The First Cut

by Dianne Emley

  Vining showed Pierpont the photographs of the Lesleys and the artist rendering of Lolita at the strip club, wearing the heart-shaped sunglasses.

  After a glance, he returned them to her.

  “If someone was looking to pick up girls around here at around eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night, where would they go?”

  He pointed. “You’ve got The Mermaid on the strand down there. Gato’s Cantina up the block. And The Lighthouse. That’s it for Pier Avenue. There are places along Hermosa Avenue.”

  Pierpont’s sunglass lenses had a metallic yellow coating that reflected Vining’s image back to her. It was another thing that annoyed her about him.

  “You have a few minutes to walk with me?” Vining asked.

  “Sure.”

  They headed down a broad street perpendicular to the water that was lined with small businesses. She had no luck at The Mermaid or Gato’s Cantina.

  They passed a surf shop and then reached The Lighthouse. Vining stepped over a large dog curled on the pavement outside the open door. It was only ten in the morning, but a couple of people were sitting at the bar with beers in front of them and empty shot glasses. The jukebox was blasting an old Bruce Springsteen tune. A spattering of sand covered the linoleum floor. Vining surveyed the Hawaii-on-crack décor.

  Pierpont and the bartender slapped hands and held on, as if each was saving a man overboard.

  “Hank, how’s it goin’, man?”

  “Goin’. Goin’ good.” Hank acknowledged Vining with “Howyadoin’?” in a manner that suggested he’d confused her with one of Pierpont’s female companions.

  “Josh, you keepin’ our streets safe for the citizens?”

  “You got it, buddy.”

  Pierpont crossed to the rear of the bar where he grabbed a handful of popcorn from a cart.

  Hank leaned across the bar toward Vining, his confidential message delivered in a loud voice. “Still can’t believe they gave this guy a gun and a badge.”

  Pierpont returned, draining popcorn from his fist into his mouth. He swatted his hands clean. “This is Detective Vining from the Pasadena Police Department.”

  “Oh, hi.” Chastened, Hank extended his hand to her. “Good to know you.”

  Vining showed him her photographs. “You see these people in here earlier this week?”

  He set John Lesley’s photograph on the bar. “Not this guy.” He tapped Pussycat’s photo. “This girl. I remember her. Yes, indeed. Cutie pie. She got pretty wasted.”

  “How certain are you that she’s this woman?”

  “If that’s not her, that’s her sister.”

  “Was she here with anybody?”

  “Nope. All by herself.”

  “Any estimate of her height and weight?”

  Hank held his hand level against himself to show how tall she stood. “Five-five or something? Had a smokin’ body on her. Big boobs. Sorry. I should say she had a generous bosom. No fat on her that I could see. What she was wearing didn’t leave much to the imagination. Had on this stretchy, low-cut top. Short jean skirt. Real short.” He lapsed into reverie.

  “Hair?”

  “Not like in your picture. Red. Straight. Down to her shoulders. Had to be a wig. I mean, it was red, like fire engine red.”

  “Eyes?”

  “Eyes. Yeah.” He looked away as he thought about something. “That’s right. She had those funny contact lenses. You know. The hypnotic eyes with the circle, spiral things in them.”

  Vining thought about the heart-shaped sunglasses and the chauffeur’s outfit at the strip club. This time she shows up nearly nude with costume contact lenses. She crafted her outfits to be distracting so she could hide in plain sight.

  Vining lost track of Pierpont and saw him in an adjacent room talking to a heavyset, bearded man who was shooting pool.

  “She in trouble?” Hank asked. “I remember her blowing out of here all of a sudden right in the middle of having a hell of a time.”

  “By herself?”

  “She was doing some kissy-face with one of our regulars. He might have followed her outside. Yeah, I think he ran after her. Who wouldn’t?”

  “One of your regulars. What’s his name?”

  “Speak of the devil…Hey, Pollywog.”

