“You did something,” Sam accuses.
Brian’s smile just widens.
Sam busies herself for the rest of the morning with paperwork. And then she sees one of the new clients – who has just finished on the treadmill and is now toweling himself dry – pull Brian into the office beside hers. There’s an exchange of some sort and Brian pulls out a hundred dollars from his pocket and gives it to him.
After the young man leaves, Sam barges in.
“You’re paying him to come here?”
“He’s not my hustler type. I prefer them with tits.”
“But that’s beside the point! I thought we were supposed to earn money, not give it away.”
“Sometimes, you have to give away money in order to earn it.” Brian indicates the queue through the door. “When there’s a crowd at any new establishment, people want to see what the f**k is going on with the blue light special.”
An attractive blonde knocks at the open door. “My two hours are up, Brian,” she says suggestively.
Brian flashes her his most charming smile and hands her a hundred dollar note.
“You know,” the blonde says, coming closer to finger his chest, “I would have done it for free if we could hook up again. Preferably in the showers.”
She ignores Sam’s glare.
“Sorry, Agatha, I don’t do encores.”
Agatha grimaces. “I’ll bet you encore her all night.” She stabs a vicious glance at Sam.
As she leaves, Sam hisses to Brian, “Is there anyone out there you haven’t slept with?”
“Anything with testicles, if you get my drift.”
“Brian, this is wrong!”
“So is pissing away business.” He holds up a sheet. “Ninety-eight real recruitments today, and it’s not even twelve. Say, you wanna do brunch?”
*
Brian and Sam walk out into the parking lot. Sam notes that the lines have grown even longer, if possible.
“It’s like a ‘Star Trek’ convention,” she confesses to Brian. And stops short when she sees what is parked in his reserved lot. “Where’s the Ferrari?”
Brian unlocks the new Jeep he has parked there. “Traded it in.”
“But why? You love that car?” It’s the one I first met you in, she doesn’t want to say.
“It was old, past its prime.”
Bullshit, Sam thinks. “You needed the money for this campaign we’re running. Gawd, Brian, you can’t keep doing this! Are you OK, I mean, financially? You need money for the lawyers!”
“Fuck the lawyers. And I told you – it was heading for automobile menopause. Someone offered me a good price for it and I took it. Geez, don’t nag me when I’m hypoglycemic. I only had a bagel for breakfast.”
Sam doesn’t say anymore on the matter. She hates nags herself. Reminds her too much of her own mother, when the latter isn’t flouncing off on some rich gentleman’s arm, of course. But her suspicions are piqued. She still can’t get over the fact that Brian has been so downgraded that he had to give up his penthouse, no matter what he says on the contrary about that place being haunted with the ghosts of what happened. And now his car.
There must be something she can do.
There is.
On course to a deli they both enjoy, Sam notices a few people strolling around the broad sidewalks. They have large billboards hung around their bodies. All of them are young, fit and attractive. One blond man – a college student by the looks of him – wears a metal hat with two horns sticking out of its sides. He was obviously meant to be Thor, the god of thunder. He hands out leaflets to the passing pedestrians.
Sam does a double take when she sees what’s inscribed on the billboard he is wearing. It’s an extremely flattering photograph of the semi-nude, muscled Thor. Not the god himself. Not even Chris Hemsworth, but Thor from the gym.
The lettering below reads: “You want to build that six-pack before you drink it.”
The other human billboards are all similarly decorated. Sam even spies one of Lydia, resembling Wonder Woman.
Gawd!
Sam has to admit Brian’s tactics are vivid.
Her cellphone buzzes. She reads the text message on it.
“Who is it?” Brian says.
“An old friend.”
He glances over at her and grins. “Aren’t you lucky you’re not a lawyer?”
“Huh?”
“Maybe I should rephrase that to ‘aren’t you lucky your pants . . . or maybe your leotards aren’t on fire’?”
Sam has to grace to blush. “Look, I don’t have to share every aspect of my life with you.”
“Particularly when it involves a six-pack.” Brian’s tone is mild.
Huh? OK, this time she doesn’t get the reference at all. Maybe she’s slow, but it’s been one of those days. Besides, she has to text back to the sender.
‘OK. LET’S MEET AT SIX.’
*
Sam peruses the schedule her private investigator gives her.
He says, “She’s regular. Every Wednesday and Friday nights, she leaves for Hatha Yoga classes at nine. She comes back only at eleven.”
“Great.”
He eyes her shrewdly. “I draw the line at breaking and entering.”
“Did I ask you to break and enter her apartment?” Sam says innocently.
“Don’t do anything foolish.”
“Who’s doing anything foolish?” Even as she says it, Sam’s blood begins to churn in her ears in that sssssh-sssssh sound that clouds her hearing and agitates her brain. Brian is right. She just can’t lie.
9
It is two weeks before the trial. Brian has been to see his lawyer every day, preparing for the case. Preparing for the cross-examination by the prosecutor, who happens to be a hard-nosed divorcee who specializes in grinding men to dust.
“Assistant DA Norma Hennessey is a tough bitch,” Karen Sandler, his attorney, warns him. “She has been a rape victim herself, and she hates all men.”
“Yippee for me,” Brian says.
“I’m going to bring up your f**k defense.”
Brian rolls his eyes. “At least it’s coming in handy.”
“How many women have you slept with?” Karen favors him with a glare. It may be personal, Brian thinks.
He sighs. “I don’t know. Ballpark figure? Over a thousand.”
Karen chortles. “Geez, you a prostitute or something?”
“I don’t remember collecting from you. If I recall, I was the one who bought you a drink before I found out you were a ball-busting lawyer.”