Let's Stay Together (17 page)

“So if someone walks in off the street and asks for a room, what do you do?” Patrick asked.

“Oh, that’s different,” Penny said.

“How is it different?” Patrick asked.

“I don’t understand you, sir,” Penny said.

Isn’t that obvious?
“You don’t make someone who walks in call a toll-free number while they’re standing there in front of you, do you?”

“Oh, of course not,” Penny said. “I first see if we have a room available, and if we do, I ask for a credit card.”

“Why?” Patrick asked.

“So we are assured of payment, sir,” Penny said.

“Isn’t cash a form of payment?” Patrick asked.

“Well, of course it is,” Penny said.

“So if I showed up and gave you a cash payment in full for one night,” Patrick said, “wouldn’t that be the same as handing you a credit card?”

“Oh, I see what you’re saying. Sure.”

“All right,” Patrick said. “I am arriving in the afternoon this Thursday, and I will need a room for one night.”

“A standard room?” Penny asked.

“Yes,” Patrick said.

“Let me see if we have any vacancies,” Penny said. “You’re in luck. We have several. How about a king bed?”

“Fine,” Patrick said.

“I’ll need your name, address, and telephone number,” Penny said.

He gave her the information.

“And now I’ll need a credit card,” Penny said.

Penny isn’t quite playing with a full deck.
“I will be paying in cash.”

“Um, Mr. Esposito . . .”

This is ridiculous.
“Yes?”

“The system won’t let me complete your reservation without a credit card,” Penny said.

“Can you hold a room without a credit card?” Patrick asked. “This is really important.”

“Let me speak to a manager,” Penny said. “Hold on.”

While he waited, Patrick checked his bank balance online. He tried to make an extra zero appear before the decimal point, but no zero materialized. He mentally added up the cost of the date and arrived at $2,640: $300 for the bus ticket, $240 for the meal, $100 or so for the hotel, and $2,000 for Lauren’s plane ticket.
She’ll want to eat breakfast, so an even twenty-seven hundred dollars. I had better take out twenty-eight hundred dollars to be sure.

He sighed.

“Mr. Esposito,” a man said. “This is Frank Gill. Penny has explained your predicament to me, and I’m afraid we really can’t help you.”

“Mr. Gill, I believe that if you wanted to help me, you would,” Patrick said. He looked down at Lauren’s face on his screen. “What if a movie star or musician wants to stay with you? Do you have to have credit card information every time?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Even in unusual circumstances?”

“I don’t follow you,” Mr. Gill said.

I can’t believe I have to lie to this man to get a room!
“Do you know actress Lauren Short?”

“Oh yes,” Mr. Gill said. “I love her movies.”

“Lauren Short is coming to your hotel this Thursday,” Patrick said, “but she doesn’t want to reserve the room in her name or use any kind of credit card information to keep the media from knowing where she is. The media is good at finding people who don’t want to be found. Do you understand?”

“She’s traveling incognito, is that it?” Mr. Gill asked.

“Something like that,” Patrick said. “I need to reserve a room in my name and
without
a credit card so the media can’t find her.”

“Consider it done,” Mr. Gill said.

“Your reservation will be under your name, Mr. Esposito,” Mr. Gill said. “We look forward to having Miss Short as our guest.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gill,” Patrick said. “And please keep it quiet.”

“We will, Mr. Esposito,” Mr. Gill said. “We will be discreet.”

I hope.
“We will see you Thursday.”

Patrick then called Tony’s. “I’d like a reservation for two for Thursday at seven p.m.”

“We are booked solid on Thursday,” a man said.

“Really?” Patrick said. “On a Thursday?”

“We are a culinary institution,” the man said. “The earliest I can get you a table is . . . December sixth.”

What?
“December sixth?”

“Correct,” the man said. “Shall I book your reservation for that day, sir?”

Wow. We may be eating at McDonald’s, after all.
“I
must
have a reservation for Thursday at seven.”

“It is impossible, sir,” the man said.

Nothing is impossible.
“Even if it’s for Lauren Short, the actress?”

“Lauren Short . . . is coming here to eat on Thursday?” the man asked.

