Evil Cries

by Lala Corriere

  “I need champagne like the wind needs a final destination. Seriously, I’m working,” I said.

  “I know what you need. You know you really want me.”

  “No. I don’t really want you right now.”

  “Yes you do,” he said lyrically.

  “No.”

  “Just tell me you do and I’ll shut up and let you work this magic crowd of yours.”

  “I want you.”

  “Told you so,” he said, flashing that marvelously boyish and devilish grin.

  He pecked me on the cheek and said, “Then at least let me get you some food.”

  “We’ll have leftovers we can take home, and if we don’t, we can stop for some horrible fast food. Looks like we should have some champagne left. Maybe.”

  “I’ll take care of that right now,” Gage said. “It’s what boy toys are good for.” He signaled for one of my waiters and asked him to take a bottle of champagne to the back room.

  “Looks like we can have a deliciously late night, although I have my scruples. I don’t want to make love on a floor where a man lost his guts,” I said.

  Gage’s face turned to a stressed contortion. The comedian disappeared. “About that. I need to get home and get some sleep. I have to catch the red-eye back to New York tomorrow.”

  I kept my voice low, but the fury in my words spewed out like Mt. Krakatau’s eruption. “You have to be kidding me.”

  “Look, Sterling. I came here to be with you at great effort. You didn’t exactly make my New York opening. I thought we were a team.”

  “I’ve been to fifty of your openings. Besides, you’re the one who wanted me to move here. To be with you. And where are you?”

  “I guess I’m going home now. Back to New York for two nights. Home Monday and then I’m going to Chicago for a long week with the opening there. Back and forth a couple times. They booked me into the St. George. Just maybe you can join me there on a weekend and celebrate me.”

  He turned and walked out, but not before issuing one of his infamous spoonerisms to maybe make amends for his harsh tone. “It’s kisstomary to cuss upon sweet departures full of promise.” He kissed me with much more than a peck, and vanished.

  A man spoke softly in my ear. “I’ve been thinking about it.” The words came from behind me, but I instantly recognized the unfathomable voice exuding charisma on speed-dial.

  “Dr. Armstrong. I thought perhaps you had left. And what do you think?”

  “I think I’m looking for something more spectacular and I assume you’ve brought out your finest. I think that you can find me something else. How can I find you?”

  A tingle riveted up my spine. Sexual tension? Nerves? Something in between?

  “If you want something more extravagant I can hand-select a sampling to be brought in if you give me your parameters. You know where to find me here. If you want, you can follow me—us on Facebook, Twitter, and all the social networks. Just don’t follow me home.”

  “Bigger. Better. You call me when they come in.” He winked, handed me his card, and left the store with a slight limp.

  I looked for the Detective. I don’t know why. He wasn’t there, but I had plenty of enforcements circling through the store.

  MARCUS ARMSTRONG HAD heard the entire argument between White Goddess and the boyfriend. Trouble in paradise, he thought. And she’s so perfect for me. Time to plan.

  Chapter 6

  Rappers

  SHIRLEY FRETTED. The rap sheet. The tox report. The would-be robber had a history. At that moment of death, he was clean. So what made him fire a gun, miss and keep on firing? And what did he mean with his last words? He did it. Trouble coming. Although having no authority over the case, she spent the afternoon, the evening, and dawn doing what she did best. Investigating. She had found a copy of the postcard Sterling had mailed out. She’d found the press release and photo the newspaper had run. And she realized both had images of Sterling, in all her glamour. No one would see the jewelry in her display cases for the girl’s beauty.

  She set up alerts on her computer. Anything, anywhere, anytime. If Sterling Falls or Falls & Falls appeared on the Internet she would know about it. Manuel Perez, too.

  She had another assignment, but what else was new?

  SACRUM RETURNED TO the abandoned boat, this time with supplies. Canned food. Bottled water. A cooler with iced beer and Jack Daniels. And a collection of rap music.

