AS THE CAB PULLED UP TO THE GATED DRIVEWAY OF THE Oakley mansion, Dirty Warren glanced up at the rearview mirror and frowned. He’d done his best—scrubbed and shaved his face, borrowed some more “product” from his sister for his hair—but he was unimpressed with the results. He could feel the muscles around his right eye starting to twitch ever so slightly, which, unchecked, he knew would lead to full-scale grimacing.
Get your act together, Warren. He straightened the collar of the same Brooks Brothers button-down shirt he’d worn at his sister’s birthday party—sans tie, which he’d decided was too formal and datelike—and the Saint Laurie slacks. He hadn’t intended to stay at his parents’ place any longer than necessary, but that plan had flown out the window with Michelle’s invitation to dinner. The suit was coming in handy after all.
Lying in bed that night after the party, he’d gone over every word, every movement and smile, looking for . . . I don’t know. What I hoped to hear and see? Then, after he’d fallen asleep, he’d dreamed about her leaning forward to kiss him, but to his chagrin, the shock of that had awakened him. No matter how hard he tried to go back to sleep to see how the dream would have ended, he could not.
She’s just being nice, he reminded himself for the hundredth time since waking up, and wants to catch up with an old friend. You’re making way too much of this, and you’re just going to be disappointed.
“Hey, pal, is this the address or not?” The cabbie’s face invaded the mirror.
“Uh, yes it . . . whoop oh boy . . . is,” Warren replied. Michelle’s house was only a little more than a mile from his parents’, but he didn’t want to show up sweaty or late, so he’d called the cab. He gave the cabbie the fare and a generous tip.
“Got a sweetheart waitin’?” the cabbie asked with a wink and a smile.
Warren felt his face blush as he shook his head. “What? Oh, no . . . shit crap whoop . . . just a friend.”
The cabbie’s smile disappeared, and his jaw fell. “I tell ya what, pal—and mind you, I have some experience in these here matters—I’d drop the foul language with the ladies. You’ll get farther, if you know what I mean.”
“Thanks, I’ll take that . . . oh boy ohhh boy piss balls . . . to heart,” Warren responded with an apologetic smile.
The cabbie shrugged. “Your funeral, pal. You want I should wait around? With a mouth like that, it shouldn’t take long.”
“No, thanks, it . . . whoop . . . won’t be necessary.”
The cabbie shook his head and drove off, leaving Warren standing on the sidewalk. The sun was dipping into the purple west, bathing the neighborhood in early-spring twilight. He could see the front of Michelle’s house; the windows looked dark, and he wondered if she’d forgotten. But no, she called this afternoon to make sure I was coming, he thought.
Suddenly, his knees wobbled, and his throat went dry. What the hell are you doing here? You’re just going to embarrass her and humiliate yourself. All you are to her is a few good memories from a summer a long time ago, so quit acting like this is a romantic date or something. He started to press the intercom button next to the gate, then hesitated. Leave now, and no one gets hurt. But before he could turn away, Michelle’s voice stopped him.
He bit his lip and pressed the button. “Yes,” he replied. Keep your responses short and sweet. Easier to control. The lock in the gate buzzed and clicked open.
“Come on up and let yourself in. Sorry I’m running late. I had to go into Manhattan today on business, so I’m doing some last-minute girl things. I’ll be right down.”
Warren walked up the drive with the queasy feeling in his stomach growing. But somehow he made it, opened the door, and went in. He found himself standing in the foyer, wondering what he was supposed to do next, when Michelle appeared at the top of the stairs. She was dressed in designer jeans and a light gray cashmere sweater, and he thought his heart might pound its way out of his chest.
She walked quickly down the stairs and swept past the hand he’d extended to shake and gave him a hug instead. The gesture both frightened and delighted him as he became immediately conscious of the press of her breasts against his chest and the smell of her perfume.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she said, stepping back. “Sorry there was no one to get the door for you. I had to let the butler go.”
“I . . . I didn’t mind,” Warren replied, blushing. “You look . . . fuck me . . . beautiful.” Realizing what he’d said, his eyes teared up. “I’m so . . . so . . .”
Michelle touched his arm lightly. “Don’t be,” she said, and giggled. “It was maybe a little forward, but sometimes a girl likes a man who’s not afraid to speak his mind.”
Warren turned an even darker shade of red, which only made Michelle belly-laugh until he finally had to join her merriment. “Actually, I think that might have . . . whoop whoop . . . technically been classified a Freudian slip, not Tourette’s,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes.
“Cute, very cute. Come on,” she said, taking him by the hand and pulling him after her. “This is going to be such fun. I had the cook—I am just barely able to still afford him, thank God, or it would have been microwaved burritos for us—whip up a little something, and then I sent him home.” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and laughed. “We’ll be all alone. But first let’s have a glass of wine out back in the garden.”
His head spinning, Warren allowed himself to be tugged through the house and out the back door to a small table where a bottle of red wine, two glasses, and a cheese plate had been set. The two friends spent the next hour talking and laughing about the good old days. It was the first time in many years, maybe ever, that he could remember being so relaxed in the company of a woman he was attracted to; even his Tourette’s faded to minimal slipups and almost no twitching.
