by Allan Cole
The young opportunist didn’t give a shit about her attitude. All he saw was the swinging purse, filled with money. So there was no mystery about it.
He darted toward her. Running at full speed. Grabbing her purse as he ran, nearly throwing her to the ground as he ripped it from her shoulder.
She tried to hold onto a tiny piece of the leather – even went to her knees in the effort.
But he twisted it expertly from her grasp and kept running.
There were several bystanders walking past at that moment. Ellen saw them and shouted: "Stop him. He’s got my purse."
The bystanders ostentatiously ignored her. No way were they getting involved.
"Fuck you," Ellen shouted.
She jumped to her feet, scooped up her high heels and took off after the purse snatcher.
Ellen ran across several lanes of traffic and an airport bus nearly hit her. She dodged it, swiveling her hips like a backfield runner, and plunged across the path of two other cars, hot on the trail of the man who robbed her.
Horns honked, curses were hurled, but not one person answered her pleading shouts: "He robbed me. Stop him, he stole my purse."
The thief ran into a parking structure, trying to lose himself among the parked cars.
Amazingly, Ellen had been gaining on him and saw him vault over a rail and run up the next floor.
"Stop, damn, you," Ellen shouted, then ducked under the rail and took off up the ramp.
The thief glanced over his shoulder, just about freaking when he realized the bitch had followed him. He put on a burst of speed, but so did Ellen. The thief skidded around the next corner and raced up a ramp that led to the roof.
Ellen doggedly charged onward.
Getting really tired now and panting like an old dog, the thief grabbed another quick look and saw that the bitch was actually gaining on his ass.
"Shit," he said.
Then he was on the roof of the parking structure, barely able to breathe he was so exhausted. Feeling his legs cramping the hell up.
He paused to look around – lots of cars, but no people. Then he looked back at Ellen and nodded in satisfaction when he saw that she was still there.
Time to end this shit.
He turned around to face her, motioning for her to keep coming. "Come on, you dumb bitch," he shouted.
But instead of being intimidated, Ellen steamed onward. "Don’t you bitch me," she cried.
And she powered into the guy, swinging her high heels like twin tomahawks. She pounded at him furiously, blood spattering everywhere.
Caught by surprise, the thief fell back, cowering to protect himself. "Goddamn," he shouted. "You’re killing me."
But Ellen showed no mercy, slashing away at him with those deadly heels. Years of pent-up emotion pouring out. "Fuck you," she screamed. "Fuck you… Fuck you…"
Finally, the thief broke free, threw the purse at her and hauled ass out of there.
Ellen started after him… stopped. She recovered her purse, then overcome by sudden weariness, she nearly fell. She forced herself upright, fighting to catch her breath.
A group of tourists exited the elevator. They saw Ellen and wondered what the hell had been going on. One of the men approached her. "Can I help you, lady?" he asked.
Ellen gave him a withering look. "Piss on your help," she said.
Shocked, the man moved back to his friends. Ellen looked them all over – scorn burning in her eyes.
"Piss on all your help," she said.
The tourists hurried off, trying to get away from this crazy lady as fast as they could.
Ellen got to her feet. She shouted at them, "That’s right. Run for your lives. Ellen Berman just woke up. And she’s not going be anybody’s victim ever again.
"You hear me? Never fucking again."
*****
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ELLEN WAS SLUMPED in the back seat of the cab, feeling despondent to the extreme as the taxi made its way out of the airport. All her plans had gone right down the toilet, plus she’d made a fool of herself with Andre. And now she was back in the same mess, with even fewer options than before.
She looked out the window at the passing scene – fast food joints, liquor stores, all night markets. All very depressing.
Then a billboard caught her eye and she sat up straight. The billboard showed a young woman with a gun, crouched, pistol aimed, as if she was about to blow somebody away.
Beneath the picture were the words: STOP BEING A VICTIM! BE-SECURE!
Ellen tapped the driver on the shoulder. "What’s that sign all about?" she asked, pointing it out. "Be-Secure?"
