by Dianne Emley
On Thursday morning, she dressed for the office.
In the garage, she waited in the Triumph for the security gate to slide open at a speed relaxed enough to let in anyone who was so inclined. She pulled the car beyond the gate and paused as she always did before making her left turn. She glanced into the bushes beneath her terrace. The street man had taken all his belongings except one. She had looked at it for the past two days. She put the TR in neutral, set its parking brake, got out, and picked up the corrugated cardboard VIET NAM VET WILL WORK FOR FOOD sign, and put it on the TR’s passenger seat.
She carried the street man’s sign into the McKinney Alitzer suite and into the administrator’s office, where she picked up a new set of office keys. She unlocked the door to her office. The new door key had an odd, sharp-edged feel in the lock.
Her office felt reassuring. There was plenty of work to be done, relentless work that demanded attention in spite of the events of her personal life. The work was heartless and unsympathetic and required only cool intellect and verve. Iris looked forward to losing herself in it.
She put away her purse, positioned the street man’s sign on top of her credenza, turned on her computer, and answered calls from well-wishers who wanted to know how she was doing. She was gazing out her western-facing window and daydreaming when she heard a shallow knock on the metal door frame.
“I heard about the mugging,” Art said. “Terrible.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t a lot worse.”
“Really. I wanted to let you know that the Accounting Department gave me the check. You did well for the Widow Stringfellow.”
“I hope she puts her earnings to good use.”
He sat down without being invited. “She will. She’s got a club to invest in.” He gestured toward the street man’s sign. “Different, but I like it.”
She shrugged. “Who knows? I might need it someday.” She paused. “I’m asking against my better judgment, but are you saying that you got your uncle to commit?”
Art smiled broadly. “Of course.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I’m meeting him after work, getting the dough, then meeting Barbie tomorrow morning, when I’ll give her the cash-out check from her McKinney Alitzer account and the fifty grand in good faith money, in cash.”
“Cash? Does your uncle know you’re giving her cash?”
“No. He’s too conservative. He wouldn’t understand.”
“What happened to the escrow account?”
“Barbie thought it would make more of an impression on her friends if she brought cash.”
“Why? Are they drug dealers?”
His smile faded. “Iris, can’t you take anything at face value?”
“Not when it involves money in the five figures.”
The skin of his face drew taut.
“Art, don’t you find it odd that Barbie never mentioned these Phoenix friends until Lorraine showed up? And if she’s such good trusted friends with these people, why does she have to flash cash?”
“I don’t question her methods. You didn’t question her when she wanted to work with you.”
“There’s a big difference. She was giving me money.”
A vein in his forehead pulsed. “I can make a good business decision, Iris.”
“No doubt. But you’re not making one this time, because you’re thinking with the head between your legs and not with the one on your neck.”
Art abruptly stood.
“Art, why has Barbie’s whole demeanor changed since Lorraine arrived? First, Barbie has all the time in the world to do the club deal, and now she needs everything yesterday. And who is this nut case Lorraine anyway? Why does she make Barbie so nervous? Have you ever seen Barbie nervous before? Does Lorraine know something we don’t? Something that Barbie doesn’t want us to know? And what was that Charlotte business?”
“Barbie explained that.”
“Oh, of course she did. The woman thinks on her feet. I have to give her that. One thing’s for sure. Lorraine and Barbie are lovers.”
“You’re twisted.”
“Then why couldn’t Lorraine take her eyes off you and Barbie, and what was that screaming fit? And why does Barbie avoid you when Lorraine’s around? And why does Barbie keep making passes at me?”
“You know, Iris, I’m tired of your feelings this and your feelings that. If you can show me solid proof, I’ll listen, but otherwise I don’t know what your problem is unless you’re jealous of me and her because your boyfriend dumped you or you don’t want me to be richer than you or something.” He walked to the window, his back to her, and ran his hands through his hair.
