The Boy Next Door Read online

  Apparently, Jason doesn’t remember Michelle. Be sure to ask him about Michelle, Stacy. Or Fiona, for that matter. Or Monica, Karen, Louise, Cathy, or Alyson.

  Go on, ask him. I’d be curious to see what he has to say about any of them.

  What Jason doesn’t seem to realize is that he has already found the best girl in the world. He forgets that some of us losers are still out there looking.

  So tell your husband to cut me a little slack, will you, Stacy?

  And thanks for the invitation, but if it’s all right with you I’ll skip dinner this Sunday.

  Love,

  John

  P.S.: Write back to me at my new address, listed above. I’m not sure whether it works yet.

  To: [email protected]

  From: Jason Trent

  Subject: Your new email address

  John:

  Jerry lives? Are you insane? Have you lost your mind? THAT’s the address you chose as your “redhead safe” account?

  You might be surprised to know that most girls don’t like Jerry Garcia, John. They like Mariah Carey. I know this from watching VH1.

  And stop writing to my wife. All I’ve heard from her all day is Who’s Alyson? Who’s Michelle?

  Next time I see you, Jerry, you are a dead man.

  Jason

  To: Jason Trent

  From:

  Subject: Jerry

  You’re wrong. Most girls prefer Jerry Garcia to Mariah Carey. I just took an office poll, and Jerry won over Mariah by a margin of nearly five to one—although the girl from the mailroom doesn’t like either of them, so her vote doesn’t count.

  Besides, I looked at Melissa’s CDs when she was in the kitchen getting the root beer, and I didn’t see a single thing by Mariah Carey.

  You know nothing about women.

  John

  To: [email protected]

  From: Jason Trent

  Subject: You know nothing about women

  And you do???

  Jason

  To: Sergeant Paul Reese

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Helen Friedlander

  Reese—

  I was wondering if you could do me a favor. I need a look at anything you’ve got on Helen Friedlander, 12-17 West 82nd, Apt. 15A. She was a B & E with, I believe, an assault—a pretty serious one, since she’s been in the ICU ever since, comatose.

  I appreciate it, and, no, it’s not for a story, so don’t worry about your commanding officer.

  John Trent

  Senior Crime Correspondent

  New York Chronicle

  To: Max Friedlander

  From: John Trent

  Subject: Helen Friedlander

  Don’t worry. Everything went fine. I safely evaded Ms. Fuller’s queries about my work for the Save the Children fund. Nice one, by the way. I suppose by children you mean those eighteen-year-old gum-chewing sticks you spend your days photographing in fashions only fifty-year-old divorcees can afford?

  You really are a bastard, you know.

  John

  To: John Trent

  From: Max Friedlander

  Subject: Lighten up

  God, I forgot what a stick in the mud you could be. No wonder you haven’t had a girlfriend in so long. What was wrong with the last one? Oh, yeah, I remember: the Kierkegaard collection that matched the sofa. Dude, you need to chill. Who cares what books a woman’s got on her shelves?

  It’s what she’s like between the sheets that matters, heh heh heh.

  Max

  To: John Trent

  From: Sergeant Paul Reese

  Subject: Helen Friedlander

  Trent—

  File’s on its way. Or should I say, some copies of the file that were accidentally made while the CO was at lunch. If any of this shows up in your paper, Trent, you can kiss that Mustang of yours goodbye. Consider it impounded.

  Brief summation of incident involving Helen Friedlander:

  Call came in at approximately 8:50 A.M., reporting unconscious female in her home. We had a unit in the park nearby. They arrived on the scene at approximately 8:55 A.M. Found victim being given first aid by woman purporting to be neighbor. Later confirmed woman as one Melissa Fuller, living next door in apartment 15B.

  Victim approximately eighty-year-old woman. When originally found, was facedown on living room carpet. Witness claims in her statement that she turned the woman to check for heartbeat, respiratory distress, etc. Victim breathing with weak pulse when EMS arrived at 9:02 A.M.

  No sign of break-in or illegal entrance to home. Outside lock not tampered with. Door unlocked, according to neighbor.

  According to doctors, victim was struck on the back of the head with blunt object, possibly small-caliber pistol. Assault occurred approximately twelve hours before discovery of victim. Questions put to doormen and neighbors revealed that

  a) no one called upon apartment 15A the night previous to the discovery of the victim.

  b) no one heard any sort of disturbance at or around 9:00 P.M. that evening.

  One added note: There were a number of the victim’s clothing thrown across her bed, as if previous to accident, victim had been trying to decide what to wear. However, victim, when found, was in nightclothes, including hair curlers, etc.

  A reporter might try to make something out of the fact that this could be construed as another attack by the transvestite killer. There is one major difference, however: The transvestite killer actually kills his victims, and tends to stick around to make sure they are really dead.

