Unzipped

by Lois Greiman

  Silence descended. I fiddled with my napkin, despite postgraduate education. Go figure.

  “What you want to know?” he asked finally.

  I glanced up. There was a change in his tone. But damned if I could figure out what it was. Still, my grandfather, a wizened little farmer from North Dakota, had admonished me more than once to make hay while the sun shines. “How well did you know him?” I asked.

  Angler tilted his head a little, narrowing his eyes. “Know he fucked my old lady.”

  The words “holy crap” zipped through my mind. I wasn’t sure if they reached my lips. “Did you . . . I mean . . .”

  He watched me, eyes half closed. “Did I see them together? Yeah. At his place. She was humpin’ him like a bitch in heat.”

  My eyeballs were popping out of my head. I felt like the other occupants could see through my skin. Role reversal sucks.

  “I’m sorry.” It was the best I could do.

  “I was sorry I couldn’t put a cap in his ass,” he said, but his voice hitched a little. He glanced away. I looked at my lap.

  “But I got me a kid. Just turned four. Don’t need me no more time in the pen.”

  “You’ve spent time in prison?”

  “Eleven months in the ant farm. Fucker wasn’t worth going back there for.” His jaw flexed. I wondered if he had gotten any psychiatric help, but doubted if he’d appreciate my asking.

  “Were you friends?”

  He snorted. “What do I look like? A fuckin’ whack job?”

  “Why were you at his house?”

  The jaw flexed again. “He said he needed a ride. I was goin’ right by and he’d picked me up a couple times.”

  I didn’t mention that it sounded like they were friends. “So . . .” My mind was spinning like a whirlpool. Bomstad was a piece of work. “He knew you were coming.”

  “Fucker set the time up himself.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “You’re the minimizer.”

  I gave him a glance. Then, “Ahh,” I said, “the shrink.”

  Our drinks arrived. Beer and an ice tea. Getting drunk was sounding better. Unfortunately, it was not sounding smarter.

  “Anything else I can get for you?” The waiter smiled at Angler, then at me, which meant he had to be gay. My luck didn’t run that way.

  Angler rumbled something I couldn’t quite understand. I expressed my thanks. We nursed our drinks, careful not to look at each other for a minute.

  “Did you know?” he asked finally. The question seemed like a complete thought. Luckily, he went on. “’Bout him. Did he tell you the real shit?”

  I felt like an idiot. After all, I had been Bomstad’s therapist—there to analyze and assist. But when your client ends up deep-sixed in your office, you tend to wonder if you failed somewhere. Still, I parried. “Sometimes patients are so damaged they find it impossible to share the truth—even with their therapists. There’s no way to ascertain why, exactly, but they seem unable to admit the true—”

  “What the fuck you talkin’ about, woman?”

  I looked at him, feeling tired and wondering the same thing. “He didn’t give me the real shit,” I said. “Just a load of crap.”

  He nodded, drank half a mug of beer, and nodded again. “You fuck ’im?”

  I opened my mouth. He shook his head. “I gave you the real deal. You do me the same.”

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t.”

  “You want to?”

  I opened my mouth again. He raised a brow as if he knew I was about to hedge. For a gladiator, he had excellent insight.

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “I did, kind of.”

  He smiled. “You’re all right,” he said, downed enough beer to sink a battleship, and poured himself another. “For a white bitch.”

  T en minutes later, it was that ringing endorsement that kept me feeling warm and fuzzy as I made my way out of the bar. Angler hadn’t offered to walk me out, but he hadn’t ground me into sausage, either. So I figured I’d won. I glanced back at him and saw that our server had returned to the table. They were laughing together, and for one paranoid moment I wondered if the joke was at my expense, but it didn’t look like that, really. In fact, it almost looked like . . . flirting. Angler glanced up. His eyes were lazy, as if he’d known I’d be watching him. I dropped my gaze and scurried outside. Five or six young men were clustered by the door, opinionated, loud, and intoxicated. As far as I could tell, none of them shared my anemic color, but there was no shortage of intriguing coiffures. They eyed me with interest as I made my way between them. Smoke hung thick as jambalaya in the heavy darkness. California’s air quality might be toxic in large doses, but we weren’t about to allow nicotine to contaminate our bars, and even the young rebels weren’t brave enough to buck that system. But neither were they about to give up smoking. It was a filthy habit. Disgusting, I thought, and tried to remember the slides I’d seen in high school showing smokers’ lungs. But lungs looked pretty disgusting under any conditions, and the message had been rather lost on a teenager dying to look cool.

