-trivia game or chat as he picked up his morning newspaper.
Personally, Warren thought that Grale should turn Kane over to the authorities. But when he’d broached the subject with his friend, who was in one of his dark moods, Grale had demanded that he keep Kane’s existence a secret.
Warren’s recollection of that last conversation with Grale was shattered now by an overly loud laugh from one of his parents’ guests—a boozy blonde who’d been introduced to him as Sherry. Her boyfriend’s name was Jim Williams. Warren’s head jerked suddenly back and then down again.
It was a long way from the damp, dimly lit lair of David Grale to the Bennett mansion in Purchase. The last time he’d been home was for Christmas, four months earlier. He’d spent that morning pretending they were a happy family and then left as soon as he could get away gracefully.
Then, as now, his only real reason for returning was his sister. And today was her thirtieth birthday, which was as good an excuse as any from their parents’ point of view to throw another of their VIP parties.
Shannon sometimes joked that she was particularly happy to have “a potty-mouthed brother who twitches,” because it made her, by default, “the good child,” despite her recent divorce and a failure to produce grandchildren. Up to those unfortunate events, or nonevents, she’d been an untouchable star—magna cum laude at Brown University and an MBA from Columbia.
Of course, their mother did nothing without an ulterior motive, and this party had two. It was an opportunity to bring the movers and shakers in local and state politics together—under her roof—with the movers and shakers with money. And as Clare Bennett had noted dryly, “It’s a fabulous opportunity for Shannon to meet the new Mr. Right.” When Shannon protested that “the body of my marriage is still warm,” their mother had smiled in her icy way and added, “You’ll get over it.”
“What about me, Mom?” Warren had asked, giving his sister a sideways glance. “Got me set up with . . . ass balls whoop whoop . . . any debutantes?”
Clare’s smile grew tight. “I’m sure you’ll do your best not to embarrass us. And do wear the suit I had the houseboy run out and buy for you.”
“I’m sure I . . . oh boy ohhhh boy . . . will,” Warren had replied with a smile that only his sister knew masked his hurt.
Sighing now, Warren looked around the ballroom, with its Strass crystal chandeliers, Italian marble floors, gilded fixtures, and valuable oil paintings. His mother was a big fan of eighteenth-century French aristocracy, and her grand ballroom reflected it. She was also a big fan of important people talking about her parties, so there was a smattering of film stars, Broadway actors, directors and producers, the male and female leads in Madame Butterfly now playing at the Met, and a variety of musicians. They were complemented by a cornucopia of captains of industry, white-shoe attorneys, and their wives, all of whom could be expected to donate large checks to the Party. And of course, there were a dozen politicians who coveted that money, including the governor, a U.S. senator, two congressmen, the entire Purchase city council and mayor, several judges, and, Warren noted with a frown, District Attorney Harley Chin.
He’d met Chin many years earlier when the young prosecutor was working for the New York District Attorney’s Office. He was an arrogant, self-important prick, as far as Warren was concerned, who thought it was beneath him to talk to the news vendor when he picked up his morning paper.
Chin was engaged in conversation with a middle-aged couple whom Warren recognized as the parents of the missing girl, Rene Hanson. He’d read the story in the newspapers, which had been all over it, from the Times to the National Tattler (right next to a story about the bat-faced boy). She’d disappeared around Christmas, and there was something about her being sold into sexual slavery in Mexico. A horrible fate if true, and he felt sympathy looking at the drawn faces of the Hansons.
The Hansons were old family friends, otherwise his mother probably wouldn’t have invited them, thinking they would be drags on the party. “I understand it’s a very difficult situation,” his mother had said with a sniff at breakfast that morning. “But they need to give it a rest. We know the story, there’s nothing we can do that we haven’t done. This is a social occasion; if they don’t feel social, you’d think they’d just stay home.”
Remarks like that, Warren thought, are the reason I really dislike my mother.
“Why, it’s Warren Bennett! Where on earth have you been?”
The woman’s voice coming from behind startled Warren. He was shocked that someone knew him and was actually trying to engage him in conversation. He turned and saw the pretty blond woman and smiled. Her body was thicker, her face fuller, her breasts heavier and her hips wider, and her blue eyes had been enhanced with colored contacts, but he would have known her anywhere. Nor had the changes detracted from Michelle Oakley’s beauty, at least not in his eyes.
“Meesh! I didn’t know you’d be here,” he exclaimed, pleased that he’d been able to control the urge to swear.
“Ha ha, Meesh . . . I haven’t heard that name in more years than I care to admit,” Michelle said with a laugh that reminded him of the girl he’d had a crush on. “Yes, your parents are kind enough to invite me to these soirees. I think my folks must have made them promise before they died to keep me in the social loop. I don’t think they really approve of me, though, at least not your mother.”
“Why not?” Warren asked. The Oakleys and the Bennetts had been friends for several generations.
Michelle laughed and rolled her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe it’s four failed marriages by age thirty-six. Does it count as failed if one up and died on me during sex? Massive coronary, which I guess I should take as a compliment, poor Jacob. I think I’ve run out of men who would marry me or I’d want to marry.”
Warren smiled shyly. “Ha ha, what am I, the . . . shit whoop bite me bitch . . . bottom of the barrel?” It took him a moment, and the surprised look on Michelle’s face, to realize what he’d said. “I’m so . . . oh boy oh boy stop it Warren . . . sorry,” he said, blushing as tears sprang to his eyes.
Michelle reached up and touched his cheek. “You forget who you’re talking to . . . my hero,” she said. “I’m not sure what other people might hear, but all I heard was an old friend being sweet. And no, you’re not the bottom of the barrel—I’ve already been there. I think you’ve been floating on top, but I was looking down at the assholes. You were always too good for me.”
