Fifth Ave 02 - Running of the Bulls (5 page)

“It's your fifteen minutes,” Gloria said.
 
“I could give a rat's ass how you use it.”

She certainly was a bitch tonight.

But as Marty walked down the hallway and picked up the telephone, he understood.
 
His choice to focus more on his job than on their relationship had twice cost them their marriage.
 
Psychiatrists and psychologists all gave him the same textbook reasons about why he was so screwed up now--his parents were murdered when he was a boy.
 
They'd lived in a rough section of Brooklyn.
 
His father was a cop who paid too much attention to the local gangs.
 
When he was on the verge of bringing down a gang leader, three gang members shot him and his wife dead in their apartment while Marty, seven at the time, hid under a bed.
 

A cascade of sketchy foster parents ensued.
 
At eighteen, he was able to go to university on scholarship, where he received a film degree because, as a boy, movies were the one thing that offered escape.
 

And better yet, they didn't require the sort of commitment a relationship required.

The phone was answered by a friend of his at the FBI.
 
“Roz, it's Marty.
 
Got a minute?
 
Great.
 
I was wondering if you'd run a check on someone for me.
 
Name is Maggie Cain, otherwise known as Margaret Cain, the writer."
 

Gloria turned to him with interest.
 

"If she’s in your files, do you think I could have a background by this evening?
 
Find out where she got her money.
 
The woman has a goddamn Matisse in her entryway.
 
I know, right?
 
Next time the pasta's on me.”
 

When he hung up the phone, Gloria was standing behind him.
 
“You're investigating Maggie Cain?”

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He stepped past her and moved down the hallway to the girls' bedroom.
 
His professional life was the one thing he shared with no one--and Gloria knew why.
 
Too many times in the past he had been threatened by someone who learned of his surveillance.
 
Marty didn't take the repercussions lightly, especially after what happened to his parents.

“I can't believe it,” Gloria said.
 
“Maggie Cain!
 
She's one of my favorite writers.
 
You know I love her books.
 
What's she done?”

"Nothing.”

"Oh, please."

"Leave it alone, Gloria."

“Just give me something.”

Behind them, the service telephone rang.

Gloria stopped mid-stride and went to answer it.
 
When she returned, she was all business.
 
“That's Jack and he's early.
 
I need you to leave.
 
This is a night for art, not ex-husbands."

"Define art."

"You wouldn't understand it."

"See how little you know about me?
 
Consider what you've done with your makeup.
 
Now, that's art."
 
He glanced at his watch.
 
“I've still got ten minutes to see my daughters.”

*
 
*
 
*

“Mom's got a new boyfriend.
 
Met him yet?”

Marty closed the door behind him and entered the one room Gloria had been banned from redecorating when she overhauled the rest of the house.
 
Large and dim, the purple- and green-striped walls peppered with posters of that month's hottest teen idol, his daughters' bedroom had become in the year since his second divorce from Gloria a sort of battleground for Katie and Beth.
 

Clothes were missiles that had exploded on the floor, desks and bureaus.
 
The beds were fortresses piled high with tapes and magazines, books and stuffed animals.
 
In a large glass container, three hamsters raced frantically through an alarming network of scratched yellow tubes--perhaps seeking exercise, but maybe, Marty thought, trying to escape.
 
Guilt had prevented Gloria and him from demanding the girls keep their bedroom clean.

Beth's question lingered in the air.
 

"Have you two become hoarders?" he asked.

"You're dodging the question."

Seated in the middle of her bed, her tanned legs crossed at the ankles, she looked at her father with the same level gaze she had inherited from him but had perfected by imitating her mother.
 

In an effort to buy time, Marty kissed her on the forehead, turned to where Katie was sitting on her bed and kissed her on the cheek, then looked around the room for a place to sit.
 
Since divorcing Gloria, he had never been comfortable discussing her private life.
 
While he knew she dated, it was somehow easier living under the illusion that Gloria's life revolved solely around her painting, this apartment, the two girls.
 
But he sensed Beth needed to talk and so he sucked it up, despite the sinking sensation he felt in his gut.

“No,” he said, sitting on the edge of her bed.
 
“I haven't met him.
 
I wasn't aware your mother was seeing someone.”

“She's more than just seeing him,” Beth said.
 
“He practically lives here.
 
Last night, they woke Katie and me up.
 
