It seemed an eternity before the door opened. Frantically, I pushed my way in, locking and barricading the door while Orna called 911.
I’m proud of you, White. You handled that like a pro. Who said you can’t take care of yourself? Where there’s a will, there’s a way. . . .
The police took another report. Staring at them blankly as they wrote, I imagined what the next one would say: The body was found lying faceup. . . .
They couldn’t help me; I knew that now. One can’t stop a demented person from killing once he has it in his mind to do so. I had to leave. He’d be back, and I might not be so lucky the next time. The police waited as I packed my bags. I packed a lot, not knowing when we would be returning.
I held my daughter’s hand and took one last look around as I closed the door and took my next step toward an unknown future.
After all the futile attempts with the police, I came to the conclusion that my problem had no conventional resolution. There was just no way to stop this obsessive maniac. Well, yes . . . There was one way. The last resort, and now was the time. Hesitating, I picked up the telephone and dialed the number.
“Hi, Joe.”
A long silence.
“Where are you?”
“I’m—”
“Where’ve you been hiding? I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m in Rochester.”
“Rochester! Did you leave Los Angeles?”
“No . . . well . . . just for a while.”
“What’s the matter, Georgia?”
“I have a problem. I need your help. I don’t know who else to turn to.”
He hesitated. “What kind of a problem?” he asked with concern.
“Well . . . there’s this guy—”
His mood changed over the wire. I could feel his teeth clenching in the silence. The thought crossed my mind that I’d made a mistake, but I dismissed it. Aware that I didn’t really have a choice, I began to methodically work my way through the past months’ events, carefully choosing my words. He listened without saying a word. He was so quiet. Had he hung up?
“Joe?”
“I’m here,” he answered in a disgusted tone.
“You have to help me. He’s going to kill me. He’s just waiting for me to come back. My cousin Randy told me my apartment was broken into. Randy fixed the door, but he’ll be back. I’m afraid to go home. Will you . . . will you help me?”
“If anyone’s going to kill you, Georgia, it’s going to be me. How do you get yourself into these messes? Do you see now why you need me? Who the hell else would do what I do for you? There isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think about you in that city, with all those nuts running around. I knew this would happen. Why don’t you just come home—where you belong!”
“Joe, I called because I need your help, not to fight. Are you going to help me or not?”
“When are you coming back?”
“I’m not! If you won’t help me, then—”
“When are you coming back to Los Angeles, Georgia?”
“Oh. When I know I can . . . and be safe,” I answered, still uncomfortable that I was giving him this opportunity to get to me.
“All right. Make your reservations, and call me back with your flight information. Don’t bring Toni with you.”
“Okay,” I said, exhaling with relief.
After two weeks at my parents’ house, keeping a low profile, I had to do something. When was I ever going to feel safe? Joe hadn’t actively pursued trying to find me, so I assumed he was beginning to accept my departure, or at least I hoped that was the case. I knew it was risky asking for his help. To open that door again, after months of managing to be away from his grip, was a chance I had to take. Hell, I was going to have to move again anyway.
An hour later I called Joe back with my flight information. He answered on the first ring.
“It’s United flight two twenty-seven. I arrive LAX tomorrow at eight thirty p.m.”
“Okay, I’ll have someone there to meet you at the plane.”
“How will I recognize him?”
“He’ll find you. He has instructions to stay with you day and night until the problem is taken care of.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“You know better than to ask that kind of question on the phone. Don’t worry, honey—you’re in good hands. Nothing will happen to you. You’ve got one of the best in the business.”
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong, Georgia?” asked my father.
“Yes, Daddy, everything’s fine,” I assured him. “Will you please stop worrying about me?”
“I don’t know . . . you haven’t called any of your friends, and you’re acting so jumpy. Is there something you’re not telling us?” he asked, deeply concerned.
“Daddy, I’m just a little stressed over money, but it’ll be easier getting established without having to worry about Toni.”
Handing me my carry-on luggage at the gate, my father fought back tears and gave me a heartfelt hug. “Two weeks isn’t enough time, but we loved having you home, honey. Call and let us know you got there safely.”
“I will, Dad. Take good care of my baby until I can send for her. I love you,” I said, blowing him a kiss from the jetway.
Staring out the window of the jumbo jet in a trance, I watched the day meet the night, separated by a crimson streak. The dark against the light made me wonder what the evening’s end might hold.
Arriving in L.A., I exited the plane and looked around. No one made contact. I waited until the last passenger had come out. Still no one. I swallowed hard. Don’t panic. I noticed a fat man seated alone in the waiting area. About 280 pounds lopped over both sides of the seat.
Could that be him? God, I hope not; he doesn’t look like he could get out of his own way.
Then I spotted a rather large man standing near the pay phones wearing jeans and a sports jacket. His legs and arms were thick with solid muscle. He stood about six-four, and his light brown hair had a hint of natural wave. His nose had been broken several times, and the scar on his left cheek spread three inches in length. No doubt, this was the man. Central casting would have immediately hired him for the part he was about to play. As he walked toward me, his lips curved upward, displaying an easy smile.
