Hex and the Single Girl (6 page)

“Have a blessed day!” he said earnestly in return, and redirected his attention to other sinners on the street. Over Susan’s shoulder, Emma watched him pass pamphlets. His yellow T-shirt had a Star of David with the words “Jews for Jesus” stenciled across it.

Victor was right. No one paid attention to religion pamphleteers. Emma gave Susan a squeeze and let her go. She approached the Jew for Jesus. “I’d like to buy a T-shirt,” she said.

The man said, “Sorry. I don’t have any here. But I’m having a thousand made. Come back in a few days and I’d be happy to sell you one.”

“I’ll give you twenty bucks for the shirt you’re wearing. And a stack of flyers.”

“I’m planning to sell the shirts for ten. It’d be making a hefty profit if I sold this one for twenty. Jesus wouldn’t want me to take advantage. That wouldn’t be very Christian of me.”

“Fifty bucks for the shirt, right now, take it or leave it.” Emma reached into her pocket for her wad, and peeled a fifty off the top.

Just as she was showing it to the Jew for Jesus, Mr. Cannery happened to walk out of the bank, catching her green handed.

The banker tisked. “Is this a wise expenditure, Ms. Hutch?”

“Jesus loves you!” said the religious nut, trying to hand Mr. Cannery a pamphlet. The banker blanched and dashed uptown. “And you,” the nut said, turning to Emma. “You must learn patience. You’ll have to wait for a shirt. Come back in a few days.”

Emma and Susan went across Sixth Avenue. Susan asked, “Thinking of converting?”

Emma said, “It’s for a disguise. I’ll need a Jewfro wig.”

“If you went to Times Square, you could score a ’Muslims for Moses’ shirt, too.”

“And a ’One Life to Live’ Hare Krishna toga,” said Emma.

They were in better spirits when they reached Emma’s apartment. With that in mind, the Good Witch said, “Let’s have a drink.”

“It’s three o’clock,” protested Susan.

“On a Friday,” said Emma.

“I told my assistant I’d be back by four.” Susan worked at the Verity Foundation, a not-for-profit watchdog group that organized litigants for class action lawsuits, among other do-good work.

“You can’t take an afternoon off?” asked Emma. “You’re a VP.”

“I’m a VP because I don’t take afternoons off,” she said. “But I suppose once in four years is allowed.”

Emma went into the kitchen, opened the fridge and grabbed the bottle of Bailey’s (she’d only dented it last night). She returned to the living room with the bottle and two juice glasses. She poured. They drank.

After licking the edge of the glass, Susan said, “I want to hire you again.”

Emma said, “That’s against policy. Besides, I’m working on a big case exclusively for the next two weeks.”

“I need you, Emma.”

Music to her highly sensitive ears. “You know I love to help. But I just can’t do it. I guarantee the first date only. After that, it’s all up to you. It’s in the contract.”

Susan sipped her beverage. “God, that’s good.”

“And only a thousand calories per thimbleful,” said Emma.

“I got the first date on my own,” said Susan. “You insisted on returning my initial payment and that invalidated the contract.” Susan was a lawyer. She should know.

“Implanting your image won’t work on him now,” said Emma. “He’s already seen you—in the flesh, not just

pictures.”

“If you put me in his head, he’ll think he misses me. He’ll want me back.”

“It’s been only one day. Why don’t you wait a week? See if he misses you on his own.”

Susan said, “I can’t wait a week.” She seemed serious.

Emma squirmed uncomfortably on the couch. She wanted to make her friend happy. But, she said, “If it were any other man, I’d consider it. But not Jeff Bragg. I never told you that I saw him frottage a teenage girl on the bus.”

“He cheesed her?” asked Susan.

“Not
fromage,
” corrected Emma. “Frottage. He stood behind the girl on a packed uptown bus and subtlety humped her whenever the bus lurched.” Emma sipped her drink.

“It was by accident,” said Susan. “A crowded bus, midtown traffic. That’s a lot of lurching.”

“And humping.”

“You can’t prove he was humping her,” said Susan.

Emma demurred. “No, but the girl had a terrified look on her face, and she bulldozed her way off the bus at her stop.”

“As disgusted as I am by that story,” said Susan, “the idea of Jeff rubbing himself against a rusty storm drain turns me on. I want to be that rusty storm drain. Or that fromaged teen.”

“Frottaged,” reminded Emma.