It must be so nice to be a celebrity.
“Yes. At seven. She will be traveling incognito, so we’ll need to put the reservation under a different name.”

“I see,” the man said. “One moment.”

Patrick waited for longer than “one moment” was supposed to last.

“What name should I put the reservation under, sir?” the man asked suddenly.

“Esposito,” Patrick said.

“Miss Short has a reservation for seven on Thursday,” the man said. “Will she be dining alone?”

“No,” Patrick said. “She will be dining with Patrick Esposito.”

“Splendid,” the man said.

“Can I trust you to keep this information confidential?” Patrick asked. “Miss Short wants a quiet evening with no fanfare.”

“We pride ourselves on our discretion, sir,” the man said.

“Thank you,” Patrick said. “Miss Short and Mr. Esposito will see you at seven on Thursday. Good-bye.”

37

I
can’t believe I told him I loved him,
Lauren thought.
Wait. I only said that I may love him and that I probably love him, and I explained why . . . or tried to. The man tied up my tongue. It’s his fault that I didn’t make any sense.

But how did he react when I told him that I
probably
love him? He didn’t! He didn’t even blink! I didn’t expect him to return the favor, but I expected more than what I got. Maybe I’m expecting too much too soon. I wish I wasn’t so impatient!

Her apartment phone rang. She threw on her robe and walked into the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Lauren, Todd. You have a minute?”

“Did
SNL
call?” Lauren asked.

“No, but you have to hear—”

Lauren hung up. She counted to ten. The phone rang again. She answered. “What?”

“Are you going to hang up on me?” Todd asked.

“It depends on what you tell me,” Lauren said.

“Well, listen, I’ve just got off the phone with a screenwriter who wants to do your biopic,” Todd said. “He wants to do your autobiography.”

“My what? Is he crazy? I’m only thirty-eight!”

“Come on, Lauren. Listen to the angle he’s dangling,” Todd said. “Young black girl, wrong side of the tracks—”

“I didn’t live near any railroad tracks, Todd,” Lauren interrupted.

“It’s a figure of speech,” Todd said. “Young black girl from the
hood
rises out of the ashes of D.C., sets LA on fire, and then flames out because of her bisexual fiancé.”

“You make me sound like a pyromaniac,” Lauren said.

“It sounds depressing and stupid.”

“You’ll get to play yourself, Lauren,” Todd said. “From your early movie days to the present. You’ll get to be twenty again.”

“I don’t want to be twenty again,” Lauren said.
I just want to be in Brooklyn with Patrick!
“Tell the writer no.”

“I just don’t understand you!” Todd shouted. “I’m working my ass off, trying to get you back in the game.”

“It’s
SNL
or nothing,” Lauren said. “I want to work in New York.”

“But I’ve already told you that Erika James—”

Lauren hung up again. She poured a glass of water and drank it in two gulps.
Why am I so dehydrated? Oh yeah. Patrick set me on fire.
She drank another glass.

The phone rang.

I wish he’d give up.
“You were saying, Todd?”

“What is your sudden fascination with New York?” Todd asked. “You told me that once you left New York, you never wanted to work in New York again. You said it wasn’t laid-back enough, and like you said, I don’t have the connections there that I have here.”

“It’s not a fascination,” Lauren said. “It’s a need. Make that need come true.”

“How about this?” Todd asked. “We’ll see if we can get
Saturday Night Live
interested in you guest hosting the show. Will that satisfy you?”

“Why would they want me to guest host?” Lauren asked. “I haven’t done anything in years.”

“Don’t I know it,” Todd said.

Lauren sighed. “Have you even talked to anyone at NBC?”

“I have,” Todd said. “And they’re flattered that you want to be a part of the show. They have great respect for you, but they’re trying to appeal to a new generation of viewers, and Lauren, baby, you’re from a different generation.”

“You’re right, Todd,” Lauren said. “I’m from a generation of actresses who actually
learned
how to act, who didn’t cut their teeth making rap videos, who didn’t capitalize solely on their looks or their ability to sing to break into this business. I can perform my lines with more skill and conviction in my
sleep
than Miss Erika can in her
best
moments, if she ever has any. If
Saturday Night Live
doesn’t want that, then I guess I’m through. Good-bye, Todd.”

