Mayson’s anger evaporated once she was inside Tyler’s apartment. But the fear returned, and with it came a suffocating isolation as she gazed out at a world from which she’d been cut off - sprawling Central Park, the crisp autumn breeze, Fifth Avenue’s hustle and bustle and the East River sparkling on the horizon. She couldn’t go to the Lincoln Center or Bloomingdale’s, nor drive her shiny red BMW or even return to the Lyons for a change of clothes.
Fretfully, she turned from the window to study her new surroundings. The elegant trappings were gold, silver and brass, and the furniture strong and handsome. Persian rugs tastefully adorned the hardwood floors and the video equipment was naturally top of the line. This was Park Avenue, where all the apartments were the same - enormous, luxurious and where Corellis didn’t belong. She felt imprisoned here just as if she were in jail. So what if the toilets had seats and the windows were bar-less? She still couldn’t do what she wanted.
Time crawled. The afternoon sun faded and a reddish glow crept into the sky, followed by a golden hue so sweet she could taste it. A hot-air balloon glided over Central Park in a billowing descent. Who was there to greet it? Someone who’d been to the Bloomingdale’s sale? Did they have exciting plans for the evening — Broadway, Lincoln Center? She was cut off from it all.
Miserably, she wandered through the apartment. For all its princely space, there was only one bedroom. And why would Tyler need another? Didn’t his overnight guests, all female, share his king-size, satin-sheeted bed? Did rich, stupid gavonnes sleep on anything else?
Returning to the study, she dropped into the cozy window chair, again drawn to the strange souvenir posters adorning the walls. He’d made his Park Avenue apartment not an art gallery but a childhood museum. The posters were ancient and yellowed, creased yet clearly treasured as their expensive brass frames and glass cases proved. Two announced Barnum and Bailey’s arrival in Norfolk, Virginia over consecutive summers. He’d been nine and ten, she calculated; she’d been the same age in Brooklyn. She’d never been to the Barnum and Bailey, but if she had, would she have memorialized the event with expensively framed posters?
Her gaze drifted next to the two stadium posters announcing clashes between the Washington Redskins and Dallas Cowboys. He’d been twelve, then thirteen; she was the same age - twelve before the Songbird’s departure and thirteen after. Two different lives, two different worlds. Examining the posters more closely, she noticed the ticket stubs and game programs inside the glass, as if he’d been intent on remembering every detail of the experience. Why had they been so important to him?
Two more posters featured Redskin Super Bowls, one in Pasadena, the other Tampa. They’d been fifteen for the first, eighteen for the second: he in the stadium, she in a Brooklyn tenement watching the games on her fuzzy, black-and-white TV. She recalled how superb the Skins had been during Joe Gibbs’ glory years, with the Hogs blocking, John Riggins running and the Posse receiving. She’d also seen her beloved Giants win two Super Bowls, wishing to be in the stadium like Tyler, to meet the players afterwards as he had. She studied their autographs scrawled on box corners, whatever had been handy at the time.
With time to kill, she drifted out to inspect the other posters. Where the study’s theme had been the circus and football, the hall was devoted to the silver screen with classic movie posters: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Bullitt; fast cars and thrilling action that dazzled a little boy’s eyes. The next posters puzzled her: The Sound of Music, Mary Poppins, My Fair Lady. It was hard to imagine Tyler sitting through these movies, much less their leaving a lasting impression. Why had they been included in his museum?
Aimlessly, she drifted into the bedroom to examine the posters of Disney World and its neighbor, Sea World. Her eyes glowed wistfully. Places she’d dreamed of, places he’d been. The others memorialized events she knew nothing about: the Annual Oyster Roast sponsored by the James River Country Club, some snobby social event, no doubt, invented by empty-headed Southern Belles; and the last three announcing, of all things, piano recitals - two at the Tidewater Academy of Arts, one at the Dorothy Hamilton Cultural Center. Tyler devoting his Saturday afternoons to piano recitals was impossible to imagine. She returned to the study. Dropping into her cozy chair, the claws of fear scratched at her again. Outside the reds and golds had faded from the sky, a purplish pall now blanketing Manhattan with a chill she could almost feel. Soon the night sky glittered with myriad lights. People were dressing for elegant dinner parties at expensive restaurants and Broadway plays. So many things were happening in a world to which she no longer belonged and maybe never had.