“Haven’t you ever been madly in love?” Susan asked, exasperated by Emma’s refusal. “My skin comes alive when we touch, as if it’s a separate, independent entity and not connected to my brain or soul.”

Emma had not been madly in love, and Susan damn well knew it. “Sex isn’t everything,” she said.

“That’s one way of seeing things. Sex isn’t everything. But, without it, you’ve got nothing.”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“Although we weren’t talking about you, Emma,” started her increasingly snippy friend, “I will say this: Your problem is that you live through other people’s romances—you
engineer
other people’s happiness—but in the year we’ve known each other, you’ve given me a million excuses for not pursuing your own. You hardly go out. You hate parties.

You’re uncomfortable talking to strangers. You’re so detached from what you want,
you don’t even put yourself in
your own sexual fantasies.
” Susan seemed to think of something suddenly. “Have you ever had a fantasy about Jeff?”

“Yes,” admitted Emma.

“You have?”

“I had a fantasy he had a heart attack seconds before being run over by a bus.”

Susan laughed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“You’re the only person I know who would come to me for a favor and then assail my quirks,” said Emma. “You’re also the only lawyer I know. Coincidence?”

“These are serious issues, Emma. You should seek help.”

“People seek me for help,” she replied. “And they get it. Including you.”

“So you’ll take my case?” asked Susan with a sudden glimmer.

Emma finished her Bailey’s and poured some more. “Here’s what I’m willing to do. Since my usual methods are off the table, I’ll talk to him. Find out what I can. But I’m not making any promises about a reunion.”

Susan said, “I’ll take whatever I can get.”

“I have to charge you,” said Emma. “The Good Witch, Inc. is a for-profit company.”

Susan agreed. “When can you start?”

“Tonight,” said Emma. She wasn’t expecting Daphne’s pictures until tomorrow, and she would rather work than drink five thousand calories of Bailey’s. “Where can I find the scumbag?”

“Today was his last day at work,” said Susan. “So he’ll probably go out with his colleagues for a farewell drink.”

“They’ll go to that cigar and scotch bar near his office,” said Emma, remembering the place. “What’s it called again?”

“Bull,” answered Susan.

Chapter 7

E
mma pushed open the door of the Bull Bar on Water Street. Blue smoke swirled across her half-exposed breasts.

She stepped inside, fully aware that every man in the joint was looking at her. In her four-inch heels, raisin-colored lips, and black, banged wig, she strutted to the bar. A cluster of men parted to let her by. She dropped her hand on a black leather barstool and asked, “Is this seat taken?”

The men didn’t or couldn’t respond to the simple question. So she lifted her thigh and slid onto the stool. She crossed her legs, adjusted her black movie star shades, and said, “I sure could use a drink.”

Five men shouted for the bartender. He rushed over. “What’s the most expensive cognac you’ve got?” she asked.

The bartender, a chubby guy with a fuzzy mustache said, “Remy Martin.”

“I’d like a bottle.” Emma looked from man to man and then pointed at the youngest and best looking. “This gentleman is happy to pay for it.”

“I am?” he asked.

“It would be your
pleasure,
” she said.

The man grinned and raised his eyebrows. His four buddies cackled and winked at each other. “What the hell. I’m celebrating,” he said. To the bartender: “Two glasses.”

His buddies downed the dregs of their beers and pulled on their suit jackets. Along with Friday fatigue, each wore a gold wedding band. The fat one said, “Heading out.” A chorus of “me, too” and “long way to Livingston” followed.

They slapped their lucky friend on the back and split.

Once they were gone, Emma held out her hand and said, “Connie Quivers.”

“Jeff Bragg,” he said.

“What are we celebrating?” she asked.

“To fresh starts and beautiful women.” He raised his glass.

“I’ll drink to that,” she said.

“Forgive me in advance for what I’m going to ask you,” he said.

“I’m not a hooker,” said Emma, although she might look like one in her Bettie Paige wig. “I’m just lonely. So talk to me for a while, all right?”

“Absolutely. What would you like to talk about?”

“Tell me all about your love life,” she drawled.

If Emma thought Jeff would spill his guts the second she asked him to, she was sorely mistaken. Two hours later, insight about what went wrong between Susan and Jeff was not forthcoming. Emma was nursing her cognac. Jeff had been talking non-stop about everything but his love life.

