B-Side

by Janis Jones

Larry looks worried and perplexed.

  “Whatever you mean, it’s just between us, Bud. You know that.”

  “I was so good to her. I thought it was really going someplace.”

  Derek signals a passing cocktail waitress, raising two fingers. He swings his attention back to Larry.

  “Did you do something? You know what I’m talking about. Did you do this thing, thinking I wanted it done?”

  “Shhhh. Shit, man. I don’t know what the hell you’re even talking about.”

  This was gonna be bad. Derek looked severely pissed. Larry thought maybe he could ride it out. Fake his way through it. Still, it put him on edge, and he just wanted to relax and have fun.

  Half-drunk, Derek hones in on Larry, interrogating him. His eyes bore into Larry’s.

  “Look, I hate to ask it this way, but did you send that little muscle-head bastard of yours to scare or hurt her?”

  “You are drunk, Sir! And here comes more. Perfect.”

  The cocktail waitress places two double vodkas in front of Derek. He drinks half of one in a giant swallow. Larry yanks out a wad of bills and peels off two fifties for the waitress. Derek protests.

  “There you go, Honey. Say, do you think you can get a massage… Oh, I mean message to Brandy-Marie up there?”

  “Thank you, Sir. Why sure I can.”

  She couldn’t even believe this old geezer used “finger quotes” when he talked. He probably made a phone sign with his thumb and little finger. Ick. His friend was cute though, kind of like an old Viggo Mortensen.

  “Just tell her I’m gonna need a “ride home”, but I’ll give her “gas money”… know what I mean?”

  He winks.

  “I guess, sure. She gets off in an hour-and-a-half.”

  Larry leers at her and makes a stupid joke.

  “She does? I wish she’d wait until she gets to my place to do that.”

  He strips one more fifty off the flash roll, handing it to her.

  “… I really ‘ppreciate your help, Honey. Muchas grassy-ass.”

  The waitress sashays off happily clutching the money. Now back to Derek.

  “Look what you did to me! Someone may even think I had something to do with it. I’m not ready to retire yet.”

  “I didn’t do shit, man. And frankly, Frank. . . you know how many times I’ve heard you say you wished she was . . . um . . . non-existent? Huh, do ya?”

  “And you think I meant that?”

  Larry shakes his head.

  “Look, Pard. If anything was done...—”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Hey, I said if anything was done . . . it’s easy enough to take care of.”

  “What were you thinking? Now I’ve gotta cover for you and your crap again. You don’t learn, do you?”

  “Fuckin’ A, what a buzzkill. We’re here on business . . . par-tay business.”

  “Susanna told me you were talking some crazy bullshit trying to impress her.”

  Larry looks worried and quickly veils it.

  “I guess she got worried and felt she should mention it to me.”

  “What?! What did I do?”

  “I don’t need this, man. I just really do not. I’m outta here.”

  Derek stands up, slugs down the second vodka and looks disgusted. He drops a large tip.

  Larry continues to play dumb.

  “You’re missing out, man. It’s about to get real good in awhile. I got something from Auntie Ev.”

  “Ev” is Larry’s code for Evidence Room, and he means drugs and seized money.

  “Look, I can’t clean up after you like last time. You’d better watch your step with that. You and your little Evidence Room elf could get flushed out very easily.”

  Derek takes his Marine keychain off his belt and points at Larry with the ignition key.

  “We will talk some more until I am satisfied with your explanation.”

  Derek sways in place and starts flipping his key chain around his finger as he glares at Larry.

  “There ain’t nothin’ to ’splain, Ricky. I have little elves in the North Pole and the South Pole. My hands are spotless and implication is Mission: Impossible.”

  Derek turns on his heel and lurches toward the exit.

  Larry looks down into his drink and shakes his head, muttering under his breath. He quickly pockets Derek’s tip.

  “Fuck me.”

  He raises his eyes and begins to re-focus on his favorite dancer. A goofy grin spreads across his face.

  Outside, Mara watches Derek leave. She continues her stake-out until Larry leaves the club with Brandy-Marie.

