Strangelove

By S.A. Youngman

STRANGELOVE is the first installment in a trilogy of novels called The Museum Project that follows the extraordinary rise and calamitous fall of one of the 1980's most prevalent casualties; the one-hit wonder band. Fantage is a pop rock quintet with an abundance of looks and talent embarking on their first national road tour in the hopes of snagging a record deal along the way. Their story is told through the eyes of the band's hairdresser whose romantic entanglements lead to their personal and professional turmoil, on and off the tour bus, complicated even further by a vengeful sociopath.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483533292

Book preview

December 21, 1985

What do you want to know? Shelly said from where she stood in front of the only window in the room. She had abandoned the hard wooden chair at the table when the two men on either side of it had taken turns staring at her; her lawyer with concern and the detective with suspicion, one as thinly veiled as the other. Night had fallen outside the precinct so there wasn't much to see past her own ghostly reflection, except the reporters and photographers swarming under the lights mounted on top of the television news vans in the parking lot below. She briefly considered the possibility that they were there because of her, although that would've implied that it had been an extremely slow news day in Los Angeles.

Perhaps if we had a timeline of events we could piece this thing together so you and Mr. Kershaw can get out of here tonight, Detective Patterson said.

All right, she said.

Let's start with when you first met Mr. Sullivan.

Excuse me, Detective, Stan said. Wouldn't it be more germane to discuss what happened today rather than force her to take a walk down Memory Lane?

As I said before, your client is under no obligation to answer any of my questions, but it would be helpful to our investigation if she could provide some background details on him to establish his character, not to mention his motive.

The disheveled blonde woman in the glass laughed curtly. It was a weird sound, even to Shelly's ears, and as the room fell silent she knew the men had taken to staring at her again. Slowly, she turned from the window and hobbled back to the table to pick up her pack of cigarettes.

Lenny never had much in the way of character. He just was one.

Care to explain that for me, Miss Bates? the detective said.

I would if I could. Then again, some things are better left unexplained. Like Area Fifty-One. Or the polyester leisure suit.

She's got you there, detective, Stan said, igniting her cigarette for her with his engraved silver lighter.

I'm glad you're both finding this amusing, but in case you've forgotten there's a body in the morgue and we're not leaving this room until I know how it got there.

Isn't the 'how' obvious? she said.

You're right. Perhaps I should've said 'why.' According to the other witnesses you're the one who can shed the most light on that.

Shelly exhaled a plume of smoke towards the ceiling and watched it linger for a few seconds. Lenny and I met in the spring of 1979. I was twenty-one and putting myself through beauty school by working the morning shift at a local convenience store. He was twenty-four, I think, and worked on the construction crew that was building an office complex the next town over. Which I thought was an odd profession for someone who was afraid of heights.

Where was this?

Budd Lake, New Jersey. Its claim to fame is having the largest natural lake in the state.

Duly noted, the detective said, even though he didn't write it down on his pad. Was there anything else that struck you as 'odd' about him?

Lenny was the epitome of odd. Although he was certainly a breath of fresh air after the parade of stuffed suits that filed through the store for their coffee and newspapers every morning as they waited for the bus to New York. He would scuff through the aisles in his muddy work boots, cut-off shorts and mismatched tube socks. I think he did it to attract attention, presumably mine. Then he'd buy a bunch of junk food, I'd fill his Thermos with coffee, he'd ask me to marry him, I'd say no and he'd drive off in his green Oldsmobile. It went on like that for a week or so until it rained.

Was he just a fair weather flirt? Stan said with a smirk.

Sort of. He couldn't work in the rain so he didn't come by the store those days. And I surprised myself by missing him when he didn't.

Detective Patterson abruptly rose from his chair as if her sentimentality was of no interest to him. Speaking of coffee, I'm going to fix myself a cup. Either of you want one?

Yes, please, Shelly said. Milk and two sugars.

I'm fine with my water, Stan said, indicating the bottle of Evian on the table.

Please, continue, the detective said as he went to the percolator to fill two Styrofoam cups with steaming brown liquid.

Well, the first time he came into the store, I distinctly remember noticing that his bottom lip bulged out, as if something had burrowed beneath his gums. He told me it was chewing tobacco and I told him it was a disgusting habit and would give him cancer, to which he said, 'Everything will give you cancer if you let it.' He used to make obscure proclamations like that all the time, but he never chewed tobacco in front of me again.

You may want to let that cool a minute, the detective said, setting her coffee on the table in front of her. What about mood swings, violent outbursts. That sort of thing.

