Shares

by A. W. Gray

  He wiped his hand across his forehead.

  “My parents don’t dictate my life and don’t want to. They’re with me a hundred percent, whatever choice I make. You’ve hurt me with all this. I can deal with you being in prison. I can’t deal with the fact that you’ve lied to me, and that you’ve seen this woman recently and kept it a secret from me.”

  He lowered his chin, hangdog. “I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t just grin and accept that.” She turned away from him and faced the wall. “Let’s just try and get some sleep, Frank. I’m afraid if I say anything else in the mood I’m in, it’s going to be wrong.”

  He touched her shoulder. “Does that mean you’re through with me?”

  She shrugged him off. “I don’t know just what it means. Whatever it means, I’m going to have to think on it. You haven’t been open with me, Frank. Whether I can get over that…I’m afraid I’ll just have to let you know.”

  11

  The suitcase was brown alligator, inlaid with red-tinted cowhide. Each of its two gilt latches had an individual combination dial. Randolph Money worked first the left-hand dial, then the right, snapped the catches, and opened the suitcase on the bed like a silverware salesman. “Specially made, babes,” he said. “Take a couple of weeks to duplicate. No way can they do that, as I see it.”

  “What’s going to be in there,” Darla Bern said, blinking, “they can deliver in a gunnysack. Cardboard box, for all I care.” She was seated on a chair near the bureau, still in the pale blue backless minidress she’d worn to the cast party, exposing six to eight inches of taut stockinged thigh, bare shoulders, and breastbone. She’d removed her shoes and placed them side by side on the dresser. Her wig was draped over a Styrofoam head model, and she was brushing her hair.

  “That’s what makes me important in this,” Money said. “The planning.” He wore snow-white pants along with a robin’s egg blue blazer. As he stroked the inner edges of the suitcase compartment, he said, “Take the dimensions. Twenty-four two-thousand-dollar wrappers of hundreds fit like a bug in a rug. They short us a stack, the money will rattle around. One wrapper too many, the lid won’t close. Twenty-four two-thousand-dollar bundles. How much is that, my narcissistic friend?” He looked toward the window, crossed his legs and rocked one spotless white loafer up and down.

  Gerald Hodge peered out between parted drapes at the LaQuinta Motel sign, at headlights moving back and forth along LBJ Freeway. He wore a black leotard and a ski mask. He turned to face the room. “Your what?”

  “My narcis—…my handsome friend. That better?” Money winked at Darla, who smirked.

  “I’m not as dumb as you think, using all those words,” Gerald said. “Narcissus was the guy that fell in love with himself. I knew a dancer had that name, had a flower over his dick.”

  “Ah, experience replaces education once more,” Money said. “Come on, how much? Twenty-four times two thou.” His navy blue golf shirt was buttoned all the way up to his throat.

  Gerald straightened his arm and stroked his triceps. His brows tightened in concentration. “Forty-eight grand.”

  “Exactly. Now, extend the equation. The stacks will fit twenty across, ten down. Not one cubic centimeter of wasted space and, more important, no room for any transmitting devices unless we can spot them. Two hundred stacks. How much money, total?” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Gerald. “Quick now, no pocket calculators allowed.”

  Gerald scratched his nose. “Two times forty-eight, that’s…fuck, over nine million.” Pale skin and mud-brown eyes were visible through the ski-mask openings.

  Darla’s chin tilted in interest. She laid her hairbrush down.

  “Nine million six, Gerald,” Money said. “I cheated on you a little, I already knew the answer. And yes, Miss Bern, before I arrived at the final figure I checked to find out what our merchandise might be worth to the interested parties. Took a couple of days.” He closed the suitcase, sat on the bed and crossed his legs. He had a slight double chin. “Christ, I’d underestimated these people. I knew they had bread, but how much I hadn’t imagined.”

  “I think they’ve got ways,” Darla said, eyeing the suitcase, “to fit transmitters in the linings. I knew some kidnappers in Pleasanton.”

  “I remember,” Money said. “A couple of them used to take turns on you. But trust me, babes. A microchip the size of a pin-head is all it takes. Let them. We don’t care.” He lovingly patted the suitcase.