She hung up.

The phone rang.

Lauren let it ring.

When it stopped ringing, she dialed her mama.

“Mama, I’m thinking seriously about giving up acting and settling down with a good man,” she said quickly. “In fact, I’m going on a date with a very—”

Lauren laid the phone in its cradle. “A very good man,” she whispered. “A man you and Daddy would be proud of. He’s a handyman, like Daddy, and we’re meeting in St. Louis.”

She sat on her bed.

She spent the rest of the evening doing laundry and packing three suitcases. One suitcase held all her important papers, including her tax returns and her birth certificate.
Because I am never coming back to this dump.
She had to sit on the last suitcase to get it to close.
I am bringing enough clothing for at least a week, because when St. Louis works out—and it will—I will be going to Brooklyn.

She looked around her little apartment.

She fell back on her bed.

She fanned her face.

She laughed.

38

W
hen he awoke at five a.m. on Wednesday, Patrick left a message for Salthead. “This is Patrick Esposito. I’m not sure who my supervisor is. I work the buildings on Atlantic, Dean, Bergen, Baltic, and State in Boerum Hill. I’m going to take some days off this week and need someone to cover for me. Please call me back as soon as you get this message.”

A few minutes after eight a.m., after he had already cleaned the furnace flame sensors on Atlantic, Dean, and Baltic, Salthead called while Patrick trundled his tool bag toward Bergen and Mrs. Moczydlowska.

“Patrick, it’s Jim Barber at Salthead.”

“Hi, Jim,” Patrick said.
Is this my supervisor?

“It’s going to be difficult to find anyone to cover for you,” Mr. Barber said. “I’m looking at your file now. You have never taken a day off, so we don’t have anyone who has ever subbed in your buildings.”

They’re just like any others. A building is a building.
“Everything is in working order now, and I don’t think there will be any trouble. The building on Baltic has some cold weather piping issues, but I think they’ll be okay for a few days since it’s supposed to stay above freezing. I have one more furnace to clean on Bergen, and then I’m knocking off for the day.”

“How many days will you be gone?” Mr. Barber asked.

“Four,” Patrick said.

“Four days? In a row?”

“Really three and a half,” Patrick said. “I really only need a number my tenants can call in case of an emergency.”

Mr. Barber gave him a number. “Hey, you’re not quitting on us, are you?”

“No, Mr. Barber,” Patrick said. “I’m not quitting.”

“Because if you’re thinking about quitting or finding work somewhere else . . .”

“I’m going on a little vacation,” Patrick said. “That’s all.”

“Well, that’s good,” Mr. Barber said. “You’ve been with us what? Ten years?”

“Fifteen,” Patrick said.

“Really?” Mr. Barber said. “That’s a long time to work without a vacation. Yep, it says fifteen years here in your file. You know, you’re due a bump in pay.”

Good news?
“I am?”

“You were actually due three years ago,” Mr. Barber said. “I wonder why Campbell didn’t put you in for it.”

“Who’s Campbell?” Patrick asked.

“Your old supervisor,” Mr. Barber said. “He should have put you in for a raise.”

I didn’t even know the guy.
“How much of a bump?” Patrick asked.

“At least ten percent,” Mr. Barber said. “I’ll get the paperwork started today, okay?”

“Sure,” Patrick said.

“It might not show up on your check this month, but it will definitely show up next month in time for Christmas,” Mr. Barber said. “You know, you have to have the cleanest file I’ve ever seen. There isn’t a single complaint in here from anyone.”

Not even from Mr. Hyer or Mrs. Albertson?
“Really?”

“Many guys have a dozen complaints a month,” Mr. Barber said, “and here you are with none for fifteen years. What’s your secret?”

“I don’t really have one,” Patrick said. “I do what needs to be done when it needs to be done.”

“I should have you train the rest of the guys,” Mr. Barber said. “When will you be leaving?”

“I’ll be off from now through about six p.m. Saturday,” Patrick said.

“All right,” Mr. Barber said. “You have a good vacation. You’ve earned it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Barber.”

As Patrick moved toward Bergen Street and Mrs. Moczydlowska, he called each of his other tenants, leaving messages for half of them. Only Mrs. Gildersleeve showed any interest in his absence.