  I breathed appreciatively of the blue haze and sidled between the addicts. They barely moved aside enough for me to squeeze through. In fact, one lanky fellow’s shoulder brushed my left breast. Maybe it was my own desensitizing profession that made me doubt it was an accident. Maybe I was naturally jaded, but either way I decided to forego all that lovely smoke and hustle toward my car.

  I burst past the bubble of humanity and turned the corner. My chic but professional heels clicked against the walkway. The light dimmed somewhat as I marched into the parking lot, but I had left my newly repaired Saturn as close as possible. Still, I pulled my keys immediately out of my purse, an instinct honed from late nights at the Hog. My purse strap crossed my chest and hugged my bag snugly against my right hip.

  I exhaled, relaxing a little. All right, the expedition hadn’t exactly been an afternoon poolside, but it had been informative. According to Angler, there was no shortage of people who hated Bomstad. In fact, if I were looking for a murder suspect, it sounded like I could start at the top of the Lions roster and work my way down. Which made me wonder if Rivera was doing just that, or if he had all his guns trained at me. Which—

  “Kinda far from home, ain’t ya, honey pot?”

  The words rasped against my ear. I spun around. Or rather, I tried to spin, but there was already an arm across my throat, dragging me backward. I screamed, but the sound was muffled by a hand. Fear strangled me as much as the attacker. I tried to think. To yell. My throat hurt with the effort. I tried to stab him with my heels. But he was carting me backward, making it all but impossible to stay on my feet, to keep up, to breathe. I clawed at his sleeve, trying to fight free, but my efforts had no effect.

  Mace. I remembered it with a jolt and realized I still held my car keys. It was right there, dangling from the ring. I rolled my eyes, trying to see it, but it was no use: he had a stranglehold on my neck. So I’d have to just grab it and spray.

  The overhead lights faded as I was dragged backward. Shadows swallowed us. He slammed me into a car. The door handle dug into my abdomen. I could feel his erection through my skirt and wondered what would happen if I had to vomit.

  “Lookin’ for a little action, were ya?” he asked and licked my neck, lapping my ear lobe.

  I whimpered, feeling sick with terror and nausea.

  “I can help ya out with that.”

  Reaching around me, he yanked the door open. I fought in earnest now, trying to wrestle free, but he was pushing me down and in. I twisted wildly, managing to turn, but he shoved himself up against me again.

  “So you want it missionary-style, huh?” he asked, grinding into me.

  I opened my mouth to scream but he slapped his hand over my face, splaying his fingers across my nose and mouth, suffocating me. “Shut up!” he hissed. His face was too close to see. He smelled sticky sweet, like pot laced with sweat. “Or we won’t get no time alone.” I could feel
his other hand groping between our bodies, fumbling with his belt. “And you wouldn’t want that.” His buckle dug into my hip. “’Cuz I’m all the company you’re gonna need.”

  He tried to shove me backward. I fought like a woman possessed, flailing with my arms, but he was too close, too large, too strong. Think, think, my mind screamed. But animal instincts had taken over, scrambling my mind, stiffening my muscles.

  I remained on my feet as long as I could and then, whether it was dumb luck or some kind of frantic plan, I collapsed backward, folding myself onto the seat behind me. For a moment I could breathe, an instant reprieve, a tiny bit of space, and then I was moving again. Yanking my knee up, I kicked with all my strength. Maybe I was going for his groin, maybe I didn’t care, but I caught him in the face. I felt my heel strike home. He roared and stumbled backward. I sprang out, but he was already stumbling forward, spewing curses as he came at me. I screamed, jiggling my keys, juggling the Mace.

