The Doll Brokers (34 page)

“Come on, you bitch, cough it up.”

He hit the machine before he figured out what was wrong. It came to him like the sun spearing through the clouds, a perfect moment of lucidity. The American Express was a company card. Bloody Ann had canceled it.

Blackness rolled in on him. It touched the edges of his vision, then swarmed inward like a horde of buzzing flies, gnawing away, feasting on the life he'd known. Gone. All of it, gone. No kids. No job. No car. No money. No more Courvoisier.

“No fucking nothing,” he said aloud, almost awed by it.

Ann had turned his mother and brother against him. She'd plotted and connived until she finally got her way, forcing him out of the company. She'd won. She'd taken it all.

Patrick sat down on the cold, hard concrete in front of the ATM machine. Verna came to mind. Poor, broken Verna. It was all too much. Life was too much for him.

Tears began to cascade down his cheeks.

W
hen they arrived at Jonathan's place, Ann stopped just inside his front door to remove her coat and kick off her shoes, and Jonathan pressed in close behind her. “I think I had an agenda … something about getting you out of that sweater, didn't I?”

Ann allowed herself a smile. “You made mention of that.”

“Want a drink first?”

She nodded and forced her tired legs to move forward. “I'll get it.”

It had taken her some time to get used to his home, to feel comfortable here. Too much space had always unnerved her. She liked small rooms where nothing could sneak up behind her.

The night beyond the incredible expanse of his windows was bright tonight, helped by a full moon. She went to the dark oak liquor cabinet that blended in so well with all the brass and bronzed glass and warm furniture. She took hold of the bottle of Macallan and headed back to the kitchen. Halfway there, she paused and smiled to herself. She put the bottle down on the floor to yank her sweater over her head.

She didn't want to make the man work too hard.

When she strolled into the kitchen, he was headfirst in the refrigerator. All those long, delicious lines of him, bent over. His
voice resonated a little as the refrigerator took it in and threw it back at her.

“I'm almost out of beer. Remind me to stop tomorrow on our way—” He stood and broke off when he saw her. “Yeah, well, who needs beer?”

“You might get parched. Bring it.” Ann nodded at the bottle he held in his hand, then crooked her finger at him as she began backing up.

She managed one step.

He shot the refrigerator door closed with his foot and put the beer bottle down on the counter. Then he came toward her and caught her in mid-stride, lifting her. She gave a little hop and wrapped her legs around his waist. His hand slid up her thigh, pushing her skirt up. “Get naked,” he said against her mouth.

Ann tilted her head back. “I can't. I'm wrapped around you.”

He set her down.

Ann lowered her legs, shimmied out of her skirt, then her pantyhose. She gasped a little when he scooped her up again and carried her around the divider. She remembered to reach out and slap at the button that brought the blinds down over the windows.

They spilled together onto the sofa. Neither one of them had the time nor the inclination to pull it out into a bed. She wrestled with his trousers, while he unbuttoned his shirt. Clothes flew, fell. Sometimes, she thought, it was still like this. Sometimes it was the same as it had been in that hot tub, as urgent and necessary as breath.

Now, right now, need clawed through her. Now, right now, she was on a high. Whenever she got like this, Jonathan seemed to match her mood, forgetting niceties, grabbing and taking and rolling with it. He stripped her panties away and drove into her.

Then everything changed.

She felt it just under his skin, in the way he moved. He slowed down and his mouth went to her neck. His tongue, tracing, finding new spots just when she thought he knew them all.

He turned tender, but she wanted him to keep the pace up.

He pulled out of her to run his mouth down her body. Down lower.

Ann groaned with the next touch of his tongue, arched up and tried to push him away. He caught her wrists. He'd already decided, she realized helplessly. And she knew she was going to let him do anything he wanted.

Passion swept inside her like a raw wind. Nothing she could do to stop it. There was never anything she could do to stop
him
. He rose over her and found his way back inside.

