The back door had more possibilities. He could knock, slip on the mask at the last minute, much less chance of being seen. But what if Melanie never opened that door for anyone? Push his way in, maybe? Break a window?
Once he got in, he just needed to get Melanie in the bedroom. He’d have to work out the details of how to do that, or improvise, he was fast on his feet. It was all about the bedroom, get her there, let her see what a man he could be. Then unmask himself. Real life shock and awe.
Focus on the end result, not what could go wrong. Eye on the prize.
Lenny stared at the remnants of his fourth beer. One more for the road, a little liquid courage. The barmaid finally looked at him, and he pointed to his stein for another, gulping it down so he wouldn’t get cheated. The barmaid, to her credit, brought him a fresh glass, which would have been enough to make him reconsider leaving a tip, but she put it down without a word. Bitch. She’s supposed to be nice, and she can’t even say hi. Fucking women.
The barmaid leaned over the bar, listening as some mop haired guy in a hideous checked shirt told her some story. What’s he got that I don’t? The barmaid laughed, her eyes animated. Lenny dismissed the barmaid, he didn’t need her. I’ll have Melanie to listen to me.
Yet he couldn’t take his eyes off the barmaid, standing on her tip toes, staring in the guy’s eyes like he was the greatest, and she was preparing herself for a kiss. The guy had probably never kissed a girl. Lenny had a few pimples, but the barmaid’s idol was a walking commercial for acne medication. Why wasn’t the girl looking at Lenny with expectation and hope in her green Irish eyes? Just like Melanie, she’d barely registered him, like he was wasn’t even there.
Fuck that.
Lenny stood up quickly, his head spinning, too many beers on an empty stomach. He reached for the stool, grimacing, his bandaged hand still sore.
He plopped onto an empty stool next to the pimply guy, the barmaid not giving him a glance. The guy was still going on with his story, some bullshit about a monster truck show in New Hampshire, no way she could be interested in that for real.
Stifling a burp, Lenny said, “Hey,” getting the girl’s attention.
“Welcome to O’Malley’s. I’ll be right with you.” Turning back to Pimples.
Lenny couldn’t believe it. The bitch had looked right at him and forgot that he had been drinking there for over an hour just a few feet away. Really? Was he fucking invisible? “I’m from LA, we don’t have truck shows, we do demolition derbies with Porsches and Mercedes.”
The barmaid glanced at Lenny. “Uh, right.”
“No, really,” said Lenny, figuring she’d never been west of New York. “You’d love it if you like monster trucks. People trick their cars out just to bash them up.”
“Sounds like a waste to me,” said the girl.
Shit, she was naïve too. “Most people in LA got so much money they don’t care.”
“Right. Whatever.” The barmaid turned back to the other guy. “Go on, Timmy. You were saying.”
“Have you ever been to California?” asked Lenny.
This time she ignored him totally. Timmy’s shoulders shifted toward Lenny, but Lenny didn’t bother to look over, his eyes still on the girl.
“I’m going to enter as soon as I get my hemi rebuilt,” said Timmy.
“Wow, that’s great.”
“Hey,” interrupted Lenny, not believing his ears, the chick was getting a thrill about a truck. “How about a drink?”
She reluctantly turned her eyes away from Timmy. “What would you like?”
“The same.”
The girl frowned, a look that might have been cute if Lenny wasn’t so pissed. “Oh, a Bud light, right?”
“No light, just Bud. Do I look like I drink light beers?”
“Maybe you should,” the pimple faced guy said, and the barmaid didn’t try hard to hide a smile.
Lenny turned to him. “Fuck you say?”
Timmy set down his beer. “I said, maybe you should. What are you, twenty one, you already got a beer gut?”
Lenny sputtered, no way he looked twenty one. Automatically he sucked in his stomach. “I still can’t figure out what you are saying. Maybe if you didn’t talk like some redneck in training, people would understand you.”
“Who you calling a redneck?”
