The First Cut

by Dianne Emley

By then, Pussycat was in too deep. If she left him, the prenup she’d signed would provide her a small income, but nothing near what she’d known. She could get by on it if she absolutely had to, but she didn’t have just herself to consider. He’d bought her parents and younger siblings a house in Claremont in a good neighborhood with excellent public schools. The house remained in his name. If she left him, her family would be on the street. Her two brothers were still in high school. Her father was on disability and her mother made little as a home-care provider.

  It would be the end of her charitable work. She could still volunteer, but the perks of being a deep-pockets donor would evaporate.

  And then there was Miss Tina. He’d lured her into that, too. Taken what had been a recreational drug for her and nurtured it into a full-blown addiction.

  When Pussycat had gone to the charity fashion show the day she’d met his ex, he hadn’t yet tired of professional sex partners. Their games with them were rough, but Pussycat reconciled her ill feelings with the knowledge that the women were well paid. Some of them were regulars and knew full well what they were getting into. When she’d had her too brief exchange with the ex, Pussycat thought the other woman was referring to that already explored dark world. Pussycat by then had gotten used to it. Thought she understood its boundaries. That was before they’d met Officer Frankie Lynde.

  Pussycat downed the tequila shot, slamming the glass on the bar with a bang that went unheard over the band’s noise. She followed up with a lime wedge, holding it between her front teeth as she turned to watch the dance floor. People weren’t really dancing but were swaying to the music, many dangling beer bottles by the necks between their fingers. The girls were cute and acted loose and tough. Pussycat knew that act and knew better. They shook their loose hair and waved their arms. None of them was a great beauty, but they had that California beach girl aura or were doing good imitations. Pussycat tried to pinpoint one she could peel away from her friends, like a lioness searching for the weaker members of the zebra herd. Better yet, she’d find someone who had come alone. He’d taught her how to hunt.

  Hermosa Beach was a locals’ town. It wasn’t close to a freeway. The pier had no shops, restaurants, or carnival rides; it was simply a fishing pier. Other beach cities offered more to attract families and tourists. The beachfront businesses drew local teenagers and young singles, some of whom prided themselves on having never ventured east of the 405 freeway or worn long pants. The police department patrolled the beach on bicycles and wore shorts. Surfing was decent. There were no hot restaurants or clubs to entice L.A. scenesters to make the twenty-mile trek south. It was a real So Cal beach town.

  Pussycat’s husband had suggested going to Orange County, but she had an L.A. County native’s natural aversion to the O.C. She didn’t know the layout of the freeways there. Everything looked too new, too shiny, and too Caucasian. It felt peculiar. She always felt lost there.

  Her husband became angry. “We have to look outside L.A. Someplace where no one knows us.”

  “Why do we have to look at all?”

  “Don’t get cute with me, baby. You don’t even know how to begin to play that game.”

  “How about Hermosa? I used to fish off the pier there with my dad when I was little. It fits, huh? We’re still catching and releasing, right?”

  Since he’d made that promise to her, they’d done just that, he’d had raucous fun, she’d pretended to, and they’d sent the girl on her way. But she sensed a change brewing. She was used to that rising tension in him, underneath the surface, like a piano wire twisting tighter. The sexcapades used to calm that beast. Lull it to sleep. The girl last night had only taken the edge off. Something else was at work. Something new, awakened from the depths of his being. That soulless being. She feared the thing with Frankie had permanently changed him. There was no going back.

  She ordered another shot, downing it as soon as the bartender set it in front of her. Guys around the bar hooted and clapped. She gave them one of her stage smiles and a slow pirouette before turning back to watch the dancers.

  She used to tell herself she knew everything about her husband. But whenever she dared to be honest, she had to admit there were depths she could not penetrate. The many layers were revealing themselves now. Maybe he’d kept them hidden until he found and trained the perfect coconspirator and turned her into a drug addict. She’d not only walked right into his scheme, she’d grabbed hold with both hands.

  She thought of what he had told her when he’d dropped her off tonight.