“Hi, I’m Al. You’re even prettier than your picture,” he said, relieving me of my carry-on bag.
“Thanks. I was just about to call Joe. I didn’t think you were going to show.”
“I saw you right away, but I wanted to be sure you didn’t have an unwelcome visitor waiting somewhere in the wings.”
We watched as the bags came down the conveyor belt. “Why don’t you get the car, Al, and I’ll wait here?”
“Sorry. You’ll have to walk. I can’t leave you here alone.”
“Walk?” I said, looking down at my luggage. How the heck can we possibly walk with all this stuff? As I had that thought, Al picked up my bags as if they were filled with feathers. For the first time in a long while, I felt safe.
We drove down Century Boulevard to the 405 freeway and headed north to Beverly Hills.
“So, tell me about this guy. What’s the story?”
“Believe me, Al, when I tell you I’ve met some sick people in this world; I really have. I even know the Hillside Strangler, who was just caught. He’s been in my home in Rochester. But this guy tops them all. He’s decided that if he can’t have me, nobody can.”
I continued to tell him of my bizarre encounters with Steve over the last few months. He listened intently.
“What does he look like?”
“He’s not a bad-looking guy. You’d never know to look at him that his mind is so warped. He’s tall, about six-one, black curly hair—a lot of it.” Al hung heavily on my every word, nodding occasionally, storing the information. “Built pretty good for not working out.”
“What’s his nationality?”
“Jewish.”
“He’s a Jew? Does Joe know this
guy’s a Jew?”
“People are people, Al. There is another world out there that doesn’t include Italians, you know. Are you Italian?”
“Yeah,” he answered, as if insulted.
“Well, you could pass for a mayonnaise face,” I teased. “What’s your last name?”
“You don’t need to know,” he said coldly.
“You’re right—I don’t.”
“Does he carry a gun?” he asked, getting back to business.
“Yes, he has a thirty-eight and a shotgun. He cornered me in my bedroom two weeks ago with the shotgun. I tried to talk him down by making him think I cared about him. When I thought I had him convinced, I grabbed for the gun. It went off—you’ll see the hole in my wall when we get there. Thank God, no one was walking by outside when it happened. I took off for New York the same day.”
“Do you think he’ll be around tonight?”
“I’m sure he’s been checking the place daily. The minute he knows I’m back, he’ll be there, no doubt about it.”
We turned off Wilshire Boulevard onto South Elm Drive. Anything south of Wilshire was considered the slums of Beverly Hills. Quite a contrast to the mansions just one block to the north. Al drove past the apartment and around the block twice before parking in the alley. Leaving the luggage behind, I walked quietly up the stairs. Al followed close behind with a gun in his hand.
The door was slightly ajar. Stepping aside, I let Al enter first. He cautiously pushed open the door. I turned on the light and closed the door. He walked slowly through each room. All of my plants were dead throughout out the apartment. Not wilted from lack of water—they were dead. An empty bleach container lay on the floor next to my big palm. That sick bastard had poured bleach in every potted plant in the place.
Al came back downstairs. “It’s all clear, but you’re not going to like it up there,” he said, stuffing the gun into his pants.
I climbed the stairs, dread filling my belly. My closet doors were open and pieces of clothing were scattered all over the floor. Steve had taken one article of every suit and cut it into little shreds. One outfit was missing the pants, another was missing the jacket, another the vest. I wanted to cry. To build up my wardrobe again had taken forever. My pillows and comforter were slashed and feathers were everywhere. Pictures hung upside down on the walls. He had drawn mustaches on many of the photographs in my portfolio. He knew I’d be crippled without my tools. I’d had no need for my portfolio in Rochester. I wasn’t planning to work, but now I regretted not taking it. Above the shotgun hole in the wall, Steve had written, YOUR HEART, in red marker with an arrow pointing to the hole.
Al stood behind me, observing the scene. “This guy’s one twisted character,” he said, shaking his head from side to side in disbelief. “How have you managed to survive this maniac all alone? There’s no doubt, this guy wants your blood. Jesus Christ,” he said, still not able to wipe the astonished look off his face. “This is one job I’m gonna enjoy.”
Rage built inside me. It had been suppressed by fear for too long. With Al to protect me, I felt safe. Now I could allow the rage to surface—and surface it did. Georgia Black took over.
That son of a bitch is going to pay.
Al would not let me out of his sight for a moment. Together we walked outside for my bags. Again he carried them all. I carried his, a small duffel bag and a big, rather heavy briefcase. Then I ordered a pizza and rewound my answering machine. Numerous hang-ups and a call from my agent.
“Hi, sweetie. This is Janette. I know you’re in New York, but I think you’d better give me a call at home tonight. I got a very strange call from a guy by the name of Steve somebody or other. He said some pretty terrible things and if I didn’t know you better, I’d take you off the active list. Point is, if he’s making these kinds of calls to other clients of ours, we may have some problems. Oh, almost forgot. I have a juicy audition for you on Tuesday. Hope you’re back by then. I’ll give you the particulars when you call. Bye, sweetie.”