  My hand closed around it. My fingers shook on the trigger, but I managed to squeeze. There was a hissing sound. He paused for a second, waiting, then chuckled.

  I stared in horror at the worthless plastic in my hand, then spun around and darted away. His fingers snagged my blouse, yanking me back. I fell to my knees. He clawed at my back. Ripping my arm forward, I slammed my elbow into his nose.

  He wailed like a trapped animal. Limbs pistoning, I scrambled to my feet. He was still down. From the bushes behind him something rustled. Friends? Maybe. But his or mine? Skittering on wobbly heels, I bolted across the parking lot to my car. I jabbed wildly at the keyhole, cursing and praying and crying until the lock turned and I was inside. I don’t remember shutting the door or turning the ignition. I only remember screeching out of the parking lot and onto the street.

  Something crashed against my bumper, but I didn’t care what it was. Unless it was my attacker. Then I hoped to hell it was his head.

  10

  Life is what you make it. Unless some guy finds you with his girl. Then the ball’s pretty much in his court.

  —Peter McMullen,

  upon being caught with Mary Lou Johansan

  MY HANDS WERE still shaking when I reached home. The house seemed ungodly dark, even when I turned on the lights. All of them. Including the one in the oven. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, locked every door three times, and limped into the bathroom. Toeing off my shoes, I sat down on the toilet seat and examined my knees. They were black with tar and coagulated blood. My nose was out of control. Reaching over, I tore off a square of tissue and tried not to cry. It was no use. So I plugged the bathtub drain and turned on the faucets, thinking I might as well just weep into the water.

  Stripping down was ridiculously painful, as if I’d been flayed. Every muscle screamed. Bruises marred my lily skin in the most unlikely places. I slipped carefully into the tub and hissed as the water enveloped my scrapes. But eventually the pain eased. I sniffled to myself, slid a little deeper, and finally fell asleep.

  Sometime during the night I must have awoken, because I found myself in bed in the morning light.

  It was early. I could go back to sleep, except I couldn’t, so I got up, stuck bandages on the worst of the abrasions, and got dressed, choosing slacks and a long-sleeved blouse to cover the bruises. Putting on my brave little soldier face, I looked in the bedroom mirror and decided I didn’t look too bad.

  Elaine didn’t agree.

  “Mac! Oh, crap! What happened?”

  I hadn’t even gotten through the door before I started to cry. She came around the desk like a mother hen, folded me under her wing, and deposited me onto my own couch. I crumpled onto the cushions like a broken doll.

  Feathering my hair away from a bruise I didn’t know I had, she searched my face. “Oh, Mac. Who did this?”

  I couldn’t come up with anything but a hiccup for an answer. I figure if you’re going to feel sorry for yourself, you might as well lean into it.

  “Was it Rudy?!” She said the name with sudden conviction. “Damn his sorry ass. I’ll kill him.”

  Rudy. The name rang a distant bell in my fuzzy brain. He had been the center of my universe about two years back, but the memory hardly even registered anymore, even though the final months of our relationship had been less than congenial. Compared to the parking lot incident, his bullying seemed like poetry. I shook my head and attempted to pull myself together. It was like trying to box up the wind.

  “Why didn’t you call me? Where were you? I would have come. Did you tell the cops?”

  The thought of the police brought on a fresh bout of self-pity. I’m not sure why. Maybe I still had enough Midwest naïvete to think they should have protected me.

  “You have to call—Oh, no!” Elaine said. “It wasn’t that lieutenant guy, was it?”

  I shook my head and exhaled carefully, feeling stupid and shaky in equal measures. “I was at a bar.”

  “With who?” She rose to her feet like a playboy pugilist. “Give me his name. He’ll be sorry he was ever born.”

  It might be that I actually laughed, but the noise I made sounded a little gruesome. “I’m all right.”

  “No, you’re not, honey,” she said, and sat down cross-legged on the floor beside my feet. “You’re a mess. What happened?”

  I gave her the short version. It was more fun than the long version, and not so long.

