by Jill Shure
&ldquoMr. Spector? What&rsquore you doing here?&rdquo I gasped, pulling the covers over my chest. Then I spied the gun in his hand. First Mrs. Tranquillo and now Sirhan. Who was next, my dry cleaner? I&rsquod been too busy entertaining my parents to get my door and locks fixed after Mrs. Tranquillo&rsquos shooting spree. I&rsquod simply relied on the little lock on the door handle. A joke. Because the whole knob now lay on the floor, broken in half, after Sirhan had kicked in the door.
Today, Sirhan&rsquos forehead was greasy. His suit looked slept in. Violet-colored circles rimmed his dark eyes. And he smelled like ripe Gorgonzola. Where he&rsquod once resembled a GQ model, he now looked as if he spent his nights sleeping in parks and robbing liquor stores.
&ldquoI was just taking an afternoon nap,&rdquo I babbled, keeping my eyes on that gun while I swiped my robe off the floor then pulled it over my T-shirt and undies. &ldquoI haven&rsquot been sleeping well lately so I&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoShut up! Shut up, you stupid woman. Tell me where she is. Where is Courtney Farrow!&rdquo
My heart jumped. My mouth dried up. &ldquoI refuse to say another word until you lower your gun,&rdquo I snapped.
His gun went down.
&ldquoAnd I&rsquod prefer to have this chat in my living room. This comforter set&rsquos new, and it cost a fortune. I don&rsquot want it ruined.&rdquo By blood splatters.
He stared, his eyes wide. At last, throwing up his hands, he grumbled, &ldquoVery well.&rdquo
Using his gun as a pointer, he directed me into the living room. But when he tried to slip by my old Schwinn bike leaning against the wall, his pant leg caught on a pedal. Muttering what sounded like an Arabic version of muthafucker, he struggled to get free. This gave me time to swipe my nail scissors off my bureau. The pair I&rsquod used to cut the tags off Sofia&rsquos new back-to-school clothes months ago. This once, I thanked God for my shortcomings as a homemaker. Because I could use them to stab Sirhan in the eye. Or trim his toenails.
In my living room/dining room/kitchen, Sirhan pointed to the sofa. &ldquoSit!&rdquo
I sat. By now, his left eye was twitching so fast, I felt sorry for him. Just yesterday, an assortment of newspaper headlines had read Natalie Spector Missing. Stripper Suspected Murderer, and my personal favorite, Stripper Returns from the Fryer.
The shrill ring of my phone broke the silence. &ldquoMind if I get that?&rdquo I asked, rising. &ldquoIt might be my building manager calling about the backed up toilet or&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoSit down and shut up!&rdquo
I shrank back, terrified. What had happened to the charming, sophisticated heartbreaker? After six rings, my machine picked up. And silence returned. Then Sirhan began to cough.
&ldquoCan I get you something? Coffee, tea, an antihistamine?&rdquo I asked. I was parched myself.
Sirhan scowled. &ldquoForget coffee. We must conclude our business.&rdquo
&ldquoConclude what business? Why are you here?&rdquo
&ldquoYou must tell me where Courtney Farrow is. I must have my letters back.&rdquo
&ldquoI have no idea where she is. And the police have her letters. Besides, she was blackmailing several men. And your letters were pretty tame compared to ...&rdquo
Rage dilated his pupils.
&ldquoI meant, that the other letters were more descriptive than yours. More incriminating, more graphic&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoDo you know what that whore has done?&rdquo he shrieked. &ldquoMy wife is dead! Dead! Courtney Farrow is an evil demon. A cruel, destructive force. She must be eradicated like a foul, contagious disease.&rdquo
Yeah, like leprosy or genital warts.
After sinking into my sofa, he buried his head in his hands. Tears glistened in his eyes. &ldquoI do not want to hurt you. But I must know where she is. I have nothing left to live for. Nothing ... but revenge.&rdquo
A common theme when it came to Courtney.
I thought of his new Mercedes and that big house in Rancho Santa Fe. I was pretty sure he&rsquod mentioned having children, too. I&rsquod already met and practically been assaulted by his sister and mother. So taking a huge risk, I gently patted his shoulder. When he didn&rsquot shoot me, I took it as a sign that he might be persuaded to leave without bloodshed.
