Margin of Error

by Edna Buchanan

  I had seen that face, probably even that gun, before. This had to be Iggy Zee.

  He stepped forward with an arrogant I-own-the-world stride, his expression oddly anticipatory.

  “Run, Angel!” I screamed, redundant at this point. She had figured it out on her own and was making good time, beating feet down the hall.

  He must have remembered me too, but other than a slight squint of recognition, his eyes were empty, nobody home.

  Angel turned, glanced back, didn’t like what she saw, and began yelping, a series of sounds not unlike attacking Apaches in one of Lance’s old movies.

  My screams and her yelps drew attention. Faces appeared from doorways, from the gym.

  “He’s got a gun!” I shouted, at the top of my lungs. I saw he did not appreciate it. He had probably intended to follow Angel quietly, to catch her when she was more vulnerable, at a bus stop or in a stairwell.

  He took his eyes off Angel and focused on me, annoyed.

  I shrank back, about to follow Angel. I did not worry about being shot, I worried about missing my plane.

  “Get ‘im!” A woman darted out from the karate class, petite and hard-bodied with a Dutch-girl haircut.

  “Eeee-yaaaahh!” She spun around and landed a circular kick to the center of his chest. Half a dozen women, all shapes and sizes, all clad in white uniforms, stampeded out behind her. Karate cries filled the hallway. Iggy Zee looked startled and staggered back, reaching for his gun, but it slipped and slid down into the leg of his baggy pants. He groped frantically for it as they advanced, kicking and screaming. Flying hands sliced the air. The same woman connected again, with a frontal kick to his groin. He crumpled, mouth and eyes wide open in an agonized expression, right arm still trapped down his pants, trying to free his gun.

  A security guard appeared at the far end of the hall. For one brief insane moment I thought it was Randall Fairborn. The uniform and company were the same. I shook the thought and screamed, “Gun! Gun! Gun!”

  The guard was unarmed, shouting into a handheld radio as he ran.

  A middle-aged blonde barefoot woman let loose a blood-curdling cry and landed a karate chop to Iggy Zee’s Adam’s apple. “Go, girl!” somebody shouted. Another chop-chopped at his rib cage.

  Spitting strangled curses, he yanked at the gun, somehow snagged on a stitched flap inside his baggy pants. I plucked a fire extinguisher off the wall and slammed it down on his wrist.

  The breathless security guard, who had been alerted by Angel, pounced as Iggy Zee wrenched the gun free. It went flying and clattered to the floor. Women were still kicking at Iggy Zee when the cops arrived.

  Angel was scared. I was frantic about the time. Bliss was elated. Iggy Zee was handcuffed and bruised.

  Bliss, wearing his brown suit, yanked at Iggy Zee’s handcuffed wrists to more closely examine his amateur tattoos. “What the hell is this PLO shit?” he boomed. “Oh!” He brightened. “I know what that stands for: Puny Little Organ!”

  “Powerful Latin Organization,” Iggy Zee said sullenly. “That’s Powerful Latin Organization!”

  “Lookit this,” Bliss said gleefully, examining Iggy Zee’s 9mm pistol. The grips had been wrapped with tape. “Know where that’s from?”

  “No,” I said, edgy. “I have to leave.”

  He ignored me. “It’s from a movie. Now everybody’s doing it. Iggy here saw a TV movie where some hit man wraps tape around his grip so prints can’t be lifted off it. But it’s all bullshit,” he crowed. “I never saw a case where anybody got prints off the grip; we always get ‘em off the metal.” He grinned at Iggy. “Know what you are? Living proof that a mind is a terrible thing to have. Only thing worse than a punk is a dumb punk.”

  “Think it’s the same gun?” I asked.

  “The lab will tell us soon.”

  “I have to leave.” I headed for the stairs.

  “Hey, where ya going?” Bliss said. “Hang on there. We need a statement.”

  “I don’t have time now, I have to catch a plane.”

  “No, no, no. No, ya don’t. We gotta get a statement first.”

  “I’ll be back in forty-eight hours. I’ll do it then.”

  “No way.” He frowned.

  “Look, you’ve got Angel, you’ve got witnesses.”