“So, Warren, tell me about this business of yours that keeps you from having a wife or serious girlfriend,” Michelle asked.
Warren’s smile faded. He rarely drank, and he’d had two glasses of wine. Suddenly, he was self-conscious, very aware that he was one step above living on the streets and visiting a beautiful heiress in her Purchase mansion, which was undoubtedly worth millions. “It’s just a . . . whoop . . . small business,” he said dismissively, hoping they’d move on to something else.
“Just a small business? Just the backbone of the American economy?” Michelle replied. “Come on, why so mysterious? You really a spy? No, I’ve got it. You’re a gangster, right? ‘Come and get me, copper!’”
“White Heat, 1949, James Cagney in the role of Cody Jarrett,” Warren said, and smiled again. “But no, I’m not . . . oh boy ohhh boy . . . a spy or a gangster.” He hesitated but could tell by the look on her face that she wasn’t going to let him change the subject. “I own a little newsstand on Centre Street.”
The way she reacted, he thought he’d just told her that he’d bought the Yankees. “Really? Oh, my God, I always thought that would be fascinating!” she exclaimed with what at least sounded like sincerity. “I love all those papers and magazines—so many choices, from high-brow to trashy gossip rags. Ooooh, I love it all. Plus, I’m big into people watching. You must see some really interesting things on the streets.”
Warren tried to play it cool. “It’s not bad,” he said. “I’m doing okay and making . . . oh boy . . . ends meet. But yeah, I’m right there in front of the courthouse, so there’s all types go in and out of there all day. Sometimes it’s . . . piss whoop whoop . . . like being in a movie.”
“Well, I think it’s really cool. And you’re your own man. That must be nice.”
“I like it,” Warren said. “So, how about you? Successful businesswoman? Doctor? Or do you just lie around the house all day eating bon-bons?”
Michelle laughed, but then the smile evaporated and she looked troubled. “Oh, a little of this and that to generate some cash flow,” she said. “But hey, it’s getting cool.” She shivered for effect. “Let’s go inside and have dinner, shall we?”
Warren noted the change in expression and subject. He hoped what he’d said about lying around and eating bon-bons hadn’t offended her and wondered if he should apologize. That will just make it worse, and somehow I think whatever is bothering her, it was more than a dumb comment, he thought.
Dinner consisted of stuffed capons with asparagus tips, a lettuce-and-tomato dinner salad, and rice pilaf, washed down with a heady red wine that had Warren grinning and laughing uproariously. Michelle had been her old flirtatious, bawdy self and had made a game out of trying to make him blush. He’d responded with a few risqué jokes himself, made all the more hilarious—at least in their partially inebriated state—by Tourette’s insertions.
They talked a lot about movies they had seen and played trivia games, though it was quickly obvious that she was no match for him. He tried to even the competition by asking what he considered easy questions.
“What character did Jack Palance play for his second Oscar nomination?”
Michelle furrowed her brow and was tentative when she answered. “I’m not really sure, but I only know a few of his early movies, The Halls of Montezuma and Shane,” she said. “I’ll go with Shane, because he was such a good bad guy as the cold-blooded gunfighter Jack Wilson.”
“You got it!” Warren exclaimed.
Michelle laughed and clapped her hands. “You’re making it too easy on me.”
When dinner was finished and dessert tarts consumed, there was a pause that to Warren seemed full of both danger and potential. It’s now or never, he thought, and steeled himself to ask a question he’d thought he’d never be in a position to ask.
“Uh, Michelle, um . . . oh boy whoop ohhhh boy you bitch . . .” Warren passed a hand over his eyes. “God help me,” he muttered. He took another deep breath and then let it all out. “You know I always liked you, and I was . . . whoo whooo whoop . . . wondering if, maybe, sometime . . . fuck whoop whoop whore . . . would you go to a movie with me?”
Warren hung his head from both the strain of trying to control the Tourette’s and his shame at not being able to do so. But Michelle reached out and lifted his chin with the fingers of one hand so that he was looking into her eyes. He expected to see pity, but all he saw was a deep sadness.
She sighed. “Oh, Warren, that’s so sweet,” she said. “Being with you tonight makes me wish I could turn back the hands of time. Then I might do a better job of not judging books by their covers or poets by how well they speak.” She smiled. “You know, I toyed with the idea of seducing you tonight.”
Warren’s jaw dropped, but he quickly tried to recover. “I’d like . . .” he started to say, but stopped when she shook her head.
“But I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m not someone you want to get involved with. I’m not the girl you knew that summer or even the stuck-up bitch from high school.”
“You weren’t . . . whoop asswipe . . . stuck-up,” Warren argued.
“Well, I certainly wasn’t humble and, in fact, was pretty full of myself,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that that girl doesn’t exist anymore. And the truth is that you don’t know me, because if you did, you would want nothing to do with me.”
“That’s not true,” Warren said. He didn’t like the way this conversation had veered away from her thinking of seducing him.
