More Twisted

down. Now, if you don’t mind . . .”
    The man blinked in surprise. “Well, I didn’t mean anything. I was just wondering if you could speak a little more softly.”
    Monroe exhaled a frustrated sigh and turned back to his conversation. “Cath, just don’t worry about it, okay? Now, listen, I need my monogrammed shirt for tomorrow.”
    The man gave him a piqued glance, sighed and gathered up his newspaper and briefcase. He moved to the seat behind Monroe. Good riddance.
    “Tomorrow?” Cathy asked.
    Monroe didn’t actually need the shirt but he was irritated at Cathy for calling and he was irritated at the man next to him for being so rude. So he said, more loudly than he needed to, “I just said I have to have it for tomorrow.”
    “It’s just kind of busy today. If you’d said something last night . . .”
    Silence.
    “Okay,” she continued, “I’ll do it. But, Charlie, promise you’ll be careful tonight coming home.”
    “Yeah. Okay. Gotta go.”
    “’Bye—”
    He hit disconnect.
    Great way to start the day, he thought. And punched in another number.
    “Carmen Foret, please,” he told the young woman who answered.
    More commuters were getting on the train. Monroetossed his briefcase on the seat next to him to discourage anybody else’s sitting there.
    A moment later the woman’s voice answered.
    “Hello?”
    “Hey, baby, it’s me.”
    A moment of silence.
    “You were going to call me last night,” the woman said coolly.
    He’d known Carmen for eight months. She was, he’d heard, a talented real estate broker and was also, he supposed, a wonderful, generous woman in many ways. But what he knew about her—all he really cared to know—was that she had a soft, buoyant body and long, cinnamon-colored hair that spread out on pillows like warm satin.
    “I’m sorry, sweetheart, the meeting went a lot later than I thought.”
    “Your secretary didn’t think it went all that late.”
    Hell. She’d called his office. She hardly ever did. Why last night?
    “We went out for drinks after we revised the deal letter. Then we ended up at the Four Seasons. You know.”
    “I know,” she said sourly.
    He asked, “What’re you doing at lunch today?”
    “I’m doing a tuna salad sandwich, Charlie. What’re you doing?”
    “Meet me at your place.”
    “No, Charlie. Not today. I’m mad at you.”
    “Mad at me? ’Cause I missed one phone call?”
    “No, ’cause you’ve missed about three hundred phone calls since we’ve been dating.”
    Dating? Where did she get that ? She was his mistress.They slept together. They didn’t date, they didn’t go out, they didn’t court and spark.
    “You know how much money I can make on this deal. I couldn’t mess up, honey.”
    Hell. Mistake.
    Carmen knew he called Cathy “honey.” She didn’t like it when he used the endearment with her.
    “Well,” she said frostily, “I’m busy at lunch. I may be busy for a lot of lunches. Maybe all the lunches for the rest of my life.”
    “Come on, babe.”
    Her laugh said: Nice try. But he wasn’t pardoned for the “honey” glitch.
    “Well, you mind if I come over and just pick up something?”
    “Pick up something?” Carmen asked.
    “A pair of slacks.”
    “You mean, you called me just now because you wanted to pick up some laundry?”
    “No, no, babe. I wanted to see you. I really did. I just spilled some coffee on my slacks. While we were talking.”
    “Gotta go, Charlie.”
    “Babe—”
    Click.
    Damn.
    Mondays, Monroe was thinking. I hate Mondays.
    He called directory assistance and asked for the number of a jewelry store near Carmen’s office. He charged a five-hundred-dollar pair of diamond earrings and arranged to have them delivered to her as soon as possible.The note he dictated read, “To my grade-A lover: A little something to go with your tuna salad. Charlie.”
    Eyes out the window. The train was close to the city now. The big mansions and the little wannabe mansions had given way to row houses and squat bungalows painted in hopeful pastels. Blue and red plastic toys and parts of toys sat in the balding backyards. A heavyset woman hanging laundry paused and, frowning, watched the train speed past as if she were watching an air show disaster clip on CNN.
    He made another call.
    “Let me speak to Hank Shapiro.”
    A moment later a gruff voice came on the line. “Yeah?”
    “Hey, Hank. It’s Charlie. Monroe.”
    “Charlie, how the hell’re we coming with our