Two
He met us at Pilazzo’s after the game for the best pizza this side of Italy. Pilazzo’s is a wonder of a place. It used to be an old gas station, but now it’s a dive. A dive with awesome food and great people, but a dive nonetheless. I was actually surprised that Charli agreed to go there. Usually at the mere mention of the place she shudders and makes gagging noises. Personally, I think the slight odor of gasoline and motor oil adds to the charm. Charli just thinks it’s nasty. Evidently, the image of Harry Evans in a wedding tux was enough to overcome her disgust, though, because she didn’t even blink an eye when he sent word by one of the ball boys asking that we meet there.
Okay, so I’ll admit it. I’m as shallow as the next gal. And I didn’t even have to suck up to John. Harry definitely had the best body I’d ever seen. I liked the way his jeans fit and I appreciated the heck out of his biceps. I wanted to run my fingers through his hair and see if his lips were as soft as they looked. But, like Charli had said, it was those eyes that really got me. Every time he looked at me I felt like I was falling into some sort of abyss. My heart pounded so loud that I thought I was going to have to go to use the bar’s recently-installed defibrillator before the night was over.
The nice thing was that he came across as someone who was comfortable in his own skin, confident, but not excessively cocky, unlike a lot of the extremely good-looking guys I’d met before. At first we didn’t say much, mainly because Charli chattered on and on like someone had stuck a penny in and wound her up.
After we’d scarfed down a large deluxe pizza with extra cheese and a couple of Parkway Blondes apiece, John suggested we shoot pool, girls against the guys. Seeing as to how Charli doesn’t even know which end of the cue to use, that didn’t seem fair, but, being the good sport that I am, I didn’t complain. Much.
While we waited for John and Charli to finish arguing over what the bet would be, Harry and I finally had a chance to talk. Turned out he wasn’t some dumb jock; he was charming and funny and interesting. He spent his off-seasons taking classes for his Master’s degree in sports and was due to start his final thesis as soon as the season ended. Best of all, he wanted to know all about me, asking about my work, about my hopes, dreams, and fears. That last bit led to him wondering about the murders that led up to my hospital visit, which led to our discussing what a great guy Kyle is.
Seeing as to how those last two topics were still a little too close to the surface for me, I quickly changed the subject back to safer ground. “So how long are you in town for,” I asked.
“Until the end of the season, which is next week. I might stay on for a bit after that so I can have a quiet place to work on my thesis. Depends on if Kyle sells the house.”
“Glenvar is nothing if not quiet. In fact, if it had one, “Boring” would be its middle name.” I picked a pepperoni off of one of the leftover pizza slices and nibbled at it. “So, Charli said you were doing rehab for an injury. That must suck.”
He took a big drink of his beer before answering. “It does. I’ve had a sore shoulder off and on for a year or so. Rotator cuff tendinitis. I was in triple-A ball last year, about to get called up to the show, but instead I had to take off about three months. The comeback has been slow going. I recovered over the winter, then slowly worked back into throwing again. Team bounced me down to the double-A league while I tried to get the juice back. Things were finally looking good and I thought I was going back up, but then it started hurting again last month. They D.L’d me, I rehabbed, and finally, Doc cleared me to go live. Team sent me down here couple weeks ago to do it, though, since the Zippers, that’s the double-A team I’m with, are in a playoff race. But, it feels good, so I’m hoping I’ll be firing on all cylinders again and heading back up in time for post-season.”
In contrast to everything he’s said before, which had sounded very adult-like and smooth, this bit he delivered in a nervous, staccato voice like a high school kid hopped up on sugar and caffeine. It was sort of odd, to be honest.
“You’re up, Harry,” Charli interrupted. “Bet’s whoever loses has to stand on the stage and sing ‘Take Me Out to the Ball Game’.”
I groaned. “Geez, Charli, thanks a lot. You know I tend bar here. Everybody in the place knows me. Did you have to think up something so humiliating?”
She grinned at me. “Don’t worry. I watched a pool tournament on ESPN2 the other night. I learned all kinds of great tricks.”
