The Ditto List (33 page)

He laughed. “This one washes their glasses and everything. So how about it? French toast with sourdough? Belgian waffle with blueberry compote? Buckwheats with real maple syrup? Come on.”

She hesitated long enough to make him optimistic. Her lips parted in a half-smile. “Why don't we do this? I only live three blocks from here. You come over, and I'll bathe and change, and then I'll make you an omelette that will curl your toes.”

“Jack cheese?”

“Sure.”

“Onions?”

“Naturally.”

“Tomato sauce?”

“Of course.”

“You're on.”

D.T. went to his car and waited while Rita Holloway took Mrs. Preston's bag into the hospital. She reappeared a few minutes later, waved at him, climbed into a little red Datsun, and drove out of the hospital lot. D.T. followed closely, wondering what he was up to.

Three minutes later Rita Holloway parked in front of a handsome four-plex with a dark stone front that hinted of fortresses and castles. She got out of the car and waited for him to join her. When he was by her side she unlocked the door to the building and went inside and climbed the stairs to the second floor. He followed, admiring the stretch of her uniform across her rump, resisting an urge to swat her. When they reached the second floor she unlocked the door to Apartment Three and stepped aside for him to enter.

He had taken two steps when a thunder of footsteps made him turn. A beast was hurtling toward them, half-husky and half-lion from the look of him; half-crazed as well.

“Toledo. Hi, Toledo. Hi, hi, hi, Toledo. Yes. You're a good dog. Yes, you are. Want some food? Do you? Do you want your breakfast?” Rita Holloway stopped cooing and turned to D.T. “Let me feed him. I'll only be a minute.”

She disappeared behind a louvered door and left him in her living room. Its atmosphere was heavy, almost masculine, with dark blue walls and thick stuffed furniture and stalagmites of books and magazines rising off the floor. The couch and loveseat and club chair were paired with a floor lamp, coffee table, and pouf. The TV and stereo were new. The posters were of art exhibits and modern plays. He was comfortable before he thought to sit down.

“Coffee?” she asked as she came back in the room.

“Please.”

“I'll get it started, then change, then get after those omelettes. Make yourself at home. I'll only be a second.”

She went through the louvered door again, ran water, rattled cans and cookware, ground coffee beans in a machine that brought to mind his dentist. He sat in the club chair, cast about for something to read, settled for
Cosmopolitan
.

“The newspaper's probably down in my box,” she called from behind the door. “If you're interested.”

“I'll get it.”

He fetched the paper and returned to his chair. From the end of the hall down which Toledo had charged came the high sigh of a shower. He exchanged
Cosmo
for the
Tribune
, read an article about Nicaragua, then one about Beirut, then one about the spread of AIDS. He thought of Bobby E. Lee, and worried.

Something in the kitchen whistled. He went through the narrow door and took the kettle off the burner and poured some water into the filter atop the Chemex, onto the fresh-ground beans. The kitchen was so neat it was unnerving. He grabbed a slice of bread from the loaf on the counter and went back to the living room, then wandered down the hall, munching Roman Meal.

The door at the far end was half-open. D.T. pushed it all the way. Toledo trotted out, growling. He gave the dog the remaining crust of bread. After drooling on his hand, Toledo trotted meekly toward the kitchen in search of a second slice. He peeked, saw the bedroom was empty and went inside. The only place to sit besides the bed was the chair beside the dressing table.

The room smelled of talc and roses. The bed was brass, with a flowered quilt and gigantic pillows whose covers featured the silhouettes of bunnies. The blinds were drawn, the morning light made lavender by its passage through the curtains.

As he sniffed something in a crystal cruet, Rita Holloway walked into the room, head bowed, eyes shut, fixing a towel around her hair. The rest of her was naked. After she tucked away an edge she straightened up and saw him. Her hands dropped from her head to her hips.

“Well.”

“Well, well.”

“Do you always spy on unsuspecting women, Mr. Jones?”