  Gerald sat down in a chair and propped his feet up on a table, listening.

  “Cost me pretty good to cover all bases.” Money said. “What the hell, we hope Mr. Fed hides one of his cute little transmitters in there. It’ll give him something to do.” He dug in his pocket and came up with what looked like a TV channel changer. “This thingy-bob,” he said, “homes in on their transmitter. I click this baby, it tells me exactly where our prize is.” He showed a toothy grin. “I’m worth more than my share, as I see it.”

  Darla reached to the nape of her neck and pulled the zipper a couple of inches down the back of her dress. “We’ve got the school layout down.”

  “That we do,” Money said, folding his hands around his knee. “What about our old buddy Frank?”

  “He came to the cast party with her.”

  Money grinned. “Goes without saying. You made yourself scarce, didn’t you, babe?”

  Darla stood, wiggling, pulling on the zipper. Her gaze averted slightly, she said, “Sure. The way she was hanging on to him I couldn’t have gotten a word in anyway. I could show that bitch a few things.” She gave up, walked over to the bed and turned her back. “Undo me, Randolph.”

  Money got up and tenderly brought the zipper down her spine. Gerald scooted his chair over for a better view. Money said, “They mingled, huh? Met some people.”

  “Even signed the guest register, names on the same line. Must have been seventy-five or a hundred there.” Darla retreated to the bureau, pulled her dress off over her head, and tossed it on the floor. She shook her hair out.

  Money looked her over, slim tanned legs, full hips, pale blue pushup bra. “What time’s your date, babe?”

  She checked her slim gold watch and stripped down her pantyhose. “Three-thirty. I’ve got an hour.”

  Money leaned back on his elbows. “We’ve got our ducks in a row what we’re doing, huh?”

  “My head hurts we’ve been over it so much,” Gerald said. “Fuck.”

  “Well then, go over it till your head doesn’t hurt anymore. Excellent therapy. Till you could do it in your sleep.”

  Gerald grunted and brought his feet down off the table, chewing on the lower edge of his ski mask’s mouth opening.

  “I understand everything,” Darla said, “up to the point where they deposit the suitcase.” She unsnapped and shrugged out of her bra. “What happens then?”

  Money’s gaze roamed her up and down. “Nice tits.”

  She tweaked her nipple. “How do we pick up the money, Randolph?” She raised one knee to step out of one side of her panties.

  Money watched the ceiling. “We’ve talked about it before. It’ll get done.”

  “Your mystery guy,” Gerald said, running a finger underneath his mask and snapping the elastic. “This fucking outfit’s hot, Darla. Get your ass in gear.”

  “Mystery man,” Money said. “Mystery woman. Mystery dog, maybe.”

  Darla opened a drawer, picked up a box from Frederick’s of Hollywood, lifted the lid and took out a pair of red bikini briefs with the crotch cut away. She put them on. “You know, Randolph, if it turns out we can’t trust you, you’re going to have both Gerald and Basil awfully pissed off at you. Me, too, if they don’t get to you first.” She smiled.

  Money dusted his lapels. “This isn’t about trust, babes. It’s about, we need each other. I do my part, you do y
ours, everybody’s happy in the end, as I see it.”

  “Best you make us happy, Randolph.” Darla reached in the drawer for a short red dress and wriggled into it, then stepped into red spike heels. “You ready, Gerald?”

  Gerald got up and, shoulders rotating slightly, followed her toward the door.

  Money said, “Wait a minute.”

  Darla turned with her hand on the doorknob. “What is it?”

  Money closed his eyes, his chin moving up and down. “Just thinking. You sure we’re finished with this guy?”

  “I can’t imagine what else we’d need the asshole for,” Darla said.

  “You know the old saying,” Money said. “You never know what you need something for until the day after you’ve gotten rid of it. Then it’s too late. To put it another way, is there a good reason we can do without him?”

