Uncorked

by Lois Greiman

  “Holy shit!” I yelled. Professional was long gone. Keep an eye out for stark raving mad. “What the hell’s wrong with you? I saved your ass last night. Hell,” I said, remembering back, “I saved your nephew’s ass. Black, white or frickin’ magenta!”

  We faced off like mad dogs, and for one wild second I thought it might come to blows. Hell, for one second I hoped it might. But finally she drew a deep breath through her nostrils and nodded.

  “Try the Blue Fox,” she said.

  I tilted back slightly. “What?”

  “If you got the balls to try to find Imp,” she said, snagging the chosen box of cereal under one arm and heading back toward the stairs, “try the Blue Fox.”

  At 12:47 P.M. I was on the phone with Julio Manderos. Julio is a good-looking Spanish gentleman who owns a little establishment called the Strip Please. Besides participating in a couple other less-than-perfectly-legal activities, he had, at one time, made a decent second income by being Senator Rivera’s body double.

  I kid you not. I can’t make this shit up.

  “What do you know about the Blue Fox?” I asked.

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a good five seconds. “Why do you ask, Christina?” Even his voice sounded like Miguel Rivera’s.

  “I’m looking for someone,” I said.

  “And this someone, he has a name?”

  I hesitated a second, though I didn’t know why exactly. “Imp.”

  I could hear him draw a heavy breath. “I know of no one by that name.”

  “I think he might be a snitch for the police.”

  Another silence. “This has something to do with the senator’s son, si?”

  I considered denying it, but there wasn’t much point. “Si,” I said.

  “Christina, I do not think it a good idea for you to get involved in a situation of this sort.”

  “Rivera’s innocent.”

  “Perhaps so, but it is not for you to prove. He is a big boy.”

  Seriously? Again with the size?

  “Well, his father doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything to help him,” I said, feeling, irrationally, perhaps, that since the two of them looked alike, the senator’s parental neglect was somehow Manderos’s fault, too.

  “I cannot speak for the senator, Christina,” he said. His voice was sad.

  I drew a deep breath and sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. So you don’t know anything about an Imp?”

  “I do not.”

  “Okay. Well…thank you anyway,” I said, and prepared to hang up. “I’ll talk to you—”

  “Christina.”

  “Yes?”

  “The Blue Fox is no place for a lady such as yourself.”

  I considered asking him what kind of lady it was suitable for, but I wasn’t in the mood to be clever... or enlightened. “I’ll be fine,” I said instead.

  “You must promise me you will not go there alone.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not swamped by offers to accompany me just now."

  “Then I shall come with you.”

  “No,” I said, though honestly, the idea of having someone with a little testosterone on my side did give me a boost. “You can’t.”

  “I can.”

  “Julio,” I said, more grateful than I had expected to be. “Thank you. I appreciate your offer. But think about it. I’m not going to be able to get any information from anyone when I have an ex-senator sitting beside me.”

  “I am not an ex-senator.”

  “But no one will know that.”

  “Good. Perhaps then they will not bother you.”

  I sighed. “Okay, I’ll call you if I decide to go there.”

  “This you promise?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. We will talk soon.”

  “Sure,” I said, and prepared to hang up again.

  “And Christina…”

  “Yes?”

  “There is a special place in hell for those who lie to people who care for them.”

  “I’ll call,” I said, and hung up.

  Seven hours later, I was on my way to the Blue Fox. I had Shirley’s Glock in my purse, my pepper spray on my key chain and 911 on speed dial by the time I parked by the curb outside.

  It was a long, low building with an asymmetrical roof line and a tilted sign. The street was set in semidarkness. Off to my left, a couple was making out on the hood of a Mazda. Up ahead, a trio of boys were playing music and talking trash. I drew a deep breath, steadied my nerves and stepped out of the car.

  The man appeared out of nowhere. One moment I was alone and the next he was right behind me.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” he whispered.

  Chapter 26

  The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But that doesn’t mean it’s not on my list.

  —Christina McMullen, to about thirty-seven ex-boyfriends

  I gasped and spun around, grappling for my pepper spray, but I was too slow. My spastic fingers connected with the canister just as he grabbed my hand.

  “Christina.” The voice was soft, the hand gentle but firm. “You promised.” It took my palpating heart several seconds to slow down enough to allow me to recognize my attacker.

  “Julio!” I exhaled his name like a prayer. “What are you doing here?”

  “I am hoping to not get myself killed.” We stared at each other from inches apart. “Perhaps you could tell these fine people that you are well.”

  “What?”

  He tilted his head toward the onlookers. As it turned out, the couple making out on the Mazda were both male. Or… I stared at them a moment longer. Perhaps they were both female. Either way, both had pulled out pistols.

  My hands were shaking. My voice, too. “I’m okay.” I cleared my throat and tried again. “Just startled. There’s no problem here.” I gave them a wobbly smile. “We’re friends.”

  A boy in low-slung jeans stepped away from the trash-talking trio. Even in the dim light I could see he was barely old enough to shave. “You sure you okay, girl?”

  “Yes,” I said, and slipped my arm around Julio’s waist. “I’m great.”