  “Baby, haven’t I been the perfect gentleman, like I promised?” He smiled his charmer’s smile. That boyish man smile that made the VIP visitors to his club, the celebrities and socialites, feel like royalty. What a great guy. Isn’t he the best? Don’t you just love him?

  Pussycat would like to say she could see through it, but she couldn’t. It was only through experience that she learned it was false. It was only because of Frankie Lynde’s blood and tears that she’d discovered the lie.

  Thinking of Frankie made her eyes fill. She thought of something else.

  “Hey, Red, buy you a drink?”

  It took Pussycat a second to realize he was talking to her. When she turned in his direction, she caught her reflection in a wall covered in mirrored panes with gold vines. A happening relic from the 1970s. Pussycat nearly didn’t recognize herself. She was wearing an auburn wig with locks that brushed her shoulders. She’d disguised her blue eyes with contact lenses that had hypnotic spirals in them. Her attire matched that of the other women in the joint, but her scanty blouse revealed press-on tattoos of barbed wire encircling her arm and a rose atop the curve of her ample breast.

  That was where he was now looking.

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  He was one of the guys who had cheered her on earlier. “Come on. Don’t you like me? No pressure. Just friendly.”

  He was kind of cute and she was already more than a little drunk and amped on meth.

  “Wow. Crazy eyes.”

  She batted her lids at him. “You are getting sleepy.”

  “No shit. Tequila shooter?”

  “Yeah. But I’m paying.”

  “No can do.”

  “I bet you can.” She peeled a twenty from the roll of bills stashed in the pocket of her low-rise jeans skirt and set it on the bar.

  The bartender lined them up. The guy licked his wrist and sprinkled salt onto it from a shaker. Pussycat did the same. They clinked glasses, licked off the salt, and knocked them back. He gave a violent shake to his head before cramming a lime wedge in his mouth. She didn’t even blink. He smiled loosely at her. He was definitely a cutie, even with the veneer of beach grime.

  “You got any women tied up in your basement?”

  “Wha…?”

  “Kidding.” She slapped the bar. “’Nother round.”

  Boy was she in trouble. Big time. Her husband could kill her. She had no doubt he was capable of doing just that.

  “You’re kind of crazy, you know that?”

  She hissed air through her teeth. “You have no idea.”

  “You’re cute.” He tickled her bare belly.

  She didn’t stop him. He used to be her type, lanky and muscular with a nice, strong jaw and pretty eyes. She used to have a type before the first thing she started to look at in a man was his portfolio.

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I know cute, drunk or sober.” He kept tickling her. “Woman with ink. She’s tatted up. I love it. Where does the rose go?” He drew his index finger down the fake rose tattoo until he reached the opening of her top. He pulled the fabric away, then bent his head to kiss the rise of her breast.

  She ran her fingers through his hair that could use a wash. Grabbing his hair, she pulled up his head and planted her lips on his. It was an honest kiss. The first honest kiss she’d had since she’d met John Lesley. She and the beach guy had one agenda that neither one was hiding. She was hot fo
r him and messed up enough and weary enough not to care about the consequences.

  He smelled like booze, perspiration, and sea spray. His clothes were paint-splattered. He looked like he’d knocked off work and had come straight to the bar. He looked like he’d forgotten to shave that morning. In spite of all that, he seemed clean to her. Uncontaminated. Uncomplicated. She craved his simplicity. She needed it.

  “Want to get out of here? My apartment is around the corner.”

  She turned, too quickly. Her head spun. She held on to the bar to steady herself and noticed one of the televisions bolted to the ceiling. It was tuned to the eleven o’clock news. Another tube a few feet away was broadcasting the same thing. They were again showing that dumb artist’s rendering of her wearing the chauffeur’s outfit. It didn’t even look like her.

  “Wait a second.” She held her hand up to her companion. The TV was broadcasting something else. Something new. It was shadowy and dark, filmed from far away and at night but she recognized that place. It was the bridge where they’d dumped Frankie’s body. That was her and John, tossing Frankie’s body down the hill. That was her running away.

  She put her hands over her mouth. She ran from the bar.

  Pollywog ran after her. “Hey! Where ya going?”

