Uncorked

by Lois Greiman

  “Christina McMullen,” he said in that slow, small-town way he has. Tavis is a cop in a little village a couple lifetimes west of L.A. where jaywalking is considered a heinous crime punishable by thirty lashes or the rack. “You must have finally had your fill of those big-time cops and small-time dicks, huh?”

  Tavis had a dirty mouth but a quick mind. If I were going to be completely honest, which I generally am not, I would have to admit that I kind of appreciate both.

  “How’s life in Smallville?” I asked.

  “Oh…” I could hear the shrug in his voice as he settled back in his springy chair. “The county fair’s coming up soon, so everybody’s pretty hepped about that. And Opie Taylor got busted for spitting on Main Street last Tuesday.”

  I adjusted my skirt a little. It was a bit tight around the waist. I tend to eat when I’m nervous. And sometimes when I’m scared. Always when I’m bored, and usually when I’m frustrated. Eating—the emotional catch-all. “There’s actually a kid named Opie in town?”

  There was a pause. “What’s wrong?” he asked finally.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You’re usually a little quicker to recognize sarcasm than that. It’s one of my favorite things about you. That and your ass. Although your—”

  “A simple no would have been sufficient,” I said.

  “Oh. Okay. No, Christina. There’s no Opie Taylor in Edmond Park. This isn’t Mayberry.

  "So, what’s up?”

  “Not much,” I lied, nervous now about calling. “What’s up with you?”

  “You really have to ask, knowing the dearth of datable women in this little burg?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I had almost forgotten how perverted you are.”

  “Want a refresher course?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “Really? Damn. That’s the best offer I’ve had in months. So…on to your concerns; my advice is that you forget the whole thing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Whatever you have in mind. Forget it. Stay home. Get a good bottle of wine. Call an old boyfriend. Hell, call me. I’m free, available and hard up.”

  I was silent for a moment then, “You heard about Rivera.”

  “I did.”

  “He’s not guilty.”

  He inhaled audibly. “He’s a big boy, Christina.”

  People kept saying things like that. It made me wonder if everyone was familiar with his size.

  “Not as big as me, I’m sure,” he rushed to add. “But big enough. He can take care of himself.”

  “I’m not calling about that.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” I was lying again, but without my usual panache.

  “So you just wanted to talk dirty?”

  “I wanted you to check someone out for me.”

  “Someone….”

  “A cop,” I said, and paused to chew my lip.

  He waited in silence for a while then, “Some particular cop, or will any old cop do?”

  “His name’s Joel Coggins.”

  “So this has nothing to do with Rivera?”

  “No.”

  “Then why—”

  “He asked me out on a date.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously.”

  “I can’t believe you’re going to date another cop and you haven’t even slept with me yet.”

  “Well, believe it.”

  “You know, despite the rumors, I’m not that bad in bed.”

  “Well, you do know how to sell yourself. So I’ll certainly keep you in mind.”

  “Do. Please. I mean—”

  “Tavis…” I interrupted him rather abruptly. Maybe there was a little bit of panic in my voice. “Just check him out, will you?”

  “When’s your date?” His tone was almost serious.

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “I’ll call you back,” he said, and hung up.

  It was a long day. I saw two depressed CEOs, a kleptomaniac and a cross-dresser. None of them was as screwy as I was.

  After work, I stopped at a big box electronics store and bought a very small battery-run recorder. I was fiddling with it when Tavis called at 7:42.

  “Are you a masochist?” he asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Joel Coggins. I saw a picture of him.”

  “Oh.” I shrugged, trying to relieve the tension in my shoulders. “I don’t base my relationships on a person’s physical appearance.”

  There was a pause, then, “Why the hell not?”

  “Because—” I began, then remembered not to play his ridiculous games and stopped myself. “What did you find out?”

  “That you must be severely myopic.”

  “Can you get beyond looks, please?”

  “I never have so far.”

  “Tavis—”

  He sighed. I kind of wondered how he ever got anything done in Edmond Park, but apparently he was a pretty good cop. “It looks as if Officer Coggins graduated at the middle of his class. Been with the L.A.P.D. for four years. No commendations, but no reports of misconduct, either.”

  “Is he…” I didn’t know what questions to ask. I really wanted to know what the chances were of me getting dead, but I wasn’t sure how to frame that particular query. “…single?”

  “You’re killing me.”

  “Is he?”

  “Used to be married. Divorced two years ago.”

  “Any sign of trouble there?”

  “What do you think, Christina, that divorces are made of dewdrops and funnel cakes?”

  “Did she file any complaints?”

  He paused a moment. I could almost hear his scowl. “Not that were recorded.”

  I thought about that for a second. “Are you saying the department might have hushed up something like that?”

  “I hate to burst your illusions about cops and their god-like moral standards.”

  I ignored his sarcasm as best I could, though it was pretty impressive. “So he’s single now.”

  “Are you kidding me? With a face like that, it’s amazing he’s not on a leash.”

  “Is he seeing anyone?” I asked again.

  He issued a long-suffering sigh. “Looks like he used to be.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Five months, maybe. There’s a picture with him and a Stacy Marquet at the Policeman’s Ball. That name mean anything to you?”