  “He kind of old for you, ain’t he?”

  Julio’s eyes glowed a little. I didn’t know if it was fear or anger.

  “Tell you what,” said Slung Low. “You come with me I’ll give you some fresh meat for dinner.”

  My heart did a nosedive toward my stomach. I felt Julio’s biceps twitch and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was about to reach for a gun of his own. I pulled myself closer, blocking his motion.

  “No thanks,” I said, and snuggled under Julio’s left arm. “Age doesn’t matter with a love like ours, does it, Honey Pot?”

  He turned his head toward me. And now I recognized the emotion. It was fear. Not for himself but for me. Years ago, he had vowed to care for me for as long as he drew breath, but perhaps I hadn’t realized the depth of his emotions.

  “None,” he said, and gently slid his hand down my waist. I stiffened, but his kiss was soft and pure and full of caring. I opened my mouth to protest, but he pressed his fingers to the small of my back and deepened the kiss.

  By the time he pulled away, my head was spinning like a globe.

  Neither of us looked back as he turned us toward the club. His arm around my waist was all that kept me upright, and even then I wobbled a little.

  “Holy shit,” I said.

  “We must keep walking,” he ordered.

  When we stepped into the building, the musky smells and pounding music were almost overwhelming, but I was too buzzed to worry about either of those details.

  “Julio,” I said, leaning forward and finding his eyes in the dim lighting. “I didn’t know.”

  He glanced right and left, dark eyes gleaming. “You did not know what?”

  “About your feelings for me.”

  He turned slowly in my direction. “Christina,” he said, worry edging his sweet accent, “you do know wh
at I do to make my living, si?”

  “What?”

  He scowled a little. The ambient noises seemed to dim. “For many years I was…I am in the business of pleasure.”

  I blinked as formerly known facts came flooding past the hormonal wall that had momentarily barricaded my brain; Julio Manderos had not always been a business owner and senator look-a-like. He had once been a paid companion. “Oh. Yes. I know. Of course. I know that. I just—” I jerked my head to the right. “Look! An open table,” I babbled, and sped through the mob toward the stage.

  A pretty couple was dancing there, but I barely saw them. My face was on fire. I stumbled into a chair.

  “Christina,” Julio said, and seating himself gracefully, took my hand in both of his.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Christina, we must discuss this.”

  “I know,” I whispered, and forced a lopsided grin. It was the best I could do. It was sobering and somewhat frightening to realize I was still an idiot. “So what’s your guess?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  I nodded surreptitiously toward the pretty couple. My movement was the physical equivalent of a stage whisper. “Do you think they’re male or female?”

  “Christina, I did not mean to give you the wrong impression. I only wished to—”

  “Listen, I’ve got to pee. When I get back, I want you to tell me their genders,” I said, and stumbling to my feet, hurried toward the back of the building.

  The restroom was small. It had two stalls, one free-standing metal cabinet with listing doors, and enough graffiti to fill a novel. It was also unoccupied. I have never seen such a beautiful sight in my life. I made it to the only sink, splashed water on my face and stood staring down at the drain as if life’s many mysteries would be answered there. But they remained hidden. I mean, seriously, what was wrong with me? Julio was a friend. A good-looking friend, true. A tall, dark, handsome suave friend, but a friend nevertheless. Not to mention the fact that he was, as often as not, a paid friend. Was I so hard up that I needed love in all the wrong places?

  I glanced at the mirror. The face that glanced back was okay. Not glamorous. Not heart stopping. But not hideous either. My skin was kind of pasty, my hair a little messed, as if I’d had a run-in with an opinionated dry vac. But no one was perfect. And I had a boyfriend. My face flamed red again as I thought back to some of my recent exploits. So what if I sometimes forgot his name? So what if he was in a country I had never heard of while I was being attacked in my car? So what if—

  The door opened. I turned back to the sink, hiding my reddened cheeks. “It’s so hot in here,” I said, and splashed more water on my face. “But I’ll be done in a minute.”

  “You sure as hell will.”

  I jerked around at the sound of the guttural voice. Drag stood between me and the door. Bruising showed around his right eye as if he'd recently been hit in the face. My mouth went dry. My knees went weak, and when I looked down, my breath stopped dead in my throat.

  He held a pistol in his right hand. I staggered backward, bumping into the sink.

  “You can’t come in here.” They were the first words out of my mouth, barely audible, completely nonsensical. You can’t come in here? Like social etiquette was the reason he couldn’t kill me?

  He laughed, low and mean and self-assured.

  “I can do anything I want,” he said, and took a limping step toward me. I jerked my purse up to grab Shirley's gun, but he snatched it out of my hand and flung it across the room. The Glock flew out and skittered against the wall. My arm screamed in pain. I was breathing hard now, wide eyed as he grinned at me. I backed away, skirting the sink, but the space was limited.

  I shook my head, grappling for something intelligent to say, but all that came out was, “You don’t have to do this. Andrews doesn’t own you.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” he said, and lunged toward me.

