She tossed her bag on the chair. Her sleeveless mint green silk blouse revealed smooth shoulders and fairly firm upper arms giving Oshansky a momentary fantasy of her lying on his bed, arms outstretched. Welcoming him.
An unlikely scenario.
“I brought these for you,” Bea said, shoving a bakery box at him. “Rugelach. If you don’t like them I’ll take them back and eat them myself.”
“Not on your life. We’ll share them,” he said carrying them into the kitchen.
Bea followed after him. “So, what’s for dinner, Oshansky? I’m starved. Let’s hope your cooking’s better than your housekeeping.”
Bea finished off her second helping of lasagna and was reaching for a third when she stopped, fork poised mid-air. “I forgot. I’m on a diet. You’re a good cook, Oshansky. You’ll make some woman a great husband as long as you keep up your Costco membership.”
“My cover’s blown,” he said with a look of mock horror.
After dinner Oshansky and Bea sat on the couch, their thighs teasingly close as they watched Seinfeld reruns on the TV. More precisely she watched while he enjoyed the incipient hard-on that was urging him on.
Go ahead, make a move, Oshansky. Don’t let this opportunity pass you by. You know you want her. It’s possible she might even want you.
Does she? he wondered. Would she fall into his arms, begging him, ‘Take me, Oshansky. Take me now!’ It was more likely that she’d scream, ‘Are you nuts, Oshansky?’
He closed his eyes. A sign, give me a sign, Bea. Any small sign will do.
And then miraculously, the sign was given. Bea snuggled closer, reached over and took hold of his arm and draped it over her shoulder. Watching her out of the corner of his eye, he slowly inched his hand closer until it rested on her left breast. Feeling emboldened he worked his hand under her blouse. His hard-on was now in full bloom.
She glanced at him, then down at his burgeoning manhood, “Not too shabby,” she said smiling. Then pulled his head toward her and locked her lips on his.
His tongue hungrily explored the inside of her mouth and just as he was about to suggest they head for the bedroom, Bea abruptly pulled away.
“Time to go,” she said, standing up.
“What?” Just like that? You’re leaving? Did I do something wrong?”
“Yes, just like that. I’m leaving,” she nodded. “I have an early morning tennis match. And besides, I don’t want to get involved.” She smoothed her hair and rearranged her clothes. “Walk me out to my car, Oshansky.”
As they walked down the path to her car, she suddenly stopped. “My bag, how could I have forgotten it? Sex does that to my brain.”
I wouldn’t exactly call it sex, he wanted to respond. Nonetheless he was pleased since her statement held out promise for the future.
“I’ll go get it for you,” he said.
He walked quickly back to the house and spotted her bag on the living room chair. It was massive and heavy-looking.
He could never understand why women hauled around such large heavy bags that didn’t even have a clasp to close them. As a detective he knew how easy it would be for someone to just reach in and grab a wallet out of it.
His ex-wife had alwaysshlepped around a bag like that, even though he’d repeatedly pointed out its dangers.
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” she’d reply. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Actually Marsha was wrong, he did understand, more than she could imagine. He’d once attended a lecture given by a renowned psychiatrist whom he’d used on one of his more difficult cases. It was a lecture about symbolism. How an ordinary object left at a crime scene could open a door into a criminal’s unconscious. He remembered the psychiatrist saying something about a purse being a female sex symbol. And an open purse? Oshansky could only surmise the meaning of that.
Oh Bea, he thought, your bag is telling me more about your inner desires than possibly you yourself know.
“I’ll take it.” Bea said, appearing at his side.
As he handed her the bag, he glanced inside and caught a glimpse of something pink.
“Thanks, Oshansky,” Bea said, taking the bag from him. “It was a fun evening. Perhaps we’ll do it again sometime.”
Later that night as he turned off the light and crawled into bed, he wondered if it was a pink envelope that he’d seen in Bea’s purse. Or was his imagination getting the better of him and he was starting to see pink envelopes everywhere?