I groaned again. And after Harry ran the table, I practically cried.
“Best two out of three,” Charli said. “Marty, you break this game.”
It was the fastest version of ‘Take Me Out…” ever, believe you me.
“Sorry to be a spoil sport, guys,” John said at about nine-thirty, after the guys beat us at a round of darts. “But I’ve got to be to work at five tomorrow morning.”
I had to get up early too, but the last thing I was thinking about was leaving. Unless it was with a firm date to see Harry again really, really soon.
He must have felt the same way. He gave me another one of those penetrating looks. “So, Marty, how about I give you a ride home? Save John and Charli a trip.”
Charli’s head bobbed up and down so hard that I thought she was going to give herself whiplash. “What a great idea,” she said. “Isn’t that a great idea, Marty?”
After a quick mental exam of my apartment to try and remember if there was any stray underwear lying around, I agreed with Charli that it was, indeed, a great idea.
We were on our way out the door when someone hollered out to Harry.
“Do you mind stopping for a minute?” Harry asked me. “That’s one of the buddies from the team. He owes me ten bucks.”
John and Charli hugged me and went on out the door. I followed Harry to a table in the back corner, next to the jukebox. Two guys and three girls were playing Spades, watched over by one of the eight trillion posters of Ricky Ray that serve as wall décor at Pilazzo’s. .
“Hi, Harry,” said one of the girls, a pixiesh-looking little thing with short brown hair and brown eyes. The guy next to her was very attractive. He had light brown curls, blue eyes, and a classic face, but he was obviously well on his way to a blinding drunk. His left arm draped around the girl’s shoulder, and it appeared that he was about two more gulps away from passing out.
Harry barely glanced her way. “Guys, this is Marty Sheffield. She’s a DJ. Marty, these are some pals of mine. Doug Curry, he plays second base; Mark Donavan, he’s in the outfield. We played college ball and roomed together. We’ve known each other since high school. That there is Sabrina Lewis, she’s Mark’s girlfriend; and those two are the Debbies. They’re with Doug.”
The Debbies were dressed alike in matching Glenvar Bomber’s cropped shirts and black booty shorts, and both had long blonde hair, parted in the middle. Because of that, at first glance, I thought they were twins. On closer inspection, I realized they really didn’t resemble each other at all. One was well built, but she had a slightly crooked nose and close-set eyes, which meant she was always going to be described as cute instead of beautiful. The other one was very thin, almost painfully so, but was stunningly gorgeous.
The first one rolled her eyes and sighed. “I’m Carole and she’s Tessa. Doug started calling us the Debbies ‘cause when we first met him he couldn’t remember which one of us was which. Now they all do it.”
The guy they were with, Doug, was fairly nice looking, with longish brown hair, blue eyes, and a mischievous grin. He was the only one not drinking.
They all said “hey”, except Mark who was in the process of spilling beer all over Sabrina. She mumbled hello to me, but didn’t take her eyes off of Harry. In fact, she’d been staring at him since we walked up.
“Ten bucks, Curry,” Harry said, “I told you Donavan would have an error tonight.”
“Double or nothing on tomorrow’s game,” Doug Curry replied. “Hey. ’Brina, you got the hosebag?”
Sabrina gently pushed her boyfriend aside, picked up his cards, and tore her eyes away from Harry long enough to look at them. “No, Mark has it. Y’all wanna quit? He’s three sheets and I’m soaked.”
The Debbies tossed their cards to the center of the table. “Yeah, Dougie,” Carole, the cute one with the good figure, said. “Let’s drive over to Roanoke and go dancing at that new club I heard about.”
Doug winked at Harry. “Wanna get in on the action?”
Harry frowned at him. “No. I’m giving Marty a lift home then I’ve got to hit the hay. I’m up tomorrow night.”
Sabrina, who had resumed staring at Harry, finally looked over at me. She winced, then forced a smile. “Do you live at the Glenvar View Apartments, Marty?”