  Additionally, the transvestite killer’s victims have all been in their twenties, thirties, and forties. Mrs. Friedlander, though apparently spry for her age, was unlikely to be mistaken for a younger woman.

  Well, that’s it. We got nothing. Of course, if the old lady croaks, that’ll change things. But unless that happens, this is being treated as an interrupted robbery.

  That’s all I can think of.

  Good luck.

  Paul

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: He didn’t mean it

  Nadine, you know he didn’t mean it. At least not the way you think he did.

  All Tony was saying is that if you’re going to sit around and complain about your weight so much, why not do something about it and join a gym. He never said you were fat. All right? I was there. HE DID NOT SAY YOU’RE FAT.

  Now are you seriously going to tell me you didn’t you have fun at the party? And Tony’s uncle Giovanni is a doll. That toast he gave the two of you…it was so sweet! I swear, Nadine, sometimes I’m so jealous of you I could burst.

  I would give anything to find a guy with an uncle Giovanni who’d throw me a pool party and call me a Botticelli Venus.

  And you did NOT look fat in that suit. My God, it had enough Gortex in it to keep Marlon Brando’s flab in check. Your tiny belly didn’t stand a chance.

  So would you snap out of it and act like an adult?

  If you’re good, I’ll let you come over and spy on Max Friedlander with me…. Oooh, look, tonight he’s got on a muscle tee….

  Mel

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: My butt

  You are lying. About the muscle tee and about what Tony meant. You know good and well he meant that he’s sick of my size 16 rear end. I am sick and tired of my size 16 rear end. And I fully intend to join a gym.

  I just don’t need Tony suggesting it.

  It’s h
is fault I’m this size, you know. I was a size 12 until he came along and started making me his trademark pappardelle alla Toscana with four cheeses and a marsala wine sauce every night. “Oh, baby, come on, just try a taste, you’ve never had anything like it.”

  Ha!

  And what about his rigatoni alla vodka? Vodka, my ass. That’s a cream sauce, and nobody can tell me any different.

  And as for being called a Botticelli Venus, believe me, there are better things to be called.

  Now, what’s the dog guy really wearing?

  Nad :-/

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: What he’s wearing

  What do you care what he’s got on? You’re engaged.

  But if you insist….

  Let me see, he is laying (or is it lying? No wonder they stuck me on Page Ten) on the bed in jeans and a T-shirt (sorry, no muscle tee—you’re right, I was lying to see if you were paying attention). He has his laptop out again. Paco is there beside him. Paco is looking disgustingly happy, I must say. That dog never looked that happy when I was over there. Maybe—

  Oh, my God! No wonder that dog is happy! He’s feeding him Alpo—on the bed! That dog is getting Alpo all over Mrs. Friedlander’s guest room’s chenille bedspread! What is wrong with this man? Doesn’t he realize chenille has to be dry-cleaned?

  This is so pathetic. This is so pathetic, Nadine. I mean, the pathos of it all just suddenly came washing over me. I am sitting here in my apartment, recording the guy next door’s activities for my best friend, who is engaged. Nadine, you are getting married! And what am I doing? Sitting here at home in my sweats e-mailing my girlfriend.

  I AM PATHETIC!!! I am worse than pathetic, I am—

  OH, MY GOD. OH, MY GOD, Nadine! He just saw me. I’m not kidding. He just waved!!!

  I am so embarrassed. I am going to die. I am going to—

  Oh, my God, he’s opening the window. He’s opening the window. He’s saying something to me.

  I’ll get back to you.

  Mel

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: WRITE BACK!!!!

  If you don’t write me back tonight, I swear I am calling the cops. I don’t care if I’m just like your mother. You don’t know anything about this guy, except that his crazy aunt lives next door to you and he has a naked picture of himself up in the Whitney. Which I think you and I need to take a little field trip on Tuesday to see, by the way.

  WRITE BACK TO ME…

  or the boys from the eighty-seventh precinct will be paying you another visit.

  Nad

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Tony Salerno

  Subject: Cut it out

  I’ve been trying to get through to you for the past two hours, but your phone’s been busy. I can only assume that either it’s off the hook because you don’t want to talk to me, or you are yakking it up on-line with Mel. If it is the latter, go off-line and call me at the restaurant. If it is the former, stop being such a spaz.

  All I said was if you’re that freaked out about this whole wedding dress thing, get a personal trainer, or something. I mean, jeez, Nadine, you’re driving me crazy with this whole size 12 crap. Who CARES what size you are?I don’t care. I love you exactly the way you are.

  And I don’t give a rat’s ass how many of your sisters have worn that stupid dress of your mother’s. I hate that dress anyway. It’s ugly. Just go out and buy a new dress, one that fits you the way you are NOW. You’ll feel better in it and it will look better on you. Your mother will understand, and who cares what your sisters think? Screw your sisters, anyway.

  I have to go. Table 7 just sent back their salmon because it was undercooked. See what you made me do?

