Weekend by Andrew Neiderman, Tania Grossinger

once been attracted to him. He was a raw animal in those days, an animal she could never get enough of. But lately, the base sensuality was beginning to border on brutality. Both in and out of bed, she found herself growing more and more afraid of him.
    She sorely needed a respite from their day-to-day life together. Thank God for places like the Congress!
    “I don’t understand,” Manny said, finally pulling up to the security booth, “why you shmucks can’t figure out another system. It’s like the Long Island Expressway here on a Friday afternoon.”
    “I need your name, sir,” the guard said, impervious to the insult.
    “Shit! No, I mean Goldberg. Like in Manny Goldberg.”
    The guard checked his list. “Of course, Mr. Goldberg. We’ve been expecting you. Just follow those cars to your right.” He pointed as he spoke.
    “You think this is my first time here? Save your breath for the suckers behind me.”
    “Can’t you be a little more gracious?” Flo suggested. “The man’s only doing his job. Someday you might appreciate their security system.”
    “The only thing I’ll appreciate now is a cool Tom Collins.”
    “You’re not going straight to the bar, are you?”
    “Look,” Manny said, pulling up to the front entrance, “this is a vacation, remember? We’re supposed to have a good time and right now, for me a good time means getting a drink.”
    “The luggage’s in the trunk,” he said, handing the keys to the carhop. “I’ll be back before you get your room key.” He left her steaming and went on his way.
    Flo slipped out of her seat carefully and pressed down the sides of her dress. Then she began to look over the young bellhops.
    “Right this way, ma’am,” the kid with her luggage said. She followed him through the main entrance. Manny was already out of sight. “I’ll just leave your stuff here on the side until you get your room assignment. My name’s Jack and I’ll be here whenever you need me.”
    That’s good to know, she thought. It may be sooner than he thinks. “Oh,” she said, spotting the hotel’s security chief near the reservations desk. “There’s Rafferty. Rafferty,” she shouted above the crowd, “It’s me, Flo Goldberg.”
    Vince Rafferty excused himself and started across the lobby. The tall ex-New York City cop had recognized her immediately. He couldn’t help remembering the last time in the Robin’s Nest cottage three years ago.
    “You’re my first Irishman,” she had told him. “And to think I thought the Irish only had freckles on their face.” She had done things to him he thought Jewish women never did and he’d looked forward to an encore the next time she came up, but that time she chose a Greek bartender instead. Well, maybe this year, he thought, though he had also heard last time around that she had taken a shine to Billy Marcus, the young bellhop from Penn State. He wondered. Was he getting too old?
    “Hi, Flo,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “Where’s your number one?”
    “In the bar as usual, fortifying himself. Raff, I think I’m going to need your service.” She looked at him in such a way he wasn’t sure whether there was a double entendre in her choice of words or not.
    “I brought a lot of jewelry up this time. We made a killing on the stock market.” Rafferty nodded, saddened that there was no entendre at all.
    “You want a safe deposit box, then?”
    “I think it’s a good idea, don’t you? I know you’ve never had trouble here with stealing, but I guess one can never be too careful.”
    “And you probably brought up more than you can wear.”
    “You’ve been around here too long. You’re beginning to sound more and more like my husband. Tell me,” her voice softened, “how’ve you been, really?”
    “No complaints. Getting older day by day but so far no ladies have checked out on my account.” The buttons of his shirt strained as his shoulders stretched the garment. Flo let her eyes fall