“I said a redneck in training. You haven’t even graduated yet.” Lenny grinned at his own joke, Timmy too stupid to know he was being made fun of. Time to go in for the kill. “When you do make full redneck status, you can drive your truck south, like into the Gulf of Mexico. If you can find it.” Satisfied he’d put Timmy in his place, Lenny turned his attention back to the bargirl.
“How about I get you that drink?” she said.
“So you do remember me,” said Lenny, brightening. Just like he suspected, show a woman who was top dog, a real man, and they sit up and take notice. Shock and awe. He placed his hand over hers on the bar. “I could take you for a ride, my Cadillac is a lot more comfortable than a pickup.”
“Yuck. Let me go.”
Lenny tightened his fingers around her thin wrist, not letting her pull away. Her eyes widened as she recognized his strength. Shock. Now for the awe. He held up his bandaged hand. “I got this beating up a guy at a bar. You should see the other guy’s face.”
The girl shied away, straining, Lenny electrified by her struggle. He grinned, letting go, his gift to her.
“Don’t you touch her again,” said Timmy.
“What the fuck you gonna do? Beep your monster truck horn at me?” Lenny was enjoying this, people clearing a way around them, feeling his power.
“No, this,” said Timmy.
From out of nowhere came a fist, catching Lenny on the side of his head, knocking him away from the bar, only to be met by another punch from the other direction, so strong it stood him up, the impossibility of it dimly registering through Lenny’s concussed brain, no way scrawny Timmy could punch that hard, there must be another guy.
The next fist smashed directly into Lenny’s nose, a crack so loud the bargirl shrieked, fading to a wail like a passing siren as Lenny slumped to the floor.
The napkin, saturated, barely slowed the blood dripping onto Lenny’s shirt. Lenny was past caring about the shirt, his head back, staring at the roof of the Caddy, trying to get his nose to stop bleeding. Breathing through his mouth parched his tongue, but he couldn’t get enough air through his blood filled nostrils. Even the slightest pressure hurt like hell, for all he knew it was broken.
He didn’t even remember making it back to his car, his head pounding after being jumped by Timmy and his friends. Lenny hadn’t actually seen anyone else, but there had to have been friends, no way Timmy could have done this by himself. It was that sucker punch, fucking coward couldn’t face me fair and square.
The last thing Lenny remembered before the punch was the look on the girl’s face, her recognition of his power, seeing him in a new light. She had been afraid. Really afraid. If only he had been able to have another minute with her, he would have transformed that fear to adoration, his strength impressing her. She would have forgot all about Timmy and would have been in Lenny’s hands.
Fucking Timmy had done him one favor. Lenny now had proof that he could make a woman see him differently. He just needed to take control, show his strength.
Melanie wouldn’t have a Timmy to get in the way.
CHAPTER 9
Gigi doyle struggled to find the keyhole of her apartment door, balancing her purse and laptop case on her hip, not wanting to put either one down in the rain. She hated these weeklong work trips, she always had to bring so much stuff. Her next promotion, coming up soon, would thankfully cut her travel in half.
It was good to be home. Her back was killing her from lugging her laptop. All she wanted was a cup of herbal tea and a pillow.
She held the door open with her foot, wheeling her luggage just inside. Immediately she knew something was wrong, the apartment
didn’t feel right . . .
Didn’t smell right.
The oppressive, detested odor of cigarette smoke drove her against the door, Gigi clutching at her blazer as if that could ward off the offensive smell. She’d just had this jacket dry cleaned . . .
“Mel?”
Gigi clicked on the light. Newspapers and magazines everywhere, the couch pillows haphazard, toppled wine bottles. Her favorite green sweater on the floor.
The living room looked like a tornado had blasted through. Or the scene of a struggle.
“Mel!” Scared now, her heart pumping.
Gigi froze in the doorway, desperately waiting, hoping, praying for a response, any indication that her sister was safe, that it was okay to breathe again.
Nothing but the musty cigarette smoke, blowing past her into the open air, tendrils snaking into her nostrils, making her cough, a slap in the face forcing Gigi to look at the room in a new light.
