by Dan O'Shea
He caught her eye as he walked toward a table at the edge of the stage. He was handsome in a way that suggested he’d succumb to middle-aged puffiness if he weren’t careful, but for now, a well-cut business suit concealed any flaws that lurked beneath the surface. He didn’t look like the sort who would frequent a place like Crazy Girls, but in L.A. you could never tell.
He withheld his dollar bills as she danced, but bought her a drink during her break. Top shelf, only the best for Scott, and now it seemed, for Tammy too. He asked her about herself, showing genuine interest, and thus their courtship began.
Tammy opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, willing herself to stop thinking about Scott, as though contemplating death were preferable. Six weeks left to live! It seemed impossible that her body could run aground in such a short time. Not that she felt healthy, exactly, but she didn’t feel any different than normal. Maybe she should get a second opinion.
Ha! Second opinions were for people who could afford health insurance. Maybe she should just help the cancer along a little and stick her head in the oven. It wasn’t as though she could make something out of what remained of her life anyway.
A spider skittered across the ceiling, dangerously close to the spot directly above her head. This normally would’ve sent her running for a broom, but now she just watched it, tempting fate. Surely a poisonous spider bite would make for a more interesting eulogy than dying of cancer.
What would it feel like to die? She imagined peering through a long, dark, tunnel, and every essential bodily function creeping to a halt as she travelled toward the pinpoint of light at the end. First her heart, then her lungs, and then, finally, her brain. She didn’t worry about the pain—she figured she’d be too hopped up on morphine to notice it.
She could use a little bit of that morphine now, as a matter of fact. Instead, she sat up and reached for the vodka bottle on the nightstand, unscrewed the cap and drank. It would have to do for now.
• • • •
Tammy woke up the next morning feeling closer to death than she had the day before. She stepped into the shower and found that the spider had made its way into the basin. She turned the water on full blast, watching it run in the opposite direction, struggling to gain purchase, only to be caught in the deluge and swirl down the drain.
She could relate.
The cold shower made her feel better, and afterward, she took the bus to Hollywood Boulevard. She entered Jimmy’s Cash-for-Gold and headed straight for his office at the back of the shop.
“This is a surprise,” Jimmy said without getting up from his desk. He was fatter than he’d been the last time she’d seen him, and greasier. “How are ya?”
“Been better,” she said.
He squinted, scrutinizing her. “You look like shit, if you don’t mind me saying. What’s with the yellow makeup?”
What a prick, Tammy thought, turning toward the door. “Mind if I shut this?”
“Go ahead. What can I do you for?”
She lowered her voice. “I need a gun.”
Jimmy clicked his tongue against his teeth, disapproving. “Why?”
“What’s it to you?” Tammy said. “I’ve got cash.”
“Inventory’s low. It’s gonna cost you.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred.”
Her heart sank. She’d brought every last dollar she had and it amounted to just over $250. “Can’t you do any better?”
“How much ya got?”
She told him.
Jimmy shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not gonna do it. Times are tough, even in this business—that God damned Kenyan’s run the economy into the ground.”
Tammy twisted the ring on her finger. Scott had given it to her on their year anniversary. A promise, he’d said.
But three months after the night on the yacht in Marina del Rey, he came home and told her he needed some time off from the relationship. It wasn’t permanent, he assured her, and of course he’d pay for her new apartment—sure, it was a dump, but it was a place to live--and give her a little something to help tide her over while she looked for a job.
“Do you want the ring back?” Tammy asked.
He waved it off. “Oh no, I bought that for you. You keep it.”
A month later Paula was living in the house Tammy and Scott had shared and a month after that, Scott and Paula were engaged.
Resolved, Tammy slipped off the ring and held it out to Jimmy. “How much will you give me for this?”
He took it from her and examined it closely, removing a jeweler’s loupe from a desk drawer to assess the diamond. After a few moments he flipped it onto the desk.
