Uncorked

by Lois Greiman

  “He could probably learn to turn on the vacuum if he tried really hard.”

  She almost laughed. “Drag clean something?” She shook her head and glanced toward the cabinet that made Proctor and Gamble a multibillion-dollar industry. “I can guarantee that won’t happen anytime soon. He’s tough. Real tough. And I thought…” She shrugged. “Thought he could keep me safe. You know…from the world.”

  “But who’s going to keep you safe from him?”

  She cleared her throat. “You’d best get going before he comes home.”

  I could see her point. It was an excellent point, but for reasons entirely unknown to me I remained where I was. “Where was he a week ago Tuesday night?”

  She stared at me.

  “August 29th,” I said. “Where was he?”

  She watched me a moment longer, then laughed out loud. “How the hell would I know? I’m just glad when he ain’t here.”

  “Was he here?”

  She scowled, but a noise sounded from the front of the house. She snapped her attention in that direction, then rushed it back to me. “Get out!”

  The desperation in her voice made me jerk toward the door. Or maybe it was my own terror that caused my attempted exit, but she stopped me.

  “Not that way.” She clutched desperately at my arm. “Out back.”

  “Lavonn…”

  “He don’t like no one in this house.”

  “Come with me,” I said.

  Something fired in her eyes but it was gone in a second. “Leave,” she ordered and I did.

  Chapter 22

  The rich get richer and the poor get pissed.

  —Micky Goldenstone, one of the poor

  “It wasn’t him.” Those were the first words out of D’s mouth.

  “What?” I like to think I’m pretty quick on the uptake, but sometimes I could use a hi or how are you? or even a have you been attacked in any car washes lately? before one launches into the topic at hand. Especially first thing in the morning. I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes, but it turns out it went all the way to the back of my head.

  “Andrews wasn’t the guy who attacked you.” He sounded dead-shot sure. And according to certain sources, D knew criminals like the pope knows sin, but even though I tended to agree with him after my visit to the hospital, I had to ask.

  “Are you sure?” I sat up in bed. Harlequin put a paw over his eyes. It was as big as a mammoth muffin. Oddly enough, the sight of it made me hungry. "I mean, I know he's been shot and everything. But maybe it's just a front. Maybe he's not too badly injured. Maybe he snuck out for a few minutes to… kill me." And maybe I was crazy as a loon.

  "He was in the chapel from seven o'clock Wednesday night to seven o'clock Thursday morning. Took his IV with him like a puppy on a leash. Guess he's been born again." There was a shrug in his tone. "I would have thought once would be enough."

  "Maybe he snuck out for a while."

  “At 2:45 he used the restroom.”

  “How long was he gone?”

  “Two minutes and fourteen seconds. He urinated in the second stall from the end closest to the door.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  “I am not.”

  “Weren’t there urinals available?”

  “There were.”

  “Maybe that tells us something.”

  “It tells us he’s a squatter. He’s always been a squatter.”

  “You know that?”

  “You don’t get to be the number one collection engineer in Chicago without finding out who squats and who stands.”

  I shook my head, trying to negate the images. “He could have—”

  “You want to know what I’ve learned about you?”

  “No!” I said then winced and weakened. “Okay. What?”

  “You let your dog poop in the park without picking it up.”

  “I do not.” I made my voice sound shocked even though I was immensely relieved it wasn’t something worse. Believe you me, there is worse.

  “And you have a fondness for French…tools.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to pretend that wasn’t so bad either. It was. But I moved on. “Have you ever heard of a guy named Drag?”

  “Andrews’s number one gun?”

  I felt my face twitch. “What else do you know about him?”

  “Of the two of them, Andrews is the warm, fuzzy one.”

  I swore silently in my head. If the fuzzy one had held my best friend hostage, what would the prickly one do? “How loyal is he to his boss?”

  “Are you asking if he would attack you in a car wash if Andrews ordered it?”

  “I wouldn’t have said it in terms that make me want to hurl.”

  “He’d pee on Mother Teresa,” he said, “but only if it suited his mood.”

  “So he’s not a puppet.”

  “Truth is, I don’t expect Andrews to live much longer now that he’s out of the pen.”

  I thought about that for a second. “You think Drag was the one who shot him?"

  "Could be."

  "Do you think he'll try again if he was?”

  “He didn’t shed any tears when the kingpin was put away, and there’s talk that Drag might have been the one that killed Andrews’s former number one.”

  “I thought there was loyalty among gang members.”

  “You must have seen too many mafia movies before you got hooked on westerns.”

  “I’m not hooked on westerns.”

  “Whatever you say, Pilgrim.” His impression of John Wayne wasn’t too bad. I closed my eyes for a moment.

  “How do you know what movies I watch?”

  He laughed, but I asked again.

  “How do you know?”

  “I’d like you to remain alive for a while, Miss Chris. I mean…we haven’t even slept together yet.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to spy on me.”

  “If it doesn’t, I don’t know what does,” he said, then continued before I could come up with a logical retort. “Stay away from Drag, Christina. He’s no knight in shining armor.”