He was definitely moody, but he never got violent with me, or anyone, back then. We weren't together very long, though. He dumped me on Christmas Eve which, according to him, was the beginning of his downward spiral. Who knows? Maybe that's why he decided to do this now. He's a couple days early, but his timing always did suck.

You think it was premeditated.

He drove across the country with a stolen van and a gun. What do you think?

I think you should be careful with your tone, Miss Bates.

She's exhausted, Detective, Stan said. I'm sure she means no disrespect.

No, I'm sorry. It's been a hell of a day. When she tried to turn back towards the window, her sprained ankle gave out on her and she stumbled into the table, nearly spilling her coffee. Damn it!

Stan leapt to his feet and tried to help her sit in the chair only to be waved off. Shelly, you probably shouldn't be standing so much.

I can't sit so much, either. Especially on that miserable excuse for a chair.

Maybe the detective can find you a softer one.

Sure, the detective said followed by an inconvenienced sigh. I'll be right back.

After the door shut—and locked—behind him, Shelly looked at Stan in a surge of panic. Stan, why am I being interrogated? Are they going to arrest me?

I'm not an expert on California law, but I think we'd probably be someplace a bit more claustrophobic than the break room if they were.

He just locked us in here.

It's just a precautionary tact, I'm sure. Besides, once they get what they need from the N.Y.P.D. it'll be an open and shut case. You just need to cooperate until then. I'll step in if I sense things are heading in another direction.

What direction would that be?

Before he could answer, the door was unlocked and opened by a uniformed officer so Detective Patterson could roll in a worn green leather chair on squealing casters.

This is from my own desk, he said with a wry grin. So I can vouch for its comfort.

I appreciate it, Shelly said, easing herself onto the cushioned seat. It would help if I could take one of the painkillers the hospital gave me.

Not yet, the detective said. I need you as coherent as possible for the time being. Continue what you were saying about Mr. Sullivan.

Whenever you call him that it sounds like you're talking about someone else.

Fine. We'll go with Lenny.

Thanks. Shelly picked up her coffee and bought herself a few moments to calm down by sipping at it. When I think of me and Lenny, I keep coming back to the same analogy in my head. It's like…when a tree limb is swept away down a river and gets stuck on a rock. That was us; I was the limb and he was the rock. I eventually broke loose and floated away and he just stayed where he was. At least emotionally.

Okay, the detective said. What about his family? Did he ever talk about them?

Not really. I once asked why he had no pictures of his family in his apartment and he told me his mother had died when he was a teenager and his father ditched him with his uncle after. What he had failed to mention at the time was that he killed her.

The detective froze with his coffee in mid-sip. His father killed her?

No, Lenny did. Shelly watched as Detective Patterson abandoned his coffee to scribble hastily on his pad. He said she abused him and one day he couldn't take it anymore.

I'll have someone look into this right away, the detective said, tearing off the bottom of the sheet of paper he had just written on. He knocked on the door and the same uniformed officer opened it. See what you can find out about the death of Sullivan's mother in New Jersey.

Guess I finally said something useful, she said, stabbing out her cigarette in the ashtray.

Detective Patterson returned to his spot near the door and picked up his coffee. His records were probably sealed as a juvenile, but we should be able to get a hold of them now. In the meantime, is it safe to say your relationship with Lenny became sexual at some point?

Yes, on our third date, she said. She hoped that response would suffice, but one glance at the detective told her it wouldn't. She lowered her eyes to her cup and started to etch the lip with her fingernail. He wasn't my first lover, but he said and did things that were kind of…new to me. Afterwards I remember this rush of feelings built up inside me and I was so sure that he was the man I was destined to be with for the rest of my life. Of course, I didn't tell him that. Instead, I told him he was going to fall in love with me whether he liked it or not. You don't know how much I regret saying that now.

Because he did fall in love with you.

Eventually. For the first couple of months he'd give me cards and stuffed animals and flowers like the perfect boyfriend and he'd say everything short of 'I love you.' Hearing those three little words became an obsession for me, but it was like squeezing a glob out of an empty tube of toothpaste. The more I pushed him, the more he resisted, and our arguments became more frequent and explosive, as well as the sex after them, until it got to the point where it was nothing more than that; fighting and fucking.

Shelly picked another cigarette from her pack, and it was as she waited for Stan to light it for her that she noticed her hand was trembling. She met Stan's inquisitive gaze over the flame.

We could take a break, if you need one, he said.

No, I'd rather get this over with.