  She was the woman Rivera had supposedly stolen from Coggins, but I didn’t say that. “No.” Another lie. A little better this time. “Why should it?”

  “Because you’re lying through your teeth.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t.”

  “What’s this um….what was her name?” I asked. My voice retained a sweetness that made me a little sick to my stomach. And I have a great tolerance for sugar.

  “Sally?” he said.

  I made a face, wondering if he was playing me. “I don’t think that was it.”

  “Probably because you know everything about her but her shoe size.”

  Seven, I thought, but I didn’t say that either. “Stacy? Was that her name?”

  He didn’t bother to comment.

  “What’s she doing now?” I asked.

  “How the hell would I know?”

  “You’re a cop,” I reminded him.

  “Oh right, and in Christina’s I-only-date-cops-who-aren’t-named-Tavis world that’s tantamount to Superman.”

  “Tantamount?”

  “I ran out of jigsaw puzzles at the station. Been reading the dictionary. Let me guess,” he said, rudely eschewing all segues. “You think this ugly-ass Joel Coggins is somehow responsible for your lieutenant’s current predicament.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “When I get tired of the dictionary, I sometimes read sleuth novels.”

  “I’m not a sleuth.”

&n
bsp; “That’s good, because in the books those sleuths usually get themselves in a shitload of trouble.”

  I swallowed.

  “But that’s just fiction.”

  “Good to know.”

  “In real life, I’m pretty sure those dumb-ass sleuths would end up decomposing in a dumpster somewhere."

  Something banged in the kitchen. I jumped as if shot, then froze as Harlequin pranced into the living room wearing an aluminum can on his nose. Harley loves the recyclables. Which is only one of the reasons I spend half my income at the emergency veterinary clinic. The other reason generally has something to do with the ingestion of copious amounts of chocolate.

  “Chrissy?”

  I tugged the can off Harley’s nose and checked the front door. It was locked. The security system was on. It’s not as if I can’t learn.

  “I’m not sleuthing,” I reminded him.

  “How about prying?” he asked. “You doing any of that?”

  “Just going out for drinks.”

  “With dog-face boy?”

  “Apparently I’m not as shallow as you are.”

  “Who is?”

  “Yet to be determined. So he has no priors, right?”

  “Good God, you even sound like a cop.”

  “Does he or doesn’t he?”

  “There are rumors about domestic abuse.”

  “Shit.” The word escaped on its own.

  “Listen…” He sounded serious for an unprecedented second time. “Just because he’s as ugly as a small-town whore, doesn’t mean he’s a nice guy.”

  “It doesn’t mean he’s not.”

  “Maybe, but you might as well date a cop with a decent face and a really gigantic—”

  “Thanks for the advice,” I hurried to say.

  He chuckled. “There’s more where that came from.”

  “Anything helpful?”

  “Yeah.” He paused, exuding quiet reflection. “Don’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Whatever you’re planning. Forget it.”

  “We’re just going to have a couple of drinks. Maybe a little conversation. That’s it.”

  He swore. It was neither as inventive nor as passionate as Rivera’s used to be, but there was a nice rhythm to it.

  “He’s not coming to your house, is he?”

  “Do you think I’m crazy?”

  “More often than not. Where are you meeting him?”

  I paused.

  “Chrissy, unless you’re driving a hundred miles west for this little rendezvous tonight, I can’t interfere. But if you’re found hacked to pieces in a mail box on Pico Boulevard, I’d like to know where to locate the rest of your body parts.”

  I swallowed the bile that had somehow worked its way into my esophagus. “You always sweet talk a girl like this?”

  “My own brand of foreplay. Where you meeting him?”

  “The Wheel, in Glendale.”

  “Well, that’s a decent part of town anyway.”

  “I’m not a complete idiot.”

  “Good to know. Call me when you get home.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Christina…”

  “What?”

  “Don’t waste your money on one of those cheap recorders.”

  “What?” I stopped fiddling with my brand-new device. “Recorders? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He sighed.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeated, voice a little higher pitched.

  “Those cheap pieces of shit are as tinny as hell,” he said. “If you can’t understand anything Coggins says, it’s not going to do you a damn bit of good in court.”

  Chapter14

  Whoever said that all we have to fear is fear itself wasn’t married for more than thirty-two seconds.

  —Mr. Howard Lepinski, who was married for an eternity

  I was as jumpy as the mythical virgin bride on the following day. After barely hearing a word my clients spoke and nearly causing an accident on the eternally gridlocked 5, I deliberately slowed down and focused on thinking clearly. Tonight I would be logical and smart and sophisticated. I would exude class and confidence, I promised myself.

  In an attempt to reach those lofty goals, I emptied my front seat of burger wrappers and pastry bags, wrangled my hair into an upswept do, and slipped into an ivory skirt and navy blue blouse. My brand new recorder, a slim, high-end (aka, expensive) unit, fit neatly into my bra. I was the very picture of sophistication…and I was nervous enough to pee in my pants.

