Rita Hayworth's Shoes

by Francine LaSala

  “Now that’s shocking.”

  Amy looked up, shocked herself for a moment to see the hulking bald guy from the funeral parlor standing over her. “You mean the dolls or the secret stash of CDs?” Nothing seemed to make sense anymore.

  “Not really either,” he said, joining her on the floor. He pulled a couple of dolls out of the trunk and made them dance with each other. “I just would have thought vinyl. For both.”

  “Good point,” she nodded, and then caught herself. “Hey, wait. What are you doing here?”

  “Me?” he smiled, his eyes still as warm as the other day. “Oh, I’m just on an errand for my old pal, Detective Franks. He wanted to know if you’d return to the scene of the crime. It seems you…”

  Amy froze, and Deck let out a hearty laugh.

  “Oh, very funny,” she said, snatching back Heimlich’s dolls from him and stuffing everything back into the trunk. She closed it, pushed it back into its hiding spot, and slammed the little door. “Seriously, what are you doing here?”

  He stood and offered his hand to help her up. “I work here, actually,” he said. “Turns out, I’m replacing old Heimlich,” he explained, with a glint of mischief in his warm, somewhat wonderful eyes. “Which I guess makes me your boss.”

  Amy relaxed slightly, thinking this would have to be better than working for Liz. “Small world,’” she said, and she pushed the filing cabinet back in front of the door.

  “Most things are small to me.”

  “You are kind of tall, aren’t you.”

  “Not that tall. Not freakishly tall,” he said, and she had to look away on the word “freakishly.”

  “Not going to give the trunk to the family?”

  “Dunno. It seems too weird, you know? I say let Heimlich have his secrets.”

  “If you say so. Oh, which reminds me…” Deck reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Here,” he said, handing it to her. “You’re going to need this.”

  She took the paper from his enormous hands and began unfolding it. “What is this?” she asked.

  “Oh, just a list of things I may be allergic to,” he smiled.

  She smirked at him. “Ah,” she said, as she scanned the list. “Well I’ll be sure there’s always plenty of cantaloupe around here then.”

  He smiled. “So all his stuff’s still here, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she sighed. “No one contacted me about what to do with it and I’m not sure who to call.”

  “So you’re not tampering with the crime scene then?”

  “Are we back to that now?”

  He laughed. “If you’re going to work for me, you’re going to have to lighten up.”

  “I don’t think I do ‘light’ all that well.”

  “What do you mean? You must be, what, ninety pounds. Just look at you,” he smiled. “I bet if I blew on you I could make you fly.”

  “I don’t think anyone should be blowing anyone around here,” she said, embarrassed at the realization that the double meaning she had not intended had indeed been interpreted by Deck as such.

  “Too bad,” was all he said with an impish grin. She wanted to die.

  “That reminds me of something that came up at Easter Seder,” she blurted out, trying desperately to change the subject.

  “Sorry?”

  “Easter Seder,” she said, now a little impatient. “Oh, forget it. It’s a long story.”

  He was intrigued.

  “I have time,” he said, and sat in Heimlich’s chair, elbows on the desk and leaning forward, his square chin resting in his massive hands. She hadn’t noticed he had a dimple on his chin before. Very John Travolta. John Travolta made up to play Daddy Warbucks.

  She relaxed. “Okay, well, remember my friend from the wake?”

  “Not the tall, frizzy-haired girl?”

  Amy shook her head. “No, not her. I’m not exactly sure I’m friends with Hannah. I meant the mother of the girl you were talking to.”

  “Oh, right. The little one. The little woman, I mean.”

  “She’s not that little,” Amy snapped defensively. “She’s more than five feet tall. I mean, just over five feet…”

  “Everything is small to me, remember?”

  “Fair enough,” said Amy. “Anyway, that’s Jane. Jane Austen-Rabinowitz, actually.”

  “Interesting name.”

  “I suppose,” she replied. “Anyway, we’ve been best friends since we were kids.”

  “Okay…”

  “Her mother, Lauren, is your classic textbook WASP. The whole Martha Stewart-Connecticut-holiday-traditions-are-sacred type. When she told her family she was marrying Joshua, it was a total scandal. But Joshua—”

  “The Rabinowitz?”

  “Yes. Well, he’s Jewish, as you can imagine. But he was never religious. And before they married, he was fine to go along with whatever Lauren and her family wanted. He would ignore all his traditions and his Judaism and be whatever she wanted him to be. All he asked was that she promise to love him until the day he died,” she trailed off.

  “Still in love?”

  “So in love. Like my parents were. Joined at the waist really.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “I’m just going to let that one go,” he flashed another mischievous grin.

  “Okay,” she smiled in spite of herself. “Anyway, one day he was rushing off to work and he got hit by a bus.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Holy shit is right. Because after that, he had what he calls his ‘epiphany.’ When he woke up in the hospital, tubes coming out of everywhere, he realized he had forsaken his faith and did a total one-eighty, wearing his tallit and yarmulke around like they were accessories, lighting his menorah on Christmas Eve. You know, crazy stuff like that.”