He wasn’t even sure that what he’d seen in her purse was an envelope. It could have been anything. A flyer for a local nail salon. Anything. More than likely he was making a mountain out of a pink molehill.
And yet when something smells fishy….
Was it possible that Bea was the person leaving the notes under his doormat? Of course it was possible. Despite her being the least likely person to be writing love letters, anonymous or otherwise, he knew to never discount anyone or anything.
The last thought he had before falling asleep was that Bea had allowed––actually encouraged––a modicum of intimacy. Which meant that if she were the person leaving him pink love letters perhaps she harbored romantic feelings toward him after all.
Had Bea also sent Harry the pink love letters? If so, would that mean she’d also harbored romantic feelings toward him?
It was too late at night to try to sort it all out now, Oshansky thought. Rolling over on his side, he fell into a deep, snore-less sleep, oblivious to the fact that at that very moment someone was placing another pink envelope under his doormat.
Chapter 21
Oshansky lay in bed and watched the dust motes dancing in the light filtering through the cracks between the shutters. Bea was right about the state of his condo. It was time he started to live like amensch, take the bull by the horns. Embrace a new beginning. Possibly even clean his condo.
He had just fallen back asleep when the doorbell awakened him.
The woman standing in the doorway was holding onto the handle of a stewardess-sized, black roll-on suitcase. Oshansky, took in her attributes. Asian. Age 40 to 45 or thereabouts. Average height, 110 to 125 pounds, gray slacks emphasizing slim hips, white, short sleeved v-neck tee shirt, 32A or thereabouts.
She was so intent on studying the pink envelope in her hand, she seemed unaware of his presence. Oshansky cleared his throat.
She looked up at the sound. “Ah, Mr. Azinsky.” She nervously smoothed back her short black bob that didn’t need smoothing despite the morning breeze. “I find this under doormat,” she said, handing him the envelope.
“Azinsky? Wrong condo,” Oshansky said gruffly. No one, not even an attractive woman, had any business ringing his doorbell at such an ungodly hour. Especially someone who was looking for a Mr. Azinsky.
“Bea send me over. Say Ushmoe Azinsky need help.”
“Said I need help, did she? Well that’s great. Really great. And what kind of help did Miss Bea say Ushmoe needed?”
“Oh, Mr. Ushmoe, nothing be ashamed of. I help Mr. Harry and many men live in condos. So many problems.”
“But I don’t have any problems.”
“Is okay, Mr. Ushmoe, every man need help now and then. Especially men who no have wives. They need to hire woman. I help you. You no be sorry.”
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Bea hadn’t even given him a chance to perform last night and she’d already hired a sex therapist or whatever they were called.
“Everything okay, Mr Ushmoe,” she patted his arm. “You just relax. You sit back. Enjoy my work.”
Oshansky paused. Why not? he thought. Why not indeed?
Nonetheless he felt the need to explain. “You see, it’s just that there’ve been too many women lately. Too much sex, you might say. I’m not used to that. It’s true I may be a little tired and not up to par.” He paused to see if she was following what he was saying.
She nodded.“Too much sex, Mr. Ushmoe. You lucky man.”
; ‘Why yes, you’re right. I guess I am.”
“You too tired now. Not good for health. I help you out. You see. You no more be tired. New energy. Maybe do more sex. Mr. Harry happy with my work. You be happy too.”
She and her black canvas suitcase, meanwhile had quietly infiltrated their way into the hallway. Reminiscent of the Viet Cong quietly tunneling their way behind enemy lines.
“Uh, sorry, but I didn’t seem to get your name,” he said.
“Rosa.”
“Rosa?” Oshansky asked, surprised. He didn’t like stereotyping anyone but she didn’t look like a Rosa.
“Rosa, named after mother. Korean father, Spanish mother,” she explained. “I give you card.” She pulled a small white business card from her shoulder bag and handed it to him.
Rosa Lin Yoo
Take Care All Yoo Needs, Inc.
Phone: 760-999-9999
“Ah so…” He stopped, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”
Rosa Lin Yoo shrugged. “I change now. Then go to work. I use bathroom first.”