“Fifty bucks.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? That ring is worth—“
She stopped talking when she realized she had no idea what it was worth. For all she knew, Scott had fished it out of a Cracker Jack box. A white-hot bolt of anger shot through her, settling in the pit of her stomach.
Jimmy paused, thinking, then fumbled with his belt buckle. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll take the two fifty, the ring, and give you the BJ discount.”
The gun was worth more to Tammy now than the ring or her self-esteem. She wiped her mouth and ignored the familiar ache in her knees as she walked out of Jimmy’s office with the newly acquired weapon in her handbag.
• • • •
On her way home, Tammy called Finn. She’d hooked up with him at a skanky nightclub a few weeks after Scott had kicked her out of the house and he’d been a fuck buddy ever since.
He answered on the third ring, sounding remote and sleepy, like she’d woken him up. It was three in the afternoon.
“Need some company?” Tammy said.
“Got anything to take the edge off?” he asked.
She had some weed she’d been saving for a rainy day. Dying of cancer seemed about as bad as the weather could get. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”
She arrived at his apartment to find that Finn had not showered any time recently and his breath smelled like cat piss. He was dressed in his usual flannel pajama bottoms worn through at the knees. Gross as they were, she liked the way they hung low on his hips, revealing the V pointing down to his groin and from behind, the dimples on his lower back.
She climbed atop him and rode him slowly, trying to enjoy what might be her last fuck. Finn might not have been a superstar in the grooming department (or, sadly, the brains sector) but he was sexy as hell. If there turned out to be an afterlife, she’d miss him a little bit.
Afterward they sat on the bed, propped up against pillows. Finn took a deep hit from the pipe and held his breath. He passed it to her.
“You are so hot,” he said, exhaling. “You know that?”
“So I’ve been told,” Tammy replied.
“I been thinking.”
“Yeah?”
“I gotta friend—her name’s Lena and I shit you not, she’s a fucking pistol in the sack, just like you. Maybe we should all three get together sometime.”
She took a hit off the pipe and stared straight ahead, not trusting herself to look at Finn.
A few weeks after Tammy and Scott met Paula, he’d taken Tammy out for an expensive dinner and made a proposal.
It wasn’t the one she’d been hoping for.
He asked Tammy if she remembered the waitress they’d met on the yacht, Paula. He said he’d been in touch with her since, had coffee a couple of times, nothing serious. Admitted he was attracted to her. Thought maybe they could invite Paula out on a date and if it worked out, maybe something more.
“Look,” Scott said. “I’ll totally understand if you’re not in into it.”
Tammy knew Scott was bored with her, she could feel him slipping through her fingers. And it wasn’t like they hadn’t had threesomes before—early in their relationship they’d had several and they were a lot of fun.
But as they’d gotten more serious, the idea was increasingly
foreign to Tammy. She wanted a normal life, a husband, and a family, and Scott was her chance to have it. He seemed to feel the same way; over time he stopped suggesting they invite others into their bed and they settled into blissful monogamy.
They’d been together two years now. Maybe he was just going through a phase.
Tammy reached over the table and stroked Scott’s hand. “No, it’s okay. I’m into it.”
• • • •
Tammy felt like an outsider even before they took their clothes off. They’d all met at an Italian restaurant where they’d shared a meal and a couple of bottles of wine. Scott paid the check and Tammy realized there was never any question of whether Paula would accompany them home—the deal was clearly made prior to the date and without her input.
The kissing and fondling began as soon as they entered the house and closed the door behind them. Tammy stood dumbly in the entry for a moment before Paula beckoned her over.
Who did the bitch think she was, inviting her into the mix when it should be the other way around?
But Tammy complied and kissed Paula ferociously, using on her anger to ignite her passion. She pulled Paula’s head back by her hair, causing her to let out a soft gasp. Scott came up behind Paula and cupped her tiny breasts, kissing her neck while Tammy slid down the front of Paula’s body, resting on her knees, slipping her hands under Paula’s skirt and grasping the back of her thighs.