  She stumbled and bounced off a wall, rounding a corner onto a side street. She heard Pollywog running after her. He caught up.

  “Leave me ’lone.”

  She stumbled again and fell. She tried to stand and he grabbed her, trying to steady her.

  Nearby, she heard sounds of a party on a rooftop. People were talking and laughing.

  She wrenched herself from his grasp and staggered forward. She reeled around. Walls seemed to soar crazily on either side. She was in an alley.

  “Where you gonna go like this? You can barely walk. I live around the corner.”

  She pushed him. “I tol’ you t’leave me ’lone. Go!”

  He grabbed her arm. “Baby—Yo!”

  He jumped back as she vomited.

  A woman passing on the street stopped and poked him in the arm. “You heard her. She doesn’t want you here.”

  “I’m gone. You don’t need to tell me twice.” He turned the corner and disappeared.

  The woman grabbed Pussycat’s hair and held it away from her face. “That’s okay. Get it all out.” She rubbed her back. “That’s good, sweetheart. Don’t be ashamed.”

  Pussycat finished and leaned against the wall. She pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Thanks,” she slurred.

  The woman was younger than she sounded. Maybe in her twenties. She was petite and slender with blond-streaked hair cut in a fringe down her face. She was tanned, like everyone who lived at the beach.

  “No problem. Been there, done that. More times than I want to think about.”

  Pussycat started tottering from the alley.

  “Where are you going?” The woman followed her.

  “Home.”

  “You can’t drive, sweetheart.”

  “Don’ worry ’bout me.”

  “You know, I used to drink like that. I just came from an A.A. meeting. It’s still going on over there on the roof of the Elk’s Lodge. Let’s go over and we’ll get a cup of coffee.”

  “You’re nice. I’m gon’ be okay. Th’s m’ ride.”

  A black Hummer with broad tires barreled toward them, turning to block the street. The passenger window rolled down. John Lesley leaned toward it and said, “Get in.”

  Pussycat opened the back door and clambered inside.

  “Wait a minute,” the woman told Lesley. “Does she know you?”

  “It’s ’kay,” Pussycat mumbled.

  “This is my wife. We had a little tiff tonight. I’ve been driving all over looking for her.”

  “Thanks. G’bye.” Pussycat almost fell out when she leaned to pull the door closed. “Bye now. G’bye.”

  The woman leaned against the open passenger door window. “This is none of my business, but there’s an A.A. meeting going on right up the street. It’s a great group of people. I don’t need to know your wife to see that she has a problem. I’ve only been sober for a month, so I’m sort of fired up about sobriety.”

  “Sober for a month? Congratulations.”

  From the backseat, Pussycat saw him smiling his snake smile. So warm. Friendly, as if he wouldn’t hurt a flea.

  Her stomach roiled, but she held it down. At least everything had stopped spinning. She reached to stroke his neck and shoulders. “Baby, I’m tired. I jus’ wanna go home. Thank you, lady, but I don’ drink like that. I really don’t. Tell her, baby. I don’t have a drinkin’ problem. I was jus’ upset.”

  He glanced at Pussycat then met the woman’s eyes. He winked at her. They were conspirators now.

  “No, baby,” Pussycat pleaded. “Le’s go home. Please. Le’s go home.”

  “Where did you say this meeting was?”

  “I can show you.”

  “I couldn’t trouble you like that.”

  Pussycat started screaming. “No! Take me home!”

  “It’s no trouble at all. It would be my pleasure.”

  “If you’re sure it’s no problem. Okay. Climb in.” He flipped open the door and he offered his hand. “I’m Bill Binderman.”

  “I’m Lisa Shipp.”

  “Nooo!” Pussycat cried. “Lisa, get out! Please. He’ll kill you! I beg you! I beg you…”

  Pussycat couldn’t open the door. He’d activated the childproof locks. The Hummer wrenched into the street, tossing her back.

  He grimaced as he glanced into the backseat. “Sorry about that.”

  “Hey, I’m the last one to pass judgment on the people struggling with booze.”