Oshansky watched her pull her suitcase down the hall and disappear into the bathroom. He wondered why he, a private dick, had allowed a stranger the freedom of his condo without asking more questions. Even someone as attractive as Rosa and even if she was recommended by Bea. This was not the way to begin taking control of his life.
Though judging by the way the women carried on at Harry’s memorial service, Rosa Lin Yoo might have something to teach him after all. And besides what red-blooded American male wouldn’t be curious as to what Rosa Lin Yoo had up her sleeve or, more specifically, in her black suitcase.
“We start in the bedroom,” she said when she emerged from the bathroom.
Trailing along behind her to the bedroom, he admired her firm, curvaceous bottom. Imagining her shapely legs locked like an anaconda around his waist, he was surprised that at such an early hour he was feeling stirrings in his groin.
“You’re sure about this, Rosa Lin Yoo. I mean it’s all so sudden.”
“Mr. Ushmoe, I do good job. You be happy, you pay. You no be happy, you no pay. You lose nothing.”
She was certainly practical. Besides, what did he have to lose? Only the growing bulge in his teddy bear boxers. And if he was lucky, there was even the chance he might pick up a pointer or two.
He watched as Rosa’s eyes swept over the bedroom and thought he might have caught her wince but couldn’t swear to it. He regretted he hadn’t tossed his dirty boxers in the hamper.
He reminded himself that Rosa wasn’t here to pass judgment on his neatness.
Rosa walked over to the bed and pressed down hard against the mattress with the palm of her hand. She sat down and after bouncing up and down a few times, pronounced judgment. “Firm. Good for back,” she said, then added solemnly, “And sex.”
Oshansky breathed a sigh of relief.
She was right, his backaches seemed to have lessened since his recent purchase of an extra firm king sized mattress. Obviously Rosa Liu Yoo knew her mattresses.
Oshansky followed her into the adjoining bathroom. Without pausing, she pushed everything on the counter into a corner. Then with a mixture of fascination and something bordering on horror, he watched as she extracted various items from her suitcase. One by one, she began to line them up on the counter with great care: a short feathery object. A small machine with a long flexible tube. Oshansky flinched and left the room.
Rosa called out. “Okay, I strip now.”
Strip? Just like that? No foreplay?
Oshansky wondered what the protocol was. Should he wait and let her remove his boxers or take them off himself? Not wanting to appear too naive he decided to take them off himself. He stood waiting. But then feeling cold and shriveled he crawled into bed and covered himself with a blanket.
He looked expectantly at Rosa when she entered the room.
“Mr Oshansky. You in bed. I say time to strip…”
“But I already did, Rosa,” he said, shoving the blanket aside.
“…the bed, Mr Ushmor.”
“Yes, of course. Strip the bed.” He quickly pulled the blanket back. He was unsure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. When she reached around to open the blinds he reached down and grabbed his boxers off the floor and pulled them on.
“Okay, Mr. Ushmoe, you leave room now. I strip bed. Put sheets in washing machine. Don’t worry. Your place not sooo dirty. I see worse.”
“Okay, Rosa, you go ahead and do your work,” he said getting up. “Oh, by the way, the name is Rushmore with an ‘R.’ Rush-more O-shan-sky, “You can call me Rushmore. Or Oshansky. Whichever is easier.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ushmoe.”
“Close enough. And by the way, what’s with that little machine and long tube?”
“Steamer, Mr. Ushmoe. Kills mites and verbin.”
“That’s vermin.” He left the room, leaving Rosa alone to fight the battle against mites and verbin.
Why, he wondered did someone always call while he was having breakfast?
“Oshansky speaking.”
“Of course, it’s Oshansky. Who else would be answering your phone?” Bea asked.
“Since you were so kind to send over Miss Rosa Yoo without asking, how about her for starters?”
“Good. Then she’s still there.” Bea said brightly. “I wasn’t sure she’d stay once she saw your place. I figured you could use help. In the housecleaning department, that is. Anyway, since she worked for Harry she knows your place.”