“Art, I just don’t want you to get hurt. You’re a pain in the ass, but I like you.” She pointed at his back. “See. You’re worried, aren’t you?”
He turned to face her. “I can take care of myself, Iris. No one’s going to take advantage of Art Silva. Got it? No one.” He left her office.
Iris stood and opened her filing cabinet near the window that overlooked the suite. She busied herself with nothing while she looked out the window and watched Art disappear into his cubicle.
You never learn to mind you own business.
Her phone rang. It was an outside call.
“Iris Thorne.”
“Ms. Thorne, this is Detective Verdugo from the Santa Monica Police Department. We’ve recovered your purse. There’s no cash in it, but it looks like your credit cards and everything else is there. We didn’t find your keys. Did you recover them?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve already had everything rekeyed. I’ll come down this afternoon and pick it up. Any sign of the bum?”
“He’s long gone.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Early Friday morning, Barbie stood beside the bed and watched Lorraine sleep. They’d spent the past couple of days shopping, sightseeing, and doing the town. Last night they’d dressed up for dinner and gone to a fine restaurant. Lorraine wore a slinky black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps that Barbie had bought her. They had gotten home very late. Barbie didn’t balk when Lorraine ordered two cocktails at dinner, and she later encouraged Lorraine to take a few sleeping pills before she went to bed since they’d got in bed very late the night before and had risen early to get started on their sightseeing.
Barbie made Lorraine a fresh pot of coffee. The guttural noises of the automatic drip coffeemaker boiling and expelling water did not stir her. Barbie wrote a note on a pad: “Sugar, went to the market. Back soon. Here’s some money in case you go out.” Barbie put a pile of bills next to the note.
She propped the note against a cup and saucer on the sink. She’d also put out nondairy creamer, a spoon, the artificial sweetener that Lorraine liked, and a package of bear claws that she’d bought especially for Lorraine.
Dressed in a purple suit with big gold buttons, Barbie walked through the apartment in her stocking feet. She touched her hair which she’d pulled into a neat French roll.
She picked up a large local telephone book, quietly opened a kitchen cabinet, and replaced it in its spot. She studied the cabinet’s contents. She closed the door and opened the cabinet next to it. She had few housewares, just the bare essentials she’d bought after she’d moved to Marina del Rey. She smirked at the contents and closed the door.
She picked up a broad-brimmed white hat with a purple ribbon from the coffee table, fastened it on her head with a pearl-tipped hat pin, put her overstuffed makeup bag inside her purse, slung it over her shoulder, put her car keys in her pocket, and tiptoed up the stairs past the bed to the closet. The closet door was already open. Barbie looked through the garments there, moved one from the group and hung it further down the closet rod, then grabbed a mound of clothes between her two arms and lifted them from the rod. She leaned back inside the closet, managed to free a hand, and spread out the remaining hangers.
Carrying the clothes, she peeked into the bathroom, looked at the counter on which she’d left
a few toiletries and makeup, then turned and tiptoed past the closets. Lorraine stirred. Barbie stopped. She looked to her right at the still open closet door and took a tentative step backward, closer to it. She raised the bundle of garments as if she were going to toss them inside. Lorraine turned over and pulled the sheet around her neck. Barbie waited. Lorraine’s breathing again became slow and steady.
Barbie carried the clothes out the front door, which she closed but did not lock, avoiding any extra noise. She wiggled her feet into conservative pumps, which she’d left just outside the door.
In the garage, Barbie opened the trunk of the Mercedes and threw the garments on top of a mound of clothing, shoes, and purses that was already there. She emptied her purse of the makeup bag and other sundries and shoved them next to an overstuffed Luis Vuitton satchel. She closed the trunk and ran her fingers lovingly along the hood of the car.
“Well, Ol’ Paint. Looks like you and I are gonna be partin’ company soon.”