  Pollywog made his way to the bar, the soles of his flip-flops barely clearing the floor, the rubber worn down until it was compressed into a wafer. He took a corner stool and ran his hands through long oily hair. He wore a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off and the buttons open to reveal a tanned and tight midsection. A tattoo of vines and flowers covered his right arm from shoulder to elbow. A sprinkling of hair on his chest thinned out as it trailed beneath the waistband of his shorts beyond his belly button. He was still young enough to pull off the grungy look and come off as seedily handsome. In ten years, he’d be a broken down wreck with a vein roadmap on his face and a beer gut.

  He rubbed both hands over his face. “’Sup, bro’?”

  Without being asked, Hank set in front of him a bottle of Corona with a lime wedge stuck in the neck. “This is Detective Vining from Pasadena.”

  Pollywog angled his head back to get a better look at her. His bloodshot eyes conveyed that he liked what he saw.

  “She’s asking about your hottie the other night.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Pollywog became dreamy with the recollection. “Thought she was gonna give me some mud for my turtle. Some honey for my…” He frowned. “For my what, Hank?”

  “Scone?” Hank suggested.

  “Right. Honey for my scone.”

  They both thought that was hysterically funny.

  “No…Wait, wait…” Pollywog paused for effect, hands out. “Honey for my poppin’ fresh dough.”

  “Poppin’ fresh dough!” Hank slapped the bar and they started up anew.

  Vining shifted her feet and was about to put an end to the frivolity when Pollywog became somber.

  “But, alas…It was not to be.” He poked the lime wedge down the bottleneck. “My little honeybee in trouble?”

  Hank dipped glasses into a hot bath and dried them with a towel. “Remember how she blasted out of here?”

  “Yeah. I went after her.”

  “Sir, I’ll ask the questions,” Vining said.

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” Hank took a damp rag and retreated to the other side of the bar.

  “What’s your real name and where do you live?”

  Pollywog told her. His speech was slow and deliberate, as if he was focusing on getting the words right.

  “What can you tell me about that night?”

  “First off, I was dumbfounded she gave me the time of day.”

  “You were dumbfounded, all right,” interjected Hank.

  “Hey,” Pollywog cried. “I’m talking to the detective. I was dumbfounded because Honeybee was acting like she wanted to pick up a chick. She had her eyes on all the women in the room. Really checkin’ ’em out.”

  He detailed his entire encounter with the woman Vining was certain was Pussycat Lesley, how he’d followed her outside where another woman told him to beat it. Pollywog may have been drinking elsewhere this morning or maybe this was as sober as he ever was. Still, his recollections were clear. He confirmed the nutty contact lenses. He observed that her boobs were fakes, but he was quick to add that he didn’t care; he liked them big, fake or natural. Her tattoos were fakes, too. He professed expert knowledge in both arenas.

  “So why did she take off like that?” Vining asked.

  “Hell if I know. We were getting hot and heavy. She was into it, too, when she split. I think she saw something on TV.”

  Vining glanced around at the televisions that were mounted everywhere. “Hank, would you have had the news on?”

  “I put it on at eleven when I work nights.”

  She wanted to pump her fist but instead tried to look bored as she took notes.

  Pierpont sauntered back as Vining was leaving with Pollywog.

  “You do
ne?”

  “No.” She walked out. Pierpont was cute but she found him useless.

  Pollywog retraced his steps with Honeybee on her drunken journey. They ended up in the alley.

  Vining showed him the flyer with Lisa Shipp’s photograph. “Was this the other woman?”

  “That’s her. Definitely. Honeybee starts hurling and this one comes up out of nowhere. She gets all in my face, all ‘Leave her alone.’ And I’m all, ‘I’m helping her.’ And she’s all, ‘Get out of here.’ So I was like, have a good life, and I beat it. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yeah. Hold up. We’re not finished yet,” Vining said to Pollywog as he started to head down the street.

  “I’ll be at The Lighthouse. Got a beer there that’s half-full. Or maybe it’s half-empty.”

  “Stand right there, please,” Pierpont said. “I’ll buy you a fresh beer, all right?”

  Vining walked inside the alley. It was off a quiet residential street. Late on a Tuesday night, it would be an ideal location for abduction.