“Only when I get the chance. And only when they're naked and owe me favors.”

“I see. And is this where I'm supposed to scream and carry on and make a mad dash for the closet?”

He shook his head. “This is where you're supposed to tell me if you want to make what is known these days as love. With me. Right now.”

“Before breakfast?” Her eyebrows made twin carets.

“Since we haven't slept yet, let's look at it as after dinner.”

Her smart look faded. “I'm going with someone.”

“So am I.”

“I think it should make a difference.”

“So do I.”

She frowned, then crossed her arms across her breasts. “May I take a minute to see if it does?”

“Be my guest. I'll just do my nails.”

He turned his back to her, avoided his reflection in her mirror, grasped an emery board, and began to sand his fingertips. The raspy sound masked what he thought might be her laugh. His mind contained a triptych: her tight brown body, plus Barbara, plus Michele.

The mirror was angled so he couldn't see what she was doing. The sounds she made were ambiguous. He finished one hand and began the other.

“Mr. Jones?”

“Yes?” He started to pivot toward her.

“Don't turn around. Are you in the market for a meaningful relationship or a one-night stand? Or morning, as it were. And please be honest.”

“The latter, I guess. I've found it best not to go looking for relationships, that they usually hunt you down themselves.”

She paused. “See my purse there on the floor beside you?”

“Yes.”

“Open it up and get a dollar out of it … no, don't look at me … go on … now put the dollar in your pocket. Good. That makes you officially my lawyer, right? With a retainer and everything.”

“I guess it does.”

“So you have to keep what happens next strictly confidential, don't you, Mr. Jones?”

“I certainly do, Miss Holloway.”

“Then you may proceed.”

There were no covers on the bed, only Rita Holloway, naked but for a diaphanous scarf she had draped over the dark and bulbous portions of her body, masking them in silk, stuffing him with lust. He removed his clothes and joined her. Her flesh was wet and warm. He rubbed her flank, then wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck. “Is Toledo going to mind?” he murmured.

“Not unless you make me cry.”

They fit themselves to each other, found a rhythm, rolled one way and then the other. “Did you know this was going to happen when you asked me out for breakfast?” she asked as she rolled on top.

“I think so.”

“Did you turn off the stove?”

“Yep.”

“Then I guess we can get right to it.”

He told her he'd give it his best shot. Sometime later she uttered what he thought might be a cry, but Toledo stayed away so he guessed it might have been a cheer.

When he got back to his office he began dictating the complaint in the case of
Preston
v.
Preston
. Halfway through, the telephone buzzed. “D.T.? Paul Brashman. I got the dope.”

“Shoot.”

Brashman cleared his throat. “Clifford Microdata. Small electronics outfit in Southern California. Founded by some IBM refugees. Now defunct. One hundred shares purchased in 1965 is worth exactly zip.”

“I figured as much. Same story on the other?”

“Not quite. East Jersey Instruments. Medical equipment house. Small, then hit on a couple of significant advances in prosthetics. Bought by Federal Hospital Supply in '72. One hundred shares of East Jersey is now a five-hundred-share position in Federal Hospital. Current quote: thirty-seven and a half. Market value: eighteen thousand and change. Less commission.”

Times three equalled fifty thousand plus. Divided by two equalled twenty-five thousand plus. Times 25 percent equalled seven thousand plus, contingent fee of D. T. Jones pursuant to verbal agreement with Esther Preston. “Thanks, Paul,” D.T. said, and hung up.

D.T. added a claim to his complaint and gave the cassette to Bobby E. Lee to type. When it was finished, D.T. sent Bobby off to the hospital and told him he could go home after seeing Mrs. Preston.

That night Bobby E. Lee called him at home for the first time ever. “I talked to her for two hours,” he said. “You absolutely
have
to do something to help that woman.”

“Well, plunk your magic twanger, Bobby, and make me something better than I am.”

Bobby E. Lee hung up.