Did Lenny ever strike you during one of these fights? the detective said.

Shelly inhaled deeply on the cigarette and shook her head. He threatened to slap me once, but our fights usually consisted of shouting matches and slamming doors.

What about Christmas Eve?

The fight had gone out of us by then. I started to find nit-picky things to hate about him. Like how none of his furniture matched and none of his clothes fit him right. He didn't even have a complete set of dishes or silverware. It was as if he bought everything at the Salvation Army, not because he was broke, but so you couldn't tell who he was by what he owned or wore.

Maybe he was hiding who he really was, Stan said. To protect you.

Maybe, she said, a little stunned that Stan could maintain such a rosy perception of Lenny after this. "Anyway, by Christmas Eve he'd taken to wrapping himself up tighter and tighter so that I couldn't even peek into his mind, let alone his heart anymore. When he invited me to his apartment that night, all I kept thinking as I climbed up the stairs was, please, don't let it be tonight. Don't let him ruin my favorite holiday forever. Then I opened the door and found him sitting on the sofa in the dark and I knew, as much as I knew that the toaster-sized box on the coffee table with a bow slapped on top was no Christmas present. It was a parting gift."

What was it? Stan said.

A jewelry box. The stupid thing was that except for this gold ring with a microscopic diamond chip that he'd given me for my birthday—which he insisted was not even a pre-engagement ring—all I owned was junk jewelry. I thought maybe I was missing something in its significance, but when I looked up at him he was staring at me with tears streaming down his face and my heart literally sank in my chest. He chose that moment to tell me he loved me so that the words I'd been dying to hear were like razors in my ears. He begged me to tell him I was pregnant. He said, 'Marry me and make up my mind for me,' as if that would solve all our problems. When I said I couldn't, he started spewing off all these feeble excuses like he was trying to piss me off so that I'd leave him, and that he had to straighten out his life without dragging my heart around with him, and that he had one last stone to turn over before he could be happy and he had to do it alone. Now it sounds like he'd memorized the liner notes from the 'how to dump your girlfriend' handbook, but I'd never had my heart broken before so it didn't occur to me the stupid son of a bitch was cheating on me.

As she sentenced her barely smoked cigarette to join the others in the ashtray, the hot tears spilled from her eyes and she swatted at them with the cuffs of her borrowed sweatshirt. The detective gently set a box of tissues next to her and she plucked one to blow her nose.

I bet you don't see a lot of women blubbering over the man who tried to kill them.

You'd be surprised, he said. How did you know he was cheating on you?

I saw her. I decided to give him back the jewelry box a few days later because it hurt too much to look at it. So the one time his car wasn't there I went up to his apartment with the intention of leaving it on the landing. When I heard music playing inside I knocked on the door and it was opened by a woman I'd never seen before—Carol—wearing nothing but his bathrobe. She seemed equally confused by my standing there holding a jewelry box, so I mumbled something like, 'wrong apartment' and ran down the stairs, got in my car and drove off. I got as far as the next building before I had to pull over because I was crying so hard, but when my eyes cleared I saw I had stopped in front of a dumpster. So I did what any other scorned woman would do and threw that damned box in the bin so hard that it shattered.

Did you see him again after that? the detective said.

No. Not until four months ago. She paused to laugh shortly. I still don't know how he did it. Find me, I mean. But I guess it shouldn't have surprised me because right after he asked me to marry him he said he'd come back for me. He promised me that someday, be it two months, two years or two decades, he'd track me down and sweep me away from whomever I'm with, whether I liked it or not.

He actually said that? Stan said.

Shelly's glazed over as the memory hit her full-force. "Yes, he did. I'd forgotten all about it when I saw him that day in the Village. All I kept thinking was, what are the odds? Now I see that he was making good on his promise three years late. Or fifteen years early…."

Chapter 1

August 16, 1985

Imagine all the places in the world we both could've been at this exact moment, Lenny said. And here we are in the same place at the same time. It's like, what's that word?

Shelly was far too busy imagining all the places in the world she could have been to sputter anything intelligible. Any place would've been preferable to where she was now, on the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal Streets, possibly one of the most heavily trafficked junctures in the West Village and one that she had tread upon nearly every day for the past four years without incident. Suddenly—and quite unforgivably—that very same pockmarked and polluted sidewalk betrayed her to the past she had come there to forget, to the first man to break her heart and the last man she wanted to see again.

Kismet, she said finally.

What? Lenny said.

The word you're looking for. It's kismet.

Oh. For a second there I thought you said 'kiss me'.