“In spite of the mess you have to admit we did have a nice time last night,” Oshansky responded, hoping she might toss him a crumb or two. When she didn’t respond, he added, “Well, at least I did.”
“I guess I should have called earlier to tell you that I was sending Rosa over. She was supposed to work for me this morning but I figured you needed her more. I suggest you get her once or twice a week. Anyway I’m late for my tennis so I gotta go.” Bea hung up before he could respond.
Rushmore flipped on the TV. Stock market going up. Good for his IRA. Countries around the world in chaos. Bad for his IRA. So what else is new? The little guy can’t win. More speeches by the president.
He flipped off the TV and looked over the bills accumulating on the kitchen counter. Gathering them up, he carried them over to the dining room table and put them down, except for the pink envelope Rosa had handed him. Like the other two letters, there were no markings on the envelope.
He tore it open.
you are not heeding my warning
you will pay for that
What warning hadn’t he heeded? More importantly, how would he pay?
He went back to the kitchen and took out the previous two pink letters, and lined them up side by side. Same exact printing. No caps, no punctuation. But this letter was different from the others. It could only be interpreted one way—as a threat. Why, he wondered, would someone be threatening him?
“I all finish in bedroom now.” Rosa said, appearing at his side. “I start on kitchen. Okay? Mr. Ushmoe, you go check bedroom. Tell me if you like.”
“I’m sure I like, Rosa.”
“No. You go check. Tell me any problem.”
Rushmore knew there was no point arguing. “Okay. I go.”
Oshansky’s first thought upon seeing his bedroom was that he’d been a victim of a home robbery. The second thought was he’d never find anything again. Nothing was in its usual place––on the floor or piled on the chair.
The dresser top was now empty of clothes, books, and papers. And even the layer of dust that filtered down from the Santa Rosas, and covered every flat surface in the condo, was nowhere to be seen.
Rosa had even found the bedspread in his closet—that last remaining vestige of his marriage to Marsha—and had put it on his bed.
Coming back to the dining room he noticed that Rosa was standing by the table, holding the pink envelope. He watched her quietly for a few seconds, then coughed to alert her to hi
s presence.
“Oh, Mr. Ushmoe,” she said quickly putting the envelope behind her back. “You scare me. I didn’t hear you come in. You like bedroom? You like how I clean?”
Rushmore had the sudden thought that Rosa might possibly know something about the letters since she’d worked for Harry. Could Harry have told her who was sending them.
“You like my work, Mr. Ushmoe?” she asked again.
“You did a great job. Now all I have to do is to figure out where everything is.”
“Oh, Mr. Ushmoe, you no look happy.” She shook her head sadly.
“Oh, no, I’m happy. Very happy, That’s just my usual expression. I hope my place didn’t scare you off and you’ll come back.”
“Very good,” she said brightening up. “I keep place in tick tock shape.”
“That’s tip-top. Whatever. I’ll give you a key and you can let yourself in. In case I’m out having breakfast at the club.”
“Or if you asleep late after hot sex night,” she added. “All my clients give me key. I already have your key. From Mr. Harry.”
“Seems like everyone has a key to Mr. Harry’s condo,” he said remembering Francine also had one of his keys. “By the way, that pink envelope you’re holding…”
“I straightening up table.” Flushing, she quickly put the letter back on the table. “I not read letter.”
“No, I wasn’t suggesting that. I was just wondering if you ever saw any pink envelopes like that one before.”
“Oh, no. I see nothing. Nothing.”
He knew there was no sense pressing her. It would only frighten her more. But he could also tell that she wasn’t telling the truth.
“Oh no,” She repeated even more vehemently this time. “I no see letter before.” She shook her head for emphasis.
Then why are you lying? he wondered.
Chapter 22
Later that evening when he finished dinner, Oshansky lay on the couch and flipped on Hollywood Tonight. More stuff about the Lindsays and Brittanys. Ah, for the good old days of Elizabeth Taylor and Virginia Mayo. Real actresses with real names.
Sylvia Selfman - Rushmore Oshansky 01 - Murder Never Retires Page 8
