Box. Part 22

Because if he really thought I was a pervert, wouldn't he have arrested me?

I get a sudden sinking feeling, remembering how long he had my wallet when I was leaning against the car with my back to him.

He probably copied all my information in a notebook.

Name. Address. Driver's License. Credit cards, including the security codes.

s.h.i.+t!

Since he didn't take me in, and didn't have a cop car, he's probably not even a cop.

I call the rental car agency in Nashville and report stolen keys.

It takes ten minutes to convince them the car is safely in my possession.

"Why didn't you say so?" the lady says. "We're hooked up to satellite. We can start your car for you. When you get where you're going, call us back and we'll turn it off and lock it. When you're ready to go again, call us and we'll unlock it and start it up for you again."

I'm amazed, but it seems like a lot of trouble to go through.

"Is there an easier way?"

"You could download the key app and do it yourself from your cell phone."

"Why didn't you say that in the first place?"

"The key app costs ninety-nine cents."

I shake my head. Like I'd spend a hundred-fifty a day to rent the car, but wouldn't spend another buck to make it work. "I'll spring for it," I say. "How do I find the app?"

"I'm not cleanin' this mess up by myself," she says.

THE PHONE APP to start the car is amazing. The sort of thing I wish I'd invented. When you bring it up it looks exactly like the remote control that was built into the key. There are four b.u.t.tons. The top one locks the car. Bottom left unlocks it. Bottom right unlocks the trunk. Center b.u.t.ton starts or shuts off the engine. I press the center b.u.t.ton, and the engine starts. Like I say, amazing. I put the car in gear and make my way up the riverbank. When I get to the top, I park while deciding what to do next.

I think about driving to Zander's house, but realize I don't know her address. I consider filing a police report, but apart from a wounded ego and the loss of what to me is a small amount of cash, it would be a complete ha.s.sle.

There are two women still in the mix: Trudy, who probably doesn't want me now that she's independently wealthy, and Renee Williams, the thirty-year-old kindergarten teacher whose husband ran off with her best friend. Renee being my sure thing.

Given the choice, I'd take Trudy over Renee in a heartbeat. Except that I'm ninety minutes from Starbucks, where Trudy lies in a hospital bed, currently unable to have s.e.x.

I call Renee.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Hi Renee, It's Gideon Box, from Manhattan."

"Kansas?"

"New York City."

"Gideon Box?"

"The doctor. We met on the dating site?"

She pauses a beat.

"OmiG.o.d!" she squeals. "I'm so sorry! You're Dr. Box! Yes, absolutely! Hi! How are you?"

"I'm great."

"What's up, Doc?" she says, then laughs hysterically.

"Funny," I say. Then say, "Have you met a handsome, famous movie star yet?"

"Nope."

"How about an airplane pilot?"

She giggles. "Nope."

"In that case, I thought you should know I'm in Kentucky."

"OmiG.o.d! Where?"

"Have you ever heard of a place called Paducah?"

"Of course, silly! It's not but thirty minutes from here! Can I come see you?"

See me? That happy thought hadn't even crossed my mind.

"Yes, of course!" I say. "But I don't have a hotel room yet."

"You won't get one, either. Not in Paducah."

"Why, is there a convention?"

"In Paducah?"

She laughs. "Not that I know of. I just mean there are no hotels in Paducah. But they've got some decent motels. How about I jump in the car and head that way? When I get to town I'll call and you can tell me where you are."

"Sounds great. I'll get a room, check in, and wait to hear from you."

"I'm so excited, Gideon!"

"Me, too!"

"By the way," she says, "I love your name! Gideon sounds n.o.ble, and grand. I'm sorry I didn't remember it. I always think of you as Dr. Box."

"That's quite alright."

"See you soon!"

"Can't wait."

Here's what I know about Renee Williams: she's thirty, she's a kindergarten teacher, her husband ran off with her best friend, and she's looking for revenge. According to Renee, the best revenge would be to have an affair with her best friend's husband.

If her best friend's husband was successful.

Or even good-looking.

Or even clean.

Since he's none of those things, her first choice is a handsome, famous movie star, an airplane pilot, or a rich doctor.

She didn't say a young, good-looking doctor.

She said a rich one.

Like I said, Renee Williams is a sure thing.

RENEE WAS WRONG. Paducah actually does have a hotel, and it's a famous one. But I want to be in a newer area, near the interstate, so I found a surprisingly decent, clean, king suite with a kitchen, desk, couch and all the amenities you could hope to get for a hundred thirty-five a night. I'm not trying to impress you with the room. It's not that nice. Even in New York City it wouldn't run more than two-twenty.

But in New York City it wouldn't be this clean.

I call Renee to tell her I'm staying at the Royal Landmark Inn, and she says, "Wow! Perfect timing!"

"You can't already be here," I say.

"No, silly!" she says. "I'm still at home getting all pretty for you. But I'm standing here in tub water, naked, with a razor in my hand."

I wonder if she's contemplating suicide. Surely she can wait till after our date for that.

She says, "How do you like it?"

"Like what?"

"Are you going to make me say it?"

"Yes." Because I have no idea what she's talking about.

"Oh, so you like dirty talk?"

I now have even less idea what she's talking about.

But I do like dirty talk when a naked woman's on top, b.i.t.c.h-slapping me with her t.i.ts. Or yelling at me as I hammer her from behind when she's face-down, a.s.s-up, on her knees. In contrast, I didn't care for the dirty talk I got from Zander's fake-cop boyfriend a few minutes ago. If Renee is anything like her photos, she's nothing like Zander's boyfriend. So I'm probably on safe ground by saying, "I love dirty talk!"

"Oooh, I bet you do-oo-oooh," she says with what she considers a s.e.xy voice. "Well, aren't you a bad doctor boy! You are a bad doctor, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Renee's got me pegged. I may be a great surgeon, but I am a bad doctor. I hear it all the time. I've got a terrible bedside manner, and have problems communicating with people. Half the time I have no idea what they're even talking about.

Like now.

She says, "Oh, bad boy?"

"Yes?"

"Don't forget, I'm standing here, completely naked."

"Wow!"

"Mmmm! And you know what I'm doing?"

"What?"

"I'm looking at my p.u.s.s.y."

"Wow!"

"Would you like to see it?"

"Absolutely!"

"Try to picture it right now."

"Okay."

"Do you see where I'm going with this? I'm trying to decide how you like it."

I get it.

She's role-playing.