The driver didn’t have to look, he knew the sign. "Sort of a fancy gun store," he said. "Over where you’re going – in Deercreek Beach." He chuckled. "They cater to paranoid people – like me."
The cabbie popped the glove compartment and indicated a nasty-looking gun inside. "It’s all about protection these days, you know?" he said. "Everybody figures, if the muggers don’t get you, the terrorists will."
Ellen shuddered. "I could never shoot anyone," she said.
"Well, you might not say that," the cabbie said, "if the right – or maybe I should say, wrong – circumstances came along. Course, they’ve got other stuff at Be-Secure’s besides guns. Stuff that’ll knock you average guy on his fundamentals, but not damage him permanently, if you get my meaning."
Ellen thought about that. "Maybe I’ll go by there tomorrow," she said.
"I can drop you there now, if you want," the cabbie said. "They’re open until midnight. You’d be surprised how many people get freaked out at night and find themselves wanting some protection fast."
"I wouldn’t be surprised at all," Ellen said. "Take me there. Please."
*****
The cab delivered Ellen to a well-lit, upscale shopping area of Deercreek Beach.
The Be-Secure gun store was a trendy-looking place, its front window display making it look more like a sporting-goods store than a weapons shop.
But once Ellen was inside, the rows of weapons sitting in racks behind armored glass were all-too apparent. As she looked them over, the in-your-face- violence they represented intimidated her.
She started to turn and go back out the door, when a familiar voice called out: "Excuse me, ma’am. But don’t I know you?"
Ellen turned back and was surprised to see Phil, the bartender from Rum Runners. "Oh… Well, yes," she said, confused. "We met at Rum Runner’s."
She laughed nervously. "Well, not exactly met," she said. "We weren’t formally introduced."
Grinning, Phil extended a hand. "I’m Phil Collins," he said. "Bartender by day, part owner of Be-Secure’s by night."
Ellen took his hand. "Ellen Berman," she said. "Painter by day and I can’t think of anything clever to say about night."
The two laughed. Phil subtly guiding her around the store, moving past the many displays.
"You looked like you were about to depart our fine establishment," he said. "Are we doing something wrong?"
"Well, to be honest," Ellen said, "I was kind of intimidated. I came here on the spur of the moment, but then when I started looking…"
Her voice trailed off and she shook her head, not sure how to describe her feelings.
"Suddenly you were looking at racks of guns," Phil said, "and wondering if the problem you have requires such drastic action."
Ellen was impressed by his analysis. "You seem to be an excellent student of human behavior," she said. "Years of experience behind the bar, I presume?"
Phil shook his head. "Not that many years," he said. "Actually, I spent most of my adult life in the military. Retired a few years ago and bought into this place with an old Army buddy. I took the Rum Runner’s job to bring in cash until the store starts paying off."
He laughed. "Whenever that is," he said.
Phil looked at Ellen, concerned. "Don’t mean to stick my nose into your business," he said. "But does this sudden impulse to v
isit a gun shop have anything to do with Sam Barr?"
Ellen was a little surprised. "Why, no," she said. "Not at all." Then she remembered. "Oh, that’s right," she said. "When I saw you last you were trying to warn me about Sam."
Phil’s smile faded. "That was not my place," he said. "I know that and I apologize. It’s just that you seem to be such a nice lady. A real lady – in the old-fashioned sense, if you don’t mind me saying so…
Ellen blushed. "I don’t mind," she said.
Phil tried to go on, but didn’t do that well. "You see," he said… "Sam… Well, Sam has…"
He trailed off and made no attempt to continue.
Ellen tried to help him. "I know Sam’s an ex-con," she said. "He didn’t hide that from me. Nor did his fiancé, Ruth Castro, a local apartment building owner."
Phil looked contrite. "Listen, I shouldn’t have said anything," he said. "It’s just that… Well, look… Let me be perfectly straight with you. Sam doesn’t know me from the man on the moon. But he used to date my sister. She wrote to me about it when I was stationed in Germany. Anyway, he didn’t do well by Trish, you know? She’s been in and out of rehab and off and on the streets ever since."