Tammy returned the pipe to Finn and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memories that his question had prompted. It didn’t work—an avalanche of images tumbled over her.
Scott’s hands exploring Paula’s naked body, Tammy’s tongue slithering down Scott’s belly while he pushed her head down towards his cock, Paula lying on the bed, touching herself as Tammy took Scott in her mouth.
Paula grabbed for her handbag and pulled out two scarves. Tie me up, she begged. Tammy pulled the scarf snugly against Paula’s wrist, hoping to cause her some discomfort, but Paula only gave her a wicked smile.
Paula lay there, secured to the bedposts, writhing against Scott’s mouth between her legs. Tammy watched, wishing she had taken something stronger than the wine she’d drunk at dinner.
Paula came with a dramatic squeal. What a phony twat, Tammy thought. But Scott, clearly turned on, ground his face in harder, before Tammy finally pushed him aside and said “My turn.”
Tammy climbed on top of Paula and leaned forward so that her heavy breasts hung in her face. She began gyrating and bucking, grinding herself against Paula’s pubic bone, riding her like a wild, possessed thing. Paula’s breathing became as labored as Tammy’s, and she could see she was close to climaxing again.
“Strangle me,” Paula gasped.
The request jarred Tammy, but after a moment she clasped her hands around Paula’s sleek neck. She began to squeeze, slow and steady, increasing the pressure until she saw panic in Paula’s eyes.
It would be so easy to choke you and pretend it was a mistake, Tammy thought. She tightened her grip and Paula wiggled and kicked her legs up, struggling to break free.
“You’re hurting her, Tammy!” Scott said when he finally realized what was happening. He pulled Tammy off of Paula and shoved her hard toward the end of the bed.
Finn interrupted her reverie. “Well, what do you think?”
Tammy finally looked at him. He had a hopeful, goofy grin on his face. She wanted to punch him.
Christ, I’m not even enough for this loser, she thought.
Without speaking, she picked her handbag off the floor, reached in, and pulled out the gun. She held it against her temple, pressing it into skull until it threatened to break the skin.
“Whoa, hey,” Finn said, holding up his hands. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Am I really about to shoot myself? The realization that she’d taken control energized her and she smiled. She gaped at Finn, silently studying him.
She fixed the gun on his face and he scrambled away from her, tumbling off the bed.
“No, don’t, please—“ he said. He crouched on the ground, using the side of the bed as cover.
Tammy hoisted herself to her knees and travelled slowly to Finn’s side of the bed. She held the gun over him, pointing it at the top of his head.
“Please, no,” Finn sobbed, covering his face with his hands. “I just thought it would be fun to have a threeway—“
Tammy took aim then paused, reconsidering. She raised the gun and squeezed a shot into the ceiling. Finn yelped. Plaster sprinkled down around her and there was a muted scream, presumably from the apartment upstairs. Tammy couldn’t tell exactly where it came from because the gunfire made her ears ring.
“Oh my God,” Finn said, slumping on the floor.
Tammy found her dress and shimmied into it, then returned the gun to her handbag. She glanced at the pipe that lay on the wrinkled covers and then regarded Finn.
He lay in the fetal position, crying. She decided to leave the pipe. She headed for the door and paused in the doorframe. “I’m not into it,” she said.
• • • •
It was after midnight when Tammy slipped over the fence into Scott’s backyard. She’d lived there once, but hadn’t seen it since the restraining order was put into place three months ago. The least the bastard could’ve done was move, she thought. He was a partner at Jackson and Maher now, so it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford it.
She broke the glass in the French door with the gun, reached in, and turned the deadbolt. She opened the door, heard the beep-beep alarm warning, and bounded up the stairs.
She knew she had less than thirty seconds before the alarm began wailing in earnest. If she had one regret after tonight, it was that there wasn’t time for a stirring revenge speech. But she could die with that.
The light in the master bedroom came on a split-second before she entered. Scott stood next to the bed, naked and confused. Tammy noted with satisfaction that he’d developed a paunch.
“Tammy?” he said.