The sight of Tyler suddenly in the doorway made her skin crawl. The evening breeze had fluffed his golden hair, enhancing his face’s glow. He’d spent the last hours at the firm and yet escaped without a wrinkle in his tailored suit. He was the most elegant, handsome man in Manhattan and why shouldn’t his riverblue eyes glow with the same confidence that carried his tall, athletic body?
“Dinner.” He held out a bag. “Pizza, with extra cheese; no anchovies, though. Not everyone shares my passion. Do you like them? Anchovies, I mean?”
“I don’t even like pizza, you stupid gavonne.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because I’m Italian you assume I was born with a craving for pizza? Anything with tomato sauce, pasta and sausage - just throw it in a pot and whatever comes out is certain to light up the eyes of a Corelli.”
“I didn’t expect miracles,” he frowned. “I just thought everyone liked pizza. I guess you don’t like Chianti either.” He took a bottle from the bag. “I can’t blame you for that. Molson - now that’s what you drink with pizza.”
Three movies now came out, two of which she’d meant to see. How did he know? Putting the movies on the shelf, he left her in a wake of conscience. Pizza, Chianti, movies and she’d offered no gratitude, just insults. Rising, she followed him into the living room where he gazed at the glittering skyline. Until yesterday he’d been a one-dimensional “trust fund baby” blessed with material things she didn’t have, but she was beginning to realize he was much deeper. He did more than smile, joke and slap people on the back. He also brooded and fell victim to deep reflection. “I’m sorry for calling you a ‘gavonne.’ You’re not, of course.”
“No.” He turned from the window. “I’m much worse. I’m an idiot.”
“For helping me?”
“Then you finally believe that’s what I’m doing?”
She shrugged. “If not, you would’ve turned me in by now. Yes I believe you’re helping me, but I still don’t know what you expect in return.”
“The truth, Mayson, that’s all.”
She shook her head. “No man risks his life to save a murder suspect, hide her in his home, and bring her pizza, wine and movies, while suffering her ungrateful bitchiness and expecting nothing but the truth in return.”
“Well I hate to disappoint you, but this one doesn’t.”
“Yes he does. He just doesn’t want to tell me.”
His face hardened. “I thought you were leaving.”
The tone of his voice stung her. “I am, right now.”
“Where are you going?”
Where? All these hours and did she have the first clue? “As far by bus as my money will take me.”
“Mayson, don’t you realize every bus station in New York is being watched? The airport and train stations, too. You think you can just walk up and buy a ticket, then sit in some crowded waiting room until the bus leaves? Every cop in the city is looking for you.” He sighed. “Didn’t you watch TV this afternoon? Your disappearance is all over the news. By six, all the networks were airing your story on their evening programs. Duke’s outraged; and the NYPD is embarrassed.”
Did he want her to leave or not? “And Lamp?” she asked.
“He summoned me to the Inner Sanctum the moment I returned — not a real good sign. He wanted to know where I’d been all afternoon. Fortunately it was ideal for jogging. I said I got carried away and forgot the time. I’m sure he bought it. Then, on the pretext of planning the transition of Morris’s practice, we danced around my relationship with you and where you might be hiding. It got real hot for a while.”
“Then he suspects your involvement in my disappearance?”
“I’d say the question’s crossed his mind.”
“How did you convince him you weren’t?”
“By reminding him you hated my guts because of Lambrusco and that we never talked outside work. I’m sure he didn’t find that hard to believe. By the way, Nicole told him about finding us in your office Monday morning.”
“How did you explain it?” she asked.
“I said that even if we hated each other, there were certain things we couldn’t avoid discussing: joint projects, our boss’s murder...”
“Did he buy it?”
“There’s no reason he shouldn’t.” He studied her intently. “Mayson, the killer used your gun Sunday night, which means it was at Morris’s apartment. Why did he have it?”
“He didn’t. I sold my gun to a dealer, remember?”
“You must have arrived within minutes of the murder. You found the apartment trashed, then Morris’s body, then the gun. The violent arguments at the firm must’ve flashed through your mind and how everyone knew you hated him. And there you were, standing over his fresh corpse, the murder weapon registered in your name.” He sighed, “No wonder you ran. Anyone would.”
“I have to leave now.”
“You can’t, Mayson. Cops are everywhere. Five minutes on the street, and you’d be picked up.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“There are no chances. That’s what I’m telling you.”
“Well, it’s obvious you don’t want me here,” she shrugged. “And I’m not your responsibility.”
“Neither is solving this goddamned murder case.”
