Fools Paradise (6 page)

She wasn't ready to confess anything to Bobbyjay Morton.

“Wesley's problem is he's too smart to be in this family. He fights for me. He wants to be accepted for being a brawler, but he's too small. He—he sympathizes with me.”

“When do you want to go shopping?”

And it was that easy. She'd forgotten he was in love with her.
Just tell him what you want and you get it.

“Thursday around lunchtime?”

“We get a meal break at the Opera House at noon. Meet you where?”

“The bridal shop on Bloomie's twentieth floor. We can get you fitted for a tux while we're at it.” She glanced at him, expecting him to whimper, but he nodded.

The shop bell jingled. “Oh hell,” she hissed, as someone came into Pierogi Palace. “It's my cousin's ex-wife. She'll spy on us and tell Vince and Vince will tell everybody. Can you, like, kiss me or something? On the cheek,” she added hastily.

Bobbyjay rose from his little wire chair and got down on one knee.

“Bobbyjay!” she squeaked. “Don't overdo it.”

“I gotta be me,” he said solemnly. He lifted her hand from the table and held it in both of his. His voice rose. “I'm glad you told your grandfather, Daisy. Now I can give you this.”

And, right there, he pulled out a little blue velvet box and popped it open on the biggest diamond solitaire Daisy had ever seen in her life.

“Oh, Bobbyjay,” she breathed.

“It's real.” He stayed kneeling, looking into her face as if he had no other plans for the rest of the afternoon. She thought,
If this engagement was real, I'd be all choked up.
“You'll get it back when this is over,” she whispered. “And I'll take it off when I do the dishes.”

“Try it on.”

She couldn't resist. She would have felt guiltier if she hadn't known Bobbyjay pulled down close to a hundred large every year. She had to think hard about the Targa full of smelt before she could pretend that he owed her anything this nice.

Bobbyjay plucked the ring out of its little velvet slot and slid it onto her finger.

“Perfect fit,” she said, surprised.

“I thought it might be.” He watched her stare at the ring on her hand, making her feel self-conscious and a little teary, and then he put his hand on her cheek and pulled her close to him. “Get ready,” he whispered.

Then he kissed her.

She thought about Goomba's police .38 and considered pulling away.

She thought about Vince's ex watching and put her soul into kissing back.

To her complete surprise, it was a hell of a kiss.

It felt like he was talking to her with the smoothness of his lips. It felt like riding a motorcycle. She found herself trying to squirm off her chair onto his knee, only to realize his arms were in the way, blocking her. She settled for feeling up his torso.

Beef is good,
she thought, kneading his shoulders with both hands.

He kissed her like he would never again get to kiss anyone as long as he lived. Daisy shut her eyes and kissed back.

To her disappointment he broke the kiss first. He put his lips near her ear and whispered, “I think I can get you a job at the Opera House. I mean, Bobby Senior can. I think I've talked him into arranging it.”

Daisy gasped. Work away from home! Paying work! Stagehand work! “Oh, Bobbyjay!” she squealed, throwing her arms around him again.

The black shawl slapped their plates of pierogi on the table and harrumphed long and loud.

Bobbyjay sprang away and perched on his little wire chair again. “Uh, sorry, Maria,” he said to the black shawl.

“We're getting married,” Daisy said to Maria, flourishing her diamond.

“Eat,” Maria grunted. Out at the front counter, Vince's ex paid for her pastries and rushed out with her cell phone glued to her ear.

The mischief was done now.

“You'll probably have to talk to Pete Packard,” Bobbyjay said. “Pete'll take you in to oblige Bobby Senior, but he has to look you over first.”

“Isn't he president of the Local?” She ate half a pierogi.

“Past president. Now he's up to the International in New York. We don't see much of him,” Bobbyjay said and seemed glad of it. “Just tell him you're Marty Dit's granddaughter and you want to work at the Opera House.”

“That's all? Why's he got to come from New York to ask me that?”

“He's not coming from New York just for that. He's in town this week negotiating a contract with a road house in the burbs. You got to show your face so he knows you ain't a coke-head or a ninny.”