  I shrieked, grappled behind me and tore the cabinet away from the wall. It toppled forward, almost striking him. He jumped back just as I leapt for the door, but he was already blocking that route. Turning wildly, I dashed into the stall, but he was right behind me. I spun around and slammed the door with all my might. It smashed into his arm. I was sobbing as I yanked the door toward me and slammed it again, but he had already drawn back.

  I fumbled for the latch just as his shoulder hit the door. I flew backward, landing on the stool.

  “Where is she?” he growled, and yanking me to my feet, drew back the gun as if to strike me. “Lavonn, where—” But he never finished the sentence.

  “I’m right here,” she snarled.

  Drag half-turned, and in that instant, Lavonn leapt toward him. She shrieked as she swung. The tire iron hissed past his face. He shoved me backward and stumbled out of the stall, dodging her blows. I fell back against the wall, dazed and terrified. I heard iron strike flesh, but Drag grabbed her weapon and yanked her to the floor. Her head struck the tile with sickening finality.

  “Fucking bitch!” he snarled, and stumbled toward her. But there was a pop of noise. He jerked as if yanked by a cord. Flinging his arms wide, he turned and stumbled three steps in my direction. He raised his gun, growled a threat, then crumpled slowly to the floor near my feet.

  It took me a long time to realize I was unscathed, longer still to understand that Eric Albertson was standing by the door, legs straddled, gun still trained on his target.

  I watched woodenly as he closed his stance and strode forward to gaze down at Drag. He was lying on his side, pistol half-hidden beneath him, eyes wide and staring. Blood seeped from his neck onto the grimy floor tiles. Eric held his gun outstretched, but knelt and touched his fingers to a spot just below Drag’s jaw. Nobody moved.

  “Is he dead?” Lavonn’s voice was no more than a raspy whisper, but it seemed to bring Eric out of his trance. He looked up. The door creaked open. A face appeared momentarily, then disappeared. Footsteps could be heard skittering away.

  Eric blinked once and glanced at me.

  “You okay?”

  “Sure.” I was still sprawled on the floor like a broken doll. I didn’t even try to change that situation. “I’m fine. Lavonn…” My voice was unsteady. “Lavonn got here just in time.”

  She was already struggling to her feet, eyes wide. “You bet your white ass I did,” she said.

  “How did you know?” I asked. “Why did you come? How did you get here?”

  “I took a damn taxi,” she said. “You owe me forty-two bucks.”

  Chapter 27

  A true friend will stab you in the front.

  —Oscar Wilde

  It was hours before the police allowed us to leave the crime scene. But finally we were back home. Lavonn trekked immediately into the kitchen.

  Eric watched her go, then sighed and stared down into my eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “No,” I said, and drew a ragged breath, “but I will be.”

  He shook his head, kissed my forehead and said, “You’re amazing.”

  I was, kind of. “So you think Drag was the one who shot Andrews?”

  He exhaled slowly, as if just beginning to relax. “That's my guess."

  I thought about that for a moment. “He probably planned to take over the sale of Intensity.”

  “That seems likely. But maybe he just had a grudge. We’ll probably never know for sure now.”

  I nodded, feeling numb, and a little less amazing than I would have liked.

  “I’m sorry I was late.”

  I pulled my gaze back to his face. He wasn’t the first person to apologize to me that evening. Julio had been beside himself when he’d realized I’d been attacked under his watch. But he’d allowed Eric to drive me to the station and eventually take me home.

  “I should have been more careful,” I said.

  “Yes, you should have,” he agreed, and sighed. “So maybe you want me to stay the night?” He looked hopeful, and I have to admit I was te
mpted. But I had a boyfriend.

  Rivera’s dark features flashed through my mind, followed languidly by Marc’s blander ones.

  “I’d better see to Lavonn,” I said. “She’s probably more shook up than she seems.”

  Eric chuckled a little and squeezed my hand. “An army boot would seem more shook up.” I glanced at him and he shrugged. “I don’t think you have to worry about her too much,” he said. “At the end of the world it’ll just be her and the cockroaches left.”

  “She’s probably a marshmallow in—” But just then she yelled from the kitchen.

  “Don’t you ever have no damn groceries in this house?”

  “Probably just hiding her sensitivity,” Eric said, and turned to go, but he paused for a moment. “Hey, Lavonn doesn't have Drag's phone does she?"

  “Not that I know of.”

  He nodded. “Well, if it turns up, make sure she doesn’t mess with it, will you? It wasn't on the body and we’ll need it for evidence.”

  “Okay.”

  He nodded and prepared to leave.

  “Eric?”

  He raised a brow at me.

  “Thank you again.”

  “To protect and serve,” he said, and left.

  I walked into the kitchen, only to find Lavonn munching on a PB and J sandwich.

  “I thought you couldn’t find anything to eat,” I said.

  She shrugged. “I been eatin’ since I walked through the door. I just couldn’t stand the thought of you suckin’ face with that pasty-faced do-gooder.”

  “What are you talking about? He saved our lives.”

  “He saved your life. He woulda just as soon I was drowned in the toilet.”

  I scooped up a spoonful of peanut butter and sat across the table from her. “I take it you don’t care for Officer Eric.”