Paula, the dumb bitch, pulled the covers up over herself and screamed.
Tammy took a moment to aim at Scott’s head and pulled the trigger. The blast propelled him backward and he slammed against the wall, collapsing in a heap on the floor. Paula jumped out of bed, perky breasts bobbing. Tammy had to hand it to the plastic surgeon that had done the work—he’d done a fantastic job.
She took a shot at Paula and missed, shattering the lamp on the bedside table. She aimed again and hit Paula in the throat. She witnessed the spray of blood before she ran out of the room.
Tammy made it downstairs before the alarm bells rang. She was a block away when the sirens started. She hopped on a bus at Highland and as she slid into her seat noticed blood on her arm. She didn’t remember getting cut. She covered it with her hand and wondered how long it would take them to catch her.
• • • •
She’d been home ten minutes before she noticed the red light on her answering machine blinking. She stiffened with fear but then relaxed, figuring if the cops had found her, they wouldn’t contact her by phone. She pressed the button. The message had been sent at four o’clock that afternoon.
“Hello, Ms. Valero,” a masculine voice said. “This is Doctor Randall. I have some good news. The lab sent the wrong results and it turns out you just have a case of Hepatitis A…”
THE BLONDE CHIMERA
Cameron Ashley
1. The Foolish Man.
The gynaecologist sipped his Riesling and said, “There is a thing in a foolish man that will not allow him to shake the spell of a woman who is truly bad news.”
Carver rattled the cubes in his glass of scotch, watched them float, averting his eyes out of fear the gynaecologist may well cry.
“This thing exists in all men, I believe, but it is especially pronounced in foolish men.” The gynaecologist sipped his wine. “And I am, most definitely, a foolish man.”
Carver didn’t believe in the notion of the femme fatale. It was
old-fashioned and sad at best, misogynistic at worst. People were people, each carrying their own dark spot, their own kink and he believed each was as capable of manipulation and opportunism as the next. Still, who was he to dissuade a potential client, especially with the money on offer? He decided, out of a purely mercenary motivation, to view the gynaecologist’s opinions as quaint. Even so, he couldn’t shake the thought that the man stared at pussy all day. You would think he would be used to its potential machinations, should they seriously exist, by now.
The gynaecologist continued, “I also am a man of…certain tastes. I would not go so far as to call them proclivities, but you get the gist. I work hard, I work long hours and I am very good at what I do. The opportunities to meet women, outside of my office, don’t come around too often.”
The long hours and the money that came with them, that much was already clear. A luxury Southbank apartment, atop the casino yet stories away from the luck-challenged riff-raff, furnished with such impeccable good taste that it was styled almost artificially, like Carver had somehow walked into the glossy pages of a real estate catalogue, helping himself to decanted scotch before sitting on the balcony with this rich sap. The wealth was not in doubt.
Carver nodded anyway, he already knew the story, but knew also that part of what he did was let his clients unburden themselves. He was good at it and it created trust, and, fuck it, it was a nice night and the city was pretty and the scotch was good.
The gynaecologist again topped up his own glass from the bottle sitting on his outdoor table. “A year or so back, I started looking online, dating sites and such. I created a profile, I downplayed my money, I didn’t get a lot of…attention.”
Carver examined the gynaecologist again. He wasn’t bad looking, but his unwillingness to shave the remnants of his hair, plastered tendril-like to his scalp, and his slightly clammy pallor did vibe kind of kiddie-fiddler.
“So I went to an agency, you know, specialists. Through them I met Naomi. They introduced me to her.”
Carver lifted the empty Riesling bottle off the picture of Naomi Babineaux with one hand, peeled the black and white 8x10 off the table with the other. She was striking, no doubt. Half-Japanese, half-French, she oozed cool and smarts. She was nude in the photo, reclining back on the Italian leather sofa Carver himself had sat on shortly after arriving here. Carver took her in, all of her, and wondered if the couple had fucked there, right on the spot where he had sat, right after this picture was taken.