  “He’s the only one that knows we’ve got a key to his lake house. The official address they’ve got for me, at the Theater Center, is this motel. He wanted it that way, thinks he’s having this really discreet affair. Minus him, there’s no way for anybody to connect us to the house at the lake.”

  Money shrugged. “A point well taken.”

  Darla released the knob and rubbed a polished nail with her thumb. “Besides, if you think of something we need him for, tough shit. This guy’s going. I can’t stand one more time with him, the turd.” She looked at Gerald and crooked a finger. “Come on, masked man.”

  They left. Money rolled onto his side and fiddled with the suitcase latches. He whistled a happy tune.

  Howard Molly felt that the sessions were never long enough. Always too short. He wished they would go on and on. “Take your time with me,” he pleaded.

  Darla Bern finished tying Molly’s ankle to the chairleg with a length of soft cotton sash material, and rose from her haunches.

  “Is that too snug?’ Both of his ankles were now secure and his arms were around the chair back, his wrists bound together.

  “God, no.” Molly struggled and strained. A strip of sash was tight around his chest. “I love them tight. Christ…” He wore flowered boxer shorts, his bare stomach hanging out over his lap, his fly gaped open, his erection sticking up.

  Darla came around in front of him and brushed her nipple against his lips. “Who knows what you like, baby?”

  “You. God, you.” Molly poked his head forward, his lips straining for her breast. She backed away. Perspiration ran down his forehead. Visible beyond her were the hall tree just inside his bedroom door, a framed appreciation certificate to the Theater Center from the Dallas Junior League, photos of himself alongside the mayor and the governor of Texas. ‘‘Nobody but you,” he panted.

  She placed her hands behind her and thrust out her hips. “Since when, baby?”

  His gaze riveted on red panties, elastic tight around the tops of her thighs, the crotch open to expose a patch of…Christ. “Since the first…oh.’

  “Since the first time you laid eyes on me?” She sensuously ran her fingers up her sides to the tips of her breasts. “Remember how I sucked your cock?”

  “Jesus. Oh, Jesus, do I…?” Spittle ran down his chin and dripped onto his chest

  “And all the other times. Show me how much you like it, Howard.” She bent from the waist, compressing her breasts with her upper arms.

  He struggled even harder and made a choking sound.

  “Am I a good actress,. Howard?”

  “Oh, God. Oh, God, yes.”

  She gritted her teeth “And that’s why you gave me the part, isn’t it?”

  He closed his eyes ‘‘You’re a great actress.” He thought he might come, right now.

  She grabbed his ears and yanked them outward. “Bullshit, Howard. Have you been good?”

  “Oh yes. Done everything you…”

  She bent near, nipples touching his cheeks, and put her lips close to his ear. “You have been good. And I have a surprise.”

  He opened his eyes, smiling. “A surprise?”

  “Don’t you like my surprises?”

  “Yes. Yes, oh, God…”

  She backed away. He looked down at his erection. Oh yes, a surprise, he thought, a surprise just for me. Oh…She opened the door. A huge man came in wearing a ski mask. He was in a skintight black leotard, shoulders, biceps, and thighs bulging. He wore gloves and carried a short rope. He walked deliberately forward.

  Molly’s features sagged. “Who is…?”

  “Why, he’s your surprise, Howard,” Darla said. “Just wait, you’ll like it.”

  Molly’s eyes widened as the man approached and looped the rope around his neck. “You won’t hurt me,” Molly said.

  Strong hands yanked. The rope bit into Molly’s windpipe. He gagged. His cheeks were instantly bloated, filled with blood. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs burned.

  Darla came over and put her face just inches from his. “I want you to know something while you’re dying, Howard. I hate you. Every time you’ve ever touched me, I wanted to puke. I think you’re a sleazy little shit, do you understand me?”

  Molly tried to speak, but the only sound he could make was a soft croak. The masked man pulled the rope even tighter, forearm muscles writhing under stretched black nylon.

  “I hate your fucking guts, Howard,” Darla hissed.

  A red haze filtered over Molly’s vision. He sagged in his chair. As he fell unconscious for the last time in his life, Darla Bern punched him in the ribs. The blow jarred him, but Howard Molly felt no pain.