It was fucking embarrassing."
 
She caught the look on his face.
  
"Sorry, but it was.
 
Mom kept saying his name over and over.
 
Jack this and Jack that.
 
Please, Jack, please.
 
Oh, Jack, oh.
 
I just wanted to die.”

What, Marty thought, was he supposed to say to that?
 

“Like, I don't mind if Mom sees someone,” she said.
 
“But if she can't keep it down, Katie and I are thinking of moving in with you.
 
Is that all right?”

He'd take them in a minute, but each time he tried to get custody, he failed.
 
"You know what the judge said."

"Weekends and holidays, I know.
 
But what about what we think?"

“The judge thinks you’re better off with your mother.”

“Why?
 
That’s sexist.
 
We’d rather be with you.”

“And I’d rather have you with me.”

“Can I talk to the judge?”

“You can certainly write him a letter.
 
Both of you can.”

“Great.
 
We'll get on that.”

In the growing silence, Katie glanced at him out of the corner of her eye.
 
She had stopped flipping through a magazine and now was nibbling the inside of her cheek.
 
Nine years old and almost as tall as Beth.
 
Blonde hair to her shoulders and lips as full as his.
 
She looked at him now with an impatience he had never seen in her before.

He cleared his throat.
 
“In the meantime, I’ll speak to your mother about her... behavior."

Beth rolled her eyes.
 
“What good'll that do?
 
She doesn't listen to you anymore.
 
If anything, she'll put on more of a show just to spite you.”

At what point, Marty wondered, had Beth become so comfortable talking about sex?
 
She was thirteen years old, for God's sake.
 
What had happened to the child?

“You leave your mother to me,” he said.
 
“I pay the rent on this place, not her.”

Beth looked amused.
 
“Oh, Dad, please,” she said.
 
“Don't you see what's happening?
 
Mom's going to be famous.
 
She's going to make a lot of money and won't need you anymore.
 
She told us so this morning.”

*
 
*
 
*

There had been a time when the sound of Gloria's laughter had left him feeling whole and well, fit and strong.
 
Her smile, broad as the map of America, could get him through the worst of days.
 
But now, as he left his daughters' room and moved toward the living room, the sound of her laughter unleashed feelings in him he wasn't sure he was ready to face.
 

Gloria was moving on.
 
He was losing her to another man.
 
And what that touched in Marty was an emotion he hadn't felt in years--a sudden, deep jealousy.

He entered the living room.
 

Gloria and Jack were standing across the room, in front of the painting of a red wheelbarrow she’d hung on the north wall.
 
Their backs were to him and they were discussing the painting.
 
While Marty stood there, watching, Edwards reached out a hand and lightly brushed the nape of Gloria's neck.

Marty cleared his throat.

Edwards dropped his hand casually to his side and turned with Gloria, whose pale skin now had a rosy glow.
 
From laughing?
 

“You must be Marty,” Edwards said.

Marty came across the room, his mind like a camera, photographing this moment.
 
Immaculately dressed in tan silk trousers and a white button-down shirt, Edwards was taller than he expected, in decent physical shape, his balding head tanned, his smiling mouth bright as the moon.
 
Forty years old, Marty thought.
 
Maybe forty-two.
 

He shook Edwards' smooth, manicured hand and noticed the carat diamond glimmering on the man's little finger.
 
With raised eyebrows, Marty looked at the ring.
 
Then, with disappointment, he looked at Gloria, who was standing behind Jack, looking brave but uncomfortable.
 
“Yes,” he said with a smile.
 
“I'm Marty.”

“It's a pleasure,” Edwards said.
 
“Gloria's told me a lot about you.”

"I haven't heard anything about you."

“She says you're a private investigator,” Edwards said.
 
“And a movie critic.
 
How does that happen?"

"Magic."
 
He turned to Gloria, whose decorated lips had drawn into a thin line of discomfort.
 
“Can I talk to you?”

They walked toward the twin glass doors that opened onto the terrace and stepped outside.
 
Marty closed the doors behind them.
 
His voice was low when he spoke.
 
“I'll keep this brief."

"You've got no choice."

 
“Are you aware that Beth can't sleep at night?
 
All she can hear is you and Edwards having sex.
 
Same goes for Katie.
 
Now, look.
 
You know I won’t tell you how to live your life, but when you sleep with this guy, at least show some respect for the girls and keep it down.”