Boy - The Boy Next Door Part 6

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????????????

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 a.s.sault--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 CO.

John Trent Senior Crime Correspondent The 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 18-year-old gum-chewing sticks you spend your days photographing in fas.h.i.+ons only 48-year-old divorcees can afford? You really are a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you know.

J.

To: John Trent From: Max Friedlander

Subject: Lighten up

G.o.d, 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 Kierkegaarde 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 good bye. Consider it impounded.

Brief summation of incident involving Helen Friedlander: Call came in at approximately 8:50AM, reporting unconscious female in her home. We had a unit in the park nearby. They arrived on the scene at approximately 8:55AM.

Found victim being given first aid by woman purporting to be neighbor. Later confirmed woman as one Melissa Fuller, living next door in Apt 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 9:02AM. 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. a.s.sault occurred approximately twelve hours before discovery of victim.

Questions put to doormen and neighbors revealed that a) no one called upon Apt. 15A the night previous to the discovery of the victim.

b) no one heard any sort of disturbance at or around 9PM 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 transvest.i.te killer. There is one major difference, however: the transvest.i.te killer actually kills his victims, and tends to stick around to make sure they are really dead. Additionally, the transvest.i.te killer's victims have all been in their 20s, 30s, and 40s. 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. Then the thing s.h.i.+fts to a homicide, and we'll get the d.i.c.ks in and dust for prints, etc. But unless that happens, this is being treated as an interrupted robbery. That's all I can think of. Good luck, and tell your colleagues to knock it off already on the Street Crime Unit. Yeah, some of them are sc.u.mbags, but most of them are good guys.

Paul To: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k 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 G.o.d, 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, Ill let you come over and spy on Max Friedlander with me....Oooh, look, tonight he's got on a muscle T....

Mel To: Mel Fuller From: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k Subject: My b.u.t.t

You are lying. About the muscle T and about what Tony meant. You know good and well he meant that he's sick of looking at my size sixteen rear end. I am sick and tired of looking at my size sixteen rear end. And I fully intend to join a gym. I just don't need Tony suggesting it. It's his fault I'm this size, you know. I was a size twelve until he came along and started making me his trademark pappardella 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 a.s.s. That's a cream sauce, and n.o.body 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?

N :-/.

To: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k 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-s.h.i.+rt (sorry, no muscle T--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 G.o.d! 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 was.h.i.+ng 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 emailing my girlfriend. I AM PATHETIC!!!! I am worse than pathetic, I am-- OH MY G.o.d. OH MY G.o.d, Nadine! He just saw me. I'm not kidding. He just waved!!!! I am so embarra.s.sed. I am going to die. I am going to-Oh my G.o.d, he's opening the window. He's opening the window. He's saying something to me.

I'll get back to you.

To: Mel Fuller From: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k 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 Monday to see, by the way. WRITE BACK TO ME-- or the boys from the 87th Precinct will be paying you another visit.

Nad To: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k 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 a.s.sume 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 twelve c.r.a.p. 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 a.s.s 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?

T.

To: Tony Salerno From: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k Subject: Excuse me....

but I do not appreciate your att.i.tude towards 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???? G.o.d, it's so easy to be a man.

Nad

To: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k 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 olive oil. I don't know that cats like olive 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 at Mrs. Friedlander's kitchen table. And I know what you are going to say now, and no, it was not a date, Nadine.

For G.o.d'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 in his jowls.

And no, he didn't make a pa.s.s 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-Sat.u.r.day-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, G.o.d, 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 pa.s.s at me? It can only mean one thing!

Oh, G.o.d, I'm hideous!

Mel

To: Mel Fuller From: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k Subject: Go take a Midol...

would you, please? You are not hideous. I'm sure all those things Dolly said about MaxFriedlander arent true. I mean, it's DOLLY, for G.o.d'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 he's a very nice guy, just like you said.

Nad :-) To: Dolly Vargas From: Nadine Wilc.o.c.k 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. I can make sure you never get into n.o.bu again with a single phone call, so don't mess with me, Dolly.

Nadine

To: [email protected] From: Jason Trent Subject: So?

You're not speaking to me now, or what? All I said 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

PS Stacy wants to know if you've asked the redhead out yet.

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 a.s.sistant, 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 to on a silver platter, you know. I'm just busy, all right? My G.o.d, I've got a full time job and a Great Dane I have to walk four times a day.

John PS 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 a.s.sistant. 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 d.a.m.n 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.

PS 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.

To: Mel Fuller From: [email protected] Subject: Hi It's me. Max Friedlander, I mean. I'm [email protected] That's a reference to Jerry Garcia. He was the lead singer in the Grateful Dead. In case you didn't know. How are you? I hope you didn't actually try those leftover cold sesame noodles yesterday. My share congealed overnight into something resembling stucco. Look, I think some of your dry cleaning got delivered to my aunt's apartment last night instead of yours. At least, I don't think my aunt owns any leopard blouses from Banana Republic--or at least, if she does, she unfortunately hasn't had much opportunity to wear them lately--so it must be yours, right? Maybe we could meet later for a dry cleaning exchange. Oh, and I noticed there's a digitally-restored re-release of Shadow of a Doubt playing tomorrow night at Film Forum. I know you said that was your favorite Hitchc.o.c.k film. I thought maybe we could catch a seven o'clock showing, if you don't have other plans, then maybe grab something to eat later--preferably not Chinese food. Let me know.

Max Friedlander PS I've been meaning to tell you, my friends call me John. It's a college thing that sort of stuck.

To: From: Mel Fuller