  He was adamant.

  “Ask the lieutenant,” I pleaded.

  He radioed McDonald, wandering toward the breezeway as he did. Did he do that for better reception or so I couldn’t hear him? I considered making a run for it.

  “Okay.” He strolled back. “The lieutenant says we can tape your statement here, if we can find a tape recorder.”

  A patrolman had one in his car, went to get it, then had to go to Walgreen’s for batteries. I was hyperventilating by the time he got back. I insisted on taping while walking to my car in the parking lot, babbling breathlessly.

  I didn’t even say goodbye to Angel.

  I drove home, chest tighter than a drum, grinding my teeth at every red light and dawdling driver.

  Niko paced in front of my door. He checked his watch as I ran from the car. “Thank God, you didn’t give up and leave,” I told him.

  “Where’ve you been?” he said impatiently.

  “I don’t think we can make it,” I said, nearly in tears.

  “You all packed?”

  I nodded.

  “Grab your stuff!”

  “I have to say goodbye to Mrs. Goldstein and give her the keys,” I said, as we rushed out the door. “She’s taking care of the animals while I’m gone.”

  “Go!” He hustled me toward the Town Car. “I’ll bring them back and give them to her myself.”

  We burned rubber. My heart was in my throat. If we were stopped for speeding now, we would never make it.

  Leaning on the horn, he wheeled around slower vehicles and drove like an absolute madman. I held on, closed my eyes, and prayed.

  He roared onto the access road to MIA at eighty miles an hour. My heart sank as we reached the terminal, clogged with cabs, buses, and airport shuttles. I asked a curbside attendant about my flight. He squinted at his watch and shook his head. “You’ll never make it.”

  He told us the concourse and the gate number, then shrugged as I prepared to run for it, lugging my garment bag, overnighter, and purse.

  Niko reached for the bags.

  “You can’t!” I cried. “They’ll tow the car.”

  “So what? I’ll get it back. No sweat. It’s cool.”

  I love this man, I thought.

  “Coming through!” He snatched the bags and cleared a path through the crowd like a broken-field runner, outdoing O.J.’s Hertz commercial. I charged after him.

  At the metal detectors, signs warned PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. He put the bags on the conveyor belt, flashed my ticket, and we both ducked through the arch unchallenged. So much for MIA security. He scooped up the bags and ran on.

  He reached the gate way ahead of me. My flight had already boarded. A lone attendant was leaving the desk. The plane was about to depart, the doors closed. Somehow Niko got them opened and me and my bags aboard.

  I never would have made it without him.

  I turned to hug him at the last moment, but he pushed me toward the jetway. There was no time. “Go, go, go!” he said. “Don’t worry about anything,” he called after me. “Happy landings.” He grinned.

  The flight attendant helped me hang my garment bag in a closet. I shoved the overnighter into the overhead compartment and sank into my first-class seat, weak with relief. Did the Town Car get towed? Would Niko remember to take the keys to Mrs. Goldstein? I put all those questions out of my mind. Nothing I could do about them now. The jet moved away from the gate and inched toward the runway. I was on my way, all of Miami’s craziness, worry, and bad news behind me.

  When the plane was in the air and the seat belt sign turned off, I went to the rest room. The small cubicle made me
smile and think of Lance, somewhere in the air himself at that moment. His flight would arrive hours before mine. As I made my way back to my window seat, I glanced through the curtains dividing the compartments. A well-dressed woman in coach stood in the aisle, reaching up, adjusting something in the overhead. It was Stephanie.

  21

  I crouched in my seat the rest of the way to Atlanta, then to Dallas. As passengers disembarked, I hid behind a magazine and sneaked peeks. I would have been thrilled had one of those cities been Stephanie’s destination, but I knew where she was going. She was following Lance, as always. The premiere was no secret. The fact that Lance would be there had been reported in newspaper columns and on TV.

  Only a few LA-bound flights leave MIA each day. Sheer bad luck had put her on mine. I wanted to confront her, but not at thirty-seven thousand feet. What would happen if she saw me? With my luck she’d go berserk, I thought, hoping she would be served only plastic utensils with her meal. I lapsed into “if onlys” again, as I gazed out my window at billowy cloud banks as soft and inviting as feather beds. If only I had been on time, Niko and I might have spotted her at the airport. He would have thought of something. It occurred to me that Angel had caused most of my “if onlys” lately. I vowed to stay away from her once I got back to Miami.