While Lenny grinned awkwardly, Shelly studied his nondescript face hoping to find signs of accelerated deterioration. His jaw was shadowed with stubble and his hair hung like lifeless fringe under his peculiar black cowboy hat—his only apparent protection from the summer rain shower—but aside from looking a bit more haggard than she remembered, time had left him virtually unmarred.

Wishful thinking, I know, he said. You look fantastic, Shell.

She did, at least when compared to his point of reference. Long gone were the faux punk rags, studded belts and satin pants from their dating days—replaced by a more functional and less conspicuous wardrobe of blue jeans, plain t-shirts and the occasional pencil skirt. Even her hair had miraculously recovered from the bleaching and teasing to return to its natural shoulder-length sandy waves, thanks to the amenities of her profession. Her eyes were a placid blue, her frame curved in the right places and she stood just tall enough to remain undetectable in a crowd while wearing heels. Men apparently liked to describe her as 'girl next door' pretty, which she found fairly amusing given that she lived in the most hodgepodge neighborhood in all the five boroughs.

However, had she not been so unnerved by the sight of Lenny she might have done the polite thing and thanked him for the compliment. As it was, the longer she stayed silent the more his shoulders seemed to ooze towards his knees. It could've been because he still seemed to prefer clothes that were too large for him, and if the rain hadn't glued them to his body they would have simply draped off his lanky frame like misshapen pillowcases.

It figures, though, he said when she said nothing. After waiting all this time to see you again, it had to be when I look my absolute worst. I must've pissed off the gods, or something.

That snapped her out of her reverie. What do you mean, you were waiting to see me?

I mean, I— Lenny broke off as a passing pedestrian's umbrella poked him in the head, unseating his cowboy hat. He grabbed it before it flipped off his head and turned to glare at the man before turning his murky brown eyes back to hers. You feel like a cup of coffee or something? I'd really like to get out of this rain and sit someplace.

I don't think that's a good idea, she said. Besides, I already have plans for tonight.

So do I, but I just want to talk for a few minutes. Catch up. Apologize.

It's a little late for that, Lenny.

Shelly, come on. It's just coffee.

While he made it sound innocuous, she knew it would be anything but. Still, she agreed to accompany him to the café she preferred least out of the four that squared off the intersection, lest their reunion spoil the aura of one of her favorite eating establishments. Or worse, someone she knew spotted them together and she would be forced to validate his presence there. The hostess thankfully led them to a table in the back and left them with two laminated menus, which Shelly ignored to dig a pack of cigarettes out of her plastic grocery bag from the bodega. She glanced forlornly at her intended date for the evening—the perspiring pint of ice cream being spooned by her breakfast banana—before setting the bag on the floor. She felt his eyes on her as she unwrapped the pack and no sooner had she pulled one out then Lenny's hand was in front of her face holding up his lighter. Much to his vexation, it wouldn't ignite and after several tries she resorted to the matchbook the bodega cashier supplied and lit her cigarette herself.

Super, he said, tossing the lighter onto the table. Then he fished in his shirt pocket for his own pack of cigarettes, only what he came out with was a clump of soggy paper and tobacco, which he dropped onto the table with a short laugh. The humiliation continues. Are yours menthol?

No, she said. They're ultra-lights.

Can I bum one anyway?

When she nodded, he picked a cigarette from her pack and lit it with her matchbook. So how does someone go from chewing tobacco to menthol cigarettes?

I had to see a dentist when I chipped a tooth and he told me that if I didn't stop I'd get mouth cancer. So go ahead and say you told me so.

I would if I didn't have a cigarette in my hand.

His glance fell to her right hand and a faint smile played on his lips. So was it love, or did you buy it on the street?

Instantly, she knew what he was referring to and wished his ring had met the same demise as his jewelry box. Oh. Yeah, I still don't own much jewelry.

But you kept it. That's nice.

She sucked on her cigarette and blew the smoke directly into his face. He didn't even blink. Don't read into it. I kept my rubber bracelets, too.

Holy shit! I can't believe I'm sitting here with you.

Me, neither, Shelly said with much less enthusiasm. The calculators in her mind were trying to figure the odds of her being there had she not stayed the extra half hour at the salon waiting for the client that never showed. Or had she not turned down a last minute invitation to her boss' condo on Fire Island for the weekend. Or had she not met the right men at the wrong time, or the wrong men all of the time, and had a date with any one of them across town.

So, what's new? Lenny said.

Just about everything. It's been over five years.

