Brad Parks - Faces of the Gone

I nodded and waited for more, but she was done. I debated telling Tina about the dream I just had, mostly because it was so vivid I couldn’t get it out of my mind. But, really, how do you start that conversation? So, Tina, I had this dream where you raped me last night . .

Nope. Not happening. Instead we dove into her stack of pancakes together, dividing the paper then switching sections when we were done with them.

After a leisurely half hour, she got up from her side of the table and came around behind me, placing a pair of warm hands on my shoulders. She began massaging, and I allowed myself to go limp.

“This is amazing,” I murmured as she spent a few minutes working on several days’ worth of adhesions.

Then she leaned over and, with her lips inches from my earlobe, said, “So what do you say we stay in and lay on the couch together watching movies until we get hungry enough to go out for an absurdly large steak? My treat.”

“Ordinarily, that would sound heavenly,” I began.

“But. .” she interjected, sighing and standing up, releasing my shoulders from her grasp.

“But I’ve got a story to follow.”

Tina excused herself by saying she had an errand to run, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek on her way out. I dawdled over the paper for a little while longer, did the dishes-I’m a supporter of federal You Cook I Clean legislation-then hit the shower.

I stayed in there a long time, letting the hot water erode some of my exhaustion. My thoughts started coming in disconnected bits, like ticker tape floating down from a skyscraper.

I should have someone keeping an eye on Irving Wallace, someone dependable like Tommy. It was possible his movements would give him away as being more than just a government scientist.

I should head into Rashan Reeves’s old hood to see if I could find some of his buddies. Perhaps they would know something useful.

I should work on Hector Alvarez a little more, find some way to get more leverage on him.

I should visit Brenda Bass in the hospital. I didn’t know if she would receive me-or if she was even in a condition to receive me-but it seemed like a decent thing to do.

I should pitch some kind of write-through on the whole week-long Ludlow Street saga to the Sunday editor, who would undoubtedly be looking for one.

I should work with Hays to get as complete a background on Irving Wallace as I could.

I should do something to expand my wardrobe, which at the moment consisted of one pair of soiled tan slacks and one extremely wrinkled blue button-down shirt.

I should eat more vegetables.

I should start exercising more.

Finally, I turned the water off. That was enough thoughts, especially when I didn’t know if I’d get the time to do any of them. For all I knew, Irving Wallace had found my Malibu and I was one turn of the key away from being the subject of one of Peterson’s obits.

I stepped out of the shower and had just gotten a towel wrapped around my middle when Tina nudged her way through the door.

“Knock, knock,” she said after it was already open.

“Nothing to see here,” I said.

“Too bad,” she said. Then she lifted up a Banana Republic bag. “I hope I got the sizes right,” she said.

She pulled out a new shirt, slacks, socks, and boxers.

“I take back what I said before,” I said. “I don’t think I’m in love with you. I am in love with you.”

“Oh, you have no idea how true that is,” Tina said, waving a plastic bag. She pulled out a brush, a razor, deodorant, shaving cream-all the things a boy like me needed to feel fresh scrubbed again.

“You’re the best, Tina. Really. I don’t know what else to say.”

She just stood there, smiling sweetly at me, looking so damn hot. The dream was still fresh in my mind-as was the backrub and the sweet whispering-and I just couldn’t help myself. I gently removed the bags from her hands and pulled her close for the kind of deep, wet kiss that was by now about three days overdue.

But somehow she dodged it, turning my big move into a hug. And it wasn’t a full-body, this-is-about-to-turn-into-something-good hug. It was strictly shoulders and arms, the kind you’d expect to receive from your girlfriend’s best friend.

“A simple ‘thanks’ will do,” she said, giving my towel-covered butt a playful smack as she pulled away.

“Well, thanks,” I said sheepishly.

“Get dressed. You’ve got work to do.”

She left me to shave and inspect my new clothes, an open-collared shirt with enough Lycra in it to give it a little bit of a stretchy feel and pinstriped pants that were, naturally, flat-front.

“How come everyone is always pushing me toward flat-front pants?” I hollered. “What’s wrong with pleats?”

“You’re right,” Tina called back from the living room. “There’s nothing wrong with pleats-if you’re seventy-two years old and need a little give so your pants won’t rip during a particularly strenuous game of shuffleboard.”

I harrumphed and finished dressing. When I emerged from the bathroom, Tina was seated at the kitchen table, her head in a crossword puzzle. She looked up and gave me a wolf whistle.

“Looking good there, Mr. Ross.”

I gave her a model’s half turn. “Yeah, GQ just won’t stop calling.”

“So what’s your plan now that you’re all spiffy?”

I went back to my various shower-stall brainstorms and tried to prioritize. Eating vegetables and exercising came in last. Putting Tommy on Irving Wallace watch and visiting Brenda Bass came first.

“Does Tommy Hernandez work on Saturdays?” I asked.

“Tommy is an intern. He works when I tell him to.”

“Perfect. I was thinking it would be really nice to have a set of eyes on Irving Wallace. Think Tommy is up for a little game of Spy versus Spy?”

“Would you like to make the call or should I?”

“I’ll do it,” I said, pulling out my cell phone and selecting Tommy’s number. It rang five times before a very sleepy-sounding young man picked up.

“Hello?” he said. It wasn’t Tommy. The voice was too deep.

“Hi. Can you put Tommy on?”

The young man was instantly on guard. “And who’s this?” he said, the jealousy oozing through the phone.

“Relax. It’s his boss.”

“Oh,” he said, then I heard him say, “Honey, it’s your boss.”

Tommy picked up. “You’re not my boss.”

“Yeah, but I’m with your boss right now, so it’s really the same thing.”

“Does that mean you spent the night?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean you finally did it?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a ‘no,’ ” Tommy said, clearly disappointed. “How am I ever supposed to become Uncle Tommy to Tina’s baby if you don’t make the honorable move and shag her dirty?”

“No comment,” I said. “And now I’m changing the subject. I need you to do something for me today.”

“Oh, come on,” he whined. “I have plans.”

“Not anymore.”

“But it’s Saaaaturday,” he persisted.

“Yes, and tomorrow is Sunday and the next day is Monday.”

“Is he giving you a tough time?” Tina asked me.

“Of course,” I said.

“Give me the phone,” she said. “Let me show you how an enlightened manager deals with her people.”

I tossed Tina the phone.

“Tommy, stop being a bitch,” she said, waiting briefly for Tommy’s response.

“I don’t care, stop being a bitch,” she said. “And whatever you’re about to say next, I don’t care about that, either. So stop being a bitch. We’re done. Get to work.”

Tina held the phone out for me. “Problem solved,” she said.