  “A born-again Jew?”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “And his wife?”

  “Well, you can imagine this didn’t sit well with Lauren and her family. It wasn’t what she signed up for, you know?”

  “Sure.”

  “But she loved Joshua, desperately, and she wanted to stay married to him. So she devised a way to make his new overt Jewishness slip right into their lives.”

  “I think I’m starting to understand…”

  “She created all these new traditions that combine elements of what they each like from each other’s holidays, and made the holidays as they thought they should be.”

  “Easter Seder.”

  “They think they’re very progressive about it all.”

  “So what exactly do they do on holidays? Sit around and read passages from The DaVinci Code?” “They’re very really nice people,” she said. “Like second parents to me.” “So what are your own parents? Muslim Wiccans?”

  “That’s just weird,” she smiled. “Actually, it’s not something I like to talk about.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Perhaps another time.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So was all that just an elaborate smoke screen or does something in this story remind you of ‘blowing people over’?” he teased. She looked away, annoyed that he wouldn’t just let it go.

  An uncomfortable silence fermented between them, and Deck opted to make it worse. “What about your fiancé? How did he—”

  “You mean my ex-fiancé?”

  “Yes. How are you doing with all of that, by the way? I kind of pieced together that—”

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.”

  “I guess it isn’t. Sorry. I guess I just know how it feels to have your heart ripped out and run over. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Now she felt bad. “Why? What happened to you?
” she asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, clearing his throat. “So I guess now’s a good time to get down to business.”

  “Right,” said Amy, surprised at her disappointment in him clamming up. She could swear there were tears cresting his beautiful eyes, but she decided not to press it. “So what do you expect of me.”

  The grin returned. “That’s a heady statement.”

  “Oh God, here we go again,” she said, blushing slightly. “For work, I mean. The job.”

  “Uh-huh…”

  “This job,” she said, now a bit flustered. “Can’t you be serious for a minute?”

  “Not really,” he said.

  She looked away, clearly flustered.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said, his eyes now sparkling. “Why don’t you finish up here?” he said. “I’ll grab us a couple of coffees and we can talk when I get back?”

  “Okay,” she smiled.

  ##

  Later that evening, on her way home from work, Amy walked by Smitty’s and stopped in front of the window yet again. The shoes were still there on their pedestal. They were still magnificent. They were still calling out to her—and, apparently, so was the old woman inside. “For Christ’s sake already,” she shouted from the doorway and then hobbled outside. “I’ll give them to you for two-twenty-five.”

  Amy didn’t take her eyes off the shoes even to blink as she replied, “Deal.”

  7. How Amy Went Out with Brendan and Rediscovered Sex

  Amy had just come out of the shower when she heard her front door open. “We’re here,” Jane shouted from the foyer. So Amy greeted Jane and Zoë dripping wet and in a towel. “I just used my key,” said Jane apologetically. “I hope that was okay?”

  “No problem,” said Amy. “You know that. But what are you guys doing here?”

  Jane and Zoë looked at each other, and Zoë shook her head. “Your date?” Zoë said.

  “Yes?”

  Jane and Zoë looked at each other again. Now it was Jane’s turn to speak. “Honey, you don’t honestly think we would let you get ready for this on your own, do you?”

  Amy was perplexed. “Jane, just because you’re a mother, it doesn’t make you everyone’s mother.”

  “Auntie Amy, you need us. You know you do.”

  “I think–”

  “I think you could use our help,” said Jane and she and Zoë looked at one another again. And then Jane looked back at Amy. “First of all, what are you going to wear?”

  Zoë said, “Mama, you know she has nothing to wear.”

  “Right,” smirked Amy. “I’m Urban Amish.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” said Jane, looking chidingly at Zoë.

  “Well for your information, I was thinking about taking a shopping trip,” Amy said as she walked into her bedroom. She reemerged with a shopping bag. “So I could find something to wear with…” she said as she reached into the bag like a magician reaches into a hat and pulled out…“These!”

  “Rita Hayworth’s shoes?” Zoë remarked, impressed.

  “Oh, my God!” squealed Jane. “They’re gorgeous!”

  “Worth every penny,” said Zoë. “Truly.”

  “You really went through with it. Good for you!” said Jane.

  Zoë approached and craned her small neck to examine the shoes. “You’re sure they’re authentic?” she asked.

  Jane shook her head. “Oh, what does it matter? Put them on. Please.”

  Amy slipped her feet into the shoes and paraded around the living room in only the shoes and her towel.

  “You look like a stripper!” Zoë gushed.

  “Zoë!” Jane gasped. “Nice little girls—”

  “What? Don’t compliment their friends when they look hot?”

  “No. Nice little girls your age don’t know what exotic dancers are for a start,” she said, and then softened. “But nice girls do compliment their friends, it’s true.”

  “I’ve never seen a stripper, Mama. Just read about one. Promise,” she waxed angelic.