Not a tornado, or a struggle. Just Melanie’s detritus everywhere. A wine glass—no, two wine glasses—on the floor, Melanie too lazy to even wash a glass. The wine Gigi had been saving for a special occasion. The magazines, all glossy fashion spreads, Melanie’s favorites. Gigi didn’t even want to look at the kitchen.
Gigi kicked off her heels and ran across the living room, knowing it was hopeless, her entire outfit would have to go to the cleaners. She uncranked the windows in the living room and over the sink, breathing through her mouth, trying to ignore the dirty dishes. She paused at the back door, considering; it didn’t have a screen, so she left it closed.
The bathroom was a disaster, makeup everywhere, Gigi’s new mascara left open. That by itself was almost as bad as the smoke.
The bedroom was surprisingly clean, though the bed had been slept in, one of Gigi’s blouses over the closet door, where never in a million years would she throw a cotton top. Not much smell of smoke, although Gigi opened the window anyway. The relative neatness of this room compared to the others was odd, unless . . .
Shit. Gigi rarely swore, even mentally, but this merited it. She squeezed into her robe, right over her work outfit, still clinging to the hope that she could save it from the cleaners as she went back to the entry for her purse and phone. Speed dialing Melanie while belting the robe.
Voicemail. “Thanks for leaving my place a fucking mess, Mel.” Gigi didn’t remember if she’d ever sworn at her big sister. “And if you had a guy in my apartment, I’ll never let you stay here again.” Her fingers were shaking as she got ready to click off, but not before she yelled, “And you owe me a new Lancome mascara!”
It was hard to see at night with the sunglasses on, but there was no way Lenny was going to uncover his swollen eye. His nose had finally stopped bleeding, although it still hurt like hell, every breath a humiliating whistle. He couldn’t let Melanie see him like this. Good thing he had bought the ski mask and nylons, he’d need them more than ever.
Getting punched had lit his fuse, he was ready.
Gigi peeled off her work clothes, the blazer, skirt, and blouse going right in the basket destined for the dry cleaner. Her pantyhose she threw in the trash, they’d run as she had put new sheets on the bed. She’d pulled on a pair of clean sweats, knowing they’d have to be washed again, but she couldn’t bring herself to wear clothes that were already in the hamper.
Every time she bent over pain shot across her back, she had to stop carrying around that heavy laptop. The last time she had a similar pain it had lasted for over a week, she couldn’t afford that now. Didn’t she have a few muscle relaxants left over? She checked, yes, thankfully, she hadn’t finished the prescription. She downed one of the pills with two ibuprofen, that should help.
The bedroom fixed, she surveyed the living area. Start with the hardest job, which wasn’t the newspapers and magazines, but the pile of dishes overflowing the sink. She gingerly picked up the wine glasses on the way.
Next to the sink, a yellow sticky note in Melanie’s quick script. ‘Sorry the place is a mess. I got a really hot lead, will clean up tomorrow when you are at work.’
Gigi stared at the note. Why couldn’t Mel have left it on the outside door? Yet her heart softened just a bit. Her sister’s hot lead would likely turn into another dead end, just like all the others. Mel just couldn’t seem to get a break. Gigi could never do what Mel did. Not only couldn’t she act, but the whole crazy, random process of getting ahead in show business was incomprehensible to her. Work hard, get ahead, that was Gigi’s world, that was the way things should be. It was working for her just fine. Sure, it was hard at times, but the more she worked, the more rewards she got, more pay, a better position. Put in the time, dedicate yourself, and good things happened.
But not for actors. Melanie had put in the time, but not much good had happened yet. A few jobs here and there, barely enough to pay the rent. Melanie would never ask Gigi for money, she was too proud, or too much a big sister, but Gigi knew Mel struggled financially. A flash of guilt over the mascara; Melanie probably couldn’t afford Lancome.
Gigi pulled on her rubber gloves and went to work on the sink. Melanie’s promise to clean up would likely come to naught. Melanie wasn’t the most reliable, not always showing up when they were supposed to meet, not sending their mother a card on her birthday. It had been that way ever since they had been kids, Gigi always the one taking care of the little things, even doing Melanie’s chores, somehow Melanie’s irresponsibility feeling like her own failing.