”…and that’s when I got promoted to senior vice president of accounting at Dooey, Fleecum & Howe. I made a couple of fast deals and now I’ve got more money than I can spend. Yes, it’s been a long climb, but I’ve finally reached the top.”

“I’ve reached the bottom,” said Emma, showing Jeff her empty glass.

He poured her another dram. “Today was my last day at Dooey,” he said. “I’m taking my winnings off the table, leaving the city, the office, the suit. Going to live on a beach somewhere.”

“Sounds like you’re running away,” said Emma.

He said, “I’m not running. I’m going on vacation. Permanently.”

Emma wondered if Susan knew about his windfall or his travel plans. He’s shared his body with her, but, apparently, little else. And for that kind of relationship, Susan would turn herself inside out. The vicarious thrills in this case were more like chills.

“But the economy is terrible,” Emma said. “Stocks down, huge deficit. Corporation scandal. Enron, Tyco, Riptron.”

“I’ve been careful,” said Jeff. “Kept my nose clean. My firm handled the Riptron accounting. Twenty people went to prison because of that.” He leaned in close. “Just between you and me, for every person who went to prison, someone else got rich.”

Emma’s stomach lurched. “Can we get back to your emotional history? Your recent romantic past?”

He paused. “I do have one regret about leaving New York.”

Emma softened. “A girlfriend in the city?”

“My regret is that I’ll be spending my last week here alone,” he said. And then he put his hand on her bare knee.

She flinched. “Your hand is freezing.” It felt like he’d dropped an icicle on her skin. “Mind moving it?”

He moved it higher up her thigh.

Emma had long believed her sense of touch was her weakest. But, at times like this, it showed its super strength. An icy spread crept from her knee to her hips. The same man who made Susan melt had frozen Emma’s entire leg. She brushed his hand off her and sighed. This was a waste of time, she thought. He wasn’t talking. She’d learned nothing.

She’d have to chalk it up as a no-win night.

Emma said, “Well, it’s been incredibly dull talking to you, Jeff. I’ll be shoving off now.” Emma tried to slide off the stool but her right leg was still defrosting.

Jeff grabbed her elbow, stopping her. “Where’s the fire?”

“Let go,” she warned.

“You walked into this bar and made right for me.” His voice sounded deeper. “Why?”

“You were the best looking guy here,” she said.

“You can speak the truth and still be a liar.”

“You can be handsome and still turn my stomach.”

He squeezed her elbow tighter and the freeze seeped through the fabric of her dress, numbing her arm. Jeff said, “I think you were sent here by a man who shall remain nameless to spy on me. You can tell him to back the fuck off.”

While he spoke his gibberish, Emma struggled to wrench her arm free. The bartender appeared. “Any trouble?”

“We’re just saying goodbye,” said Jeff, giving her a weird warning with his beady eyes.

He was insane. And paranoid. “I wasn’t sent here by a man,” said Emma. “And I’m not a spy.”

Jeff said, “Your wig is crooked.”

Chapter 8

“T
hese pictures are horrible. No offense, Victor.” asked Emma the next morning, in Saturday yoga pants and a red poncho. “Are you sure this is what she wants?”

Victor was eating grapes from her fridge. “I don’t argue with the client,” he said.

Emma examined the three prints of Daphne Wittfield on her desk. “I don’t get it,” she said of the first one.

The image was black and white. Daphne stood nude, arms at her side, legs shoulder-width apart. A powerful lamp shone from behind her at hip level.

Victor said, “You see how it looks like a circle of light is floating behind her? That’s subliminal.”

“And the hidden message is?” asked Emma.

“As Daphne put it, ’That the sun shines out of my ass.”’

“It looks more like she passes noxious gas.”

“Daphne thought it was perfect,” said Victor.

Emma shook her head. “I can’t work with this,” she declared. “Or this.”

She held up the second photo. The shot was black and white, but with a blue wash. Daphne’s hair was spiked and her body posture rigid. “She looks like she stuck her finger in a light socket,” said Emma.

“Exactly,” said Victor nodding and chewing. “She wanted to send the message that she’s electric. A real live wire.”

The next photo in the portfolio was tinted red, showing Daphne, naked again, sitting cross-legged on a mat (thank God for artful shadowing), her arms stretched above her head, bent gracefully at the wrists and elbows. “Daphne on fire?”

asked Emma.

Victor touched his nose. “She’s supposed to be the shape of a camp fire. Her arms are flames.”