  Tony

  To: Tony Salerno

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: Excuse me…

  but I do not appreciate your attitude toward my sisters. I happen to like my sisters. What if I said screw your brothers? What if I said screw your uncle Giovanni? How would you like that, huh?

  It’s all very well for you to talk. All you have to do is throw on some rented tuxedo. I on the other hand have to be radiant.

  DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND???

  God, it’s so easy to be a man.

  Nad

  To: Nadine Wilcock

  From: Mel Fuller

  Subject: No big deal

  He just couldn’t figure out how to work his aunt’s electric can opener. He bought Mr. Peepers some actual tuna in order to lure him out from under the bed. It didn’t work, of course. I suggested next time he buy tuna in water rather than in oil. I don’t know that cats like oil so much.

  Anyway, while I was there, he asked which was the best place in the neighborhood to order Chinese from. So I told him, and then he asked if I’d had dinner, and I said no, so he asked if I wanted to order with him, and so I said yes, and we had barbecued spare ribs, cold sesame noodles, moo shu pork, and chicken with broccoli.

  And I know what you are going to say now, and no, it was not a date, Nadine. For God’s sake, it was only Chinese food. In his aunt’s kitchen. With Paco sitting there, waiting for one of us to drop something so he could vacuum it up.

  And no, he didn’t make a pass at me. Max, I mean, not Paco. Although I don’t see how he could resist, seeing as how I’m sure I was quite stunning in my it’s-Saturday-night-and-I-don’t-have-a-date sweats.

  The fact is, Dolly has to be wrong about Max. He’s no ladies’ man. It was all very casual and friendly. It turns out we have a lot in common. He likes mysteries and so do I, so we talked about our favorite mysteries. You know, he is quite literary, for a photographer. I mean, compared to some of the guys in the art department at work. Can you picture Larry conversing knowingly about Edgar Allan Poe? I don’t think so.

  Oh, God, a horrible thought just occurred to me: What if all that stuff Dolly said about Max is true, and he IS a ladies’ man? What does that mean, seeing as how he didn’t make a pass at me?

  It can only mean one thing!

  Oh, God, I’m hideous!

  Mel

  To: Mel Fuller

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: Go take a Midol…

  would you, please? You are not hideous. I’m sure all those things Dolly said about Max Friedlander aren’t true. I mean, it’s DOLLY, for God’s sake. She used to have YOUR job. Only unlike you, she wasn’t exactly scrupulous about what she reported. For instance, I sincerely doubt she’d have felt your moral outrage over what Matt Damon did to Winona.

  I’m sure Max is a very nice guy, just like you said.

  Nad :-)

  To: Dolly Vargas

  From: Nadine Wilcock

  Subject: Max Friedlander

  All right. Spill it. What’s the truth about this guy? Because he has basically moved in next door to Mel and she’s clearly smitten, despite her protests to the contrary. Is he really as bad as you say, or are you exaggerating, as usual?

  And remember: I am the head food critic at the paper. With a single phone call I can make sure you never get into Nobu again, so don’t mess with me, Dolly.

  Nad

  To: [email protected]

  From: Jason Trent

  Subject: So?

  You’re not speaking to me now, or what? All I said on the phone was that what you don’t know about women would fill the Grand Canyon. What are you so touchy about all of a sudden?

  Jason

  P.S.: Stacy wants to know if you’ve asked the redhead out yet.r />
  To: Jason Trent

  From: [email protected]

  Subject: So?

  I am not being touchy. What do you want from me? Not all of us have a personal assistant, a driver, an au pair, a housekeeper, a gardener, a team of pool maintenance workers, a tennis instructor, a nutritionist, and a job our grandfather handed to us on a silver platter, you know. I’m just busy, all right? My God, I’ve got a full-time job and a Great Dane I have to walk four times a day.

  John

  P.S.: Tell Stacy I’m working on it.

  To: [email protected]

  From: Jason Trent

  Subject: You ought to seek professional help

  Listen, you psychotic freak: Where is this hostility coming from? You know, you could have a job in your grandfather’s office if you wanted one. Ditto a personal assistant. I don’t know about a team of pool maintenance workers, as, living in the city, you don’t have a pool. But everything I’ve got you could easily have if you would just give up this absurd quest you’ve embarked on to prove you can get along without Mim’s money.

  I’ll tell you the one thing you really need that you don’t have is a psychiatrist, buddy, because you seem to be in grave danger of forgetting something:

  You do not have to walk that damn dog four times a day. Why? Because you are not Max Friedlander. Got it?

  YOU ARE NOT MAX FRIEDLANDER, no matter what you’re telling that poor girl.

  Now get over yourself.

  Jason

  P.S.: Mim wants to know if you are going to the dedication of that new wing we’ve donated to Sloan-Kettering. If you are, she requests that you wear a tie for a change.