don’t think of it as rape, even now.”
“Then what the hell do they think it was?”
“One Thursday night with laughs last October. Something to break up the monotony of training camp.”
Salter reached down, snapped open a thin Vuitton briefcase, took out a manila envelope, handed it to DiMaggio. “There’s a picture of her in there.”
DiMaggio said, “Where’d you get this?”
“We got it,” Salter answered. “Hannah Carey, age thirty-one. Didn’t make it as an actress. Waitressed for a while, then went to work as a trainer for the Vertical Club. Her mother was a professional tennis player. Brother’s an actor, too. Jimmy Carey. Did a soap one time. Does commercials. No one seems to know whether Hannah Carey’s working right now, but she still works out at the Vertical almost every afternoon. We talked to the guy who runs the place.”
DiMaggio looked at the old black-and-white publicity picture ofHannah Carey. Short blond hair, huge eyes, great smile. Classic features all around, nose and cheekbones and jaw. Hannah Carey looked the way beautiful models used to look, before the famine.
Salter clapped his hands. “You’re supposed to be the best,” he said. “So go be the best.” Then he told DiMaggio to use his town car for the rest of the day if he wanted. Salter said he was going to walk back to the Garden, it would give him an hour when nobody could find him.
When DiMaggio got downstairs fifteen minutes later, the car was at the front door, next to the Sherry’s big clock. He told the driver, Rudy, to take him to the Vertical Club. Now they had been sitting in front of the Vertical since two o’clock, watching the media crowd grow on Sixty-first Street: photographers, minicams, kids with press cards clipped to the breast pockets of their blazers, most of the kids in jeans, DiMaggio surprised there seemed to be as many women as men.
He was starting to think about giving up on Hannah Carey, taking a ride up to Fulton instead, when everything started to happen across the street. The media crowd started to move, and then he saw Hannah Carey running toward Second Avenue.
“Go!” DiMaggio snapped at Rudy.
“Where?” Rudy said, pulling his cap down as if by reflex, half turning to DiMaggio as he did.
DiMaggio pointed to Hannah. “Get up alongside her before the dinks catch up.”
DiMaggio opened the door to the backseat when they started to catch up to her. Told her he was the good guys.
Hannah Carey, feeling dizzy and disoriented, hesitated.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she said. “You’re the good guys?” Still not making any move to get into the backseat.
The guy nodded past her, at the crowd. “You sure you don’t want to talk about this in the car?” Then he made some room for her.
Hannah looked over her shoulder, made up her mind, jumped into the backseat next to him, slammed the door behind her. The light was changing up ahead. The driver gunned the car and beat it. Nowthey were heading toward Third. Hannah twisted around in her seat, taking one last look. They were back on the other side of Second, pointing the minicams at the car like they wanted to open fire.
The guy smiled. “We should be able to make it over the mountains and into Switzerland from here.”
“This isn’t funny,” she said. “How do I know …?”
“You’re safe? You don’t. But you are. I’ll drop you at the next corner if you want.”
Hannah, still catching her breath, got herself turned around on the seat so she was facing him. Her dark-haired rescuer. Not bad-looking in his blue suit.
“Who
are
you?” she said.
“I told you,” he said. “My name’s DiMaggio.”
“I mean, what are you
doing
here?”
“Don’t get out of the car at the next corner and I’ll tell you.”
“But if I want to …”
“All you have to do is tell Rudy here to stop.”
Hannah leaned back, away from him, tucking herself into the corner. Maybe she should be as scared of him as she was
“Then what the hell do they think it was?”
“One Thursday night with laughs last October. Something to break up the monotony of training camp.”
Salter reached down, snapped open a thin Vuitton briefcase, took out a manila envelope, handed it to DiMaggio. “There’s a picture of her in there.”
DiMaggio said, “Where’d you get this?”
“We got it,” Salter answered. “Hannah Carey, age thirty-one. Didn’t make it as an actress. Waitressed for a while, then went to work as a trainer for the Vertical Club. Her mother was a professional tennis player. Brother’s an actor, too. Jimmy Carey. Did a soap one time. Does commercials. No one seems to know whether Hannah Carey’s working right now, but she still works out at the Vertical almost every afternoon. We talked to the guy who runs the place.”
DiMaggio looked at the old black-and-white publicity picture ofHannah Carey. Short blond hair, huge eyes, great smile. Classic features all around, nose and cheekbones and jaw. Hannah Carey looked the way beautiful models used to look, before the famine.
Salter clapped his hands. “You’re supposed to be the best,” he said. “So go be the best.” Then he told DiMaggio to use his town car for the rest of the day if he wanted. Salter said he was going to walk back to the Garden, it would give him an hour when nobody could find him.
When DiMaggio got downstairs fifteen minutes later, the car was at the front door, next to the Sherry’s big clock. He told the driver, Rudy, to take him to the Vertical Club. Now they had been sitting in front of the Vertical since two o’clock, watching the media crowd grow on Sixty-first Street: photographers, minicams, kids with press cards clipped to the breast pockets of their blazers, most of the kids in jeans, DiMaggio surprised there seemed to be as many women as men.
He was starting to think about giving up on Hannah Carey, taking a ride up to Fulton instead, when everything started to happen across the street. The media crowd started to move, and then he saw Hannah Carey running toward Second Avenue.
“Go!” DiMaggio snapped at Rudy.
“Where?” Rudy said, pulling his cap down as if by reflex, half turning to DiMaggio as he did.
DiMaggio pointed to Hannah. “Get up alongside her before the dinks catch up.”
DiMaggio opened the door to the backseat when they started to catch up to her. Told her he was the good guys.
Hannah Carey, feeling dizzy and disoriented, hesitated.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she said. “You’re the good guys?” Still not making any move to get into the backseat.
The guy nodded past her, at the crowd. “You sure you don’t want to talk about this in the car?” Then he made some room for her.
Hannah looked over her shoulder, made up her mind, jumped into the backseat next to him, slammed the door behind her. The light was changing up ahead. The driver gunned the car and beat it. Nowthey were heading toward Third. Hannah twisted around in her seat, taking one last look. They were back on the other side of Second, pointing the minicams at the car like they wanted to open fire.
The guy smiled. “We should be able to make it over the mountains and into Switzerland from here.”
“This isn’t funny,” she said. “How do I know …?”
“You’re safe? You don’t. But you are. I’ll drop you at the next corner if you want.”
Hannah, still catching her breath, got herself turned around on the seat so she was facing him. Her dark-haired rescuer. Not bad-looking in his blue suit.
“Who
are
you?” she said.
“I told you,” he said. “My name’s DiMaggio.”
“I mean, what are you
doing
here?”
“Don’t get out of the car at the next corner and I’ll tell you.”
“But if I want to …”
“All you have to do is tell Rudy here to stop.”
Hannah leaned back, away from him, tucking herself into the corner. Maybe she should be as scared of him as she was
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