  “What do you—” I began, then changed course as I realized what his statement implied. “You know what books I read, too?”

  “I won’t tell anyone you’ve watched Stage Coach three times in the last four months if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  It wasn’t. Well…it kind of was. I was a classy broad these days. Classy broads don’t become obsessed with the Duke. They watch films like Doctor Zhivago and Reds, then sit around and pontificate about the meaning of life. But sometimes…just sometimes…I thought the meaning of life might involve…say…a guy like the Duke who was hell on wheels where bad guys were concerned, but gentle with women and horses.

  “What about Andrews?” I asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Does he know Lavonn is shacking up with the guy who may have put a bullet in his head?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’ll he do when he finds out?”

  "I don't know. What would Jesus do?"

  "Probably not make a fortune on mind-altering drugs in the first place."

  "Seems kind of likely, I guess."

  "What'll he do to Lavonn?" I asked.

  “Can't say for sure. But if I was her, I’d take the first train to Patagonia."

  "Even though he's found Christ?"

  "I'm told it's pretty easy to lose Him in a crowd."

  I thought about that for a second. “I don’t think the Metrolink has a direct route to Patagonia.”

  “Then I’d shoot Andrews in the kneecaps and run like hell,” he said.

  The phone woke me up again. It was 2:10 in the morning. legitimately the middle of the night this time. I answered on the umpteenth ring, breath held, mind muzzy.

  “Christina?”

  I blinked. “Marcus?”

  “Christina. It’s so good to hear your voice. How are you?”

  I winced, wondering wh
ere to begin. “To tell you the truth…”

  “You’ll have to speak up, sweetheart. I’m in Mazyr. It’s not a very good connection.”

  “Mazyr?”

  “Belarus. Darndest thing, my book was such a huge success in Pinsk that they wanted me to come to Mazyr. Like a flash signing or something.” He laughed. “I guess L.A. isn’t the only place that has a plethora of secondary narcissists.”

  I drew a deep breath. “Speaking of psychological disorders—”

  “They’ve done extensive tests regarding the effects of cannabis sativa on a number or psychosomatic conditions.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. They have an impressive amount of data suggesting that using marijuana in moderate amounts, and under the care of a licensed physician, of course, can significantly improve the prognosis of those affected by several different types of psychological ailments, such as—”

  I interrupted him before my eyeballs rolled back into their sockets. “That’s nice, Marcus, but I haven’t had much time to consider the effects of pot lately…what with the car wash attack and everything.”

  “What’s that?” His voice seemed to be coming from the other side of the solar system. “I think we’re breaking up.”

  I winced and thought he might very well be right.

  “Dr. Carlton, it is time,” someone said. The voice was soft, cultured, accented and as sexy as dark chocolate.

  “I’ll be right there,” he promised.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Oh, that was just Sam.”

  “Your publicist?”

  “We should not keep them waiting much longer,” Sam said.

  I closed my eyes for a moment. “Sam sounds very…female.”

  He laughed. “If I didn’t know better, lovey, I would think you were jealous. But as you’re very well aware jealousy is just a manifestation of one’s latent insecurities. And I know you’re not insecure.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder what other misconceptions he harbored regarding my shortcomings. “What’s that noise in the background?”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice had risen a little. “It’s extremely loud in here. They’re throwing me a little celebratory soirée . The executive vice president of Colfax Publishing is here. I should get back to it. They think the book might be the number one best-selling medical paperback regarding secondary narcissists with latent somatic narcissistic tendencies next week.”

  I cut through the crap and said, “I thought you were going to be home next week.”

  “I can’t leave the tour now. The first month of sales significantly impacts the longevity of the book.”

  I stroked Harlequin’s paw and subsequently caught a glimpse of Shirley’s Glock on my night stand.

  “Speaking of longevity—” I began, but he interrupted me again.

  “Listen, I have to go. I simply needed to hear your dulcet voice before—”

  “Marc, I’ve had a little trouble,” I said. I didn’t want to worry him, but I wasn’t quite sure how to make a car wash attack sound innocuous.

  “Trouble?”

  “A couple days ago.”

  “Not another bipolar schizophrenic with a hypersensitivity to clothing, is it?” he asked. “Take my advice, honey; get out of Eagle Rock. Burbank has a much more favorable clientele. The wealthy have schizophrenics, too, you know.”

  “It wasn’t a client.”

  “Dr. Carlton—” It was the very feminine voice with the masculine name again.

  “I’m sorry. I really must go. We can talk shop upon my return. I can’t wait to tell you my ideas for the next book. I’ll be home before you—” And suddenly he was gone.

  “Marcus?” I said, but we’d lost the connection.

  Leather Italian Oxfords.

  I sat in the dark and stared at the phone, thinking that that was how we’d met. I had gone to a symposium on transference-focused psychotherapy. Marcus had been the guest speaker. It had only taken me a few minutes to realize he was classy and intelligent. Less than that to see that he had really great shoes. I’d always been a sucker for leather Italian Oxfords, and he seemed to like me, too. Found my sense of humor unique and my outlook on life refreshing. Okay, so sometimes he could be a little snooty, but he was always well groomed and intellectually stimulating. Maybe he was a little self-centered, but what genius isn’t? A man’s intellect was of paramount importance to me, I thought, but just at that second a picture of Rivera’s ass flashed through my mind like a lightning bolt on crack. It may not be as intelligent as Marc’s brain but it was as hard as a—

  The phone rang again, nearly jolting me from the mattress.