Five years, seven months, twenty-three days. Actually.

You counted the days?

Their waiter emerged like a ghost ship in the fog of cigarette smoke that rolled in around their table, thereby saving Lenny from answering. He set glasses of ice water on the table and grimaced as he scraped the remnants of Lenny's cigarettes onto his tray before inquiring as to whether they were ready to order.

Two cappuccinos, no rush, Lenny said, smiling tightly at the young man to dismiss him. Then he returned his gaze to hers. What can I say? I've missed you.

You dumped me.

Yeah, and that was the biggest mistake I ever made. Unfortunately, by the time I realized it, you'd already moved to New York.

Who told you?

Nobody. And believe me, I asked everybody I could think of. Your grandmother hung up on me twice and your manager practically threw me out of the store.

Shelly smiled. That sounds like Mary Kay. She was like our den mother.

Tell me about it, he said. Anyway, we fought about moving here often enough so I knew it'd be the best place to look for you. I used to take the bus in every chance I could until I finally decided to just move here myself a few years ago.

Wait a sec, she said, waving her hand to clear a path in the air between them. Are you saying you followed me here?

Shell, it was tearing me up inside that I broke your heart, and I swore to myself the next time I saw you I would do everything I could to make it up to you.

You were on the right track by staying out of my life, she said, to which he snorted. I'm not kidding, Lenny. You were the reason I got an unlisted number.

I'm sure I was.

Where did you move to, exactly?

Twenty-Ninth and Sixth, five floors above a Korean bordello. It's a dump, but they park a goon inside their door so it's like having round the clock security. I spend most of my time uptown anyway. Hey, do you remember Frank Monroe?

Frank who? she said, scanning the room for their waiter.

Monroe, my buddy from high school. You met him that night we came to see that weird movie at the Waverly. The one where people throw shit at the screen.

Rocky Horror.

Yeah. Frank was dressed like one of the characters in the movie. He was wearing an awful lot of make-up.

I'll take your word for it. What about him?

He had this batty aunt who died some years back and when his folks were going through her stuff they found a whole bunch of paintings stashed in her attic that were worth a fortune. Since she had no kids, they divided them up and Frank sold his lot to buy a couple pieces of prime Manhattan real estate. You've heard of Cinderblocks, I'm sure.

It's the stuff they build walls out of.

Lenny guffawed as if she had relayed to him the funniest joke of the century. No, the nightclub. Don't tell me you've never heard of it.

I don't get out much, she said, punctuating it with sarcasm even though it wasn't far from the truth.

Oh man, you've got to come to Cinderblocks. It's the hottest club in the city right now.

I thought the Palladium was.

Maybe downtown. Uptown it's Cinderblocks. It's on East Ninety-Ninth Street, where Club Nines used to be. Frank gutted the place and brought in state of the art sound and lighting systems. The décor is not quite my style—it's kind of like being on Mars—but it's packed every weekend, partly because of my new band.

From the Grinch-like grin that spread across his face, he knew his statement would snag her immediate interest. His gratification would be delayed, however, by the reappearance of their waiter with their steaming cappuccinos and a plastic cup containing a variety of sweetener packets. After he carefully set them on the table, Lenny set his cigarette in the ashtray and picked up his spoon to stir his coffee until the froth disappeared into a tiny whirlpool.

Can I get you anything else? the waiter said, looking at Shelly.

An escape hatch, she thought, but said, Just the check.

Lenny's spoon clinked loudly against his mug as he looked at her, his grin slipped askew. The waiter obediently tore off their bill from his pad and set it on the table.

I'll be back for that whenever you're ready, the waiter said, moving onto a recently seated couple who looked much more agreeable than their table.

Okay, so tell me, she said. Does this new band of yours have a name?

Fantage.

What is that, French?

Who the hell knows?

It must mean something.

It probably does, but I didn't bother to ask. Their original drummer bailed to go to some ashram out west so Frank hired me to replace him a few months ago. Personally, I don't care if it means 'wet turd' in Swahili so long as I'm getting paid to play.

So it's like a real band. This is what you all do for a living.

Now we do. Since Frank made us the house band, Fantage has been the biggest draw at Cinderblocks, which is why he took over as our manager.

Then it's like dance music, she said, idly stirring a sugar into her cappuccino.

Not exactly, he said with a hint of frustration. "It's hard to describe our sound. We're more pop than rock. It's mostly original music, which is pretty cool, but I doubt we'll be the next Van Halen—or Kajagoogoo, for that matter. The Aquarian and New York Magazine raved about us being 'Manhattan's best kept secret' which is how Frank got it in his head that we hit the road to see if we can stir up some interest outside of New York. He's footing the bill himself so he hopes we'll sign a record deal along the way. So see? I'm not the loser you thought I'd be."