  It was his boat, now, as evidenced by his army of weaponry that laid his claim. This time he was prepared beyond the KA-BAR. This time he took his lesson from the guys under the viaducts back in Denver and pulled out his new Striker 12. The Street Sweeper revolver. An upgrade over any rifle if you could handle it.

  He’d barely unloaded the last box of ammo when he heard something. Something very nearby.

  Goddamn illegal immigrant. Sacrum fired a warning shot in the air. An old beat up shit of a boat was nothing the illegal immigrant wanted and probably worse than what he’d just left behind. The intruder bolted. In the opposite direction, but still staying firm on American soil, no doubt.

  Sacrum knew he’d made a big mistake. He wanted to wave the welcome mat for the desperate that would show up here and there. None of them would speak English, let alone have cell phones and cameras. Hell. This was better than he first thought. He had himself his own perfect little ecosystem. He’d bring his gear on a later trip.

  From the reporter’s desk:

  Get Over It Magazine Draft

  Untitled By L.C.

  Eighteen Years Ago

  ZOEY LANE started cleaning houses at just eleven years of age. She worked for some very rich people. At least they were rich to her. She never figured out why they’d only pay her half the salary an older maid might get, but she also didn’t know what to charge or how to ask for more, so the word spread fast through that rich or not so-rich-society.

  No job was beneath her. Little did she know that would become her Hallmark.

  One lady hired her to clean up after her four cats. The woman had gone away for a long weekend and the cat food she left out was tainted. The cats got sick. Real sick. Ruddy-colored cat puke and diarrhea sprayed across the floors and even some walls, as if fish guts, bloodworms, and eyeballs had exploded in a microwave. Zoey scrubbed the carpets and floors and walls until no evidence, including smell, remained.

  One time she got a job to clean up after a large private Christmas party. Zoey had no idea it wasn’t the typical burnt chafing dishes, trash, and silver polishing. The owners had partied away the evening with their guests, unaware their septic tank was backed-up and slowly filling their lower level with what would end up to be a good half-inch of human excrement. She wondered how in the world the owners and guests didn’t smell it.

  She just kept cleaning and her reputation as the worst cleaning girl grew like a matrix with wings. She had a plan and was working it.

  Chapter 7

  Bigger is Better

  THE DOCTOR RETURNED to the store the next week. My gemologist was busy with an intake of jewelry repairs, and by the man’s directed stride toward me, my other two staff members and I all realized this was my customer.

  “I’d like to see the ring again,” he said.

  “Which one, Dr.—” I was pissed. He asked me to bring some specials stones in. I was pissed at me. I hadn’t done it, but he hadn’t given me his parameters, either. He may have wanted the Hope Diamond, for all I knew. He said bigger and better.

  “Marcus Armstrong. And you know the one you showed me. From your private collection.”

  For the first time in my life I felt stymied. I had made so many sales in L.A. being my father’s dumb bimbo blond daughter. Should I play that out? Was he shallow and narcissistic enough to take the bait? Most doctors were.

  One little signal and staff knew to stay on the floor.

  I told the customer I’d try and remember which ring it was and disappeared to my office and the vault, glad that I hadn’t gone thro
ugh the hassle of bringing in the specials. I tucked my blouse down into the waistline of my skirt, fully aware that the dropped neckline would show more than enough.

  “Is this the ring, Dr. Armstrong?”

  “It’s Marcus. And yes.”

  I turned on the auxiliary lighting in the cabinets and gave him my loop.

  “Will you slip it on your finger, Sterling?”

  I complied, but when I tried to put it on my right hand he insisted I move it to my left.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “Any woman would be mad about this ring.”

  “But do you love it? As if it were intended for you?”

  I thought about staying dumb. Decided to upgrade just a bit to half-smart. “I’m in the gem business. I can tell you this is a magnificent marquis.”

  “Fair enough. Do you have the better stones I requested?”