D.T. floated through the motions of preparing for sleep, his mind full to bursting with Esther Preston and her problems. When he was under the covers he picked up the telephone.

“Dr. Preston? This is D. T. Jones. We met at Joyce Tuttle's? Sorry to be calling so late.”

“I have nothing to say to you, Jones. Talk to my lawyers. Bronwin, Kilt and Loftis.”

“I have something to say to you, though. Your attempt at terrorism didn't work, Doctor; it just made her mad. So I'm warning you. No more threats, no more sabotage; no more contact with her of any kind. If she suffers as much as a hangnail I'm going to the cops and tell them exactly what you've been up to and why, and' I'm going to swear out a criminal complaint against you for assault and endangerment. Do you hear me, Dr. Preston? I'm telling you to leave Esther the hell alone.”

“I don't have the faintest idea what you're talking about, Jones, you goddamned maniac. But if you don't leave
me
alone I'm going to ruin you in this town. Believe me. I'll make you wish you'd
never heard my name
.”

FIFTEEN

“Mr. Jones?”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry to be calling so early, Mr. Jones. This is Irene Alford. You represent me in my divorce case? We go to court the middle of next month?”

“Of course. How are you?”

“Not too well, actually.”

“What's the problem?”

“I … it's difficult to explain. My husband keeps calling me. And coming around. At all hours. He's driving me crazy.”

“Is he threatening you? Has he assaulted you?”

“No, no, he hasn't threatened to do anything to
me
. It's …”

“It's what?”

“It's him. He claims he'll kill himself if I don't let him come back to me, if we don't reconcile. He tells me how he's going to do it, what it will feel like.
Look
like. It's horrible.”

“Do you believe him?”

“That he'll really do it? Yes. I think he might. He talks about suicide all the time. He always has, since way before I considered divorcing him.”

“If everyone who talked about it actually did it we'd be running short of people, Mrs. Alford.”

“I know, but Louis is different. He has this terrific martyr complex. Always the sacrifice, always the burden on his shoulders, always the victim. It's his thing, you know? He's famous for it. It's one of the reasons I decided I couldn't live with him any more.”

“Did we get a restraining order directing him to stay away from you?”

“No. You mentioned it, but I didn't think it was necessary. I keep underestimating him.”

“I think we'd better get one now. I'll try to have the papers ready to file today.”

“That means the police will arrest him if he comes around again, is that right? If I call them and complain?”

“That's about it.”

“I don't know if I could have Louis arrested. He's up for tenure this year. My God, if he gets passed over he will
definitely
blow his brains out.… Listen to me. I'm making jokes about it.”

“Mrs. Alford, calm down. He's trying to make you solely responsible for the failure of your marriage. He will even get you to believe it if you let him. The first thing to do is keep him away from you. The second is to get him some kind of help. Do you agree?”

“I … yes. I guess I do.”

“Has he ever been in analysis?”

“No.”

“Is there a physician or clergyman or another professional he's close to?”

“No. He's very competitive. He has few friends. He's jealous of the
world
. I have no idea who could help him.”

“Family?”

“Estranged.”

“Okay. I can give you the names of some psychiatrists who are very experienced with this kind of thing.”

“You've had this happen before?”

“Several times.”

“Have any of them actually …?”

“One.”

“How awful.”

“Yes. But the vast majority did not. The point is, it's not your fault if it happens. You are not obliged to live with a man you no longer love, not even to save his life. You aren't required to be the solution to every problem he's got. You weren't while you were living together and you're most definitely not now. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“You're human, not divine. Right?”

“Right.”

“Now these doctors are all in the book. Their names are Dillon, Friller, and Exlerton. The first is a woman, if you think it makes a difference. Also, there's a crisis center which counsels the suicidal. You might want to talk to them yourself, to get their suggestions on how to handle him if he calls or comes around again. And give him their number, if he calls you. In the meantime, I'll talk to his lawyer. I'll tell him we're getting a restraining order and that your husband could jeopardize his career if he doesn't let you alone. Okay?”