I hadn’t walked very far, though, before I noticed that many of the kids roaming across the lot were carrying book bags on their backs.
Just what I needed!
Instead of striking out for home, I made a detour into the mall.
It was good to be in such a familiar place. Rarely a week ever went by that I didn’t visit the mall at least once. I would spend a couple of hours there, just wandering, browsing through the stores, having a nice lunch at the food court. It was a quiet, pleasant place—and just about the only place in town worth going to, except for the cineplex.
Wandering the mall, a person can pretty much stay anonymous.
Pretty much but not completely.
If you visit the same shops or food stands time after time, certain employees will start to recognize you. They have no way to learn your name unless you introduce yourself or pay with a credit card or check, but some are bound to know your face.
Some might even know it well enough to wonder how come, today, I was wearing a bright red wig.
So my first stop, after entering the mall, was the ladies’ restroom.
As I understand it, California has a law against security cameras in toilet cubicles. You can’t blow your nose in this state without breaking the criminal code, but this is one law I really go for. I mean, you don’t want some horny degenerate of a security guard watching you on TV while you’re doing your stuff, if you get my meaning.
They’re allowed to spy on you with hidden cameras just about everywhere else, but not when you’re in a stall.
So that’s where I went.
First, I availed myself of the toilet since it happened to be there anyway and it didn’t look hideous. Unbelievable as this may seem, the last person using this public toilet had actually flushed it. Not only that, but (hold on to your hat), she hadn’t left a puddle—or worse—on the seat! I was impressed and grateful.
Shit, I wanted to meet her!
Never mind.
With my purse hanging from a hook on the door and my grocery sack down on the floor, I hoisted my skirt, pulled my panties down around my ankles, and hovered a couple of inches above the seat. (Even if the seat looks clean, you sure don’t want to sit on it. You don’t even want to think about what’s been on it.)
The toilet paper dispenser, of course, turned out to be empty. Always prepared, I used some tissues from my purse.
Then I flushed the toilet.
I’ve possibly done some lousy things in my life, but I’ve always flushed after myself.
Anybody who doesn’t is nothing short of a pig.
After flushing, I pulled up my panties, stood in front of the toilet, and let my skirt drift down around my legs. Then I took off my gaudy red wig and stuffed it into the grocery sack.
Anything else I should do while I’ve got some privacy?
Of course!
It wasn’t easy to do in the confines of the toilet stall, but I bent over, reached down deep into my sack, and pulled out a few packets of cash. I transferred some denominations back and forth. Finally, I ended up with about three hundred dollars, mostly in twenties and tens. I put that money into my purse.
Then I crumpled down the top of my sack so nobody would be able to see inside. I picked it up, took my purse off the hook, unlatched the door, and stepped out of the stall.
I stopped in front of a mirror. The redhead was gone. I looked like myself again. Almost.
Nobody else was using the restroom, just then, so I set down the bag, took a brush out of my purse, and spent a couple of minutes working my hair into shape. When I was done, it still wouldn’t win any prizes. It no longer looked frightful, though.
Now that I was resuming my own identity, I fastened the upper buttons of my blouse. I also took off my big, hoop earrings and tucked them away in my purse.
All set, I picked up my grocery sack and walked out of the restroom. I strolled the length of the mall, entered J.C. Penney’s, found myself a nice green book bag (or backpack, as the case may be), and bought it with cash.
Right in front of the clerk, I removed its tags and stickers, stuffed my grocery sack inside, then swung the pack onto my back and slipped my arms through its straps.
On my way out, I wondered if I needed anything else before leaving the mall.
How about supper?
Wong’s Kitchen in the food court had great orange chicken, barbecued pork, fried wonton, etc. I was tempted. But on the other hand, remaining at the mall would increase my chances of running into someone who knew me.
Get out now.
Go home.
I went straight to the nearest exit and walked out into the heat and glare of late afternoon. My sunglasses helped against the glare. After putting them on, I paused long enough to stuff my purse into the backpack.
Then I was off.
I started with a brisk pace, but couldn’t keep it up for long. Though a breeze sometimes stirred against me, the day was too hot for hurrying. And I was in lousy shape from too little sleep, too many injuries, too much prolonged stress, and the ungodly amount of stenuous physical activity I’d gone through since the start of my problems last night.
Soon, I was short of breath, my heart was racing, and sweat was pouring out of me.
I slowed down.
Slow and steady gets the job done.
Before long, I was feeling a lot better.
I knew from my many trips to the mall, however, that it was six miles from home. At my usual pace, I could walk more than four miles per hour. This was probably half that speed.
Six miles at two miles per hour.
I did some tricky math.
A three-hour hike?
Dismayed by the idea of not making it home until about eight o’clock, I decided to pick up my pace as much as possible.