&ldquoWhat about your children?&rdquo I asked. &ldquoHave you considered their prospects? Don&rsquot they deserve a future? The right to live out their dreams? But how will they with their mother gone and their father locked behind bars?&rdquo I&rsquod pilfered and spliced the beginning of this spiel from an old canned speech I&rsquod once used to sell life insurance. &ldquoBesides,&rdquo I added. &ldquoI&rsquom sure your wife will forgive you when you join her in heaven.&rdquo
A home run. Sirhan&rsquos expression changed. He looked almost pleased. Maybe he was imagining his wife up among the clouds. I could almost see her myself: clad in a burka, rushing toward him in slow motion, a loving glow in her eyes.
He faced me again. &ldquoStand.&rdquo His eyes were harder than granite.
Shaking, I rose. My kitchen clock said five-thirty. Damn Ken. Late again. And my parents were joining us for dinner, too. If just once he&rsquod show up on time, he&rsquod be able to save me. Suddenly, I was fed up with Sirhan&rsquos self-pity. After all, he&rsquod knowingly consorted with Courtney Farrow. So why should my life be ruined?
&ldquoLook, Mr. Spector. Maybe you have nothing to live for, but I have a daughter.&rdquo I grabbed Sofia&rsquos fourth grade photo off the side table and shoved it under his nose. &ldquoSofia. My daughter. Does she deserve to pay, too? Should she end up an orphan because you made mistakes? Because Courtney Farrow was a rotten two-timing, avaricious, amoral, queen of vice and scandal?&rdquo
&ldquoNo, but&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoShould she be traumatized by finding her mother dead, slumped in a corner, her once bright green eyes vacant and unseeing? Should she be shuffled off to some county welfare department? Or stuck in some foster home with a lecherous drunken father and a low-life foster mother? Just because you fell for the wrong girl?&rdquo Tears tumbled down my cheeks. I collapsed on the sofa. Sirhan slumped beside me. Even his gun went limp. Then he buried his hands in his oily brown hair and sobbed like a lost toddler.
I left Sirhan weeping on my sofa and headed into the kitchen. I fixed us strong coffee and a plate of chocolate mint Girl Scout cookies, left over from last year&rsquos drive. I served him on the coffee table.
Staring into space, he ate and drank. As if returning from a dream, he suddenly glanced at me and asked, &ldquoWhy isn&rsquot a beautiful young lady like you married?&rdquo
It seemed the charming seducer had resurfaced. The very man who&rsquod invited me to lunch and hinted at all sorts of pornographic things for dessert.
&ldquoMy husband died in the war,&rdquo I said.
Sirhan nodded. Thank God he didn&rsquot ask which war. That&rsquos when we both heard footsteps and my door being opened. I held my breath terrified it would be Sofia. Sirhan bolted to his feet. His gun got up, too.
24
A heartbeat later, Arlene limped in, carrying her cane.
Sirhan stood. Fear and aggression colored his expression. &ldquoDo not move,&rdquo he said.
Without thinking, I screamed, smacking the weapon from his hand. The gun bounced off my glass coffee table&mdashchipping it&mdashonto the carpet. Sirhan dove after it. In a blur, Arlene spun like a top and delivered a swift kick to his face. Sirhan went down and out.
&ldquoJeez that hurts,&rdquo Arlene gasped, dropping onto a dining table chair and rubbing her bad leg.
We both stared down at Sirhan&rsquos immobile form. Blood streamed from his mouth.
&ldquoHe&rsquoll live. But I may have loosened a tooth or two,&rdquo Arlene said.
&ldquoYou were terrific. Where&rsquod you learn to do that?&rdquo I said, struggling to catch my breath.
&ldquoBasic training.&rdquo Using her phone, she dialed the police.
I poured her a glass of water. &ldquoNeed anything for the pain?&rdquo
&ld
quoHand me my purse. I have something which should help.&rdquo
I tossed her the huge purse. &ldquoKen should&rsquove been here by now,&rdquo I griped. &ldquoBut he&rsquos late as usual.&rdquo
Arlene downed a pill. &ldquoI know. He tried calling you. When you didn&rsquot answer, he got worried and called me. I was at the mall next door so I agreed to drop by.&rdquo
Desperately thirsty, I began rummaging through my refrigerator for sodas. Arlene was busy pouring out our story to the 911 operator. For that instant, while our backs faced Sirhan, he must have silently risen to his feet. Because a moment later, he attacked.
Grabbing Arlene from behind, he wrenched her off the chair and swept her phone to the floor, before kicking it away. With a swift punch to her stomach, he leveled her to the ground. But Arlene was in no way finished. She merely rolled away and shook herself off. Then she sprang up, landing on her good foot. Arms forward, she circled Sirhan. He mimicked her pose, his expression dark with malevolence.