  Hence, I stopped at a Shell station to use a restroom. Even before exiting my car, however, I realized the ladies’ was one of those terrifying outside units. I sat there in cystic agony for a while. But in the end, history won out. I’d had too many nasty experiences to warrant venturing out into the dark alone like a brain-damaged sorority girl in a horror flick. I’d rather wear a diaper for the remainder of the evening.

  Luckily, an Arco station saved me from investing in Depends. After driving an additional five blocks I discovered that that esteemed establishment housed the doors of its restrooms inside. Ahh, the beauty of modern conveniences that will prevent you from getting mugged.

  Still, I was as jittery as hell as I crossed the parking lot and subsequently dropped my keys on the asphalt twice. The second time I bent to retrieve them, someone whistled from a waiting van, but I was too harried to appreciate being subjugated. Hurrying into the well-lit interior, I waited outside the bathroom for a miserable thirty seconds, then hustled inside to relieve myself at the earliest possible moment.

  While in the privacy of the restroom, I slipped the tiny recorder out of my bra and switched it on. Its brochure had promised sixteen hours of high quality audio so the time frame was the least of my worries. The fact that it was finally wedged between my boobs like a miniature cinder block again was both comforting and disconcerting.

  Still, all was well when I paid for gas and a car wash and folded myself back into my Saturn. With a happy bladder, I felt confident and strong once again. I was in control.

  The car wash was one of those fully automated units that sucks you through like a dark, weirdly animated tunnel of love. I put the car in neutral and shut off the engine. The whooshing sound of the washers was oddly soothing, giving me a few needed seconds to get in touch with my thoughts. Maybe, like my Saturn, I had been in neutral. But no more. Now I was being proactive but not foolhardy. Thoughtful but not obsessed. I’d wash my car, meet Coggins, learn what I could and go home to ponder—

  I heard a noise from the backseat a fraction of a second before a hand slapped over my mouth. Terror ripped through me like a hurricane. I tried to scream, to twist away, but I couldn’t.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, McMullen.” The voice was low and guttural. I froze, cranking my eyes backward, but I couldn’t see a thing.

  My mind was buzzing, trying to think. Trying to figure out what to do. At that particular juncture, I was utterly willing to give him anything—my purse, my car, my firstborn—but I had no way to verbalize my stupendous generosity.

  It wasn’t until that moment that my mind slammed into the realization that he’d used my name. But not my given name. My surname. My Irish name. McMullen. Who called me—

  Rivera!

  I knew it…knew that he had gotten out of jail and was trying to teach me a lesson…again. Rage pumped through me like molten lava. I twisted wildly toward the rear. He tried to hold me still, but I was pissed. I bit down, drawing blood between his thumb and pointer finger.

  He cursed and tried to pull away, but I was already clambering over the seat toward him, skirt bunching around my scrambling legs.

  “Turn around! Stay back!” he warned, but I’ve never been one for taking orders.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” I was hissing with fury, snarling with a dangerous mix of rage and relief to learn that Rivera was not only safe but free.

  That’s when he hit me in
the face!

  I flattened back against the front seat, head spinning, cheek throbbing, thoughts scrambling like broken eggs in my cranium. The lieutenant may be a cheat and a liar. But he wouldn’t hit me. Raking my thoughts haphazardly together, I lunged for the door, but he yanked me back inside.

  I screamed but the noise was washed away by the soggy arms that struck the Saturn. He hit me again, clubbing me on the side of the head. My ears exploded, spurring up a new batch of rage and terror. I slammed my elbow backward and heard cartilage crunch, but it didn’t do me any good.

  He was already pushing me face down into the seat, compressing my lungs, straddling my thigh. I felt his erection against my backside and almost gagged, but that was before I realized there was a cord around my neck. And suddenly I couldn’t breathe. My chest ached. I bucked against him, sobbing and rasping for breath.

  He growled something, a curse or a threat.

  But at that second one of the washer arms must have hit my trunk just right. It popped open. The asshole atop me jerked his attention to the left, and in that moment I jabbed backward with my elbow. He slammed toward the door. I yanked my right knee over the edge of the seat, then kicked with all the force my screaming muscles could muster. I felt my heel strike his jaw, heard his teeth clack. I rolled onto my back and kicked with both feet. My heels caught him mid body. He fell against the door, hands flying up. I realized for the first time that he was wearing something over his head. But the sheer fabric didn’t hide the rage in his eyes. For an abbreviated moment, I could see they were bright with hatred, and then he was gone, toppling backward into the swooshing arms of the car wash.

  One arm struck the open door, banging it closed. It took all my strength to reach up and punch the locks closed. Then I lay on the seat like a beached trout, crying and trembling.

  I have no way of knowing how much time passed, maybe it was several minutes before my car rolled to a halt.

  But finally a face appeared at my window. I gasped and jerked to a seated position at the sight of an acne-riddled boy staring into the car. He scanned the front seat, then saw me in the back and adjusted his position, making a rolling down motion as he did so. My hands shook like leaflets in a windstorm as I tried to open the window, but the car was shut off. I was almost entirely incapable of opening the door. The boy scanned the backseat as if searching for a covert lover. His voice was quizzical.