A long uncomfortable silence followed as Ellen took this in. Then: "I’m sorry to hear that," Ellen said. "I truly am. But – in my case I first met Sam when he saved me from a rapist."
She shuddered at the memory. "He pulled the creep off me and beat him to within an inch of his life. And I’m not ashamed to admit that I enjoyed every blow he struck in my behalf."
Now it was Phil’s turn to take the long pause. Finally: "Enough said."
Then he smiled that nice smile of his – friendly, not pushy, with just a touch of a question if things could go farther. "Maybe we can agree to disagree about Sam Barr and go on from there," he said.
He put out his hand. "Shake?"
Laughing, Ellen again took his hand. "Shake," she said. A small moment passed between them. Then, shyly, Ellen withdrew her hand. Phil cleared his throat, then pressed on with his tour.
He stopped before a display on non-explosive weapons – stun guns, mace, things like that. "Now to return to your reasons for visiting Be-Secure," he said.
Quickly, Ellen said, "I’d rather not talk about it. The reasons, I mean."
"I understand," Phil said. "None of my business. But I’m assuming they are perfectly good and legitimate reasons, correct?"
"Correct," Ellen said. "But I also don’t want to kill anybody, you know?"
Phil laughed. "No killing. Got it," he said. "How about simply knocking this problem of yours on its ass? And making said problem remain there while you remove yourself to safer climes?"
Climes, Ellen thought. She liked that.
"Just what the doctor ordered," she said.
Phil turned to show her a display. "Mace. Stun guns… Collapsible batons…" he said, indicating each item. He demonstrated the baton, snapping it open so that a long, thick piece of wire protruded. Phil whipped it back and forth, making the air sing.
Ellen frowned and shook her head. "I don’t know…" she said. "Reminds me of sick old holy men flailing themselves for thinking about unmentionable things."
"Like sex, you mean?" Phil said.
"Yeah, like sex," Ellen said. She didn’t blush. Phil liked that.
He snapped his fingers. "I’ve got it," he said. He pulled what appeared to be an umbrella from a basket display.
Ellen was puzzled. "An umbrella?" she said. "What, is there a sword hidden inside, or something?" She shook her head. "I could never, like… stick somebody…"
Phil raised a hand, interrupting her. "Not so fast," he said. He held up the umbrella. "Actually, this is a stun gun and an umbrella. Hit the guy with the tip… Pull the trigger…"
He demonstrated… "And it’ll deliver eighty thousand volts right where they’re needed."
Phil touched the metal counter edge and there was a buzz and a long blue spark leaped out. Ellen jumped in surprise.
He offered it to her. "You try it," he said.
A little scared – but fascinated just the same – Ellen took the umbrella.
Phil showed her the small metal prong embedded in the handle. "Here’s the trigger," he said. "Now, go."
Ellen touched the metal rim. More buzzing commenced and another big blue spark jumped out.
Ellen laughed. The sense of power it gave her was thrilling. "Oh, I love it," she said.
"And it’s perfect for Florida," Phil said. "In case you haven’t noticed it rains quite a bit here."
Ellen nodded. "I noticed."
Phil snapped the umbrella open, showing that it was perfectly functional for wet weather. Then he snapped it closed again. He picked up a clear plastic bag that contained an array of colorful umbrella pouches.
"And that’s not all folks," Phil said, purposely sounding like a home-shopping network announcer. "For your convenience you get a variety of pouches to ensconce your umbrella in the most… well, you know… Most… "
Giggling, Ellen supplied, "Lethal fashions?"
"I like that," Phil said. "Lethal fashions. If we can steal that line from you for our advertising, I’ll knock ten – no fifteen percent off the low, low purchase price. Plus throw in three – count them, three – lethal fashion pouch accessories."
Ellen couldn’t stop laughing. "How can I resist?" she said.
She stabbed the brolly at the counter and once more unleashed a long blue spark that rippled and buzzed and turned the metal white hot.