“Yes, it is true,” Michelle interrupted. “When my parents died and my marriages failed, I was desperate. I had very little liquid money, never finished college, and was therefore unqualified for anything short of department-store greeter, and to be honest, I wasn’t willing to give up this lifestyle. So I made some bad decisions—horrible decisions, really—and now I’m going to have to pay for them, after I try to atone.”
“We’ve all changed since . . . oh boy . . . high school,” Warren argued. “But deep down, we’re still the same people. Whatever you think you’ve done . . .”
Michelle’s eyes filled with tears. “No, Warren, dear, sweet Warren. I know what I’ve done; there’s no question of guilt or innocence. You know how in westerns, sometimes there’s someone with a past, like Shane, who was obviously a gunfighter before he came to town? And you want him to succeed, or be happy, or get the girl, like the farmer’s wife . . .”
“Marian Starrett, played by Jean Arthur.”
“Yes, though I suppose that might not have gone over well with the farmer or audiences in the 1950s,” she replied with a slight smile. “But what I was getting to was, you know that they’re not going to be allowed in the story to live happily ever after, and the best they can hope for is the chance to atone for their past. Just like Shane has to go face the evil rancher and his hired gun, Jack Wilson, and gets shot.”
Warren nodded. “It’s a classic ending, Shane riding off into the coming night, slumped over his saddle, while the farmer’s boy, Joey, runs after him shouting, ‘Pa’s got things for you to do! And Mother wants you. I know she does. . . . Shane! Come back!’”
“But you know he can’t come back,” Michelle added. “You know that he’s riding into the night to die, having atoned for his sins.”
“What about it?”
“Well, I’m Shane,” Michelle said. “I’m going to have to atone.”
“Are you in trouble?” Warren asked, alarmed. “Maybe I can help.”
This time, she placed a finger on his lips. “My hero,” she said. “But no, it’s nothing I can’t handle, and it’s something I have to do myself. The point is, you’re too good for me.”
His hopes dashing on the rocks before his eyes, Warren pleaded, “Maybe you should . . . suck my whoop whoop . . . let me be the judge of that. Let me help . . . oh boy . . . with whatever it is. I have friends who . . .”
Michelle closed her eyes as a tear squeezed out and rolled down her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve ruined my life and others. I’m not going to ruin yours.”
Warren started to protest again, but cell-phone music began playing in another room. His hostess cocked her head and pushed herself away from the table to stand.
“Excuse me a moment,” she said. “I have to get that. It’s a very important client.”
Michelle disappeared and was gone for several minutes as Warren desperately thought of ways to get the conversation back to attending a movie together. But when she returned, he knew that his time was up.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, holding up the cell phone, “but I’m afraid some of my ‘this and that’ business has come up with an emergency. It’s practically a life-and-death matter.”
Although his face was etched with disappointment, Warren smiled. “Sure. No sweat. I should be getting back to the city. I need to open the newsstand bright and early. A couple of my friends have been watching it for me . . . oh boy son of a bitch . . . and have probably run it down the tubes.”
“I’ll call you a cab,” Michelle said.
“That won’t be necessary,” Warren replied. “I’ll just . . . oh boy screw it . . . walk. I can use the exercise, and it’s a nice . . . whoop whoop . . . night.”
As they stood at the door, Michelle leaned forward and kissed Warren on the mouth. He was surprised both by the gesture and by how closely it reminded him of his dream. But before he could say anything, she stepped back with a laugh.
“You still want to go to a movie with me?”
Warren grinned. “You . . . fucking . . . better believe it!”
Michelle narrowed her eyes and looked at him sideways. “Warren, was that really Tourette’s, or have you also got a potty mouth?”
“I’ll never tell,” he replied.
“Well, if you’re going to be that way, then you have to solve a film riddle for me.”
“Fire away,” Warren replied.
“Okay, here it is,” Michelle said. “The key goes where the book editor sees his wife and son off to Maine.”
Warren pursed his lips. “Hmmmm. Is that all I get? That’s a tough one.”
“Are you saying I’m not worth a little work?” Michelle pouted.
Alarmed that he’d once again put his foot in his mouth, Warren quickly backtracked. “No, no . . . whoop whoop . . . I’ll get it . . . ohhhh boy! The keys . . .”
“Key.”
“Right, the key goes where the book editor sees his wife and son off to Maine.”
“That’s it,” Michelle said, and reached for the door. As Warren started to move, she suddenly grabbed his hand. “We’ll always have Paris,” she said, but somberly, without smiling.
Puzzled but happy, Warren lightly replied, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
Michelle watched Warren go, smiling as she noted how he practically skipped down the drive. The smile disappeared as she walked into the library off the foyer and picked up an envelope, which she carried outside and dropped into the outgoing mail slot of the large brass mailbox in the entranceway.
My insurance policy, she thought. If everything goes right, I’ll retrieve it before the mailman picks it up Monday morning.
Michelle looked at her watch. I still have an hour. She turned back to her computer and pulled up a file. The image of Warren Bennett’s high school photograph appeared. She smiled, punched a button, and began to type.