Then, my living room became the backdrop for a Jackie Chan film. If Sirhan flipped Arlene, she flipped him back. Standing on my sofa, I watched, entranced. Because in spite of her wounded leg, Arlene did the U.S. Marines proud. Until Sirhan rammed his foot in her crotch, and she went down with a shriek of pain. Doubled over, she and I watched helplessly as Sirhan reached for his gun. Which was when I snatched the dish Sofia had made in camp and swung it at Sirhan&rsquos head. It caught him behind the neck. For a second, he froze. Surprise on his face. Then he fell face down onto my carpet.
I knelt by Arlene. &ldquoArlene? Can you sit up? Should I call an ambulance?&rdquo
Arlene groaned. &ldquoIce. Get me some ice.&rdquo
In the kitchen, I poured ice cubes in a plastic bag and wrapped a kitchen towel around it. I hurried to Arlene&rsquos side and handed it to her. She applied it to her groin area.
I was rising to my feet, when the sound of someone else pushing aside my broken door startled me. But it wasn&rsquot Ken. It was my mother.
Clutching a huge shopping bag, Ida gaped at the scene before her. My father arrived a second later, hanging onto a large box. My father dropped his box on the floor. Ida dropped her shopping bag and purse on my dining room table. Then Ida stepped forward and nudged Sirhan with her foot. Shaking her head, she said, &ldquoAbe, get me my pills. Then call the police.&rdquo
&ldquoWe already called,&rdquo I said.
&ldquoThen where are they?&rdquo she asked, reaching down and retrieving Sirhan&rsquos gun.
As my dad dialed 911, he shook his head in disgust. &ldquoCalifornia. Ohio wasn&rsquot good enough. Hello!&rdquo He shouted into the receiver. &ldquoThis is an emergency! Get me an ambulance! Get me the police!&rdquo
Seated at the dining room table, Ida used two fingers to hold Sirhan&rsquos gun. She studied it like it was a dead mouse. Or a new kind of kitchen gadget which needed cleaning. Then she said, &ldquoDid you know that San Diego County has the largest network of wife-swapping in the country?&rdquo Like she&rsquod caught my friends and me in the middle of an orgy.
Arlene and I exchanged looks. We even turned to Sirhan to see what he thought. But he was still face down bleeding into my carpet.
&ldquoThe largest network?&rdquo I said. &ldquoMother, are you sure? I mean, maybe it&rsquos only second or third.&rdquo
My mother shot me her sour look. &ldquoIt happens to be a well-known fact.&rdquo
Sirhan moaned.
&ldquoHere, give him this. He&rsquos ruining the carpet,&rdquo my mother said, hurrying into my kitchen then tossing me a kitchen towel.
I handed Sirhan the towel as he slowly came to. He was now sitting up, wiping blood off his nose and lips.
Arlene swept the apartment with her eyes. She quickly helped herself to the belt from my robe hanging over the back of a chair. Kneeling beside Sirhan, she secured his wrists behind him.
Which was when Ken finally waltzed through the door.
&infin&infin&infin
The next night, while my parents took Sofia out to dinner, I headed out to see my friends at Arlene&rsquos house. On my way to the garage, I ran into Una. She was scouring the building&rsquos trash container. Pausing from her work, she gave me a wave and hurried over. Until I felt obliged to stop and say hello.
&ldquoHi Betsy. Can you spare a minute?&rdquo she asked. &ldquoThere&rsquos something I need to tell to you about. Something that&rsquos been bugging me for awhile now.&rdquo
&ldquoOkay, but I can&rsquot stay long. I have plans and I&rsquom already late.&rdquo
&ldquoLook, this is hard to say, but I need to,&rdquo she said, running her grimy hand through her hair. &ldquoAbout three months ago, that guy Tommy stopped by to see you. And, well, even though I know it&rsquos against the rules, I let him into your place.&rdquo
I stared at her. &ldquoYou mean you let him in while I was out?&rdquo
She nodded. &ldquoI&rsquove never done anything like that before. And it&rsquos been on my mind a lot.&rdquo
I studied her. The overalls, the ratty hair, the plain unadorned face. Not Tommy&rsquos usual type. Although Tommy&rsquos type was any woman who served a purpose.
&ldquoHe was so charming, so&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoHandsome,&rdquo I cut in.
&ldquoI don&rsquot know what came over me. Most of the time, guys can&rsquot get anywhere with me. But he was being so nice and at the same time persuasive. I felt so&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoOverwhelmed.&rdquo Just like me at the Christmas party.