Shelly refused to let on she was impressed by any of it. Honestly, I forgot about the drums. You quit your other band right after we met so I never got to see you play.

That's because they were just a cover band and they sucked. And if you remember, that jackass landlord threatened to evict me every month for practicing. My building here is empty during the days and since I'm living above a whorehouse my landlord has worse thumping to worry about than mine.

It took a moment for her to interpret his meaning, but he was soon preoccupied with dumping several packets of sugar into his coffee. As she watched him churn his mug again she felt a surge of annoyance at witnessing this forgotten eccentricity of his twice in one sitting. It was compounded by the realization that New York hadn't seemed to hinder him professionally, nor had it crushed his fantasy of being a musician, nor had it concealed her—his estranged needle in a haystack of refugees. There was nothing in her own recent past that she could gloat about aside from her one semi-famous client, the co-anchor of a morning news program, so she had nothing to throw in his face. Except her cappuccino, of course, which would likely end up giving him second degree burns.

Well, I'm glad to hear you're doing well, she said.

Still, he said. I'd rather be doing you.

Not a chance.

Why not? Out of all the problems we had, sex wasn't one of them.

That's not quite how I remember it.

There's one way to find out.

Forget it, Lenny.

Come on, Shell. Give me a chance to make it up to you.

You can't.

Why not?

Once is enough for me. You're my past and there's no place for you in my future. I'm sorry, but that's the way I feel.

Don't you care about the way I feel?

Not particularly, no.

Wow, Shell, that's brutal.

Lenny helped himself to another one of her cigarettes, and while she was apt to object to everything he said and did, the presumed familiarity of the gesture disturbed her, probably more than it should have. Now that she was seeing him for the first time without the haze of desperate, unrequited love blurring her vision, she wondered what had attracted her to him in the first place. Even if he didn't resemble a drowned rat, it would've been improper to label him a handsome man. The individual features of his face didn't seem to belong together; his eyes were a little too close, his lips were a little too thin and his nose was a little too bulbous.

Take a picture, he said. It'll last longer.

Sorry. With a terse smile, she opened her purse to put in her cigarettes and take out some money for her cappuccino. Listen, I really can't stay. I have to be somewhere in less than an hour.

You're kidding, right?

No, I'm not. I have to go.

You didn't even touch your coffee.

I know, but my Haagen-Dazs is melting.

Fuck the Haagen-Dazs. If you had any idea how long I've been walking the streets on this fucking excuse for an island, peering inside the window of every haircut place in the phonebook, you'd understand how mind-blowing this is to me.

Now you're creeping me out.

But it's true.

You can't just say things like that, Lenny.

Why not?

Because I haven't given you a second thought since I left New Jersey.

The air conditioning emitted a metallic groan and yawned its icy breath over their table which, as their luck would have it, was positioned directly beneath a vent. Shelly hadn't noticed until then that the air had absorbed the unsavory aromas of smoke, coffee and perspiration and had whipped it until it had the consistency of Hudson River sludge. She welcomed the fresh breeze while Lenny, being the soggier of the two of them, made a single violent flinch. His gaze, however, was both unwavering and unnerving.

For your information, she said. They're called salons, not haircut places.

So at least you did become a hairdresser.

Yes, and from what I've seen you can use a cut.

That's one reason why the hat's still on my head. I bought it a couple blocks from here when it started to rain.

Normal people buy an umbrella when it rains.

Normal people don't spend five years searching for their long lost love, either, he said, exhaling a long column of smoke before butting out the cigarette in the ashtray. Letting you go was the biggest regret of my life, Shell. For weeks after, months even, I was so miserable I got physically sick. I couldn't eat or sleep and I had awful nightmares. My friends tried to get me to see a shrink, but I already knew what was wrong with me; I couldn't forgive myself for hurting you. Just the thought of you being somewhere out there hating me drove me crazy so I had to find you and tell you that, even now after all this time, my heart is as full of love for you as it was that day you drove away.

A chill slid down her spine and it had nothing to do with the air conditioning. While he probably intended to soften her hardened heart with his confession, what it did was put her more sensible faculties on high alert. It was time not just to go, but to run as far and as fast as she could, from him, his hat and all that they collectively signified.

Okay, you told me, she said. I have to go now.