  Chapter 50

  Larry’s

  Mara drives slowly past Larry’s apartment building in Casey’s Miata. She gives them time to get fully involved, leaving to pick up her ‘props’ before dropping in on Larry and Brandy-Marie.

  On her return trip, she drives slowly past the apartments and parks the car one block away and two car-lengths from the corner. She picks up a plastic grocery bag from the seat and grabs a cold six-pack of beer that she has just bought at a liquor store.

  She walks toward the apartments. She wears a snug tank top, low-rise jeans and athletic shoes. Hair down, dangly earrings and necklace. She carries a small purse over her shoulder, a brown paper grocery bag, and the six-pack of bottled beer.

  She nears the front security gate of the apartments and sets her groceries down on the low brick wall in front. She pretends to search for something in her purse and talks on her cell.

  Shortly, a young college student and his girlfriend pull up to the curb, jump out and head for the gate. Mara picks up her purchases and casually approaches the gate with her hands full. The young man holds the gate open for her.

  “Thanks, perfect timing!”

  The girlfriend smiles and he speaks, winking at her.

  “You’re welcome. You know that feeling. Right, Gina?”

  The couple step into their lower floor apartment, closing the door.

  Mara continues on, looking up at Larry’s second floor apartment door at the far end of the courtyard. As she passes, she looks down into the floodlit turquoise shimmer of the pool. A few tired-looking float ‘noodles’ bob forlornly at the shallow end.

  She quietly climbs to the landing outside #215 and sets her packages down softly in a small planter containing a sickly potted palm. She listens at the door, checking the area for anyone else. A TV is playing a porn soundtrack at low volume.

  She gives a light courtesy knock, waits, then takes a plastic grocery card from her hip pocket. Finding the door locked, she holds the doorknob and slowly angles the card, slipping the latch open. She picks up the bag and six-pack and carefully advances through the dim alcove.

  A glimpse of Larry leaning back on his couch, a loopy expression on his face. He wears soggy swim trunks and clutches an empty, crushed beer can. Kneeling in front of him is Brandy-Marie Hansen, a twenty-four year-old stripper with long, permed hair and obvious over-sized breast implants. She wears an animal print thong and a hot pink bra peeled to her waist. Her matching nails are hot pink.

  The coffee table is littered with rolling papers, a baggie of cannabis, a stack of fat, Jamaican-style spliffs, a small Altoids tin of cocaine, Pringles and a greasy pizza carton. A caved-in box of wine slowly drips into Larry’s discarded sweat socks.

  Larry’s humongous wristwatch and Brandy-Marie’s gold jewelry lie in a tangled heap near a full ashtray and a can of macadamias.

  Larry and Brandy-Marie giggle in high-pitched voices, sniffing and coughing.

  “Well, honey, you ain’t no endangered species I ever saw!”

  Brandy-Marie snorts cocaine off Larry’s chest and laughs at his lame joke.

  “Oh, my gosh! You are just too funny, Honey . . . Bunny!”

&n
bsp; They both burst into giggles, their eyes streaming. Brandy-Marie reaches up to rub the excess coke on Larry’s gums, stabbing him with her long, hot pink acrylic nails. Larry groans and smacks his lips loudly, pouting at his injury. He looks up blearily to see Mara standing over him, a huge bag of tortilla chips, a tub of guacamole and his favorite imported beer. She smiles at him and his eyes go wide with amazement.

  “Mara! Is tha’ YOU?”

  Brandy-Marie swivels her bobble head and looks up at Mara.

  “It’s me, and I’ve got Heineken!”

  “Oh . . . wow! I love tha’ stuff. Iss Dutch or something, right?”

  As loaded as he is, still Larry tumbles to the fact that something is not quite right. He throws on his loud Hawaiian shirt, valiantly trying to get the inside-out shirt buttoned. He is distracted by the sweating bottles of his favorite beer and the rare sight of Mara in casual clothes.

  He feels an introduction is in order and tries to pass off the stripper as his girlfriend.