Dropping his eyes, Warren blushed even harder, jerked his head, and shrugged his shoulders. “I . . . I . . . whoop . . . don’t know what to say.” His face, all the way to the tips of his ears, felt as if someone had rubbed cayenne pepper on it.
Michelle laughed again. But it was unlike the hurtful laughs he’d heard since childhood and still got on the streets of New York. “See what I mean?” she said. “The type of jerks I marry might speak sweet words, but they’d have taken my compliment as an invitation to try to get into my knickers. But not my dear, sweet Warren. He just blushes and says all he has to without words.” She sighed. “If only I’d been smart and snagged you before I became damaged goods.”
Desperately trying to control his words while at the same time wanting to tell her that he’d had dreams like this, Warren looked like a poor student who for the first time in his life had come up with the right answer before anyone else. He hopped from foot to foot as his face twitched nonstop.
Seeing his discomfiture, Michelle touched his arm. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. I’m sure you have a lovely wife.”
Warren shook his head. “No . . . whoo . . . no wife.”
“A girlfriend, then? I mean, since me,” she said with a giggle.
Again the head shake, but he managed a smile. “No, not since you. But we’ll always have Paris.”
Michelle guffawed loudly enough that several people nearby looked over with distaste. “Still a movie buff, eh?” she said. “I remember when we used to go to the movies; you would know everything there was about the film. I always found that so fascinating. So, let’s see if I can get this. The film is Casablanca, and Humphrey Bogart’s character . . . um . . .”
“Rick Blaine,” Warren said helpfully.
“Right, Rick, but don’t tell me the rest. Rick says ‘We’ll always have Paris’ to Ingrid Bergman’s character, Ilsa Lund.”
“Very . . . crap craaaap . . . good.” Warren beamed. Not sure where to go from there, he took a large sip of his martini and gagged.
“So, what are you doing with yourself?”
Warren blinked several times and grimaced. “I live in the city. Independent businessman.”
Michelle playfully raised her eyebrows. “Independent businessman, eh? Maybe I can finally marry for love and money.”
Warren laughed. “Well, one out of two . . . nice tits . . . ain’t bad.”
His friend’s eyes narrowed, and she wagged a finger at him. “You know, I never could tell when you were just saying what was on your mind and what you couldn’t help.”
Warren reviewed what he’d said, and his eyes widened in horror. “No, I didn’t mean . . . oh boy fuck me naked whoop . . . I . . .”
“Don’t worry about it,” Michelle said, smiling coquettishly. “I’ll take the compliment either way. Husband number two paid for them.”
“So, how are you doing?” Warren asked, trying desperately to get off the subject of the breasts he kept glancing down at. “Living the life of leisure in Purchase?”
“Well, those are interesting questions,” Michelle said as her smile disappeared. “You might not know this, but when Dad was sent away to Club Fed for running a Ponzi scheme and ripping friends and clients off for a billion dollars or so, the prosecutors left Mom with a house, a car, and a few hundred thousand she managed to keep out of their hands. There was no way she could keep up with the Joneses, or the Bennetts, anymore and didn’t want to try; so she downed a bottle of sleeping pills and never woke up. Dad had a stroke when he heard the news and died two weeks later in a prison hospital bed. I was still with husband number one, but he was about a month away from being T-boned by a semi while riding his new Harley-Davidson. I guess you’d say I’ve had a bit of a rough patch.”
“Oh, Jesus, I’d heard a little about your parents,” Warren said. “But I didn’t know . . . oh boy ohhh boy . . . about your husband. Sorry.”
Michelle shook her head sadly. “That’s okay. Funny thing is, he was the only one of them I actually loved. The other three were for money. I wanted to keep the house and some aspect of my pampered life, so I buried my heart and offered my tush to the highest bidder. But I did pretty well out of the divorces when both number two and number three found someone younger and moved on. Good riddance. And since that time, I’ve scraped by.”
Warren thought he caught a touch of irony in the last sentence, but before he could inquire any further, he saw Michelle’s eyes harden as if she’d seen something behind him that angered her. He turned and saw a tall, distinguished-looking man who seemed familiar, though he couldn’t quite place him, and another shorter, balding man. Sherry’s boyfriend, he thought. Jim Williams. Why is that name so familiar?
Both men were looking at him or, more accurately, at Michelle. Judging by the look on her face, he wondered if the taller man was one of her ex-husbands.
“Are you okay?” he asked, turning back to her.
Michelle looked at him, and her eyes softened again. “Yes, I’m fine. Sorry, but I need to go talk to that man before he leaves the party.” She looked past him again, but this time when he turned, the men were just a few feet away.
“We need to talk,” the taller man said. The other just looked at her.
Like a snake eyeing a mouse, Warren thought. “Do you need help, Michelle?” he asked, placing himself between her and the men.
Reaching out, Michelle touched his shoulder and stepped past him. “My hero, always ready to ride to the rescue. But no, dear, this is just a business matter.”
Warren suddenly realized that Michelle was about to walk out of his life again. Now or never, you coward, he thought. “Um . . . whoop oh boy ass . . . maybe you’d like to go have coffee or something?”
Michelle hesitated and gave him a curious, almost appraising look. Then she smiled and nodded. “I’d like that. We could gossip about old times and chat about what’s new. I’d like to hear all about your mysterious independent business. But tell you what, why don’t you come by my place tomorrow evening? You remember where I live? Good. I’ll have the cook whip us up something delicious, and we can drink a bottle of wine and reminisce. Say seven o’clock?”
Stunned by the sudden turn of events, Warren could only nod and blurt out. “Sure. Seven . . . oh boy oh boy whoop fuck me naked . . . sorry . . . whoop whoop.”
Michelle laughed loudly. “Hold that thought. And see you at seven.”