As she picked up her purse and her grocery bag and rose to her feet, his hand immediately clamped around her wrist to stop her.

I just told you I still love you, he said with barefaced desperation. Don't you feel anything for me?

Yes. I feel sorry for you.

You can't mean that.

Actually, I do. Let me go, Lenny.

As their eyes held in a silent duel, she yanked her arm from his grip and quickly headed for the door. In his attempt to stop her, he stood up so fast he nearly upended the table, sending both of their cappuccinos crashing to the floor. She heard him alternately curse and apologize to the waiter as she continued her brisk pace out into the street without looking back.

Maneuvering through the narrow streets was challenging enough on a dry day, but since it was one of the last Fridays the summer had to offer the sidewalks were as clogged as the drainpipes. In her haste, Shelly had left her umbrella inside the café so she dumped her withered groceries into the nearest trashcan, pulled the plastic bag over her head like a bonnet and joined the parasol parade, silently rebuking the forces of nature that had inexplicably ganged up on her. She had barely gotten halfway up the block when she heard the harried slapping of feet on the wet pavement closing in behind her.

Shelly, wait! Lenny said. You forgot something.

Then he was in front of her holding her umbrella out like a miniature joust. She snatched it from him and was a bit startled that he let it slip from his hand so easily.

A lot of good it does me now, she said as she removed the bag from her head and popped open the umbrella, deliberately keeping it from shielding any part of his anatomy. I already ditched my ice cr—

Without any flourish, he ducked under the umbrella, clasped her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. Not only did he catch her off guard, she only had one free hand to extricate herself from his embrace, thereby making her struggles grossly ineffective against his ardent determination. As soon as she stopped trying, however, his lips softened, becoming tender in a manner reminiscent of the early days of their courtship, allowing her to flashback on how his rough carpenter hands used to feel on her bare flesh, how his tongue had danced with prowess in other relatively unexplored places, how he would grunt instead of groan when having an orgasm…

Let's go back to your place, he said in a whisper against her mouth, almost as if she had fed him the idea.

Not on your life, she said, pressing her hand into his sternum and shoving him away before her body enacted any further betrayals. It's not going to happen.

Lenny grinned. Why, are you afraid?

No.

Wet?

Of course, I'm wet. It's raining.

I meant down there, he said with a downward glance.

Goodbye, Lenny.

She stepped around him and marched up the street—purposely in the opposite direction of her place—but he doggedly remained at her heels.

Okay, I'm sorry if I came on too strong, he said. I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that after all this time I panicked, but this is not how I wanted it to go. Please, don't let it end this way.

It ended a long time ago.

Maybe it did, but it would mean the world to me if you came to Cinderblocks tonight. You've never heard me play in a band and I want you to see what I've become. I have changed. I'm more than this.

I'm not sure you are.

I am, he said emphatically.

The rain continued to pelt them relentlessly and the longer he stared at her the more aware she was that people were now actually stopping to watch them as if they were street performers providing the afternoon's entertainment.

Listen, he said. I'll put you on the guest list so you don't have to pay or wait in line. You can stay for the show, have a drink with me backstage and let me know what you think. If you want to walk away after that, I won't stop you. I promise.

Your promises scare me, Lenny.

Nothing's going to happen, Shell. You'll be surrounded by hundreds of people and Frank will be there. Although you probably won't recognize him. He's a much better dresser these days.

Unlike you.

Tell you what; bring a friend with you. Bring several. Preferably women, the hotter the better, so there'll be a diversion for my bandmates.

Shelly was too physically drenched and emotionally drained to feel in any way flattered by his allusion. Admittedly, she was more than a little intrigued about his band, especially if they were as good as he portrayed them to be. What's more, she knew someone who would never forgive her if she declined such an invitation, despite its questionable origin. Using those tenuous excuses to tip the scales against her normally stanch rationale, she finally caved in with a sigh.

I have only one friend that would fit that bill, but I'm not sure she's free tonight.

Lenny smiled. If you tell her where you're going I'm sure she'll change her plans. What's her name for the guest list?

Bonnie DeLuca. But don't count on us, okay?

Just try to get there by nine-thirty. We go on at ten. Lenny tipped his cowboy hat toward her, causing a rivulet of water to pour from its brim onto the sidewalk between their feet. John Wayne's got nothing on me.

In spite of everything that she had seen and heard from him in the past hour, her mouth twitched into the semblance of a smile as he turned on his heels and goofily took bow-legged strides back towards Bleecker Street. The instant he disappeared around the corner, however, Shelly slicked her sodden hair out of her eyes, straightened her shoulders and headed to her studio apartment on West Third Street to call the only person on the planet who wouldn't talk her out of doing this.