  I dropped the dumb act because I was the fool. “Not yet,” I said. “I need to know your price range.”

  “Do as you said and order me in something more special. Can you do that?”

  “Immediately. I can bring in a selection. I assume you have plans. How soon do you need the ring?”

  “No plans. No hurry.”

  I asked Dr. Armstrong to give me a few days, and then looked down at the piece of paper he handed me. His price range. I told him it might take a little longer. He said that was quite agreeable, but only if I would agree to join him for a quick bite to eat.

  “Quick,” I acquiesced with a smile for the pending sale and a flip in my stomach I didn’t quite understand, or want to understand.

  “I’ll meet you at the steak house around the corner. Give me ten minutes,” Dr. Armstrong said.

  Chapter 8

  A Business Lunch

  I HURRIED TO MAKE it to the restaurant in ten minutes, then waited fifteen more at the table. Twenty was my max or I’d walk, Hope Diamond or not. At seventeen minutes past the designated time Dr. Armstrong appeared at the hostess station.

  “I’m never late. Sorry. I had to pick this up,” he said, slipping into his chair while extending the package to me as my phone rang.

  “I’m sorry. I need to take this,” I said.

  After a short conversation I explained that when Gage traveled I always got a call upon his safe arrival, and we always talked every night when I called him at five o’clock Arizona time.

  He smiled, “That’s cute. Every night at five?”

  “I know it sounds lame,” I laughed. “We never know what time zone he’ll be in so we just evolved toward—”

  “Checking up on each other?”

  I shook my head. “Checking in with one another.” I changed the subject, “For a busy plastic surgeon you seem to have a lot of time off.”

  He scoffed, “Only because I don’t play golf.” He swirled the wine in his glass the sommelier poured. He said to me, “Do you know that we are to look for legs on the glass, but the Spaniards have a more romantic approach. They look for the tears of the wine. Beautiful, no?”

  I nodded. Very beautiful.

  He inhaled the aroma in the glass, then took a slow sip of the vintage wine. He smiled and dismissed the man. “So now, the package!”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Open it! I noticed you have a large section in your store devoted to gems and minerals. This is something you won’t find at any gem show. I thought maybe you could sell it.”

  I hesitated. The bait and switch. He portrayed himself as a buyer when all he wanted to do was peddle his wares to me.

  Curiosity killed the cat. For about the fourth time with this man. I deduced I had five more lives with him and opened the package as he ordered the finest steaks with all the sides. So much for that quick lunch.

  I lifted the last of the fabric sheets of protection and sighed. “It’s exquisite.”

  “I’m told it’s one of the world’s largest carved opals,” he said.

  “Australian Black?”

  He laughed, “Indeed! Good girl! The sculptor was scared to death to touch it, but as you can see he found no sand pits or other atrocities as he worked his magic to bring out the layers of colors.”

  “How many carats?” I asked, half-testing him and half-testing my own best guess.

  “Over 1,900.”

  “Dr. Arm—Marcus, I don’t really think I’m in any position to acquire such a piece.”

  “And I don’t expect you to. I thought maybe you could take it on consignment. You can find it a good home and cut me in as you please. It’s fully insured and I’ll maintain those costs.”

  “That’s a generous offer.”

  “I have no use for it.”

  “Well, then it’s an offer I can’t refuse.”

  The steaks arrived, bathed in tenderness with a saffron rice and Caesar salad. Homemade bread. More wine poured from the bottle.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you the other night. Asking if you were Albino.” Marcus said.

  “No offense taken. You explained your interest.”

  “But you are something maybe a little less than Albinoid. You have some pigment in your skin, your hair, your eyes. The condition is known as hypomelanism.”

  “I have never thought of myself as having a condition,” I said.

  He laughed and nodded approvingly. “How did you come to choose Tucson along with your Beverly Hills store?”