Dammit! I was fuming. Al was now busy cleaning his guns. That’s why his briefcase was so heavy. There’s a friggin’ arsenal in there!
It’s about time you made a move, White. What took you so long? Who the hell did this jerk think he was dealing with anyway?
“This guy deserves what he’s going to get,” Al said coldly, continuing to polish his gun.
Fear and the sickening realization of what could happen momentarily eclipsed my anger. This was no game we were playing.
“What is he going to get, Al?” I asked, feeling the hair on my arms rise.
Al’s green eyes fixated on me and his face became serious. “What would you like him to get?” he asked.
“I just want him beaten badly enough to get the message.”
Don’t wimp out on me now, White.
“Are you sure this guy’s going to get the message?”
I hadn’t thought about that. But when it came right down to do or die, I couldn’t play God with someone’s life, even Steve’s.
“Joe thinks he should be eliminated. To be honest with you, so do I. Guys like that never learn their lesson. You could put him behind bars for twenty years, and the day he gets out he’ll be at your door. Either you get him, or eventually he’s gonna get you.” Simple but deadly logic.
After a long silence he added, “It’s against my better judgment, but it’s your call.”
I stopped holding my breath and began inhaling normally again. The power was mine. Steve would live. Joe had clearly instructed Al to follow my orders, regardless of what he wanted to do. Joe saw my cry for help as his chance to get me back, hoping that if he played the knight in shining armor and rescued me, I’d gratefully return to him. If Joe had Steve “eliminated” against my wishes, or had Al take me back to Solana Beach by force, he knew he’d lose the battle. Knowing his pattern, he was in his good-guy mode.
The doorbell rang and we both jumped. Al grabbed one of the guns and quickly shoved the briefcase into the closet. He positioned himself behind the door and motioned for me to open it.
“Who is it?” I yelled through the door.
“Pizza delivery.”
Al did not relax. Never having heard Steve’s voice, he remained skeptical.
I opened the door to see a young boy holding a pizza.
“That’ll be $8.56, ma’am.”
“Wait here.”
Walking to the kitchen table, I reached into my purse and pulled out a $20 bill. As I turned toward the door, the sight of Al standing there with a gun, and the boy a few feet away and totally unaware, made me tremble. If Steve were to barge in at this very moment, this innocent boy could be pulled into this mess. Anxious to get the kid out of there, I gave him the twenty and told him to keep the change.
“Big spender, huh? I can tell who you’ve spent some time around,” Al said.
“Maybe too much time,” I replied, thinking out loud. A lot more had rubbed off than I thought ever would.
As we ate the pizza, Al instructed me on what to say and what to do when Steve showed up. The gun was never out of reach.
“Okay,” Al said, “we’ll do it your way. But if it comes to your life or mine, it’s gonna go down a different way. Understand?” He hesitated. “You better get some rest now. I’ll need you to be alert.”
I stuffed the feathers back inside the pillow and pushed it into a fresh pillowcase. Getting the extra blanket from the closet, I brought it down to Al. Standing in the dark, he looked guardedly out the window.
“See you in the morning, Al,” I said as I started for the stairs.
“Georgia?”
I turned back to him. “Yeah?”
“Do you have any feelings for this guy?”
“Yes. I loathe him. The thought of him repulses me. I get nauseated when I dwell on him too long. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, yes, it does. Good night, Georgia. Sleep well. Your life will soon be your own again.”
What might th
at be like?
I slept like a baby. On the other hand, Al did not sleep at all. He was standing by the same window where I had left him the night before. Minus the sports coat, he still wore the same clothes. The dark, short-sleeved T-shirt tucked into his jeans exposed his muscular arms and revealed his expansive chest. I surely wouldn’t want to meet up with him in a dark alley. He heard me enter the room, but his attention remained out the window.
“What kind of a car does he drive?” he asked, peering out from behind the curtain.
“A ’seventy-six dark blue Lincoln Continental.”
Turning to look at me, he said, “He drove by three times last night. He knows you’re here.”
“How do you know that?”
“When you left for New York, your drapes were open. How many of your neighbors are home during the day?”
“One.”
“Which apartment?”
“The left front apartment downstairs, and the girl across the hall is out of town.”
“Good.”
“Are you hungry, Al?”
“Yeah, sure, I could eat.”
“I’ll have to run to the store. I haven’t been here for two weeks.”
“No. That’s not a good idea. Are there any places around here that deliver?”
“Yeah, there’s a deli I could call. Did you get any sleep, Al?”
“No, not really.”
“I think you should, don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea,” he said as the phone rang.
“Hello?” Click. “It was him. It won’t be long now.”
Hours went by and still no Steve. Al slept on and off. The phone rang again. Again he hung up. Day turned into night. The silence was getting on my nerves. I jumped when the phone rang the third time. Al stood at attention.
“Hello?” I could hear him breathing. “Hello?”
“I’m coming over,” he finally said in a threatening voice.
“You bastard! You’re not going to get away with this, Steve.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Just stay the hell out of my life.”
“I’m coming over.”
“I’m warning you, Steve. Don’t come here!” I slammed down the telephone.
The Company She Keeps Page 26
