Operation Gigolo. Vicki Lewis Thompson
don’t have to check into anything.” He gave her a killer smile. “I already have one.”
2
THE NIGHT BEFORE the trip to Sedona, Tony dug in his closet, unearthing memories as he worked, and came up with a couple of pairs of jeans he’d worn in high school. Michelle had begged him to get rid of this old stuff, claiming that he had no reason to keep it.
But there was a reason. He didn’t want to totally lose the connection to the hell-raiser he’d been back then, and the clothes helped make that connection. He smiled to himself. Lynn had no idea that the punk she’d described as her parents’ worst nightmare was Tony Russo fourteen years ago.
The tattoo was a souvenir from his senior year, his way of balancing the embarrassment of ending up the valedictorian. When he got drunk with his buddies one night and was caught spray-painting Class of ‘84 on the hood of the principal’s Caddy, the school board hadn’t wanted to let him graduate, let alone give the valedictory speech. His mother had pleaded his case and suggested his penance be cleaning gum off the bottom of the bleachers. To this day the smell of chewing gum made him sick to his stomach.
He pulled open a dresser drawer and dug in the back for the white T-shirts he hardly ever wore these days. They’d seen a lot of use at one time, and they felt soft and familiar in his grip. He kept one out for the plane ride and tossed the rest in a large duffel bag just as the phone on the bedside table rang. As he picked up the receiver, he wondered if Lynn had some last-minute instructions for him.
“Tony?”
Michelle. And she sounded as if she’d been crying, dammit. He tried to harden his heart. “Yeah, Michelle.”
“Are you busy?”
He tensed. “Kind of. What’s wrong?”
“I’d like…” She sniffed. “I’d like to come over, if it’s okay.”
He glanced at the clock. Michelle in tears, wanting to see him at eleven at night, couldn’t mean anything but trouble with Jerry. Jerry, his stockbroker and health-club buddy, the guy who’d spent his evenings playing handball with Tony and his afternoons playing bedroom games with Michelle.
“I know it’s late.” Michelle’s voice quavered. “I just…need to talk to somebody.”
He sighed. “Okay.”
“Thanks, Tony.”
“Don’t mention it. That’s what ex-husbands are for.” As he hung up, he wondered why he hadn’t told her to get lost. She deserved to be told that, after the way she’d treated him. He was a sucker when it came to the women in his life, just as his brothers and sisters had always said. They’d advised him to use the adultery issue to make sure Michelle didn’t get a dime, but instead he’d agreed to split their assets down the middle. His family called that stupid, but he’d handled enough divorce cases to know that nobody was blameless. He’d been concentrating too hard on his job, leaving her alone too much and paving the way for Jerry to step in.
For the first couple of years of marriage everything had been wonderful. She’d been his Uptown Girl, just like in the Billy Joel song that had been such a hit back in high school. It hadn’t hurt that she’d looked a little like Christie Brinkley, and he’d always identified with a working-class type like Billy Joel. Then he’d become more involved in his law career and had never quite noticed that the magic was slipping away.
He repressed thoughts of Michelle and his mistakes as best he could and continued packing. As much as he’d resisted the idea of Operation Gigolo when Lynn had first proposed it, he’d finally realized he’d be a fool to refuse. He’d wanted to ask her out for weeks, but he’d held back, afraid she’d think a recently divorced guy was a bad risk. As family-law specialists they’d both seen how divorce screwed up anyone’s judgment concerning the opposite sex.
He figured she’d think any interest on his part was strictly on the rebound from Michelle. At this point, Tony wondered if she might not be right. Maybe it was a good thing Michelle was coming over. He hadn’t seen her for six months.
He stared at his open duffel and wondered if he’d forgotten anything. Cigarettes. Lynn had said something about a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, but he’d given up smoking years ago. Then he remembered that Sam, another lawyer friend, had left half a pack behind over the weekend when he’d dropped over to watch a Cubs game on TV. Tony walked into the kitchen and rummaged through his catchall drawer until he found the cigarettes he’d tossed in there, meaning to return them.
Shaking one out, he found matches in the same drawer and cupped the flame as he lit up. Funny how the action, after so many years, brought back the old swagger. It brought back a slight cough, too. He’d never been a heavy smoker, doing it more for effect than for the nicotine buzz. That had made quitting more bearable than it had been for some of his high-school pals. If he limited himself to one cigarette whenever he was around Lynn’s parents, he shouldn’t get hooked again.
The doorbell rang, and he took another drag on the cigarette before walking over to let Michelle in.
“Tony!” Sobbing, she flung herself dramatically into his arms.
He damn near burned her with the cigarette as he caught her. “Easy, Michelle.” Holding the cigarette a safe distance away, he put an arm around her trembling shoulders and guided her to the couch. “What’s the problem?”
She plopped down and gazed at him through brimming eyes. The glue on her right eyelash was failing, and the black fringe dangled from her eyelid, dancing like a drunk butterfly each time she blinked.
“Eyelash alert,” he said automatically. He’d forgotten how lousy she’d always been at putting them on, but she persisted, believing that her own blond lashes were too short and undramatic. Her hair wasn’t as thick as she’d like it to be, either, and he knew that at this very moment she had fake hair fastened in with her own. He’d never been able to run his fingers through Michelle’s hair without danger of permanent injury from the metal clips.
“Thanks.” She reached up and pulled the eyelash off, which left her with an interesting effect—one eye ready to party and the other one ready for sleep. She began to sniffle again and searched through her minuscule shoulder bag.
“Damn, you can’t put anything in these. Do you have a—”
“Here.” He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her. As she blew her nose, he took another drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.
“Oh, Tony…” She wiped her eyes and took a shaky breath. “I should never have left you for Jerry.”
His heart clutched. That had been what he’d wanted to hear for months, right? So why wasn’t he feeling a thrill of triumph, instead of this uneasy dread? “What’s happened?” he asked.
“He sucks his teeth.”
Tony laughed. It wasn’t a kind thing to do, and he controlled it as quickly as he could. “You didn’t notice that before?”
“Well, sort of, but I didn’t think I’d care. Did you…did you ever notice that about him?”
“Yeah, but when you’re playing handball it’s not a big item of concern.”
“That’s not all. He wears some of his underwear until it’s dangling from the elastic by about three threads.” She glanced at Tony. “You knew that, too, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “We dressed in the same locker room. Sure I noticed.” After the fact, he wished he’d checked out Jerry’s studly endowments, too. The guy had stolen his wife, and Tony couldn’t help wondering if Jerry was more than a good listener.
“I threw all the raggedy ones away today, and he yelled at me. Then I yelled at him about his teeth, and he yelled about stabbing himself on my hair clips, and then he said my eyelashes