  “My, uh, boyfriend. He’s an artist. He was commissioned to do a couple of bronze statues in Oro Valley and then stayed on to paint the scenery. He never wanted to return to California.”

  “The man you call at five because he’s not here. I’m impressed. Big business decision for you.”

  “I ran the numbers.” Revealing myself as more intelligent, I thought. No more bimbo game. “The money per capita is strong if you’re in the right location, and real competition is minimal.”

  “I’m impressed. You must put in long hours?”

  “Trust me. Some days I’d rather be out on a horse riding the plains, but I love my work. I was born for it, literally. This was my father’s business.”

  “So I understand. The other part of Falls & Falls?”

  I nodded.

  “Daddy’s little girl and he named her Sterling. Don’t tell me your name would be Gold if you were a boy?”

  First he wondered if I was Albino. Intrusive wonderment. And now he was making fun of my name? And I never told him it was my father’s business. I guess he made an assumption. I smiled and shrugged and tried to remember the customer was always right.

  “You like riding?” he asked.

  “I adore it.”

  “You’ll have to come to my home up on Reddington Pass. I have too many horses and too few riders. Bring your significant other.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Don’t forget to order me in those special diamonds. Very special.”

  Chapter 9

  Don’t Cry Woof

  I RETURNED TO THE store wondering how I was going to appraise the value of a 1,900 carat Australian Black carved opal.

  Gage’s flight from NYC was due into Tucson International Airport around five that afternoon. I had to work until seven, but promised him I’d pick up his favorite dinner indulgences from AJ’s and bring them home with me.

  At 8:30, those certain delectable dishes grew cold as my temper grew hot. I’d always known if I was going to make a go of things with Gage I’d have to ease up on my perfunctory ideas about punctuality. That said, the flight was on time, I was on time, and the dinner held until past its time.

  Just as I shoved the remains of the cold food into the refrigerator I heard the familiar beeping sounds of our alarm and along with it, the always overwhelmingly happy voice of Gage and his musings.

  “Honey. I’m home. And I’m not Johnny. Redrum. Redrum. I know I’m in trouble. Turn that frown upside down or you’ll be sorry. No murders tonight in the Catalina Foothills, okay?”

  He turned the corner from the entr
y and the sight of him forced a smile. Not very often did I see Gage in a European suit and tie and he looked hot and silly at the same time. I forgot about the failed dinner and ran to hug him.

  “Not too tight,” he urged.

  I backed away. “Why?”

  “I seem to have a problem.”

  “What?”

  He pointed to a bulge, and not the banana variety in his pants, but rather in his coat pocket.

  And then a whimper from inside his pocket.

  Gage reached in and pulled out what looked like no more than a hairy éclair. With eyes.

  “Gage?”

  “What? I just learned through our happy game that you like dogs. And little tiny dogs, at that. You have to admit this is a little tiny dog! And pinch me, because I am now looking at an angel’s smile.”

  I smiled broadly and accepted the small parcel into my hands. “Two Angels’ smiles.”

  “He’s a Teacup Yorkie. He’ll grow up to be a mighty five pounds.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Gage cocked his head and furrowed his eyebrows, then said, “You name him.”

  I thought of the hairy éclair that I saw come out of Gage’s pocket and announced, “His name is Harry, the Earl of Éclair.”

  “Most excellent. Glad to meet you Earl Harry,” Gage said while trying to find the little guy’s hand to shake. “I have all his stuff. Food, dishes, potty training thingies. I’ll go grab them.”

  “I’ll help with your luggage.”

  The look. That look I knew and despised. “Chicago tomorrow. That one amazing gallery that now has me booked in for three solid months. I told you about it, Babe. They’ve already hosted a pre-sale without me. Sold two pieces.”

  Instead of being mad, I mentally decided to forego my penchant for punctuality and my neediness for Gage to be home with me. I remembered he’d asked me to join him at the St. George in Chicago, and now I knew that may not work. I had a new baby.