  “Can we take you shopping, Amy?” asked Jane. “It would be so much fun!”

  “And a makeover!” exclaimed Zoë. “Mama, please tell her she needs a makeover.”

  “Okay, and a makeover, too,” smiled Amy.

  “How about for you, too, Mama?” said Zoë.

  “Really? You think…”

  “Mama has a new boyfriend, you know,” Zoë said, smugly.

  “You do?” asked Amy. “Who?”

  Jane blushed. “It’s nothing, really. It’s no one.”

  “His name is Ollie and he’s a cop!”

  Jane shook her head. “He’s a detective, actually.” She looked at Amy. “I was going to tell you, but really, it’s nothing.”

  “Not yet!” beamed Zoë.

  “A detective?”

  “You know him, actually,” she said. “This is so embarrassing. It’s the guy who was investigating Heimlich’s death.”

  “The guy with the crazy moustache? Franks?!”

  “That’s him, yes.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “I was going to tell you. It just didn’t seem that significant. He came around a couple of times afterwards, you know, asking questions about you. And after that, I guess he just kept coming around.”

  “Like every day,” said Zoë.

  “Anyway, do you think you can babysit for me next week? Ollie wants to take me out to dinner and my parents have other plans.”

  “Sure,” Amy smiled. “No problem. Looks like things may be looking up for all of us then, huh?”

  “Looks like it,” said Zoë. “But not while you’re looking like this. Let’s go now. Please?”

  ##

  Five hours later, a blonder, more gorgeous, and saddled-with-shopping-bags Amy walked up to her apartment building. Predictably, but comforting in its way, the Boys were planted on the stoop. But instead of calling out to her as she approached, they just parted to let her pass. She was surprised to feel sad about not having their attention, especially now, but even more surprised when Angelo politely regarded her as “Ma’am.”

  “Ma’am?” She flipped around. “Who are you calling ‘ma’am?”

  “Miss Amy, it is you?” said Frankie, as he stuck out his hand and nodded to Mario. Mario shook his head and reached into his pocket.

  “What’s with the new look?” Angelo wondered.

  “Dunno. I guess I was bored with the old one,” she said. And then tentatively, “You like it?”

  “I think you look great,” said Frankie, as he counted the stack of bills he’d won from Mario, and slipped them into his pocket.

  “I kind of liked you the way you were,” remarked a sulking Tony.

  “I have a date,” she confessed, and they all nodded.

  “That him?” asked Mario, nodding to a figure making its way toward the building.

  “Holy shit. What time is it?” she panicked.

  “Go ahead,” said Tony. “We’ll stall him.”

  She hesitated a moment, unsure of what that would mean coming from Tony.

  “We got it covered,” said Mario. “Hurry up.”

  “Okay,” she stalled, and Frankie waved her in. “Thanks, guys!” she said and she darted inside.

  Amy flew into her apartment, tossed her shopping bags in her bedroom, tore one open, and dressed in a somewhat clingy white and pink minidress. Then she raced to the closet to pull out the finishing touch: Her beautiful shoes. As she crossed the room, she caught her reflection in the mirror and she smiled. She stood up stick strait as she took in the new her. She was happy.

  Then
she remembered that Brendan was only seconds away. “Oh no!” she said, and darted around to finish getting ready.

  Nearly breathless from getting dressed so quickly, she entered the living room and waited for the buzzer. Where was he?

  As the minutes passed, she became sure he had changed his mind, that he’d realized finally that a guy that good-looking didn’t date mousy girls like her. Except she wasn’t a mousy girl anymore, was she? As she sat, she watched her foot tilt back and forth in its amazing shoe, and another explanation occurred to her. The Building Boys scared him away. In a panic, she flew to the window and looked outside. They were all there; Brendan was not. She slumped into a chair just as her buzzer rang. She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath until she rose to answer the door.

  “Wow,” said Brendan as she let him in. “You look amazing!”

  “Thanks,” she said shyly, quietly praying the heat she now felt in her face at the sight of him wasn’t manifesting as red blotches on either cheek.

  “And the shoes. You got the shoes?” he asked.

  “You noticed,” she said.

  “Baby, I thought they’d be hot,” he said, smarmily, and licked his luscious lips. “But they are sin-sational!”

  “Uh,” she paused. He smiled at her and motioned to the front door and she froze where she stood. And then that starlight shone out of his eyes again and she decided to ignore anything else that came out of his mouth for as long as she could stand it.

  Twenty minutes later, Amy and Brendan entered a Japanese restaurant on Northern Boulevard where she and Jane had eaten many times before. She never came here with David, however, because she never went out to dinner with David. The restaurant was expansive and loud and decorated like a Japanese garden, with seating outside in the back in an actual Japanese garden, though Amy knew the restaurant, like most of the pizza restaurants, taco stands and sushi restaurants in the neighborhood, was Korean-owned.

  “So you used to come here with your ex?” Brendan asked.

  “My ex?” she replied, defensively.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to pry. Lauren told me some things.”