*****
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WHEN THE ALARM clock went off the next day, Ellen woke up with the umbrella clutched in a white-knuckle grip. She cut the alarm and sat up, still holding the stun brolly. She puzzled at it a minute, then remembered and smiled.
Ellen brandished it like a sword. "En Garde," she said.
She zapped the lamp, the blue spark arcing out. "touché," she laughed.
The front door buzzer went off and Ellen jumped. She looked at the brolly, still sleepy and confused, wondering what the hell? The door buzzed again and she got it. Quickly she pulled on a robe and went into the living room, still holding the umbrella.
She approached the door cautiously. "Who is it?"
"Sam," came the familiar voice.
Relieved, Ellen opened the door. Sam looked down at the umbrella and grinned.
"Weather man calling for rain in your living room?" he asked.
Ellen blushed. "No," she said. "See, this umbrella is actually-"
Sam was impatient and cut through. "Ruth said you called last night," he said. "Something wrong?"
"Not any longer," Ellen said. "I got it solved on my own. Sorry I was a bother."
"No bother," Sam said.
He started to turn away, then stopped. "You going to see your mom today?" he asked.
"Yes, I was," Ellen said. "Maybe if you’re going my way…"
"Sorry," Sam said. "Any day but today, it’d be fine."
"Sure, Sam, sure," Ellen said.
She raised the umbrella again. "Wait until I show you my new toy," she said. "It’s got-"
But once again Sam’s impatience didn’t let her finish. "I’ll check it out later, okay?" he said. "Got to go."
And he was gone. Ellen stared after him a moment, then shrugged and shut the door.
She glanced at the clock on the wall, gave a little squeak – it was getting late – and rushed into the bedroom to change.
*****
Ellen paced the room, while her mother watched an episode of "I Love Lucy," on her new TV set.
She was wearing a light sun dress of her own creation and sitting on the floor was a color-coordinated handbag. The umbrella handle stuck out of the bag within easy reach.
Ellen grimaced, thinking she was really being paranoid now, bringing the brolly with her when she visited her own mother.
But then she remembered Phil’s advice: "Make it second nature to have it with you at all times," he’d sa
id. "That way you won’t have cause to be sorry later on. And don’t worry about it looking weird. People carry umbrellas all the time in Florida. It rains a lot here."
Good advice, she thought. It didn’t hurt that her advisor was such a good-looking guy. It helped make the lesson stick. Too bad she didn’t know him better. There were an number of things she’d dearly love to tell somebody about. Not necessarily for the advice they’d offer – you can only solve your own problems, after all. But by talking things over with someone else, maybe she could make some sense of it all.
"I wish you were in there, Ma," she said, "so you could understand what I’m saying. Things are really building up, you know? I’m afraid they’re going to explode and I’ll wind up like before. Right under Harry’s thumb."
"Harry bought me a new TV set," Mrs. Berman said.
"I know, Ma," Ellen said, frustrated as hell. "That’s all you’ve been talking about."
She threw herself in a chair. "God, I wish you could speak up for me," she said. "Tell Harry to leave me alone… And that detective…" Ellen shivered. "I’m sure Harry wouldn’t want that," she said. "He might not like me very much, but I am his sister."
"I’m going for a boat ride today," Mrs. Berman said. "Harry’s going to take me."
Ellen was surprised as hell. "Harry’s coming here?" she said. "Twice in one week?"
"He comes every day," Mrs. Berman said.
"Sure, Ma," Ellen said, not believing a word. "And so does the Pope and Golda Meir."
"I wish Ellen could come with us," Mrs. Berman said. Tears welled up in her eyes. "I miss her so much."
Ellen’s eyes teared in sympathy. She went to her mother and hugged her. "She misses you too, Ma," she said. "She really does."
*****
Sam and Danny were ensconced in their usual spot under the tree when Ellen exited the nursing home and headed for the waiting cab.
Danny grinned. "Right on time," he said. "That’s what I like best about the broad. Real dependable, you know?"
"A rare quality in a woman," Sam said.