  12

  Mrs. Helen Dunn’s hand trembled as she held her teacup precariously in front of her lips, a puzzled look on her face as if she was having trouble finding her mouth. God, Meg thought, if she drops the whole mess in her lap I’m going to die laughing, right here.

  Finally Mrs. Dunn sipped. She set the cup into its saucer with a soft glassy clink. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” she said, “and assume you’re hallucinating.”

  Meg sat in an Early American chair with curved legs, her fanny barely making an indentation on the taut, springy cushion. “I’m not hallucinating, ma’am,” she said. “And I’m not mistaken. The lady gave you a phony name.”

  Mrs. Dunn folded her hands in her lap. She was perched on the exact center of a sofa with a grape-leaf design, a matching piece to the chairs. The headmistress wore a long pleated blue velvet dress. Purplish veins and liver spots showed on the backs of her hands. “Before you throw out any more accusations,” she said, “remember who referred her. Howard Molly wouldn’t be a party to anything off-color.”

  “I met Mr. Molly,” Meg said, “and got the impression that if you’d blow in his ear he’d be a party to anything.” She mentally kicked herself. Tact, Meg thought, isn’t my long suit. Frank had tried to kiss her that morning as she’d left his apartment. She’d averted her lips and offered her cheek. Meg’s vision blurred. She lowered her gaze.

  “Now that’s uncalled for.” Mrs. Dunn leaned back and testily folded her arms. “Howard has all the credentials.” A six-foot grandfather clock towered against the wall to her left, its gilt pendulum swinging back and forth, ticking and tocking. Beside the clock was an Early American rolltop desk. The room smelled of rose sachet.

  Meg took a shallow breath and forced herself to calm down. She was on a tear and knew it, so much so that she’d showed up in Mrs. Dunn’s parlor wearing faded jeans, dirty white sneakers, and a blue T with “Hoo-hah” emblazoned across the front. Bearding the headmistress wasn’t going to help the situation one bit. Meg assumed her best sympathetic tone. “I know you respect Mr. Molly, ma’am. But aside from your professional dealings, what do you really know about him?”

  Mrs. Dunn sniffed the air as if detecting a pile of dog manure on the carpet. “The Dallas Theater Center wouldn’t employ anyone without a thorough background check. You’re dealing with
the crème de la crème there.”

  If the Molly guy is the cream of the crop, Meg thought, then I’m Punjab. “Don’t we emphasize security, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Dunn added cream to her cup from a sterling pourer. “Security is one thing. Absurd conjecture is another.”

  Meg sat intently forward. “Please follow me, Mrs. Dunn. Victoria Lee. You mentioned her to me as if she’s a famous actress, and I told you I’d never heard of her. Did you really know who she was, or did you rely on Mr. Molly’s buildup?”

  “Of course I’d…” Mrs. Dunn snapped, then seemed to think it over, and said, “I don’t really keep up with that sort of thing.”

  “All the time I was giving her the tour, she asked about ten million questions about, let’s see, which doors were locked when and how often I checked on the girls at night. She also wanted to know which child lived in which room. All of that information we hold confidential.”

  “Nothing suspicious about that, Miss Carpenter. Anyone leaving their children in our care would want to know those things.”

  “What does the room’s individual occupants.” Meg said, “have to do with whether her own kids would be safe?”

  Mrs. Dunn closed her mouth, then said, “Just curiosity on her part.”

  “Quite a bit more than that, ma’am. I went to the performance on Saturday night, and to be kind, let’s just say her part was somewhat less than the starring role. Plus, I later learned that Victoria Lee’s not even her name.”

  “A lot of those people use pseudonyms.” Mrs. Dunn’s hostility had melted into a reserved curiosity.

  At least I’m making progress, Meg thought. Mrs. Dunn stirred her tea.

  “Certainly they use stage names, all the time,” Meg said. She adjusted her position on the hard cushion. God, if she had to sit in this chair on a day-to-day basis, her rump would be terminally sore. “Her real name is Darla Bern, and she was sort of an actress out in California.”