“God, Ann. What you do to me.” His mouth was back at her neck.

She managed to lift her arm to cover his mouth with her hand. “Shh. Don't talk.”

They both came together, urgently; erupting without end, it seemed.

Ann could feel his racing heartbeat, matching her own.

They held on to each other afterwards, and both started to nod off, when the telephone rang.

Jonathan got to his feet, crossing the room to find it. He spoke into it in undertones, in half-syllables, with his back to her.

“Now what?” she asked when he hung up.

“Pat. He's in jail again. He wants me to come get him.”

A crazed laugh escaped her, then stopped. “What did he do now?”

“He's in the drunk tank. The cops scraped him off the sidewalk in front of a bank in Queens.”

“Are you going to go?”

Was he? He'd told Patrick that he would try to make it. But it had been an answer born out of old habit, Jonathan realized. He looked at Ann, naked on his sofa. Her skin was flushed, her body relaxed, her defenses down.

No. This time he wouldn't go. He returned to the sofa.

Ann held a hand out to draw him close. “He'll call you twenty-five times until you show up,” she said.

“Let him. I took the phone off the hook. Let's pull this old sofa out now,” he said.

“We could go upstairs, you know.”

“Nah. I'm too lazy.”

Ann decided this was a good time for a quick trip to the bathroom, then a chance to get that Scotch and water she'd intended to make before she'd gotten sidetracked.

By the time she returned from the kitchen, he was asleep. She worried briefly about the phone being off the hook. What if something happened to Felicia? But she knew Cal would call her on her cell if he got a busy signal here.

So, she thought, she would just lie down beside Jonathan and go to sleep as well.

Instead, she stood staring at him, sipping the Scotch. There was no question about it. He'd become her anchor. He was the only one who could make her laugh, make her forget that she was tied in knots about any variety of things. And more than anything, he helped her keep Mad Dog at bay. How had this happened? she wondered. How had he done this to her?

It was simply too much to ponder for a single Macallan and water. A moment later she put her glass down and snuggled into the sofa bed beside him.

F
ive days in the drunk tank.

The cops had arrested Patrick in front of the ATM machine. He ended up being dumped in a solitary cell about the size of a cubby hole.

At the beginning, his craving for alcohol was only overshadowed by his anger. It began with that first phone call to his brother, begging him to bail him out. Three phone calls and a day later, it became obvious that there would be no savior this time, and he would be left to rot on his own.

He wallowed in self pity. He wanted to punish everyone he could think of, beginning with Ann, of course, then proceeding to his mother and Jonathan, even his soon to be ex-wife, Irene.

It took two days for his colossal thirst to take over, and thoughts of seeking revenge no longer mattered. Despite the various liquids that were fed him, be it water, soup or juice, nothing could assuage his need for alcohol. He started to believe that if he didn't get a drink soon he would die.

At night he lay on his cot and stared up at the ceiling, images of his life flashing through his mind, an endless spool of film teasing and tormenting him.

By the fourth day he was numb, resigned to his fate and without hope. The pain of withdrawal overshadowed everything else. It
seemed as if there were giant maggots in his stomach, eating their way to his heart.

On Day Five, he awoke with an actual glimmer of hope. A future without booze no longer seemed impossible. It would take some sacrifice, obviously, but returning to the rehab center was something he now realized he would have to consider.

When they came to tell him that his brother was here and had made bail, he remained prone on his cot. It was only when the door to his cell opened and he was told he could leave, that he started to take the news seriously.

The walk seemed endless. He simply could not gain the proper balance, his feet operating as if they belonged to someone else. He hardly nodded at Jonathan when he first saw him. There was a release form that he was asked to sign, but his hands shook so badly he had trouble scribbling his name.

Finally in the car and on their way, his brother asked him where he'd like to go.

Patrick turned in the seat and faced him, waited for the dizziness to pass. “To the nearest bar,” he said.