“Three and a half days,” she said. “What will you be doing?”

Mostly riding on a Greyhound bus.
“I’m meeting a friend in St. Louis.”

“Is this the same friend I sent a picture to?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Patrick said.

“Is this friend named Lauren Short?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re meeting Lauren Short in St. Louis,” she said.

“Yes,” Patrick said. “It’s our first date.”

“Uh-huh,” Mrs. Gildersleeve said.

She doesn’t believe me.
“Really.”

“Why go to St. Louis when she can fly to New York?” Mrs. Gildersleeve asked. “I mean, if she’s the
real
Lauren Short, the Hollywood star, she can fly just about anywhere she pleases, right?”

“Right,” Patrick said. “But I’ve talked her into meeting me in St. Louis. If she flew here, photographers would most likely swarm us wherever we went. I want some quiet time alone with her.”

Mrs. Gildersleeve laughed. “I don’t believe you for a minute, Patrick, but you have fun, okay?”

“I will,” Patrick said. “Call that number if you need anything while I’m gone.”

“Oh, I will,” she said. “Tell Lauren hi for me, okay?”

“I will.”
I may even bring her by to meet you one day.

As he had expected, Mrs. Moczydlowska took the news of his vacation the hardest.

“Why you go to this St. Louis?” she asked.

“I’m going on a date,” Patrick said.

“This woman is in St. Louis?” she asked.

“Um, no, she’s flying in from Los Angeles,” Patrick said.

“Have her fly all the way to here,” she said. “Tell her not to stop.”

“We’re meeting in St. Louis,” Patrick said.

“Is it far?” she asked.

“About a thousand miles,” Patrick said.

Mrs. Moczydlowska’s eyes popped. “You cannot date her here in Brooklyn?”

I could, but I’m already committed to my crazy idea.
“This is a special date,” Patrick said.

“It is crazy,” Mrs. Moczydlowska said. “To go so far for one date.”

“It
is
kind of crazy,” Patrick said.

“A good boy like you should not have to go so far for a woman,” she said. “There are good women in Brooklyn, yes?”

“True,” Patrick said.

“So you change the place,” she said. “Tell her to meet you here. Tell her to fly here.”

“But we already have our tickets,” Patrick said.

“Get refund,” she said.

“My ticket is nonrefundable,” Patrick said.

She sighed and looked at the number Patrick had given her. “You did not think this through.”

Patrick didn’t dispute that.

Mrs. Moczydlowska sighed. “So if I have trouble, I call this number.”

“Right,” Patrick said. “Twenty-four hours a day.”

“What if I call your number?” she asked. “By mistake. Will you answer?”

Patrick nodded. “I will always answer your call, Mrs. Moczydlowska. But only yours. I will ignore everyone else’s.”

Mrs. Moczydlowska seemed to smile. “I may call you by mistake while you are gone.”

I would expect nothing less.
“And I will answer every time for as long as my phone works. The battery doesn’t last more than a day.”

“You must get better phone, then,” she said. She walked to the door. “You come back.”

Patrick smiled. “I will.”

“You do not come back, I call your boss.”

“Yes, Mrs. Moczydlowska.”

After cleaning the furnaces at Bergen and his own building, Patrick did something he had never done before.

He went to the IHOP on Livingston and ordered a western omelet.

For the first time in his working life, he ate a meal seated in a chair at a table. There was no machine whirring near him and no stench surrounding him. He was not hustling from one service call to another while wolfing down his food. He was not on the phone with an irate tenant. He enjoyed his omelet, rested his feet, and watched the world rushing by outside.

After his brunch, he went to the Chase Manhattan Bank on Flatbush and withdrew twelve hundred dollars in cash. That left $2,004.38 in his account to cover the cost of Lauren’s ticket.

He sighed.

He sighed again.
But I can’t afford to wait that long. I may only get one shot at this thing. Lauren Short is an impatient woman. Chucky kept her waiting for three years.

He walked half a mile up Flatbush to Schermerhorn Street and Gem Pawnbrokers, which was sandwiched between two check cashing places and Swap & Shop. He banged through the door with his tool bag and went straight to the jewelry display case.