  She leaned over to look at a crusty splotch that could be vomit.

  Pierpont came up behind her. “Some drunk lost his cookies. We saw that when we searched this area.”

  Vining squatted for a closer look.

  Pierpont veered away to stand at the mouth of the alley with his back to her and his hands shoved into his pockets.

  “We searched this area,” he reminded her again.

  Vining pulled her digital camera from her pocket and took shots of the vomit and the surroundings. Putting the camera away, she took out her spiral notebook and ripped sheets of paper from it. Using a twig she found on the ground to pry up the dried substance, she moved a sample onto the papers. Holding it in front of her, she approached Pierpont.

  “Not just any drunk. My drunk. See that?”

  He squinted at the paper and gave her a “so what” smirk.

  “Look again.” She moved it closer. “See that little plastic chip? Dried up contact lens. The bartender and Pollywog both said Lolita was wearing contacts with spirals in them. Guess you didn’t hear. You were in the backroom playing pool.”

  Pierpont’s gaze hardened and he pulled his chin up a millimeter. Vining knew she’d ticked him off and was glad. He was playing hail-fellow-well-met around his beach berg while one of his citizens was missing and, Vining feared, being sexually tortured if she wasn’t already dead. Vining imagined Lisa Shipp’s mother with her stomach in knots as she waited for news.

  “He made her go to the club to pick up a girl.”

  Vining carefully folded the paper into an envelope.

  “She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let him do to another woman what he did to Frankie Lynde. She fled. He found her. Poor Lisa Shipp showed up at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Tearing more paper from her notebook, she scooped a larger hunk of the vomit.

  Pierpont took Pollywog by the arm, attitude gone. “Let’s go down to the station and take a statement.” They were ultimately the same, he and Vining. A bad guy was out there who needed to be caught.

  T H I R T Y - F I V E

  T OUGH GIRL, HUH? DOESN’T WANT TO GIVE IN. THINKS SHE’S NOT going to give in. Won’t cry. Boo hoo, Officer Lynde. Boo, hoo, hoo.”

  He was nude. He stood in front of Lynde and made a quick biting gesture near her nipple as if to snap it off between his teeth.

  Not flinching, Lynde glared at him.

  “You piece of shit. I’ll make you scream, bitch. You’ll scream for me. You’ll scream for your fucking life before I’m through.”

  Lynde worked her jaw. A wad of spittle shot onto his face.

  He wiped it into his hand and rubbed it over her face, mashing her mouth and nose.

  “You’ll scream and scream until I slit your throat and then you’ll try to scream and you’ll sound like this.” He made a gurgling noise at her.

  She again spat at him and he backhanded her across the face.

  Lisa Shipp’s four limbs were chained to the hospital bed. The top was elevated enough for her to see the room.

  The DVD continued to play even though he had finished abusing her for the moment. The remote control was just beyond her reach. He’d moved it from its usual spot in a pocket attached to the side of the bed where she could reach it. He subscribed to all the premium channels. She passed the time mostly watching the news for word of herself and any mindless entertainment she could find. Her story had appeared steadily on the local news until a bigger story blew it off. It probably received more press in the Daily Breeze, the South Bay’s local newspaper. The public wasn’t much interested in a missing teacher’s aide, part-time student, and reformed drunk.

  Watching television not only helped Lisa pass the time, but also helped her keep track of it. There was only artificial light in the basement. A row of narrow windows near the ceiling were plugged with soundproofing mats sealed with caulking. There was a spot above the piano where the seal was warped. A tiny ray of light shone through. When he left her alone with the longer chain on her ankle, she’d stretched as far as she could but was not able to reach the windows. The chain was long enough to allow her access to the bathroom but everything else was out of reach. The bed was bolted to the floor.