Daisy nodded. “I can fake it.”

He gave her another of those dumb looks. “Nobody ever said you coke.”

She slapped him on the arm. “Thanks a lot. You said they call me Ditsy Daisy.” He chewed pierogi, swallowed, and popped another one, still eyeing her. Daisy bit her own tongue in sheer annoyance. Okay, she'd sort of bought her reputation for ninny. But Bobbyjay's emotional handicap about her clearly wasn't blinding him to her faults. “Couldn't you, like, pretend you respect me?”

He looked hurt. “I do respect you. I kept my hands off you, didn't I?”

She frowned at him until he frowned back. “All right, what else do I do with Pete Packard?”

“Nothing. Don't talk. Don't volunteer anything. Don't make suggestions. Don't ask for anything except a job at the Opera House.”

“You're pretty bossy. Why the Opera House?” she said. “I mean I'd love to work there, I'd love to work anywhere. But aren't those jobs kind of special?”

He nodded, chewing. “That's Bobby Senior. He's doing it to piss off your grandfather.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Does Pete Packard know that?”

“It don't matter,” Bobbyjay said, shrugging. “It's Pete's job to support the Board here and represent the Local to management and the International.”

“And Bobby Senior's on the Board.” She understood afresh why Goomba ran for the Board against Bobby Senior every three years like clockwork. With all her loser male cousins to provide for, especially whenever they got divorced or their girlfriends kicked them out, Goomba would find it super-convenient to be able to get them jobs.

An unsettling thought occurred to her. If Goomba had ever won an election against Bobby Senior, would he have given her a job at the Opera House?

“Oh, and wear something you can work in. That won't do,” Bobbyjay said, pointing a forked pierogi at her.

“What.” She looked down. Her tee-shirt was a scoop neck but not flagrant. She looked up in time to see redness flow up Bobbyjay's face into his scalp.

He frowned. His sentences came out slower and slower, as if the machinery were grinding to a halt in there. “See, the guys are a little outspoken. Pete knows this. He knows Marty Dit.” The implication being, Goomba was somebody. “He don't want to hear from Marty Dit that you been getting harassed on the job.” He gulped. “But if you ask for it—”

So stagehands were susceptible. Convenient, Daisy thought, filing the information under ‘work, dress code, male management.' “Thanks for the advice. Will you be working at the Opera House too?” she said innocently.

“Most of the time,” he said. “But I can't be everywhere at once. And there are a lot of horny guys at the opera.”

“There are a lot of horny guys at home,” she said darkly. Really, it looked as though she might have some work-related skills after all.

“Yeah, but your grandfather's there. He don't take no shit.”

“No, he doesn't take it, but I do.” When Bobbyjay frowned again, she sighed. “Don't sprain your brain, collitch boy. I can take care of myself.”

Monday all the theatres were dark and Daisy's Goomba did something he hadn't done for years: he took her downtown on the commuter train for some shopping.

Daisy felt uneasy on the train. She'd been eighteen last time they went downtown. They'd shopped at Marshall Field and Carson's, broke for an early supper at Ruth Chris Steakhouse, and at the end he'd taken her into the bar in the train station for a Mai Tai in a plastic coconut shell with an umbrella on top. At the memory Daisy shrank up inside.

Somehow that Mai Tai had soured their day together. Maybe she'd got too tiddly.

This time, she promised herself, she wouldn't do anything dumb to ruin it. She felt bad enough putting Goomba through this engagement thing, plus the Porsche.

“What do you want the most for your trousseau,
preziosa?”
Goomba said, clasping her knee.

“Oh, nothing, I guess.” He looked at her like he was actually paying attention. The little girl inside her warmed. More boldly she said, “Maybe some new jeans. My low-riders are out of style.”

He clicked his tongue. “You can't get into a limo in blue jeans. Let me get you something nice.”

If he only knew. Mom had registered for everything under the sun at Lord & Taylor. “How about, um, some shoes?—Uh, maybe not shoes.” Shoe shopping was serious work, and Goomba only wanted to play. His idea of shopping was to let her try on a couple of dresses, buy her a ring at the costume jewelry counter, and carry her off to lunch where he could get outside a big chunk of seared meat with all the trimmings.