  She was shaking her head and holding my hand when I finished. “You’ve got to go to the police.”

  I think I cringed. I’d had my share of L.A.’s finest in the last couple days. “And tell them what? That I was jumped by a guy I couldn’t see, couldn’t identify, and probably have never met before?”

  “You must have some idea how he looked.”

  I shook my head. It hurt. “He was . . .” I took a brave breath. “So close. And it was dark. I couldn’t seem to . . .”

  “You should go home.”

  “I have appointments. Don’t I?”

  “I’ll cancel them.”

  “No.” I straightened. Man, I was one tough chick. “I’m all right.”

  “Mac—”

  “I don’t want to go home,” I said, and that was the truth. She must have seen it in my expression, because she finally dragged out her super-size makeup kit, covered my bruises to the best of her considerable ability, and sent my clients in one by one.

  Actually, listening to other peoples’ problems turned out to be rather therapeutic. Maybe I should have offered to pay them. But I didn’t bring up the suggestion.

  Elaine insisted on staying late, despite her yoga class, but in the end I made her leave. After all, I’d been accosted twice in a week. What were the chances of a third time? They must be astronomical.

  Mr. Lepinski showed up right on time, looking nervous as he took his usual spot on the couch, crushed up against the right cushion, bony knees pressed together, fingers curled atop them.

  “I can’t believe he’s dead. The Bomb.” He shook his head, eyes wide behind thick, round spectacles. “What happened?” His whiskers twitched. “I heard he had an overdose.”

  “Yes.” I felt drained and ancient. “It’s a terrible tragedy.” But my lying skills were improving.

  Mr. Lepinski left at 7:56. By the end of his session, I felt like falling face forward onto my desk. I thought I heard him talking to himself on his way out the door, but at that point I didn’t hold it against him. There are worse things.

  “Long day?”

  I almost screamed as I jerked upright. Damn the odds! They were obviously stacked against me.

  Lieutenant Rivera stood in the doorway, his brows furrowed like storm clouds. “What happened?”

  I felt immediately self-conscious, as if I’d done something wrong. As if I shouldn’t have been in that bar, that part of town, with those people. As if it were my fault that I’d been attacked. I needed my head examined.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked, and was glad Elaine had never convinced me to tr
y acting. They’d have run me out of L.A. on a rail.

  Rivera took a step forward. “Who hit you?”

  “No one. I . . .” I searched for a lie, though I really didn’t know why. “I thought I heard something in the kitchen last night. I fell down the . . .” Not the stairs. That story was as old as dirt. “I ran into the chair . . . in the dark.”

  “Really?” he said mildly, but his eyes were as black as sin and he was already reaching across the desk and jerking up my sleeve. I winced at the exposed bruise, though I couldn’t guess how it had gotten there. He raised his gaze to mine. Anger burned like a bonfire. “Table attack you, too?”

  I jerked my arm away. The movement hurt like hell.

  “Who did that?” His voice was deep and low and for a moment I almost thought he might actually care. But then I’d once fallen for a guy whose name was Brutus. Really. On his birth certificate and everything. Enough said.

  “I just . . .” I paused, trying to think. It was hard. “Went out for a couple of drinks. After work last night . . .”

  He waited. Damn. I was hoping he’d get bored and go home.

  “When I went outside . . .” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat. “You’re right about the Mace.” Clever segue. “It was outdated after all.”

  As swearing goes, he was aces at it. I listened for a while, impressed despite my Catholic education. “What the hell were you doing out alone at night?”

  I stared at him. Somehow that hadn’t been the aspect I thought he’d fixate on. “Still America,” I said. “Remember?”

  “Where were you?” His eyes looked flat and steady.

  I rose to my feet, brusque but polite. “I’m so grateful for your concern, Mr. Lieutenant,” I said, “but—”

  “Where the hell were you?” he asked, and grabbed my arm.

  I must have cringed because he looked almost guilty as he loosened his grip.

  “East side,” I said. Guilt. From this guy. I couldn’t help but be fascinated. Maybe he thought he should have protected me, too. And he wasn’t even a midwesterner.