by Red Hammond
No. That was a cop out.
He was more afraid of losing her than he was of being humiliated by her.
Hopper dialed Yasmin’s guidance counselor to cancel their dinner. He remembered her name—Ivana, daughter of a Russian immigrant and a Wisconsin inventor. He must’ve asked when he first spoke to her that morning. She must’ve told him. Hopper didn’t remember any of that conversation.
She was quiet when he explained: long day, lot of leads to follow that looked promising, no need to waste her time, surely she had more important things on her plate.
Then Ivana said, “I already made the reservations.”
“I’m so sorry. Maybe you can find someone else? I hate that it’s short notice.”
“I was under the impression you were going to pay for the dinner in exchange for help, and now I have to find someone to step in on a half-hour’s notice?”
Hopper didn’t expect this. Never happened before.
“It’s only that I didn’t know earlier what I do now, and that makes a difference.”
She huffed. “I might have more information than you think. How would you know? Isn’t every detail important? You don’t want to go flailing down the wrong path without the proper ammunition.”
Or overloaded. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry you feel this way, and you’re right, I owe you the dinner. Maybe tomorrow night?”
“The reservations are for eight o’clock at Wolfe’s. You ever been there?”
“No, can’t say I have.”
“Meet me there by eight. Tonight. You’re a man of your word. I can tell.”
“Hold on, wait.” Hopper knew he was going to give in, but went ahead with, “Why is it so urgent? Do you really think you know something that can save her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. You’ll have to tell me.” The voice was very schoolmarmish, indeed. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to be questioned by a private eye.”
Hopper wasn’t a fan of the “fancy” joints. In a city with thousands of places to find rich, spicy, unique food, the upper-class restaurants in New Orleans offered less food for primo cash, and that didn’t seem worth it. Sure, you could get some adventurous takes on creole cuisine and a glass of perfectly matched wine, but Hopper preferred the lowdown charm of Ugliesch’s, or the lunch counter at Central Grocery for muffallettas, or, before the hurricane, a trip across the lake to Vera’s Rat’s Nest or Captain Humble’s po-boy shop in Slidell.
He still wanted to take Divinity to one of the cottage bistros, homey and small and ancient, for a nice romantic evening, one she’d never been treated to. She would rather settle for pizza. If he could get her to a place like Wolfe’s or Bayona, he was sure the mood would sway her. Ah, romance. Underrated, old-fashioned, and exactly what Hopper missed in his love life.
The dinner with Ivana the Guidance Counselor was not romantic.
She was a fit woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties, her hair already steel gray and cut in the style women get when they run for office. Not unattractive, but something about her was off-putting. She wore a severe navy suit—skirt and jacket, white blouse, very conservative. And she didn’t smile. It was a pretty bland look. Her personality was all in the voice, something sing-songy but stern.
Hopper was bored, nibbling the appetizer—Sweet Potato Crusted Duck Sausage, surprisingly not that interesting—an elbow on the table propping up his face. The night was only half over and he had plenty left to worry about. All he had heard from Ivana was the typical bullshit lines he was afraid she’d pull out. “So much promise,” “Never any trouble in class,” “We were all so shocked by the pregnancy.”
“I couldn’t imagine this happening to a sweeter girl.” Ivana forked her salad.
Hopper said, “Mmm,” and nodded. He was looking forward to the Five Spice Double Grilled Pork Chops. Might as well splurge with some of Sanchez’s money, then maybe the rest as a down payment on a better car.
Ivana chewed politely and dotted her lip with the linen napkin and said to Hopper, “Are you going to let me get away with these useless answers to your questions?”
He blinked a few times. “I’m sorry, what?”
“These phony answers I’m feeding you. Why aren’t you challenging me?”
“I don’t want to be rude.”
“Then how can you find out anything?” Her eyes lit up, and she left her lips parted, a subtle bit of drama. “I was thinking you should try, oh, ‘Cram it, lady. You know more than you’re lettin’ on. Give up the goods.’”
“I’m not Jimmy Cagney.”
Ivana bobbed her head happily and lifted another cherry tomato. “No offense,” she said before pulling it off the fork with her teeth. A nice slow show for him.
Why did all guidance counselors and vice principals who were women look nearly the same and act nearly the same except that you were sure they all had secret lives as dominatrixes or butch lesbos? As far as Hopper remembered, a long line of them, and the last three nearly wore him out in detention. They were curious. He was like a monkey. He didn’t want to add another to The List.
“Listen, if you know something, time’s already run out and this extra inning might be all she’s got.”
Ivana pointed her fork, nodded and swallowed. “That’s good. Mixing metaphors, but it’s good.”
“I don’t want to play games. I’ve got other stuff to do.” He laid his napkin on the table and pushed back. Ivana reached her hand across and barely missed his fingers.
“I’m sorry, no, wait. I’m being selfish. Tell me what you’ve found so far.”
Does she need to hear the real story? This is weird. She knows something. She reminds me of Geraldine Ferrarro, only younger and more fit.
“She fell into a bad crowd but was trying to bring herself back from that.”