  She closed her eyes to try to shut out the DVD. He never tired of watching himself torture the police officer he’d eventually murdered. He reenacted the abuse, demanding she take Frankie’s role, saying Frankie’s words along with the DVD. He slapped and punched her as he had Frankie. Lisa learned what was coming based upon the section of the DVD playing. She’d learned to steel herself, to project her mind elsewhere. She meditated. She visualized. Her favorite visualization was an experience she’d had in Alaska where she’d walked on a glacier. Bright blue water flowed between cracks in the feet-thick ice, rushing clear and cold. That was her pain. That was her fear. Rushing beneath the ice. The bright blue, frigid water doused its sting. Rendered it clean. Swept it away, leaving her mind and soul glacier white and pure.

  He’d played the murder DVD over and over. The first time she’d watched it, she’d barely made it to the toilet before getting sick. She tried closing her eyes, but he’d held a gun to her head. Her stomach still roiled at the sight.

  “Watch,” he ordered, panting, his eyes wide.

  The murder excited him. He relived his rage, jumping around, shouting profanities at the recorded images. Excited him sexually, too. After he was spent, he’d lapse into depression. Curled on the floor in front of the flat screen, he’d cry, “Frankie. I love you, Frankie.”

  He now lay beside her, nude and snoring, smelling of booze and sweat. A ring of keys dangled from a length of leather fastened around his neck.

  His wife was sitting in a recliner across the room.

  Pussycat had pulled her legs to her chest and circled her arms around them. She rested her head against her bent knees. Unlike Lisa, she had not attempted to cover herself. The police officer’s uniform Pussycat had been wearing was crumpled on the floor. He’d had them switch off wearing it, making them both assume Frankie’s role. He was obsessed with Frankie.

  When he had brought Pussycat with him that day, Lisa was relieved. She’d feared the woman was dead.

  Introducing Pussycat into the mix took his sex games to a new level. Pussycat went through the motions like a robot. He had broken her. Lisa took comfort in the knowledge that she was not broken. She had plenty of life left. She’d decided upon a strategy early. She would not fight him. The longer she stayed alive, the greater the odds that something might happen and she’d escape. The only currency she had was time. When her wits failed, she put herself onto that glacier. Cold, blue water, rushing free and clear.

  She had kept her pledge even though wine, spirits, and drugs flowed in that gussied up dungeon. It was tough at first to turn down the booze, but she knew it would get easier. Just say no today. She needed every single one of her wits intact.

  That afternoon, he and Pussycat had pol
ished off two bottles of red wine, with him drinking most of it. He made a big deal of swirling it in the glass and holding it to the light, announcing it was a Chateau so-and-so from nineteen something. He’d bought a case at auction. A steal at seven thousand dollars. To Lisa, a drunk was a drunk, no matter if they consumed the finest wine or Thunderbird. She was glad to see him drink though, and drink he did. Now he wasn’t so much asleep as passed out. He’d wake up in a while then leave for the club. She’d have at least twelve hours before he came down again.

  Lisa had helped herself to the cheese, fruit, and crackers he’d brought down. He never starved her, but that could change. She looked at Pussycat and wondered if she had enough marbles left to attempt an escape. Watching Pussycat hold herself, staring into space, she had her doubts. Pussycat clearly hadn’t been any use to Frankie. Lisa knew she was on drugs.

  Her stare roused Pussycat from her reverie. She met Lisa’s eyes, rubbed her hands down her arms and shivered. Her mouth formed the words “It’s cold.”

  Lisa didn’t know if she vocalized them because of the sound that blared from the DVD.

  Pussycat stood and put on the police uniform, sitting to roll up the pant legs.

  Lisa raised her hand from where it was chained to the top corner of the bed frame. The pillow supporting his head lay across her other arm that was chained to the bed’s opposite corner. Her fingers there had gone numb.

  She pointed at the television screen and mouthed “Turn it down.” She pointed in the direction she wanted the volume to go.

  Pussycat walked to the bed and grabbed the remote. She took in her husband, made a face, and clicked off the DVD. “He’s out. He’s not going to wake up.” She still kept her voice low.

  Lisa whispered, “We have to get out of here. He’s going to kill us.” She couldn’t guess his plans for his wife, but thought it best to scare her.