I must’ve been an interesting sight for the motorists as I hurried down the sidewalk. Even without the wig, I was conspicuous in my bright yellow blouse and flowing green skirt. Not to mention, as we all know, I’m built like a brick shithouse. Plus, my bra hadn’t exactly been designed for maximum support, so my quick and bouncy strides made for a lot of bust action—which was exaggerated still more by the backpack. The pack’s weight thrust my chest forward, while its straps drew my shoulders back and pulled at the front of my blouse as if trying to rip it open. If that weren’t enough, every stride sent my bare leg swinging out through the slit in my skirt.
Every now and then, guys in passing cars tooted at me, whistled at me, or called out. Because of traffic noise, I couldn’t really hear what they were yelling. Probably a combination of compliments, critical remarks, suggestions and offers—all crude.
When guys shout at you from car windows, they never say anything that isn’t crude.
Before too long, the inevitable happened.
A car passed me, then slowed down, pulled over to the side of the road and stopped.
I felt only a slight sinking sensation. This was no cause for alarm—just a nuisance. Probably some jerk hoping to get lucky.
I kept walking, but picked up my speed as I neared the car.
When I came up alongside it, the passenger door swung open. Not even glancing in, I started to step around the door.
“Alice?”
A man, and he knew my name.
Instead of my name, it might’ve been the squeak and crackle of ice beginning to break under my feet—if I were standing on a frozen lake a mile from any shore.
This can’t be good!
I lurched to a halt, ducked, and peered in through the open door. Nobody in the passenger seat.
The driver looked familiar, but…I suddenly recognized him, and the ice froze solid again.
I felt so relieved that I was almost glad to see him.
“Elroy?” I asked.
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”
The same old Elroy.
“I’ve got room for two in my buggy,” he said.
“Are you offering me a ride?”
&n
bsp; “Hop right in.”
So I took off my pack. Holding it in front of me with both hands, I climbed into Elroy’s car. Then I leaned out and pulled the door shut. “This is really nice of you,” I said.
“Just call me Mr. Nice Guy.”
In the past, I had generally called him Dork-head, but not to his face.
A couple of years earlier, he and I had worked in the same law office for about six months. We were both employed as secretaries. I couldn’t stand him, but I’d always treated him okay, and he’d apparently liked me quite a lot.
“Buckle up for safety,” he said.
Realizing that he probably wouldn’t start driving until I’d complied with the rules, I brought the seatbelt down across my chest and latched it.
“I just couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw it was you,” he said, and checked the side mirror. “I said to myself, ‘Elroy, that woman bears a striking resemblance to our Alice. Is it possible?’Well, then I kept watching you and saw that it was not only possible, but factual.” He found an opening in the traffic and steered us onto the road. “I’m so glad to see you again. You’re looking utterly splendid.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’re looking great, yourself.”
So I’m a liar.
The one way Elroy did not look, and never would, was “great.” A skinny little guy with slicked-down black hair, big ears and a pointy nose, he looked mostly like a rat. A dapper rat, he nearly always wore a white shirt and blue bow-tie. He didn’t seem to have changed much—including his outfit—since I’d last seen him.
“I must say,” he said, “we’ve missed you at the office.”
“They can’t be missing me much. Hell, they fired me.”
“I miss you.”
“Well, thanks.”
“You always…cheered the place up.”
“My manic charm.”
“The other girls…they’re all such snotty bitches. You were always nice to me.”
“Well…thanks.”
“It’s so good to see you again. I just can’t believe we’ve run
into each other this way. I thought you’d left town.”
“No such luck,” I said.
“I’m sure someone told me you’d moved to El Paso.”
“Someone’s wishful thinking,” I said.
“Are you still living above that garage?”
“Still there. But you don’t need to spread the word around at the office.”
Giving me a sly glance, he said, “Mum’s the word.”
“Thanks. Let them keep on thinking I’m in El Paso.”
“It’ll be our little secret.”
“How is my old friend, Mr. Heflin, by the way?”
“Oh, Mr. Heflin. Polite. He is very polite to all the ladies. And he keeps his hands entirely to himself.”
“Glad to hear it. And how is he around stairways?”
“Careful. Very careful.”
“Has he made a complete recovery?”
“I shouldn’t say ‘complete.’ No. Hardly complete. He limps. I suspect he’ll always limp.”
“Sorry to hear that,” I said.
Which brought a squeaky laugh out of Elroy. He said, “Oh, Alice, I love it. You haven’t changed a bit. Not one smidgen. You’re such a terror.”
“That’s me.”
“So, where can I take you?”
“Where would you like to take me?” I asked.
42
THE INVITATION
“Oh, my,” Elroy said.
I gave him the eye and asked, “You didn’t go and get married, did you?”
Fat chance.
But you never know. It’s amazing, some of the losers who end up getting married. All they need to do is find someone who’s an even bigger loser.
“Nope,” Elroy said. “No ball and chain for yours truly. I’ve gotta have my freedom.”
“Going with anyone?”
“Aren’t we inquisitive?”
“I wouldn’t want to get you into hot water with your sweetie.”
“Hot water? How?”
“By having you over for dinner tonight. I happen to be house-sitting for my friends, this week. I’ve got their whole house all to myself. We could have cocktails by the swimming pool, and I’ll barbecue some steaks on the outdoor grill. How about it?”