She drove a few blocks and parked in the lot of a convenience store on a busy, ugly intersection where a complicated street light system directed traffic through the many streets that converged there. It was eight o’clock in the morning. The streets were clogged with morning drive-time traffic. Cars, trucks, and buses created a din of squealing brakes and revving engines as the vehicles stopped, then restarted from inertia.
Barbie went inside the convenience store, got ten dimes, then walked outside to a phone booth in front. It was an open-air model with a half-egg of plastic surrounding the phone and no doors or glass to tempt vandals. She stacked the dimes on a small metal shelf that extended from the lower half of the plastic cocoon and took a pad of paper and a pen from her purse. The pad had several phone numbers written on it.
She dropped two dimes into the phone. They rattled as they followed a mysterious course through the guts of the machine. At the dial tone, Barbie punched in the first number on her list.
“Hi. Can you tell me your flight schedule from Salt Lake City to Los Angle-lees today?” She turned back the top page of the pad and wrote down the flight times. “Are there seats available? Thank you kindly.”
She dropped in another two dimes and punched in the next number.
“Hi. Can you tell me your flight schedule from Salt Lake City to Los Angle-lees today? Seats available? What other airlines fly from Salt Lake to L.A.? Uh-huh. Can you give me their phone number? You can check for me? Thank you ever so.” She jotted down the flight times.
She looked at her watch. “Hour to get ready.” She tapped the watch face with a long fingernail. “Half hour to the airport. Could make these…” She circled two of the flight times. “Transportation from the L.A. airport, half an hour at least. Couldn’t get here before two at the earliest.”
She reached into her purse, took out her personal telephone book, found the page she wanted, dropped two dimes into the phone, and dialed the operator. The two dimes clattered back down into the change bin. She dug her finger inside the bin and retrieved them.
“I’d like to make a collect call to Salt Lake City. Earl or Evelyn Boyce. Tell them it’s Lorraine.”
Barbie danced her fingernails against the phone booth’s metal shelf as she waited. The phone clicked several times and the operator announced that her party was on the line. Barbie held the phone receiver slightly away from her mouth.
“Daddy? It’s Lorraine. I’m in L.A.” Barbie raised her normal tone to a higher pitch. “I am talking as loud as I can. I think it’s a bad connection. Come get me, Daddy. I want to come home. I’m sorry…” A big truck drove by, making the asphalt quiver. “I said I’m sorry I scared you and Mom but I want to come home now. Hi, Mom. I don’t know. I just wanted to come here. I sound funny? I feel kinda funny. Here’s where I am. Two-ten Tahiti Way. Apartment three-two-two. Can you come now? Are you gonna fly or drive? I’ll be waiting. Look for me at the pool if I’m not there. ‘Bye.” She hung up.
“That ought to do her.” She shook her head. “Barbeh girl, you somethin’!”
She dropped in another two dimes, dialed directory assistance, and got the toll-free telephone number for the Mariah Lodge in Las Pumas.
“Is your best room a li’l ol’ cabin out in the woods? Is it available this weekend? You had a cancellation? Great. Make the reservation under the name of Iris Thorne. Two nights. I’ll be there about six o’clock. I’d like a bottle of your best champagne waiting. You heard right. Your best champagne. I don’t care what it costs.”
Barbie dropped two more dimes and made one last call. The phone rang five times before the answering machine picked up. “Lorraine, honey? You up? Pick up the phone. Hi, sugar. You have a good sleep? I’m running errands. I may not be back until two, three o’clock or so. So just stay there and relax. I’m sorry, honey, but I gotta take care of some business. Go out by the pool. Sugar, if I weren’t comin’ back, why the hell would I bother callin’ ya? Just put those negative thoughts out of your mind. See you soon.”
Barbie replaced the receiver. “Well, that’s that.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Art waited for Barbie at the street corner she’d specified. He’d checked his watch almost every minute of the twenty-two that Barbie was late. He finally caught a glimpse of purple and saw her quickly sashaying toward him, darting around the business folks in their conservative browns, grays, and navy blues which blended with the concrete, asphalt, and granite of the financial district. She spotted him and waved. He walked quickly to meet her.