It was the least Gigi could do, because Mel did take care of her in other ways, almost like the big brother they didn’t have. It was Mel who had publicly shamed the entire clique of cool kids at school for making fun of Gigi. It was Mel who had walked Gigi to middle school when they had moved to a not so good neighborhood after their father had lost his job, a chaperoning task that would make Melanie late for the high school opening bell, resulting in detention. Melanie never mentioned it and Gigi only found out when her mother had been visited by the truant officer. Even then Melanie had lied, claiming her homeroom teacher was a creep, logging her in late because he wanted her in his detention class, immediately putting the school official on the defensive. It was years later when Gigi realized the beauty of Melanie’s deception, how this particular lie also avoided suggesting that their situation was their mother’s fault. The complexity of Melanie’s deceit was another skill Gigi lacked; Gigi could barely white lie when a girlfriend would ask if her favorite new dress was flattering or not.
And it was Melanie who had dealt with the boy who had once put his hands on Gigi, the older boy who had been leering at her, the first boy who had paid her any attention at all. Gigi, fourteen, so unready, so shocked that any boy would even look at her, let alone want to touch her, had frozen, which the boy took as acceptance. Fortunately other kids had been around, the rough grope was as far as it got, that day at least. Gigi hadn’t said a word to anyone, but Mel had recognized Gigi’s discomfort immediately that night at dinner, and later had pried the truth out of her.
The next day the boy didn’t show up for school. Melanie missed school that day too; Gigi, at lunch period, shocked at seeing her sister outside the middle school, Melanie just staring at the front door. Melanie walked Gigi home, Gigi knowing Mel was there to protect her, feeling guilty, but unable to say no to her big sister, not only because Gigi was scared, but because she couldn’t take this away from Melanie, this responsibility, this gift.
The next day the boy showed up at school just as Melanie and Gigi walked up. Melanie said, “Wait here,” and then bore down on the boy, beating the living daylights out of him, not with a fury, but with a cold hearted ruthlessness, an attack so surgical that no one moved or screamed, not even the teachers outside the school.
Although that was the only physical intervention Gigi had witnessed, there were probably more, and many other times when Melanie had come to her aid. The two of them would be together, some creepy guy eyeing Gigi, Melanie making the guy turn away with just a look. Whe
n they got older, the guys even creepier, more aggressive, making comments, Melanie pushing right back at them, her words driven with such a power that even grown men cringed.
Melanie had never spoken of these interventions to Gigi, Gigi realizing Melanie didn’t want her to feel weak, or become reliant on Melanie’s protection. Melanie’s only allusion to it all had been making Gigi promise to always tell her everything, to never be embarrassed to tell her sister if something bad had happened, to never fear for what Melanie might do.
All that strength, and still Melanie chased rainbows of possibilities, wisps of a stairway to show biz heaven.
Gigi methodically washed. Her sister might be able to sleep with a sink full of dishes, but she could not.
Lenny didn’t park in his usual spot, not wanting to take the chance Melanie would be coming home and would recognize the Caddy from his frequent drive bys at the restaurant. After a few passes around the block he found a good space where he could see approaching cars, and by turning around, Melanie’s apartment.
Her lights were lit, she was home.
One decision left, the ski mask or the nylons?
The dishes done, the living room straightened up, Gigi stepped into the shower. It was late, she’d never get the eight hours sleep she needed to be good at work, but she just had to wash her hair, clammy with smoke. Which meant she would have to dry it, she hated sleeping with wet hair.
The hot shower didn’t have its usual effect of making her tired, she was so wired from all the cleaning. As she put away her hair dryer she noticed a pill bottle in the drawer, sleeping pills. Mel had given them to her because this particular brand had given Mel headaches. Gigi wasn’t big on pills except in emergencies, Melanie seemed to live on them, pills to fall asleep, pills to wake up.
Random Revenge (Detective Robert Winter Book 1) Page 10
