Page 25 of Phoenix Fire

The telephone rang yet again.

It was Carlton. “Why must you deny me ...” he began.

After hanging up this time Jenny lifted a sofa cushion, and placed the phone under it. She decided to pull the receiver from its cradle. The cushion would prevent her hearing that annoying and steady tone.

Her anger sublimated she began to feel the incipient presence of fear. She had heard and read about women who were harassed on the telephone, who were stalked in cars and on foot. She was now totally convinced that it was no coincidence that Carlton had shown up at lunch.

There was something demented in all of this. Carlton was a responsible member of the business community. He was supposedly sophisticated, raised in an upper class environment by a dignified and stately lady who would have taught him good manners and social grace. How could he behave like this?

She could only conclude that he had a serious mental problem. She could not, would not, accept his contention or implication that she had 'come on to him.' That was absurd. She had never in her life 'come on' to any man. Jason was really the only man she had ever met who could relax her enough in his company that she could become spontaneous and open. But, surely, she had not given off any suggestive aura to Carlton when she had first met him or when he had interrupted her lunch. It was absurd. How could two brothers be so different? Absurd!

Suddenly there came an incessant liquid thumping from the area of the bathroom. It got her attention.

Her bath water. Oops! She had forgotten to turn off the faucets.

She rushed to the bathroom and was glad to see that there was no serious overflow onto the floor, just a very full bath. She lifted the drain and released some water, not too much because she like her body fully submerged. Then, she added bubble bath.

There was still a disquietude within her, and she did something she could not remember ever having done. She checked the two locks on the door, the handle and deadbolt, and she made sure all windows were securely fastened down. Paranoia was setting in, she thought, as she stood briefly in front of the entry door, a contemplative wrinkle on her brow.

After some seconds had passed she felt better. She chided herself at her sudden cautious nature. Carlton was just a passing aberration, a man who thought he might try to best his brother at romance. Carlton could not be dangerous. He was too well bred for that. Chances were he had simply been drinking and feeling his oats. Jenny likely would not hear from him again. Someday, when she and Jason had … well, perhaps she should not get carried away with her thinking. Someday, perhaps they could all laugh at this buffoonery.

She retrieved her wine. She shed her halter, her faded jeans, her flaming red bandana, and placed herself into the hot bubbly water. As she settled into the already overfull tub, the displacement of water from her weight caused a few drops to spill over onto the bathroom floor. She reached for the small drain knob and released some more of the water. Then she settled back and tried to relax.

She stretched full length in the tub, her head resting on the rim, eyes closed, and felt the knots in her body loosen. She sighed, sipped her wine, and began to feel much better.

She opened her eyes with a start when she remembered that she would not be able to hear the phone ring. It couldn't ring. It was not connected. She had put the phone under a sofa cushion to prevent her hearing those steady repetitious tones.

What if Jason called?

Chapter Sixteen

Carlton's smile slowly faded, replaced by a mask of smoldering anger. The cards of the inanely grinning, obese, sweaty man across from him lay face up on the green felt table, having been placed there card by card in dramatic, gleeful, tedious fashion. Cigar smoke swirled in the air above the table.

Four deuces! Four frigging deuces, the fat man had, while he was holding a full house, kings heavy and tens. Four lousy deuces.

That did it. That wiped him out. He had waited all night for a hand like the full house. Pots was won all evening with pairs and an occasional three of a kind. What ironic, moronic, ridiculous luck! He gets a great hand, the best of anyone all night, and the jackass across from him wins with four deuces.

And, the pot! The pot which he had helped to build with his hefty raises, it was huge. He was so sure that he had the winning hand with his full house. Damn the abominable bad luck. Damn the cards.

Carlton watched the man across the table rake in his winnings and silently fumed. Finally, he lifted his eyes and peered into the corner of the large hotel room. Standing, leaning, against the wall, his arms crossed and a wry smile on his face, there was Frank Danzetti.

There was sweat on Carlton's forehead and on the palms of his hands. He felt flushed and disoriented by too much concentration on cards, bluffs, and booze. He had slept very little lately and he was sure that had to be part of his flushed feeling. He wanted to scream at the grinning baboon in the corner, throw a chair at him, hurt him badly. Another, more sensible, part of him knew that he could never confront Danzetti. Fear would win out over valor.

“You in, Prince?” the new dealer asked with some sharpness of tone.

“No, deal me out this hand,” he answered.

He left his chair and went to the bathroom just off the short hallway near the bedroom. His entire body was a mass of raw nerve ends. He stood for a long time over the water closet, unable to relieve himself. “Damn!” he muttered, “can't even take a leak.” The need was there but the body would not accommodate him. He was just too wound up from all the sitting, the smoke, the alcohol, and the games.

With uncertain fingers he zipped up his fly and went to the wash basin. He stood and looked at his reflection in the wall mirror. His eyes were glazed and void --- “like a dead man's eyes,” he growled to himself. He turned on the cold water and splashed his face generously several times, not caring that the water was falling over his shirt and trousers. His tie was hanging soaked and limpid against his chest.

He toweled off and leaned against the wall. What was he to do next? Another marker with Lupo? Danzetti would be so smug if he went to Lupo for more money. Danzetti was a miserable goon. Lupo's goon. Lupo's all-purpose goon. Damn him all to hell.

Just as Carlton thought of Danzetti, the latter rapped on the bathroom door and yelled, “Hey, Prince, you in there for the night? C'mon! I gotta use the john.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Carlton yelled back, “just a minute.”

Carlton went back to the water closet and relieved himself. The cold water splashes had helped and his liquid expulsion was near orgasmic. He flushed the toilet, took his time as he splashed on more water, took pleasure making Danzetti wait. At least he could enjoy something this evening. Carlton used the bath towel with deliberate daubs and pats. He hoped Danzetti was in agony.

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