the elevator call button.
“Last night he came over and said he’d read Allentown Blues, and he told me he knew people at Hanover’s who could get me a window display for The Brewster Mall.”
David raised one eyebrow, not quite believing me but not quite dismissing me, either.
“It’s true, David,” I said, almost begging him to believe me.
A ding announced the arrival of the elevator. In parting, David simply said, “Maybe it is true, although the thought of this Frank being able to read much beyond pornography is a stretch for me. But if it is, then it only reconfirms what I’ve been telling you: Stay away from him.” Those last words of warning were delivered through clenched teeth.
“But—”
David stepped into the elevator. “We’ll discuss this later.”
“David Carlyle is so bizarre,” I said when Denise answered her phone. “Wouldn’t you think that he’d be overjoyed to have one of his authors in Hanover’s window?”
“Uh…yeah,” she replied, but there was no commitment in her voice. “So, what’s the problem?”
“He’s upset because Frank made the arrangements to get me the window.”
At the mention of Frank’s name, Denise sighed deeply.
“Oh, Drew,” she moaned. “Not Frank again.”
“Do you think David has some kind of crush on me or something? I mean, that would explain why he hates Frank so much…”
“I’ve never met Frank, but I don’t think he’s any good for you, either.” I could tell from her voice that she instinctively knew that our friendship had advanced to a slightly different level, even if she didn’t know the details of the kiss. “And, no, I don’t have a crush on you, loverboy. It just sounds like a really bad situation.”
“You’d like him if you met him.”
“Well, I doubt that will happen, so—”
“Do you still have those extra tickets to Rent tonight?”
Denise was silent for a long time. Finally, and without answering me, she asked, “Why?”
“I thought it would be a nice gesture to take Frank out. To thank him for getting me in the window.”
“Drew—”
“Do you still have the tickets?”
She exhaled unhappily into the mouthpiece of her phone while she tried to think of a way to avoid the situation without having to eat one-hundred-fifty dollars in theater tickets. Finally, realizing she had been beaten, she mumbled, “I’ll meet you in front of the theater at seven-thirty.”
Of course, I made the arrangements without talking to Frank, and without even knowing how to get in touch with him during the day. I called Benedick’s, but, not unexpectedly, there was no answer. So…
“Hanover’s. How may I help you?”
I was quickly connected to the manager’s office, where a tired-sounding woman answered the phone. I explained who I was—she had never heard of me; so much for the concept of instant fame through a window display—then asked her if she had a daytime phone number for Frank DiBenedetto.
“Who?”
“Frank DiBenedetto.” I repeated the name slowly. “He has some kind of connection to your bookstore. If you ask around, I’m sure someone there knows him.”
“Sorry,” she said crisply. “I don’t know him. Let me take your name and number, and I’ll check around.”
A half-hour later, the phone rang on my desk.
“You Westlake?” asked a gruff male voice. I said I was. “Why are you looking for DiBenedetto?”
“I…uh…lost his home phone number.” I was a bit frightened by his tone. “And I need to get in touch with him this afternoon.”
“So, why’d you call here?”
“He said he knew people there. You see, yesterday he told me that he had talked to someone at Hanover’s about promoting my book in the window and—”
“Oh.” The gruffness in his voice hardened. “You’re talkin’ about Frankie. Frank Junior, that is.”
“I guess so.”
“Why do you want him?”
“We’re friends. Listen, I just need—”
“Friends who don’t have each other’s phone numbers?”
“I lost it. Listen, I just need to call him because I have theater tickets for tonight and I thought he’d like to go.”
“Theater tickets?” The man at Hanover’s didn’t sound impressed. In fact, it’s fair to say that he sounded contemptuous.
“Can I just get—”
“All right. Hold on a sec.” He set down his phone. A few moments later he was back on the line with Frankie’s home phone number.
Just before our conversation ended, he said, “You tell Frankie that Paulie Macarini tells him to have a nice time at the theater.” With that, he snickered and hung up on me.
As for the name Paulie Macarini, well…it was a name I would hear again.
When I finally reached him, Frankie thought that taking a night off from Benedick’s sounded like a great idea. And I was pleasantly surprised that he seemed to have no embarrassment about the previous evening’s extended good-night kiss.
Granted, we didn’t talk about it. But part of me was fully prepared for him to dodge me altogether, or feebly offer up the boy-was-I-drunk-last-night defense.
But, no, even though the subject of the kiss didn’t come up, he didn’t dodge, evade, avoid, or lie. He sounded happy to hear from me and easily agreed to meet me outside the theater at seven-thirty.
At seven-fifteen, I was the first one to arrive. I was bundled warmly against an icy wind that picked up speed as it rolled south down Seventh Avenue and into the theater district, where it rounded the corner onto Forty-first Street and swept past me as I huddled in front of the Nederlander Theatre. It was still almost an hour before the curtain would go up, so I stood with my back pressed against the building, almost alone on the sidewalk that soon would be crowded with theatergoers and theatergoer-gawking tourists, trying to retain as much body heat as I could.
Slowly, as the minutes crept past, a sparse crowd of people began assembling with me on the sidewalk, blocking at least some of the wind. Some paid for their tickets at the box office then milled around on the sidewalk, waiting for the doors to open so they could get out of the cold. Others, like me, stood waiting for their companions. And yet others just stood there, hands pressed deep in the pockets of their coats, staring at the marquee and the patrons and vicariously drinking in the Broadway theater experience.
Frank’s cab arrived at seven-thirty on the nose, and I was greeting him when the cab hauling Denise and two of her friends from work pulled to the curb behind it.
“It’s about time,” I said, shivering. “Let’s go inside before I freeze to death.”
“We said seven-thirty,” said Denise, who then motioned to her co-workers. “Do you remember Jenny and Paula?”
“Yeah, hi,” I said, not really remembering them. It was my turn, so I put my hand on Frank’s shoulder. “And this is Frank.”
“Hello,” said Denise distantly, with a forced smile.
“Nice to meet you,” said Frank, ignoring or oblivious to Denise’s antipathy as he offered her his hand. She gave it one abbreviated shake, then quickly