  At least I now knew where Stephanie was. I used the in-flight phone built into the seat back in front of me and called Lance’s LA number. He had not arrived yet, but I could leave a message. No answer.

  I sneaked a peek back into coach after Dallas. Stephanie, her head nestled on a pillow, was dozing as the movie ran.

  We roared across a darkening sky, chasing the sun west. Hoping for a nap myself, I turned my face to the window and closed my eyes. But when the flight attendant touched my arm, I jumped like a scared rabbit, heart beating wildly. Would I like a blanket or a pillow? I declined both. Sleep was out of the question with Stephanie aboard. I ate the dinner, which was good, but declined drinks. I would need my wits about me should Stephanie run amok.

  An hour out of LA, I tried Lance’s number again. This time an answering service picked up and took a message.

  We descended into LAX, the dark of the sea and the lights of the city spread out below. I remained seated as other passengers yanked their bags from the overhead and crowded the aisles. I ducked, pretending to be retrieving something from beneath the seat as Stephanie filed by, rolling a small piece of luggage on wheels.

  She looked eager, in a hurry. Sure, I thought irritably, she’s refreshed and well rested. The damn woman slept like a baby all the way here, while I fretted and peeked over my shoulder.

  Now I was determined not to let her out of my sight.

  Once she cleared the plane and was on the jetway, I snatched my bag and moved swiftly after her, retrieving my garment bag on the way. Keeping my eyes on her back, I trotted down the concourse behind her.

  She moved briskly, and I had trouble keeping up. My garment bag seemed heavier than ever. I needed one of those little luggage carriers on wheels, I decided. Someone behind me kept shouting, “Miss! Miss!” If they kept it up, I feared Stephanie might hear it and turn around. I spun to see who it was: the first-class flight attendant. It was me she was calling. Out of breath, she caught me.

  “What is it?” I said, annoyed, still watching Stephanie. I was certain I had left nothing behind.

  “I think you took the wrong garment bag,” she gasped, a hand over her heart.

  “No, this is mine.” Crowd surges were coming between me and Stephanie. What if she spots Lance waiting for me? She would think he’d come to meet her.

  “Would you check it, please?” she insisted.

  I jerked open the little zippered compartment. The typed card with my name and address wasn’t there. A plastic luggage tag was tucked in its place. The name on it was not mine.

  Focused on Stephanie, I had taken somebody else’s tweedy gray garment bag, identical to mine.

  “Come with me,” she said cheerfully. “We’ll straighten this out.”

  “But—” Torn between the need to keep Stephanie in sight and my desire for the wonderful little black Chanel knockoff wrapped in tissue paper, tucked inside my bag and now in the hands of strangers, the dress won. My mother had found it. “It just sings Chanel!” she had said.

  Perhaps, I thought, I could still have both. We dashed back to the gate and made the switch, much to the relief of an irritated white-haired wheelchair passenger whose bag I had inadvertently taken. Then I ran like mad, bags banging against my knees, to where I had seen Stephanie last. She was out of sight, of course, and I was handicapped because I had to stop at each ladies’ room. I would crack the door to see if she was in line. If not, then I would dash inside to peer under the stalls and check out the feet. No luck.

  I emerged into the main terminal and frantically scanned the crowd.

  “Britt! Britt! Over here!” Dave, broad-shouldered and blond-haired, was waiting for me.

  I put my forefinger to my lips to keep him from shouting out my name again. “Did you see her? Did you see her?”

  “Who?”

  “Where’s the baggage claim?”

  “You’ve got more luggage?” He looked puzzled and reached for my bags.

  “You didn’t get my message?”

  “What message?”

  “Stephanie! She was on the plane!”

  She was nowhere in sight. We charged down the escalator to baggage claim. The luggage from our flight was already revolving on the carousel. Nothing. No way of knowing if she had even checked a bag. I suggested we separate. I could go back up to the terminal, while he checked the cabstands down here. But what if one of us did find her? We had no way of communicating. The place was mobbed. It was hopeless.