Her eyes flickered angrily. She grabbed her things, and found him sipping a beer in the kitchen. “I’m glad, at least, not to have disrupted your routine. You’ll want to check your messages. Your puttanas really scorched the line this afternoon. It must be quite a challenge keeping them all straight.”
He noted her disheveled appearance, her jacket and skirt badly wrinkled from her long roost in the study, no doubt the same place she’d acquired the run in her hose. “I assume you didn’t answer the phone?”
“That’s why you have messages.” Clenching her purse, she snapped, “Ciao, gavonne!”
He listened as her shoes clicked down the hall then returned. As she reappeared, he smiled. “Ciao.”
“Your key and security card!” She smacked them on the counter.
Again she hesitated. He sipped, waited, then finally asked, “Anything else?”
“I suppose I should also thank you for rescuing me this afternoon, whatever the reason.”
“Then are you?”
“Am I what?” she frowned.
“Going to thank me? You said you should, so I... “
“Stop it, Tyler! I hate you! So much that I’m leaving, even with the heavy odds against me. But I’ll gladly take jail to another second with you...”
“Then I’d suggest buttoning up.” He nodded at her jacket. “It’s awfully cold out. And you’ll need gloves. I have an extra pair.”
As he started toward the closet, she yelled, “I don’t want your stupid gloves!”
“Fine.” He continued down the hall. Reaching the bedroom door, he turned. “One other thing. If it were me, I’d leave through the garage. It’s less conspicuous.”
She stayed in the hall until he emerged later, freshly showered and clad in navy blazer, white turtleneck and gray flannels. His spicy after-shave scented the air.
“Where are you going?” she asked suspiciously.
“Since you’re leaving, I thought I’d have dinner at McDougal’s,” he explained, stopping at the mirror to comb his hair. “By any chance, was Kelly Murphy among this afternoon’s line-scorchers?”
“You expect me to remember their names?” she asked as he headed for the study. “Kelly’s the one who called twice.” Confused, she watched him turn for the front door. “Aren’t you going to call her?”
“Kelly Murphy, you idiot.”
“No. Now come on, I’ll drive you to the bus station. There’s one just a few blocks from here.” She didn’t budge, her fawnish eyes clutching him with a fear she’d never admit. “You need money; is that it?”
She shook her head. “I told you, I have plenty. Ninety dollars, remember?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “You can probably get to Connecticut on that.”
“You said I’d get caught before getting on the bus.”
“You will. I was speaking hypothetically.”
“Tyler, don’t try to stop me.”
“I wouldn’t think of it,” he replied. “Your mind’s obviously made up, so let’s go.” But still she didn’t move. “For Christ’s sake, Mayson, what is it?”
“I was just thinking,” she shrugged. “You took a shower, and well... if it’s not an imposition...”
“Jeez, Mayson, take a shower! The towels are in the bathroom cabinet. And grab a few sweaters from my bureau. You’ll be glad to have them later. And if you really don’t like pizza, take some food from the refrigerator. On ninety bucks, meals will be like showers — it might be a while until the next one.”
“Thank you,” she said, surprising even herself.
McDougal’s was buzzing, as usual. As Tyler nursed a Molson’s, Mark Ryan, who moonlighted as bartender, reminded him of his law school graduation in the spring. “Tyler, you tell the powers that be I’d make a fine addition to Lieber Allen.”
He smiled. “As a first-year associate, I hardly have any influence over the firm’s recruiting decisions.”
“Don’t worry, Mark, he’ll get you in.” Bud Berryman slapped Tyler’s shoulder. “No doubt he’s taken over Lieber Allen, just like he has McDougal’s.”
Ruffling his hair, Maddy Moran offered her two cents: “If a female does the hiring and Tyler puts in a good word, I’d say you’re in like Flynn.”
A special TV news bulletin diverted their attention. Tyler cringed at Mayson’s picture as the anchorman reported, “Mayson Corelli, the young Wall Street attorney charged in the murder of prominent Lieber Allen partner, Morris Mendelsohn, vanished today before authorities could arrest her. Although the motive for the murder hasn’t been disclosed, it’s known that Corelli and Mendelsohn worked together at the Wall Street firm.” Glancing at his report, he added, “Police are convinced at this hour that Corelli, whose brother is reputed Mob assassin, Santino ‘The Lips’ Corelli, remains in Manhattan, although regional authorities have been alerted. Further sources have confirmed that the FBI will be joining...”