Chapter 2

"You're not wearing that, are you?" Bonnie said as she made a beeline for the closet before Shelly had a chance to shut the apartment door.

As she surmised the red silk mini-dress her statuesque friend was almost wearing, Shelly marveled yet again at how they had managed to become—let alone remain—friends. Aside from being employed at the same salon, they had nothing in common. Bonnie was a manicurist by day and good-time girl by night, and even though she was born and raised in Brooklyn she had spent most of her twenty-eight years resenting the fact that she wasn't from Yonkers. She was brazen, shallow and occasionally crass and yet she was one of the most stunningly beautiful women Shelly had ever known. It wasn't enough that she had been blessed with long legs and flawless skin; she also had perfectly placed features and long chestnut-colored hair that she would flip over her shoulder as if it were a constant bother to her. Sometimes she treated Shelly the same way, but regardless of their divergent tastes—as well as their philosophies on life and love—Shelly envied Bonnie without ever wanting to be like her.

I really don't understand what you have against color, Bonnie said. They might not let you in the place if you look like a Grandma Moses, you know.

At least I'm not a pair of fishnets away from looking like a call girl, Shelly said.

Bonnie turned around holding out the bright pink scarf she had given Shelly for her birthday the year before. Tie this around your waist and I'll let that comment slide.

This was how most of their evenings out together started, with a clash of opinions as to what was fashionable, often because Shelly couldn't care less what she wore. Tonight was different though since she had to toe the sex appeal line so as not to mislead Lenny into thinking she dolled herself up for his benefit. She thought her white satin poet's blouse, black denim skirt and suede ankle boots would be hip enough to meet a bunch of musicians. Of course, Bonnie thought differently, but everything in her own closet was bright-hued, low-cut and skin-tight so there was never any danger that they would walk into a party wearing the same outfit.

No sooner had Shelly earned Bonnie's middling seal of approval—only after she acquiesced to undoing one more button on her blouse—they were in a taxi heading uptown. Traffic was typically dense now that the rain had cleared, but as they sat in a clump of cabs near midtown Shelly noticed that Bonnie was as restless as a preteen on the way to her first boy-girl dance.

Do you have to pee? Shelly said.

No, Bonnie said. It's just that I've been trying to get into this place since it opened. The last time we were turned away and I even offered to show the doorman my boobs.

Some men aren't so easily bribed.

Yeah, gay men. I cannot believe your loser ex-boyfriend works there.

Shelly hadn't been entirely upfront about Lenny's occupation at the nightclub, mostly because she didn't think Bonnie would believe her. I guess I should tell you he doesn't work there, exactly. He's in the band that's playing tonight.

If Bonnie had been driving, she would've slammed on the brakes. Instead, she swiveled in the seat and grabbed Shelly's arm with all of her freshly manicured fingers. He's in Fantage?

You've heard of them?

Are you frigging kidding me? Shell, they are like the hottest band this city's produced in years. And when I say hot, I don't just mean their popularity. Please tell me he's not the lead singer.

No, he's the drummer.

Oh, thank God, Bonnie said with a dramatic sigh, finally releasing Shelly's arm. She leaned forward in the seat to speak to the driver. Hey, do you mind if we smoke?

Not if you use the ashtray, he said, lowering the rear windows slightly.

So you've seen them? Shelly said.

Once. Bonnie unwrapped a new pack of Virginia Slims from her purse and took out two, handing one of the ridiculously long cigarettes to Shelly. It was at some club up near Columbus Circle that Ramone took me to last winter.

I remember Ramone.

Don't. He's not worth the brain cells. Bonnie paused to light her cigarette and handed Shelly the lighter. The singer was to die for, Shell. I couldn't take my eyes off him. If I'd been there alone, I would've been on him like cocoa butter.

Please don't embarrass me tonight, Bonnie.

Have I ever?

Do I really need to answer that question?

Bonnie gave her a playful sneer. By the way, I've been thinking about this Larry guy.

Lenny.

Right. Anyway, you know how I like to say that men are pond scum?

Yes, the 'ecological equivalent to navel lint'.

Bonnie smiled. You do listen to me.

Sometimes, when you use big words. Shelly laughed as Bonnie slapped her on the thigh. You know, for someone who claims that men are a useless gender you date an awful lot of them.

"Yeah, but unlike you I don't expect anything from them. It makes it