  “Where’s Lance?”

  “He has to do the Tom Snyder Show,” Dave said. “It’s live and he feels lousy. He was taking a nap; then Pauli was gonna drive him.”

  Lance had had a miserable flight from New York, Dave said as we drove to the house. The altitude had caused painful pressure in his ears and clogged sinuses. He had used a nasal spray to relieve the discomfort but had apparently overdone it, and now his nose was running like a faucet.

  His housekeeper, a plump, smiling woman named Pilar, welcomed me with a cup of hot tea and a bowl of soup. She showed me to a guest room, where we wrestled over my garment bag. She insisted on unpacking and hanging my clothes, then left for the evening.

  The huge hilltop house was cavernous: high vaulted ceilings, massive furniture, and marble mantels. Dave had disappeared. A TV blared somewhere, behind closed doors. This was not the welcome I expected.

  I showered, pulled on slacks and a fresh blouse, then tried out the canopy bed in my room. The coverlet was crocheted, the sheets silken, and the wallpaper French floral. I wondered how many other women had slept in this bed; then I dozed off.

  Something, perhaps sounds in the hall, woke me. Startled and disoriented, I was uncertain for a moment where I was. I slipped out of bed, ran a brush through my hair, put on some lipstick, and ventured out to investigate.

  Before becoming totally lost, I encountered Pauli. Turned out that Lance’s room was across from mine. He rapped on the door and Lance opened it.

  “Welcome to LA!” This was the welcome I had in mind, I thought, as he hugged me. He looked terrible, nose red, eyes watery. He sounded worse and felt feverish. Whichever it was, cold or flu, he had it, full blown. I insisted we go back downstairs so he could eat some soup.

  We grinned at each other across a Mexican-style wooden table in a corner of the massive kitchen, under a framed collection of vintage movie posters.

  “Worst flight I ever had, except for an emergency landing at Orly once, in Paris.” He blew his nose. “Thought my head was gonna explode.”

  “Let me tell you about mine,” I said.

  They didn’t get my message because Niko had called to say I was safely on the plan
e, Dave had confirmed that it was on time, and nobody checked the service.

  I told him about Angel and my wild ride to the airport with Niko. It all seemed so remote now. We climbed the stairs, arms around each other.

  “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” he apologized. He definitely had a fever, said he didn’t want me to catch the bug, and suggested I stay in the guest room.

  “I didn’t travel all this way to sleep in the guest room,” I said. “My resistance is pretty high.” I brushed his damp hair back off his sweaty forehead. “Let’s just take a nap together. If you need anything during the night, I’ll be here.”

  “Didn’t we do this once before?” he said hoarsely. He sat down heavily on the bed. “I don’t think I’m in shape right now to—”

  “I know.” I helped him undress and didn’t even go back to my room for my nightgown. I undressed, slipped on one of Lance’s oversized T-shirts, and climbed into his bed.

  This was not the night we had expected. No urge to merge overwhelmed either one of us. He thrashed around, achy and feverish, while I thrashed through bad dreams. This time men with searchlights and long guns hunted me through those dark woods. Stephanie and Angel were screaming, sobbing children scurried through the shadows like frightened animals, and the gun slipped from my hands. I lost it in the weeds…

  “What’sa matter? What’sa matter?” Lance croaked. I was sitting up, groping, in a panic.

  “I can’t find the gun,” I said urgently. “I can’t find the gun!” then burst into stupid tears. I had firmly believed that this would not happen here, not with him.

  “What was that?” he wanted to know in the morning. “You dream like that often?”

  “Yeah,” I reluctantly admitted.

  He rolled his eyes and nodded.

  His fever had broken during the night but he felt wobbly: throat sore, voice ragged, nose and chest congested.

  “I think I’m getting better,” he said hopefully. “I think it’s breaking up.” Squinting, he breathed through his mouth, trying to assess the state of his health.

  His schedule included a morning satellite tour of press interviews, a lunch meeting with his agent, and a session with Silverman. “Dave will take you shopping,” Lance said. “You’re gonna love Rodeo Drive.”