  “Mara, I wou’ like you da meet my . . . Mish Branny-Marie Hassen.”

  Larry desperately tries to focus. Mara bangs the six-pack of bottles down hard. She turns to Brandy-Marie, who has stood up and is giving her a patently manufactured seductive look.

  “You are on premises where illegal drugs are being used. Maybe you would like to be smart and leave?” For emphasis, Mara pulls up the hem of her tank top to reveal the gold shield clipped to her waistband.

  The young stripper believes she can ‘work’ Mara. She gives her an appraising look and takes her time pulling up her bra, adjusting it repeatedly while moistening her lips with her tongue.

  “Did you invite her, Larry? ’cause a three-way costs more . . . but it would be real fun.”

  Larry squints and hunches his shoulders, becoming more and more nervous. He is worried sick as the women continue to trade remarks. His face has gone pale.

  “You don’t interest me. I need to discuss business with my colleague, Mr. Fratiano. And I have no need to get you into legal difficulties.”

  The younger woman pauses, still cruising Mara.

  Mediocre hustling with fake interest from a drugged-up, straight stripper. What could be worse?

  “I like the way your . . .”

  Larry bugs out his eyes and frantically fans one hand, pantomiming that Brandy-Marie should leave.

  Mara cuts her dead with a look. Larry shields his eyes and thinks about grabbing a beer.

  “Look, I’ve said ‘not interested’ Now I’m saying, ‘I’m married’… got it?”

  “Ooh, what a waste.”

  The conversation stops as Mara’s hooded look gets the younger woman’s attention. Mara blinks slowly to stay calm and raises her voice slightly.

  “Don’t give me time to change my mind.”

  Brandy-Marie takes one final opportunity to be stupid.

  “I’d love to be somewhere making you change your mind for a couple of hours . . .” Goddamn it! This chick must have watched ‘BOUND’ a few too many times. …And you’re no Jennifer Tilly. Mara almost laughed at the thought. Another great story for Casey. Back to business.

  “Enough! Get your crap... and get gone.”

  Brandy-Marie finally takes the hint, scoops up her belongings, snags the tin of cocaine, pulls on short-shorts over her baby blue Uggs and heads for the door. Larry starts to object as she steals his drugs, but thinks better of it.

  “Bye, Baby! Call me at the club, sweetie!”

  The door clunks behind her.

  Mara goes into the kitchen, where she rummages through the drawers. Larry eyeballs the Heineken carrier longingly and slips a bottle out, twisting off the cap, taking a long drink and smacking his lips.

  “Hey, Mara...What are you lookin’ for? These are twist-off caps, Hon’.”

  Mara’s voice comes from the kitchen.

  “Found it!”

  She comes back into the living room, picks up the grocery bag and sets it on the floor closer to Larry.

  “Oh, Larry . . . What am I going to do with you, huh?”

  “You’re not gonna bust me for holding, right? Lemme call Derek . . .” He lunges for his cell phone.

  “Derek’s not bailing you out this time, Larry. He gave at the office.”

  Mara reaches into the bag and pulls out the huge package of tortilla chips, tosses it aside, then takes out a clear produce bag of whole walnuts.

  “You need a search warrant to come in here.”

  She was already in but still.

  Mara places two walnuts side by side on the table. Larry stares at them.

  “Got one. Now, here’s the deal. You tell me why you got your nephew to try and kill my girlfriend or . . .”

  BLAM! A dull flash of cast aluminum. The meat tenderizer mallet Mara has ‘borrowed’ from the kitchen smashes the walnuts into fragments. Pieces land on Larry, who is now jumpy and defensive.

  She lines up two more walnuts from the bag.

  “Whoa! What the hell, Mara?! You got this all wrong, Honey.”

  He touches his chest, looking earnest.

  “I have nothin’ to do with... ”

  BANG! Nutmeats and shards of walnut shell blast Larry in the face.

  “Cut that shit out!”

  He touches his face and stares at the blood he finds. He wipes his fingers off on his shirt, licks his fingertips and wipes them again.