“Are you crazy?” Jonathan started to yell at him. “What the hell's the matter with you?”

“You asked me where I wanted to go.”

“Yeah. But that's not the answer I expected.”

Patrick held his silence. He let a few minutes pass, then in an embarrassed whisper, told Jonathan to take him back to the rehab center.

“Why? So you can walk out again?”

“I'm not walking anywhere,” Patrick said heatedly. “I've asked you to take me there. I need help, I admit it. What more do you want from me?”

Jonathan paused and looked at his brother. “That's more like it,” he said. “For a minute there, I thought you had lost your spunk.”

They rode in silence. When they pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Hospital, a sense of fear snuck up on Patrick. “Wh… what are you doing?” he asked.

“Verna wanted to see you. I promised I would bring you over.”

He shook his head frantically. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because, it just isn't.”

“Patrick—”

“Look,” he tried to explain, “I just can't see her this way.”

“Which way is that? You mean, sober?”

“That's not what I meant. I don't feel good—okay?” His temper flared. “I'm sick, Jonathan, maybe in more ways than one. I'll come see her afterwards, when I'm better.”

“No. Not a good idea. You walk away now, there may not be an afterwards. I've spoken to her. This is your one chance to show her who you really are, the person you can be.”

“That's just it—I can't do that right now.”

“Patrick—”

“I can't, Jonathan.”

“You have to.”

They sat in silence. Finally, Jonathan opened the driver's door, came around to his side and coaxed him out of the car. “Go on,” he said with a push. “Get in there. She's in a private room now. Number seven-three-five.”

On his way, Patrick thought about copping out. He could hang out in the lobby for a while, then head on back. Jonathan would never know. But he would be sure to find out. And what could he gained by avoiding Verna? What would that accomplish? Hadn't he spent the last week thinking about her, worrying about her, wanting to see her? Now that his brother had forced his hand, why not do the right thing?

Still, he hesitated outside her room.

“May I help you?” a young intern asked.

“Uh—Ms. Sallinger?” he could hardly speak.

“You're at the right room, buddy. Just go on in.”

Tentatively, he crossed the threshold.

She was sitting up in bed. When she saw him, she tried to smile, but sutures had locked part of her mouth in place. Bruises were visible on her upper cheeks and around her eyes. What struck Patrick most was the color of her skin, as pale as porcelain.

Suddenly, his heart went out to her. “I'm sorry,” he said, needing to apologize.

“What for?” she said in a whisper. “If you hadn't shown up when you did, I'd be dead. Besides, you should be hating me, for all the trouble I've caused you.”

“I don't hate you. I … just wanted to come by and tell you to get better. I've asked my brother to take me back to the clinic.”

She sighed. “Do you believe in yourself, Patrick?”

“Not really,” he admitted.

“But you know you can beat this, don't you?”

“I don't know, Verna. I don't know that at all. But I'm hoping to find out.”

“Well, that's a start.”

“Is it?”

“Don't you think so?” she asked.

He didn't know what to say. Instead, he turned. “I'd better go. I'd—uh—like to see you afterwards, if that would be okay.”

Her eyes closed and she seemed to doze off.

He was headed for the door when he heard her voice behind him. “I would like that, too,” she said.

F
or Ann, the months directly after Toy Fair were often filled with anxiety, and certainly this year was no exception.

On this particular Wednesday afternoon in late April, she was seated at her desk in her office, going over the numbers and events of February for probably the hundredth time. Kmart had ended up bailing on them. If not for their other successes, she might have felt devastated. Instead, she was confident that even Kmart would come around. This, despite the fact that the new buyer was a disaster and couldn't hold a candle to Tom Carlisle. Ann flushed at the recollection of meeting the young, inexperienced replacement.

Flipping through the order sheets, she calculated that with Toys ‘R' Us and Target now holding steady, her total of one million pieces for the United States was in line. Their breakeven point had necessarily inched up, but they would still show a profit.