FBI! Tyler cringed again. What interest did the Feds have in a local homicide case? As coverage of the Knicks game resumed, he was besieged by questions. “You know her?” Berryman asked.
“A real pain in the ass,” he nodded, gulping his beer.
“A beautiful pain in the ass.” Mark wiped the bar.
“If she’s a pain in the ass,” Maddy cracked, “I’m sure Tyler can tame her.”
Wanna bet? He’d have better odds with a rattlesnake.
“Why’s the FBI getting involved?” Mark asked.
Damn good question. “No idea.”
“She must’ve been tipped off,” Berryman said. “How else would she have known to skip? Unless the cops called to say they were on the way.”
Not the cops, the assistant DA - one who must be spitting bullets about now. He must deal with Lauren soon, he thought as Kelly Murphy, her auburn ponytail bouncing, now made her way over. All Spandex beneath her coat, her pretty face glowed from a workout. “Wonderful! You got my message.”
“Aerobics?” he hugged her.
“Bodybuilding.”
“Why lift weights when you already have the most beautiful muscles in Manhattan?”
“What a sexist thing to say!” She swatted him.
“Take the compliment,” Maddy sighed. “You won’t be getting one from a better-looking man.”
He led Kelly over to his favorite table as the mocking New Yorkers chorused, “See y’all!”
He was soon cutting into a T-bone as she picked at an antipasto salad across from him. “Honestly, Tyler, how do you stay so trim on a diet of beer and red meat?”
“Simple. I jog a mile for every Molson.” And to think he’d been prepared to eat anchovy-less pizza with a neurotic Italian shrew — neurotic enough to venture out into the cold night where a city of cops waited? Hadn’t his leaving given her the time and space she needed...
“Tyler!” Kelly’s piercing voice scattered his reflections like rats making for the closest hole.
“Sorry, my mind’s still at the firm. There’s a lot going on.”
“So I heard. Do you know her, this Corelli girl?”
“Not well. She’s a very disagreeable person.”
“A bitch, you mean. I saw her picture on TV. With those big brown eyes and mink stole hair, she reminds me of an actress I can’t seem to place. So you really haven’t been out with her?”
“Get serious,” he stabbed another slice of steak.
“It’s just hard to imagine you overlooking someone that gorgeous, right there in your firm.”
“The firm has two hundred lawyers. And besides, there’s a rule against dating...”
“There, you’re doing it again!” She snapped at his drifting eyes. “Please pay attention. Now how do you think Corelli got away so quickly? An accomplice?”
“How’s the antipasto tonight?” he asked.
“Her brother was in the Mafia.” She shivered. “Doesn’t that give you the creeps? Maybe the Mafia rescued her. If not, someone did, don’t you agree?”
“The T-bone’s great.” He deposited a juicy sliver in her bowl. “Go ahead. One bite won’t hurt.”
“Maybe it was a mob hit.” Her emerald eyes glowed with intrigue. “Did you know Mendelsohn?”
“Not well. Now may we please change the subject?”
“Tyler, why are you always so restless? Your eyes never stop drifting, as if you’re searching for something you’ve lost.” Curiously she watched them dim now. “Have you ever been in love?”
“Once,” he nodded.
“It was a long time ago.”
“Then why can’t you tell me?”
It hurt enough just to think about it. Talking about it was unimaginable. “Where does a woman go to buy clothes at night? Say you need a dress and it’s late at night. Where do you go?”
Her eyes widened. “Why are you asking me this?”
“They say you can do or buy anything day or night in New York. That must include women’s fashions.”
“Tyler, are you a transvestite?”
An hour later, he breezed into Loehmann’s, a women’s clothing store at West 73rd and Broadway, and quickly proceeded to sift through the racks, browse over the display tables and peer studiously at the mannequins. Hunter Leigh was a ten, Stafford, an eight. A smaller Mayson must therefore be... a six? He began grabbing.
Fifteen minutes later he left with three bags full of sweaters, slacks, skirts, lingerie and, rolling the dice, a pair of size seven topsiders. Reaching the apartment just after midnight, he set his bags down and called out, “I’m home!”
He quickly found her, a suspicious lump in the big recliner by the study window. She was curled up asleep, the half-consumed Chianti bottle and empty pizza box on the floor. This was the dangerous fugitive all of Manhattan was looking for, he smiled? Scooping her up, he carried her down to his room and laid her gently across the bed. Then, covering her with a blanket, he left, closing the door behind him.
Damned if this wasn’t a first.