I imagined Tommy yanking pliers out of poor Una&rsquos calloused hand, pulling off her utility belt, tossing her down on a deck chair by the pool and having his way with her. &ldquoWhat happened?&rdquo
She blushed. &ldquoNothing, that is ... he told me he had something to leave you. So I explained that he could leave it in the mail room. But he insisted it was valuable and might get stolen. He was so persuasive. And he refused to take no for an answer.&rdquo
&ldquoSo you let him inside my apartment?&rdquo I said.
&ldquoI know it was wrong. People here trust me. But it was just for a few minutes while I snaked someone&rsquos drain. I assumed he left you an expensive gift. Or something important.&rdquo
I thought back to those threatening words pinned to my refrigerator door. The cigarette smoke. Tommy must have been searching for the lizard book. Or Courtney&rsquos love letters. Or pictures of me naked. &ldquoForget it,&rdquo I said. &ldquoI appreciate your telling me. And I know you won&rsquot let it happen again. I gotta run.&rdquo
&infin&infin&infin
My friends and I feasted on pizza, salad, garlic bread, and beer at Arlene&rsquos house.
&ldquoI don&rsquot feel one bit sorry for Sirhan. He deserved to be thrown in jail,&rdquo Lisa insisted.
&ldquoWait just a second,&rdquo Tabitha said. &ldquoI mean one day he&rsquos a rich guy with a wife and kids and then he has the misfortune to meet Courtney Farrow.&rdquo
&ldquoAnd two years later his wife is dead, and he&rsquos dragged away in chains by the police,&rdquo I added.
Everyone nodded solemnly.
After brownies and coffee, the four of us lay sprawled across the family room floor in various states of digestive distress.
Then Tabitha said, &ldquoWhy&rsquos everyone so quiet?&rdquo
&ldquoToo much food,&rdquo Arlene groaned.
&ldquoI&rsquove had a hellish week,&rdquo Lisa added, pulling a pill from her purse and belching.
&ldquoIt&rsquos because Courtney&rsquos not here,&rdquo I said.
Everyone gaped.
&ldquoYou must have altitude sickness or some other brain ailment. Cause I don&rsquot miss that bitch one bit,&rdquo Tabitha said.
&ldquoNo, listen,&rdquo I insisted. &ldquoFor almost two years, we used Courtney for cheap entertainment. Her clothes, her charity balls, her outrageous stories about money and men&mdash&rdquo
&ldquoHer unending conceit,&rdquo Tabitha said.
&ldquoSure, but we got used to her,&rdquo I said. &ldquoShe became a part of the group.&rdquo
<
br /> &ldquoLike hell she did,&rdquo Arlene said.
Everyone paused at the sound of the front door opening.
Tabitha frowned. &ldquoWho else is coming?&rdquo
Using a cane, Arlene awkwardly rose to her feet. &ldquoNo one. I wasn&rsquot expecting ...&rdquo
Her words hung in the air. Because the dearly departed herself stood in the doorway.
25
This once, Courtney wasn&rsquot dressed like a Vegas showgirl or an animal attraction at the zoo. In fact, she could&rsquove been a homeless person hoping for a handout. Her hair was dirty. Her jeans were filthy. Sooty circles underlined her unpainted eyes. And, if possible, she was too thin.
Worst of all, she had a gun.
&ldquoMy dear, loyal friends. Did you think I&rsquod miss another meeting?&rdquo she said, an ugly smirk on her face.
&ldquoHave you eaten yet?&rdquo I asked, holding out a paper plate with a cold slice of double cheese with onion and pepperoni.
&ldquoCut the crap, Betsy. I&rsquom here for the insurance money,&rdquo she barked.
My heart lurched. &ldquoYou mean Wild Bill hasn&rsquot received his check yet?&rdquo
&ldquoYou know damn well he hasn&rsquot. So knock off the innocent shit.&rdquo
&ldquoFuck you,&rdquo Arlene said. &ldquoYou&rsquore never going to see a dime of it.&rdquo
I sent Arlene a warning look. But it was too late.
Wearing a contemptuous smile, Courtney took a step toward Arlene and raised the gun to Arlene&rsquos head. Then Courtney slapped her hard across the face.
Arlene actually fell over. Tears of pain raced down her cheeks.
Courtney nudged Arlene with the gun. &ldquoI&rsquod like to kill you.&rdquo
My heart ricocheted off my ribs. &ldquoDon&rsquot do it, Courtney,&rdquo I said.
Courtney lowered the gun a few inches and faced the group. &ldquoI have a better idea. Maybe I should read you one of her pathetic love letters. Would you like that, Arlene? Maybe one of the more passionate ones. Or the one where you beg me to take you back. It&rsquos a little long, but I doubt your friends will mind.&rdquo