I’d been watching his face go through changes. The way I read it, he was shocked and delighted by the invitation, but afraid I might be trying to embarrass him with a phony offer.
Casting me a smirk, he said, “Surely you jest.”
I tried to look hurt. “I thought you said you were glad to see me.”
“I am,” he insisted. “It’s just that…You aren’t serious about…what you just said about dinner. Are you?”
“Of course I’m serious.”
“Well, it sounds lovely, but…”
“Turn right at the next light.”
“Why?”
“It’s how we get there,” I explained, smiling.
“No, I mean…I’d be happy to just drop you off. You don’t have to make dinner for me.”
“I don’t have to, I want to.”
“That’s the part I don’t get.”
To be frank, I didn’t quite get it, myself.
Until running into Elroy, I’d only wanted to get home as soon as possible and be alone. Have a drink, have a meal, take a nice long bath, and go to bed. And sleep and sleep and sleep.
However. Being given the car ride would save me at least two hours of hard walking. I owed Elroy for that. Besides, I could spend an hour or so treating him to dinner, and still be ahead of the game timewise.
Another thing. I needed a chance to figure out whether or not Elroy was a threat to me. If asked, he could testify as to the time and place he’d picked me up. But did it matter? If it did matter, I needed to figure out how to prevent him from talking.
And. This may seem odd, considering. For one thing, I’m pretty much of a loner. For another, I’d always figured Elroy for a dork. But I actually liked the idea of having him around when I got home.
Life is strange.
I don’t know why anything happens. Why did I really ask Elroy to have dinner with me?
Maybe it was in my genes to invite him. Or in the cards. Or in the stars. Maybe I was programmed to do it by the Great Computer. Or moved by the Master of Games. Maybe God made me do it. Or the Devil.
If you want the truth, though, I guess the main reason must’ve had to do with Murphy.
It was Murphy, more than anything, that made me reluctant to be alone.
Too bad it couldn’t be him instead of Elroy keeping me company.
But Elroy would be better than nobody.
I supposed.
“What are you scared of?” I asked him in a teasing way.
“Me?” Elroy asked. “I’m not scared.”
“You seem awfully nervous.”
“Do I? I’m just…surprised, that’s all. We haven’t seen each other in ages, and all of a sudden you’re inviting me over to your place for dinner.”
“My friend’s place. Anyway, it seems like a fine idea to me. I always felt that we should’ve gotten to know each other better.”
“I asked you out, remember? You turned me down.”
I remembered, all right. He’d asked me out three different times, and I had always politely refused, claiming to have prior commitments.
“I had a rule against dating anyone at work,” I explained. “But now that I don’t work there anymore, I don’t see any reason for us to stay away from each other. Do you?”
“Me? No. I never did.”
“Then you’ll have dinner with me?”
“I’d be most honored.”
“Good deal.”
After that, I gave him directions now and then, while he filled me in on doings at the office, gave me a summary of his own recent activities (dull as mud), and asked about mine. I didn’t want to admit much of the truth, so I told him that
I was now a mystery writer.
“Oh, how exciting! Have you had anything published?”
“Just one book, so far.”
“But that’s spectacular! I’m so excited for you.”
“Thanks.”
“The big bad girl makes good!”
I smiled at him. “Watch it, buddy.”
“So, what’s the title of your book?”
“Depths of Darkness.”
“Excellent! It’s so…evocative! And is it published under your own name? I do hope so. You’ve such an absolutely luscious name for a mystery writer.”
“Think so?”
“Oh, indeed,” he said. “But did you? Use your own name?”
“Absolutely.”
“Oh, good for you!” He spoke my name slowly and dramatically, so it almost sounded like poetry. (My actual name, not Alice.) “It’s so perfect, I just bet everyone must think it’s a pen name.”
“Maybe so,” I said, starting to regret the fabrication.
“ ‘She writes with a poison pen.’ ”
“Good one,” I said.
“I can’t wait to read it. It isn’t about intrigue in a law office, is it?”
“Not exactly.”
“Am I in it?”
Throwing him a mysterious smile, I said, “You’ll have to read it and find out.”
“Oooh. This is so exciting.”
“I’ll give you a copy if I can ever manage to get my hands on some.”
“You don’t have any?” He sounded shocked and appalled.
“Not at the moment. I only had twenty to start with. By the time I gave copies to my relatives and a few friends…and sent half a dozen to this film producer in Culver City…I’m trying to get more, but it isn’t easy.”
“That’s awful.”
“Well, it’s ridiculous. Seems like everybody has the book but me.”
“You don’t even have a copy for yourself?”
“Not at the moment. I loaned my last copy to a friend. But don’t worry about it, I’ll send you one the moment I get a new shipment.”
“I can hardly wait. Now, tell me about the movie version.”
This is the sort of crapola one gets into, on occasion, when one lies.
So I kept making up more lies, sometimes telling him to make turns, until finally we reached Serena and Charlie’s house.
“And here we are! Just go ahead and pull into the driveway.”
After Midnight Page 27