I nodded. “Yeah. 4600G. How’d you know?”
“I thought I recognized you. I’ve seen you at the pool with that cute cop. Tim what’s his name. Is he your boyfriend?”
The Debbies both squealed and actually seemed to notice my existence.
“Nope, just friends. I’ve known Tim since kindergarten.”
“Really? He’s available then? That is one sexy man. I’d let him handcuff me anytime,” Carole, said. “Can you introduce us?”
My Tim? Sexy? Obviously they weren’t talking about my Tim. My Tim has red hair and is tall and gangly and, okay, cute. He’s cute in that Opie Taylorish, big-brotherish sort of way. But sexy? Not a word I’d use for Timothy Cornelius Unser. Nope, never.
“Yeah, Tim’s a good guy,” I told her “A little boring. And, he works all the time. When he’s not working, he’s really, really busy doing, uh, stuff. He hardly ever has time to go out on dates and stuff. I’ll bet he hasn’t been on a date in…”
She cut me off. “Too bad. Oh well, maybe you can introduce us anyway. Maybe I can help him with all that stuff he’s so busy doing.”
“Sure,” I said, noncommittally, changing the subject. No way would Tim be interested in either one of the Debbies. He likes brunettes, not blondes. And girls who are smart and work hard. Not bimbos. I was pretty sure both of the Debbies were bimbos.
“So, which unit do you live in?” I asked.
“Tessa and I live in 5300 C,” said Carole. “Sabrina lives across the hall in the A unit. Mark and Doug live upstairs from us in J.”
Theirs was the building directly behind mine. One of the newest buildings in the complex. I didn’t remember seeing any of them around, but I’m not the most observant person in the world.
Harry and I left after that. If I’d know everything that was about to happen, I’d have time travelled back and hitched a ride with John and Charli, or taken a cab, or even walked. But I didn’t. Big mistake. But, as my mom likes to say, it’s a whole like easier to call ‘em as you see ‘em once you’ve already been there and done that. (When it comes to clichés and idioms and whatnot, my mom likes to just throw them all together in a pot and see what rises to the surface.)
Oh, nothing bad happened with Harry that night. A little light smooching, a lot of talking and laughing; it was a great first encounter, to be honest. He left at about eleven with a promise that we’d get together the next day after I got off work, which would be around noon.
“Great! I’ll pick you up at the station and take you for a ride on my Harley,” he said. We’ll go on a picnic over at Glenvar Lake. Hike around the lake or rent a kayak. I don’t have to be at the ballpark until four.”
I gave him a decent, first-date sort of kiss and acted like a silly, love struck teenager after he left. Poor Delbert. I actually danced him around the living room twice before he managed to swat me on my wrist, leaving an inch long scratch. I climbed into bed excited about meeting Harry, and, although hiking and kayaking aren’t really things I put in the “fun” category, looking forward to our date the next day. I was thrilled that things were finally going my way for a change and was eager to be getting back to work. I was actually looking forward to it, in a sick sort of way, even though I knew the insanity that was lurking for me there.
Not only was I going to have to deal with the worst station manager in the history of radio, Herb, but also with my archenemy, Giselle St. James. Giselle had been fired from her job as a hack reporter for a local television station, and someone in upper management had the brilliant idea to hire her and pair us up for the “Giselle and Marty: Morning Drive Party”.
By the way, the name was not my idea. I seriously doubted that getting Giselle and me together in any capacity would be akin to a party. However, the theory in the front office of the big media conglomerate that had just bought the station was that the mutual hatred Giselle and I had would lead to big ratings. And since the station was in trouble, dealing with disastrous ad revenues and bleeding money out the wazoo, big ratings were a must.
Frankly, I thought their plan was a little like putting a bomb on the Titanic. But, as they say, beggars can’t be choosers and with the economy in the toilet, I didn’t have much choice unless I wanted to move back in with my folks. Besides, it was entirely possible that it would turn out to be fun. Yeah, I know. Being delusional also runs in the family. That’s why I’m seeing a shrink.