“Bullshit.”
A gambler’s staring match across the table, unblinking. Hopper broke it, figuring he’d get more out of her if she thought she’d won. He tore a piece of bread. Bits of crust and flour floated onto his lap.
“Are you going to tell me the truth?”
Hopper shrugged. “First tell me how it’s bullshit.”
“‘Bad’ is a bit judgmental, isn’t it? Calling them a ‘bad crowd.’ Please. She knew what she was doing. A far as climbing out, I think it was more about appearances than anything else. She kept one foot in the goodie-goodie world and one in her real life.”
“The real life being…?”
Ivana raised her chin, so damned smug. “I’ll make it easy.” She silently mouthed Por-No so that every lip reader in a half-mile would get the message.
Hopper gave her fake applause and said, “You certainly tried to steer her away from that sort of thing.”
“Of course. What, I’m not good at my job? What do you expect from a guidance counselor?”
“Exactly.”
“But I think Yasmin could tell I was, well, intrigued.”
For the love of… “That means what exactly?”
She shrugged and wobbled her head a little, coming off more girlish than Hopper expected. “I wanted to see one.”
“One of her’s?”
“Yeah. I told her, you know, so I could better advise her. I don’t think I kept a straight face, though. Especially when I met her at my front door in a bathrobe.”
“That’s not very proper for teachers and students.”
“Grow up. It happens.”
Hopper looked from side-to-side, hoping other tables weren’t listening too closely. “She was into this?”
Ivana leaned closer. Bass in her voice, “I’d say she was up for pretty much anything. The tape I saw? Anal on a preggie? Watching it while Yasmin went down on me?” Sharp breath through her teeth, eyes closed. “Heavenly.”
“You’re a horrible person.”
“I didn’t get her knocked up. It was clean and pure sex without emotion mucking it up.”
Hopper said, “You’re gay or just curious? You’ve done this to other g
irls?”
A reddish-brown fingernail to her lips. “Let’s say I like it when I feel good, and lots of things make me feel good. Tongues and plastic, glass and flesh.”
He felt her foot ease up his shin. She had slipped off her shoe. Up the shin, toes crawling, until she was reaching into his lap, testing his crotch.
Ivana said, “Is that going to make me feel good?”
In her car in the parking lot, she sat sideways in the driver’s seat, blouse off but jacket on, bare breasts heavy on her frame. Her legs were arched over the center console, pantyhose torn all over, as she stroked Hopper’s cock with her feet. From the passenger’s seat, his arm stretched across, he fingered her, pussy wet as a swamp, the smell choking him in all the right ways. The friction from the pantyhose was rough, chaffing, but he liked the way her soles felt on his skin.
“You know how to touch a woman,” she said between grunts.
“Practice.”
“It shows.”
“Jesus, this feels good, what you’re doing.”
“First time.”
“No way.”
“It’s not hard. That. Keep doing that.”
He had stuck his middle finger knuckle-deep inside her. She clutched his hand and moved it for him, coming hard with all her muscles straining. When she was done, she worked his cock harder until his come spurt across her hose and the console and the dashboard.
After they sat several minutes, breathing deeply and letting their blood cool, Ivana wiped her foot on Hopper’s pants leg and swung herself forward, buttoned her jacket and lifted her blouse off the floorboard.
Hopper said, “Was that what you thought private eye sex would be like?”
She did So-so with her hand and said, “I was hoping you’d force me.”
“Sorry.” Hopper pulled his pants up, bumped his head on the car’s ceiling, and imagined that someone must’ve seen. How could they have not? “So where is it?”
Ivana licked her lips. She reached under the driver’s seat and came out with a DVD case. It was white paper with black words: Hottie Mommy #4 Rough Cut. Underneath the title was “Copyright 2005, DPA Productions.” The people Depp worked for. Ivana had lured him to her car with the promise of handing over the DVD, and that’s where she got acrobatic with her feet after a long awkward kiss that tasted like seafood.
“She left it at the house. Probably accidentally.”
“You don’t know these guys she was with? No one familiar?”
Ivana checked her make-up in the rearview. “All new to me. I never get far into it without losing my concentration anyway. Are we done here? Any other questions for me?”
Hopper tried to think of something. Plenty of questions, none turning into words, except for Are my legs asleep? He pounded his thighs. “I’ll call you again if I need more.”
“More answers or more me?”
The car smelled like shit. “Either.”
“I’ve got to go. You can get out now.”
Hopper opened the door and stepped one leg onto the pavement. Ivana cranked up and revved. He barely had his other foot on the pavement when she bolted forward, only stopping to reach over and slam the door. Hopper watched her go, then looked down at his stained khakis, the second pair that needed changing today. He turned towards his car and took a step—pinpricks all over. Down. Hard. Knees.
Yeah, his legs were asleep all right.
Hopper stood under scalding water in his shower and knew he’d stand here again before sunrise. It had become ritual to him, the opposite of proving worthiness. He examined the skin of his penis—somewhat raw but not broken, hard to tell without his glasses. However exhausted he felt, sleep would have to wait. He needed caffeine and pills, a boost to make night vivid as day.