  “I don’t even know the little bastard!”

  “Don’t bother, Larry. I’ve seen a photo of you two together. Now tell me why.”

  Two more walnuts assume the position.

  “‘Go fuck yourself, Bays. You’re bluffing.”

  “I could run out of nuts, Larry. Does it look like I’m bluffing?”

  “You haven’t got the...”

  WHAM! Shattered pieces of walnut bounce on the carpet. Mara’s eyes bore into Larry’s.

  “Larry, you put him up to it. Denny idolized you. I bet you bought him that muscle car, and he would have done anything to prove himself to you. I know you bought the flowers . . . just your kind of sick detail. Hey, you wanna see some pyramids?”

  Mara hefts the mallet, twirling the handle in her palm. She sticks one of the twin business ends under Larry’s nose, showing him the rows of shiny little pyramid spikes.

  She brings it down on the table near his shoulder with an ear-splitting SLAM!

  Larry looks like he could jump out of his skin.

  “And I know you killed him.”

  “I only did it to help Derek.”

  “You WHAT?” Her anger at a rolling boil, threatening to spill over the top.

  Larry’s queasy bravado takes center stage.

  “Yeah, that’s right. Ever since you hooked up with that little dyke bitch, he hasn’t been the same. I figured with her out, you and Derek could get back to it, and it would be happy family time again. You’d actually have some halfway cute kids maybe . . .”

  “Oh, even you cannot be this sick.”

  Larry is on a nervy roll.

  “Oh, that ain’t the half of it. It was his idea.”

  “Oh now this is some CYA bullshit.”

  Mara cocks her arm back with the mallet raised.

  Larry takes a chance and shrugs.

  “Hey, I know you don’t wanna hear it, but that’s just the way it is, Baby Girl.”

  “You’re a fucking liar! And a piss poor one at that, Larry!’”

  “I thought you quit cursing?”

  “Fuck off!”

  “You don’t believe me? Call Derek and ask him.”

  He leers at her.

  “I want you to.”

  Chapter 51

  Workout

  At home by himself, Derek wears warm-up pants, a new sweatshirt with the sleeves and neck cut ou
t and new athletic shoes. His shirt soaked with sweat. He strains, his back against a narrow weight bench, legs braced, doing bench-presses with a heavy barbell.

  After several reps, he squints and lets the barbell drop into the rack with a rocking clang. He sits up, crying. He puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He wags his head from side to side, unable to calm down.

  Standing up, he pauses and then sinks slowly to his knees and rests his face and arms on the bench. He talks to himself, choking and trying to breathe evenly.

  “I can’t do this. I can’t do this anymore. Oh, please, I just can’t.”

  His cell phone buzzes.

  “Fuck.”

  He ignores the call, not even checking the phone.

  “It’s unforgivable.”

  He walks to the kitchen sink, throws water on his face, grabs a dishtowel and loops it around his neck. He pushes the ends into his eyes, rubbing hard. His service pistol in its holster and a second smaller pistol lie near the black toaster and coffee maker.

  Everything about the room suggests order, restraint and good taste: Black bookcases, black dining table and chairs, stainless steel appliances and glossy terrazzo floor.

  Derek scoops up the two pistols, grabs a bottle of vodka from the freezer and lets himself slide down until he is sitting with his back against the refrigerator. He has stopped sobbing and begins to drink in earnest. The pistols lie across his thighs, right hand resting over them both.

  His phone buzzes again - a signal tone that a message has been left. Derek stares vacantly and continues to drink from the bottle.

  A second and third message stack up.

  He rises, sets the weapons next to his keys, cell phone and some documents on his desk. The pistols look somehow incongruous with a delicate orchid plant arching over them.

  He strips off his wet shirt, slams it into the kitchen trash and stalks off to his bedroom. He returns with a small jewelry box and sets it near the guns, finally adding his wallet to the other items.

  He picks up the wallet again, stares down at something inside for a moment, flips it shut and puts it back down.

  He is composed and oddly calm. He has made a decision.