  I yanked up the receiver, ready to apologize for the steamy thoughts that were streaming through my head. “Marc?”

  “He’s coming.” The words were a raspy whisper.

  Each one of my less-than-hard muscles froze in instant terror. “Who is this?”

  “I didn’t know who else to call.” A rising moan issued from the background.

  The sound made my hair stand on end. I was gripping the telephone cord like a lifeline.

  “Are you there?” Her voice quivered, but there was something in the tone that I thought I recognized.

  “Lavonn?”

  “He was high. Higher than Jesus on the Mount. So I says he couldn’t sleep in this house.” A tiny whimper escaped her. She sniffled it back. “He come after me.”

  Holy God! “Are you alright?”

  “Charlie…he jumped him.”

  Charlie’s fangs flashed in my mind. “Is he dead?”

  “Drag? Dead! Shit!” Her voice trembled in earnest now. “I ain’t that lucky. He scrambled outta here, but he says he’s gonna come back. Gonna come back and kill the dog.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “He loves that dog.”

  “Are you in the house?”

  “Course I’m in the house. I don’t have no—” She gasped. Something clattered in the background. I could imagine her spinning toward the door.

  “Lavonn?”

  “Jesus save me.”

  “Can you get to a friend’s house?”

  “I don’t know no one here.”

  “Where are you at?”

  “I already told you, I’m in the damn house.”

  “Kitchen? Living room?”

  “Bedroom.”

  “Upstairs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is there a window?”

  “Window?” Her voice had become increasingly shrill. “I can’t jump out no window.” Another gasp, quieter now, almost silent. “Shit,” she whispered.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s here.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Jesus. Oh Jesus!” she said, and then the phone went dead.

  I stood frozen in terror for a good five seconds, then I was out the door before I had time to think. My little car revved and fishtailed as I swung onto Vine. I punched numbers into my cell with manic speed.

  “911.”

  “There’s an assault taking place at…” I searched for the address that remained on a scrap of envelope on my seat and read it in a bluster of noise. The dispatcher repeated the address, then asked my name. I rattled that off, too.

  “Stay on the line, please,” she said, but at that exact instant we lost contact.

  I tried to renew the connection, but it seemed to be only a matter of seconds before I turned onto 6th Street. I had no idea how I had gotten there so fast. I slowed down, heart pumping, wondering what to do next. That’s when I saw them in the headlights.

  Lavonn stood in the middle of the street, eyes rimmed with white. A skinny guy in well-pressed chinos and a fedora stood with his back toward me, legs braced apart.

  I slammed to a halt while rambling prayers to every saint who’d ever shown mercy on lunatics and fools. Then, popping my door open, I stepped into the opening like I’d seen the cops do in movies where the polic
e don’t usually end up dead. “Drag!” I yelled his name. He turned his head toward me. The upper portion of his face was entirely shadowed. Only his grin could be seen. It looked demonic. Something lay flat out at his feet. It took me a minute to realize it was Charlie. I felt my stomach lurch, but Drag was already taking a step toward Lavonn. “Leave her alone!” I ordered, but my voice was quaky.

  He didn’t so much as glance toward me.

  “Drag!” My tone was frantic, echoing in the silent darkness like a fire alarm. “The police are on their way.”

  He didn’t turn around, just lifted his hand. Light gleamed off his pistol. He pulled the trigger. A bullet whizzed past the Saturn.

  I shrieked and ducked behind my door. When I got the nerve to peek through the window I saw that Lavonn was running away. I could tracl her progress in the glare of my headlights. Could see Drag following her. Charlie raised his head, and in that moment I imagined Harlequin lying there, imagined him bleeding into the asphalt. But Lavonn’s shriek jarred something loose inside of me and suddenly I was back in the car. I punched the accelerator like a soccer ball. If I could get to her first, there was hope, but Drag was already raising his hand toward her back.

  Leaning to the right, I grabbed my purse, pawing for the weapon Shirley had given me. In that second Drag turned toward me. We were only two feet apart. “Fuck you, bitch,” he said, and swung his weapon toward my window.

  I jerked the wheel in one spastic motion. In all honesty, I’m not sure what my plan was, but my bumper struck him. I shrieked as he fell. A bullet pinged through the rear window. I screamed, but I was almost even with Lavonn. She spun toward me.

  “Get in!” My voice was nothing but a wild screech.

  She pawed at the passenger door, jerked it open and dove inside, already twisting around to stare behind us. I never stopped the car as I careened around the next corner. The tires squealed. Lavonn was shrieking. It took me a full fifteen seconds to realize she was saying actual words.

  “Turn around. Turn the fuck around.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Turns out I was shrieking too.

  “I can’t leave him. He’s hurt.”