Before the shower he added the new names to his list—Georgia, beautiful bartender, ass; Ivana, footjob (frowny face)—and watched the credits of Yasmin’s Hottie Mommy disc, wondering if Figg would use his real name, or if any of the actors would. Turned out they didn’t. Yasmin was “Eve Cummings”, while her partners-in-sex were “Force Major,” “Gordon Long,” and “Roger Stone.” Hopper thought they must run out of names like that. There had to be fifty Roger Stones and Gordon Longs in the biz. Eve Cummings was cute—Eve being the mother of all and Cummings being gratuitous.
She wore a long red wig in the first scene, standing the way pregnant women did with her hands high on her back, stomach bulging forward, although it was obvious she was exaggerating, not showing enough yet. The set was Kristen’s apartment, the living room for this scene. Yasmin flipping through a baby magazine and reciting exposition into a phone: “Sure, Susan, I know I should be thinking of other things, but with Walter gone to Japan on business for two weeks, I don’t care how pregnant I am. I’m hornier than ever!”
Hopper clicked it off because his throat was going thick. Yasmin had a floozy voice that must’ve been a put-on. What she lacked in breast size, lip size, and shapely legs, she made up for with those eyes and the way she held herself, as if she lived in a state of constant heat.
The shower burned but after a while it cooled and Hopper turned the cold down. He would stand there until every last drop of hot water was gone. Then he would be ready.
He knocked on the door of his sister’s shotgun house in the Marigny district around eleven that night. It was small but gorgeous and stocked full of arty new furniture that Hopper rarely saw used. Sister liked new and different in a city that preferred the old. He stepped inside without waiting for her to answer, as usual. The front room was dark.
In her daily life, Sister wrote romance novels, three or four a year, under a pen name. She had risen in the ranks of hacks to just under a six-figure income. She avoided writer’s conferences and publicity for the most part, toiling away at home, writing about romance and passion and tradition when she didn’t have any herself. Sex was a power play, an urge, a tool. Hopper didn’t see her daylight life so much. She once told him she’d even written a couple of romances for the Christian market.
“Not much different, except there’s no sex and the characters pray a lot, but they feel the same urges. Pretty boring, though.”
Hopper left a couple two-liter Diet Cokes on the kitchen counter, shoved a bag of party ice in the freezer, and eased down the hall to Sister’s bedroom. He knew what he would find before he opened the door: Sister under the covers on her side, slim tiny laptop open as she clicked with one hand. The large TV at the foot of the bed would be freeze-framed on some romantic image from a movie she’d seen a thousand times.
A soft knock, a creak, and it was exactly that. She didn’t look at him. She was under the sheets in her black nightgown, an old thread-bare favorite. Face lit white by the laptop’s tiny screen. Hopper checked the TV and saw a still of Demi Moore. The room was fuzzy with several lit candles, some vanilla and some cinnamon.
He said, “How are you feeling?”
“So so. You brought ice?”
“Yeah.”
A long sigh. “Thank you. Are you just going to stand there?”
Hopper steadied himself against the door and reached down to take his shoes off. He climbed into Sister’s bed fully clothed, eased under the sheets behind her and settled in. He started immediately doing what he always did at this point—he gave her a backrub. He knew her spot, one that always seemed tense, and massaged it hard, circular.
She hummed and said, “That’s nice.”
He looked over her shoulder at the laptop. She had written one sentence: Meredith was as bored with life as she was with this conversation.
“Writer’s block?”
Sister closed the laptop and set it on the floor. “Forget it. I’m fine.” She took the remote control and pushed play. The picture moved but without sound.
“Do you think I need a tummy tuck?” she asked.
“Why would you think that?” Hopper had learned long ago that he couldn’t win this conversation—she believed he was lying if he said no, cruel if he said y
es. “Has someone said something?”
“Look at Demi. There’s no way it’s diet and exercise alone. The rest of us don’t stand a chance.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to be in the movies.”
She pulled her shoulder away. “If this is a joke to you—”
“No, no, I’m sorry. Only wondering why.” If he could do this without making it obvious, turn her off, then he might be able to lull her to sleep and leave before anything happened. If she saw through him, he might as well stay the night. She could be brutal with payback.
“It’s been a long day. Sorry if I’m distracted. A new case that’s got me running all over. I’ve even got an appointment for later tonight.”
“Liar.”
“No, really. People keep weird hours sometimes.”
Sister was propped on an elbow, fast-forwarding the movie to her next favorite scene. “What is it, another ‘missing’ girl case? Did you hear her cry for help?”
Twisting the knife, reminding Hopper of Cynthia. He had spilled the story to her looking for a little sympathy, maybe absolution, but she belittled him.
“Just like a man. Never thought to ask what she wanted. You should be charged with murder,” she had said.
“She’s not dead.”
“Attempted murder, then.”
She never forgave him. It was always an issue.
Sister froze Demi in mid-cry and shifted her shoulders. She turned her face profile. “Divorce work is admirable. People deserve more respect than a cheating spouse gives, so do more of that.”