“May I help you?” a Hispanic woman asked.

Patrick looked through several dangling gold chains at her name tag.
Her name is Vicky. Is Vicky a Hispanic name?
“Do you have anything in . . . platinum?”
Lauren deserves platinum.

Vicky squinted into the case. “I think so.” She removed a small box with a thin sliver of a ring. “It’s an Art Deco wedding band from the thirties,” she said. She squinted at the tag. “Seven round diamonds, point-oh-four carat weight, size . . . six and a half.” She handed the ring to Patrick. “Pretty light, isn’t it?”

It doesn’t weigh a thing,
Patrick thought.
It’s shinier than anything else in the case, though.
“Yeah. How much?”

Vicky turned over the tag. “Appraised for fifteen hundred, but . . . I’ll let you have it for twelve hundred.”

If I had twelve hundred, I’d get it.
“That’s a bit . . .” He sighed. “Much.” He handed back the ring. “Pretty ring, though. Maybe one day.” He scanned the case, which was mostly filled with gold rings, some exceptionally gaudy. “Anything, um . . .”
Lauren deserves much more than gold.
He shook his head. “Never mind. Thanks.” He turned to go.

“What’s her name?” Vicki asked.

Patrick stopped and turned. “Lauren.”

“Nice girl?” Vicki asked.

Patrick nodded. “The best.”

“Is she from around here?” Vicki asked.

“No,” Patrick said. “She’s from LA.”

Vicky stared at him. “Los Angeles, California?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said.

“How’d you meet her?” Vicky asked.

“We met online,” Patrick said.

“Like on Match.com,” Vicky said.

“No,” Patrick said. “I wrote her a fan letter, and she wrote back. We’ve been writing to each other ever since.”

“A fan letter, huh?” Vicky said. “Is she famous?”

“Yes,” Patrick said.
She’s so famous that I’m meeting her in St. Louis so her fame doesn’t get in the way of our date.

“What’s her name?” Vicky asked.

“Lauren Short.”

Vicky put the ring back in the case. “Like the actress?” “No,” Patrick said. “
The
actress.”

Vicky blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “I’m meeting her in St. Louis on Thursday.”

“Uh-huh,” Vicky said, crossing her arms.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t believe me, either,” Patrick said. “I hardly believe it myself. Lauren Short and I are going on a date in St. Louis in two days. It doesn’t seem real.”

Vicky leaned against the case. “You’re serious.”

Patrick nodded. “I’m trying hard to impress her. I’m paying for everything—the meal, the hotel, and her plane ticket, first class, two grand one way.”

Vicky whistled.

“And that doesn’t leave me much to get her a ring,” Patrick said. “What, with dinner at Tony’s, a room at the Millennium Hotel, and my bus fare . . .” He sighed. “I don’t know what to do, you know?”

“You’re taking a
bus
to St. Louis,” Vicky said.

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “Twenty-eight hours on a Greyhound. I leave at one.”

“Let me get this straight,” Vicky said. “You’re taking a bus to St. Louis in a couple of hours to have a date with Lauren Short, the world-famous actress.”

“Right.”

Vicky laughed. “And you came
here
to buy her a ring.”

Patrick’s face grew hot. “Right.”

Vicky slapped the counter with both hands. “I have heard some tales in this store but
nothing
like the one you’re spinning for me now. Tell you what. I’ll knock that ring down to nine hundred for that crazy story.”

More good news?
“If you make it eight hundred, I could pay you half now and half when I get paid at the end of December,” Patrick said.

“I don’t know if I can go eight,” Vicky said.

“How long has the ring been in the case?” Patrick asked.

“Good point,” Vicky said. “All right. Eight hundred, but I’ll need some collateral.”

Patrick turned slightly, the tool bag swinging forward. “I only have my tools and the clothes on my back.”
Why didn’t I put the laptop in the tool bag today? That has to be worth at least . . . fifty bucks.
“I won’t need my tools for a few days. They’re all in good condition.”

“Your . . . tools,” Vicky said.

“I’m a handyman,” Patrick said, putting the bag on the counter. “They’re the most valuable things I own.”

“You’re a handyman going on a date with Lauren Short in St. Louis,” Vicky said.

“Right.”