That's a cynical thought. When did I stop believing in Goomba's presents?

Goomba dug her in the side with his elbow. “How about a car of your own?” He laughed at her flabbergasted expression. “A new car for my
angelina
. My baby's chariot.”

That was Goomba, piling on coals of fire. It was her fault his favorite car got ruined, so he was buying her a new car. She thanked him and looked out the train window, wondering if she would ever recover from all this good news.

They went to a BMW showroom. Daisy was appalled at the prices. Goomba asked the salesman shrewd questions and urged her to look at all the most expensive models.

“You're always saying the shocks are gone on the Oldsmobile,” he said gaily. “One of these babies won't need service for years. It'll be a savings.”

She managed to hold him off signing on the dotted line for a Beamer SUV. The relief of getting out of there without the car left her wide open for an assault on Marshall Field, where he blew about a thousand dollars on stuff she tried on at random. He paid for it all, radiating a huge amount of satisfaction, and Daisy slumped into a pouffy chair, thinking longingly of lunch.

Lunch was the best part of these outings. He was always attentive and appreciative and fascinated with her. He made her feel loved. He asked about her plans at those lunches. She was a person in her own right, she had a future, she was loved.

To her surprise and delight, Goomba took her to the Opera House next. Had he found out that Bobbyjay was getting her a job there? She hadn't dared mention it. But here they were, walking in the shade of the huge columns.

She strutted just a little. Guys in suits veered out of her way as if she were dangerous, and a couple of construction workers turned their heads as they passed.

Goomba smiled at the whole world, as if he were proud to be out with his granddaughter.

Daisy felt a swell of that loved-and-belonging feeing.
Will I always be your
angelina
?

They went in through the big, shiny, heavy, brass doors and followed a crowd into a cafeteria. Every table was packed. “Where are we going to sit?” she said, feeling overwhelmed.

But a bunch of burly guys in rock'n'roll tee shirts saw them standing with their trays and just got up and left. Goomba thanked them. They all seemed to know Goomba, but not one made eye contact with her.

“So,
angelina
, you given any thought to your future?”

Oh, God, this was it, this was perfect, this was what she'd been wanting him to ask for three years.

“Me?”
Say it again. Make me believe you'll let me go.
“I don't think I can make a decision yet. I think I'll just get my feet wet at the Opera House.”

He looked puzzled. “I was talking about your marriage.”

Please don't spoil this day.
If he brought her here to rag about her engagement, the day was spoiled already. She blurted, “Bobbyjay says I can work at the Opera House.”

Goomba's woolly eyebrows snapped together. “Bobbyjay Morton can't get you a job.”

She swallowed. “His grandfather can.”

He rocked back in his chair. He turned pale, and the veins on his nose looked blue. After a long, tense moment, he blinked and licked his lips.

Now I've done it. He's going to stroke out.

But he started gently enough. “Are you sure,
angelina
? They don't take in many women, you know.”

“His grandfather—” She felt like such a traitor saying that word. “—his grandfather arranged it.”

“I'll bet he did,” Goomba said under his breath. He looked furtively around the cafeteria. “I can't explain why you mustn't—why it's a bad idea for you to work here,” he said, lowering his voice. “I can't tell you here.”

“I already know why. It's 'cause they're a bunch of lechers.” He put his finger to his lips and she lowered her voice. “Like I don't know how to deal with that.”

“These aren't schoolboys,” he said sharply and she jumped at his tone. Goomba never talked like that to her. “These men are hardened.”

He sounded hard himself. He could work himself into a fury when he was like this. Never at her, before now.

“Bobbyjay can handle the Mortons,” she said, hoping so. “Plus, I mean, since it's Bobby Senior's doing, won't they leave me alone?”

“It won't be just the Mortons.” He leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows drawn in with evil sarcasm. “Think about Badger. You have him on a string, because he's my friend.”

She thought of Badger kissing her when she was just a kid and flushed. Did Goomba know about that? Had Badger actually told on himself? The implications made her hot with humiliation.