The Stolen - Jason Pinter [58]
lips. "Bitch? You call me a bitch because, what, I just
repeated what you've been blabbing about all night? If you
don't like hearing the whole, cold, hard, clean truth, just
continue to delude yourself. Facts are facts. Nobody wants
to hire a forty-year-old has-been when twenty years old
can be bought for less, and without the baggage. And if you
didn't fuck Mitsy for a decade, you'd keep that irrelevant
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streak of yours going. So you don't want to believe the
truth? Then, buddy, don't read the newspaper. But if you
want a reality check, you little baby, what I say shouldn't
hurt you any more than your life hurts you."
"See," Myron said. "That's what I mean. Most women,
when you give them an orgasm, they don't treat you like
you're a piece of, a, a dust ball or a termite or something.
Something they can pick up and throw in the trash like it
didn't exist."
"Listen, Myron. You're a sweet guy. But sweet guys get
as much out of life as a little teacup puppy that someone
carries around in their purse. You get fed when your master
wants to feed you, but pretty soon you're a nuisance and
not quite as much fun to look at. If you want more out of
life than that, you have to take it. If that means being a
bitch, well, I'd rather be a bitch than a pussy."
Myron stared at her. "I'm looking forward to reading
the article."
Paulina nodded. "It'll be a good one, I promise you that
much. I'll make sure a copy of the Dispatch is delivered
to you first thing Sunday morning." Then she strode across
the room until she was nearly mouth to mouth with Myron.
"And if you so much as mention this night to anyone, I'll
run a correction on Monday about your chronic herpes outbreaks."
"My what?"
"Exactly."
"Even you wouldn't stoop so low," Myron said, though
he looked unconvinced.
"Try me," Paulina replied. "I love it when people think
they're calling my bluff."
Myron nodded, put his shirt on, found his shoes. He
thanked Paulina, grabbed the twenty and left. Paulina
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stood there in a room full of rumpled sheets, the air
stinking of sweat and sex. Then she gathered up her
belongings, went outside and caught a cab home.
21
By three o'clock, my legs were growing stiff. We'd
watched countless people arrive and leave Yardley since
that morning, with no sign of Dmitri Petrovsky. We'd
taken turns going in to the cafeteria for cups of coffee and
bathroom breaks, doing everything we could to stay alert
without going insane, but I was growing impatient. And
even worse, worried.
Doctors came and went, but nobody who looked like
Petrovsky.
At four o'clock, Amanda asked, "Do you think we
might have missed him?"
I shook my head. "I hope not. Let's make sure."
I took out my cell phone, called the Yardley switchboard, asked to be connected to Pediatrics. When a
woman's voice picked up, I asked if Dr. Petrovsky would
be available for any more appointments today.
"I'm sorry, sir, he's got two more patients scheduled for
this afternoon, then he'll be out again until Monday."
"Do you have any idea what time he'll be finished with
his patients?"
"No, sir, I'm sorry, but if you want to come in next week
I'd be happy to schedule you for an appointment."
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"No, thanks, I'll call back later." I hung up. "He's still
there, but probably not for much longer."
Amanda nodded. She began to rub her shoulders.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Just a little stiff."
"Can I do anything to help?"
"Nah, thanks, though."
For a moment I had an ache to reach out, put my arm
around her and rub her shoulders myself. Not too long ago
it wouldn't have been a big deal at all, just something else
that happened over the normal day of a relationship. Small
gestures like that in the end meant so much, and it was only
when they ended that I realized their significance.
"Henry, look," Amanda suddenly said, pointing in the
direction of the entrance. "There he is."
Sure enough, Dmitri Petrovsky was leaving Yardley. He
was easily identifiable with his bushy beard, ambling gait.