  “It’s a miracle my wife ran into you tonight,” Lesley said. “I’ve wanted to get her to a meeting for months.”

  “Sometimes it takes something like this. You’ve gotta hit bottom, you know?”

  “Lisa, you’re an angel. It’s like an angel reached out and touched us.”

  Pussycat curled into a fetal position and sobbed.

  T W E N T Y

  V INING HEADED HOME ON THE NARROW AND TWISTING PASADENA Freeway—the first modern freeway in the United States. Leaving affluent Pasadena and South Pasadena, Vining’s route took her through solidly working-class and poor neighborhoods northeast of downtown L.A. She exited at Avenue 43. Turning north at the Taco Fiesta stand, she headed into Mt. Washington.

  Known as “the poor man’s Bel Air,” the hilly, artsy neighborhood of winding streets and woodsy cottages had been among the few where Vining and Wes could afford a spacious house with a view and good public schools. The view wasn’t remotely as grand as the legendary “city to ocean” sights from the Hollywood Hills. From Vining’s house, the lights of downtown L.A. were partially hidden behind a hill, but she had a direct shot of the County USC Medical Center and the Alameda Corridor—railroad tracks that went all the way to the Port of Los Angeles in San Pedro. Unglamorous during the day. At night, the lights twinkled as brightly as those seen from Mulholland Drive.

  Wes had correctly predicted that Mt. Washington, with its neighborhood feel and quick commute to L.A.’s civic center, would be discovered. Of course, he had long ago abandoned it for the ultra-trendy Calabasas, where television executives built McMansions with horse stables. Vining had held on to the 1960s cliff-clinging house on a quiet cul-de-sac. It hadn’t been easy to keep up with the maintenance and taxes, but she wanted Emily to have the stability of growing up in the same house and keeping the same friends through the same schools. Something Vining and her younger sister Stephanie had not had with their much-married mother.

  Vining turned onto Stella Place, not activating the garage door opener until her house was in sight. She used to click it when she entered the street so the garage would be open by the time she reached it, but that gave an intruder ample time to slip inside. One of her many concessions to T. B. Mann.

  The houses o
n her street were not bunched together. Patches of chaparral-covered land separated the homes on either side. There were no houses on the steep hillside directly below. She’d always liked the privacy and quiet. Now she appreciated the lack of places for someone to hide and the clear view of anyone approaching from any side.

  Like just about every neighborhood in California, Vining’s was in transition because of the booming real estate market. A year ago, the elderly couple who lived in the house on the corner had cashed out. The house was part of the same 1960s development as Vining’s. New owners from the San Fernando Valley had razed it and were building a big, modernist structure of curves, angles, and steel.

  At the end of the cul-de-sac, a couple from out of state had razed one of the other original homes and bought a neighboring vacant lot. From the terrace off Vining’s house, she could see the large Tuscan-inspired home they’d set into the hillside and the pool and patio beneath. All that was visible from the street was painted cement walls inlaid with tile, sand-hued pavers, and massive iron gates—the first to sprout up in the neighborhood.

  Vining had formally met the couple once. Since then, they waved and said hello in the manner that nowadays stood in for neighborliness. When they told Vining what their occupations were, she said “That sounds interesting,” having no clue what they were talking about. Something to do with new ventures, technology…Whatever they did, it appeared to pay them lots of money. Vining and Emily were the only native Californians they’d met, which Vining found curious. Just about everyone Vining knew was born in or near the San Gabriel Valley. Vining was the only police officer they’d known personally. Somehow they made her feel like the outsider. They did not invite her to their large parties. She repaid the favor by not calling the police when the racket went on too long. The cops usually broke up the gatherings, but the call out wasn’t on her account.

  Wes had been prescient. The neighborhood had been discovered. Realtors now pestered Vining to sell. She and her remaining longtime neighbors joked about it. She’d learned her boxy, low-ceilinged, stucco house was a “midcentury gem” in “highly desirable, historic Mt. Washington.” The value of her home had skyrocketed. For her, it was funny money. She’d never tapped into the equity. Short of paying for Emily’s college education or a catastrophic event, she never would.