“Hey, buddy,” Barbie drawled. She stood on her toes and kissed the air to the side of his cheek. “I don’t want to send you back to the office with lipstick on your face. They’d think the worst, which would only be the truth.”
Art caught a glimpse of the blouse she was wearing under her suit jacket. “What have you got on?”
“Just a li’l something I picked up.” She pulled one side of her jacket away from her chest. The blouse had a low scoop neck that displayed cleavage suspended in a sheer bra.
“Barbie, your boobs are almost falling out. Why do you dress like that?”
She caressed his cheek. “Darlin’. Don’t tell me you’re jealous. You used to like me to dress like this. Aren’t you jealous, just a little?”
“I just don’t know why you dress like that in the middle of the day.”
“You’re jealous. I thought so.” Barbie puckered her lips in his direction. “Well, sugar, I’ve got a zillion things to do before I catch my plane at three. Did you bring everything?”
Art stood his briefcase on the ground, reached inside his jacket, and took out a white envelope. “From your account.”
Barbie took the envelope and peeked inside. “Iris did good.” She looked at Art expectantly.
He didn’t move.
“The good faith money?”
His shoulders sank.
Her eyes narrowed. “Uncle George backed out.”
“No, I have it.”
She reached up and turned his head toward her. “You’re not lookin’ in my eyes. What’s wrong?”
He met her gaze. “We need to talk about how the finances are going to be managed.”
“What do you mean, darlin’? We have talked about it.”
“I think we should put the money in an escrow account, Barbie. That’s the standard way of doing a deal like this.”
“You don’t have it.”
“I already said I did.”
“Let me see it.”
He reached down to open his briefcase, took out a manila envelope, showed her the contents, then clutched it in his quarterback’s hand to his chest.
“Arturo,” Barbie looked into his eyes. “Now that we’ve come all this way, why are you havin’ second thoughts? Iris been puttin’ ideas in your head?”
“I’ve been thinking, Barbie. Why do you have to show these Phoenix people cash?”
She looked down at the ground, pursed her lips, and slowly shook her head. When she looked up again, her eyes w
ere filled with tears. One spilled over the rim of her eye and traveled down her face.
Art’s expression softened.
“I’m such a fool. I never learn.” More tears flowed. “Man tells me he loves me and I believe him.” She dug her hand into her bag and retrieved an embroidered handkerchief. “I always get ‘I love you’ and ‘I want to sleep with you’ confused in my head. When am I ever gonna learn?” She blotted her face and turned accusing eyes on him.
“C’mon, Barbie. I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it.”
She shook her head. “You don’t love me. All men have ever wanted from me is money or sex. Why should you be any different?”
Art rubbed her arm with his free hand. “C’mon, Barbie. You know that’s not true.” Passersby watched them with interest. Art put one arm around Barbie’s shoulders, tucked the manila envelope under his other arm, picked up his briefcase, and walked with her to a bench in a small patio between two office buildings. They sat down.
She shook her head sadly. “You don’t know the first thing about love. Love is about trust.” She rested her elbows on her knees, put her head in her hands, and sobbed.
“You’ve got me all wrong.”
“I just can’t win at this game. Why did I think a young buck like you’d be interested in a broken-down ol’ broad like me? I guess there’s no fool like an old fool.” She got up, dried her eyes, folded her handkerchief, and smoothed her clothing.
Art looked alarmed.
She held her hand out. “It’s been fun, sugar.”
He stood. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged. “How can we go on? You don’t trust me and now I don’t trust you no more, so what’s the point?”
“Just like that?”
“I don’t know what else we can do.”
He handed her the manila envelope.
She pushed the envelope back and waggled a finger at him. “You can’t unscramble an egg. It’s over.”
“Barbie, I’m sorry. This is so much money for my family, I got cold feet. But I’m back with the program now.”
