Glamour Puss

by R. J. Kaiser

  “Look being the operative word. Just because you look that way, it doesn’t mean that’s what you want.”

  “But why put on a ‘fuck me’ dress if my intentions are anything but that? It’s degrading. Humiliating.” She shook her head. “I should have just said I don’t do dances.”

  “Jade, why’re you so uptight? You should be thinking you’re going out to have yourself some fun. You’re in charge, girl. Just keep that in mind.”

  Jade looked at herself in the mirror, truly uncertain what to think. It was the first time she’d had on a skirt in months, the first dress she’d bought in years. She hadn’t worn anything this short since she was seventeen. And to think it had cost her a month’s worth of groceries—used! The woman at the charity shop said some starlet had worn it to the Academy Awards. Jade didn’t remember who. She hadn’t known the name.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Oh, shit,” Jade said, looking at her watch. “He’s not supposed to be here for another twenty minutes. Do I look all right, Ruthie?”

  “Don’t get all excited, girl. We’re nowhere near finished. If the dude comes early, we’ll just make him wait.”

  Ruthie went off and Jade contemplated her face in the mirror. She hadn’t put on any makeup, as she normally didn’t wear a speck. But it occurred to her the face and the dress didn’t quite look like they went together. Makeup was probably what Ruthie had in mind when she said they weren’t finished.

  After a couple of minutes Ruthie returned. She had a slip of paper in her hand. “It wasn’t Mr. Wonderful.”

  Jade looked at the paper. “What’s that?”

  “It’s from Mr….I don’t remember his name. The little old skinny man who lives across the street.”

  “Mr. Mercer?”

  “Yes, that’s it. He came over to say some guy’s been driving by all day long and that he seems to be checking out your place. Always slows up and gives this house a good long look before driving on. Mr. Mercer got a description of the car and driver, but didn’t get the license number.”

  “And?”

  Same general description of the dude I saw a couple of days ago. Same car, too.” Ruthie frowned with consternation. “Guess you know what I’m thinking.”

  “That it’s Ricky.”

  “I know men, honey, the good and the bad.”

  “Well, I bet you’re wrong.”

  Ruthie indicated the slip of paper. “After you’ve gone to the ball, I’ll call in and see if maybe Ricky’s registered a vehicle matching the description. If so, we can have a little talk with him. But we don’t have to worry about it now. Mr. Wonderful is going to be here before you know it and, honey, you ain’t half done.”

  “Makeup?”

  “You got it,” Ruthie said. She dragged her into the bathroom and made her look into the medicine-cabinet mirror. “Look in there. What do you see?”

  Jade looked at herself. “I see me.”

  “What about you?”

  “My face.”

  “What’s on your face, sister?”

  Jade chuckled at Ruthie’s ghettoese. “Skin.”

  “And what’s on your skin?”

  “Nothing.”

  “That’s the point. When a man takes a girl out, especially to some fancy dance, he doesn’t want to take her, he wants to take his fantasy. We’re supposed to be prettier than we really are, and the men are supposed to be better than they really are. It’s all a game, girl. I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “Hey, I want this guy to use his influence with Mac McGowan and any other business owners out there—I’m not trying to seduce him.”

  “Oh yes you are. Same technique, different goal.”

  “Honestly, Ruthie…”

  “I didn’t make the rules, I just learned to use them to my advantage. Any girl who doesn’t is a fool.”

  Jade thought of the past-due rent and sighed. “Okay, what’s first?”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got any liquid makeup.”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. Well, we’ll ignore the freckles and go for color. Have any lip pencil and gloss?”

  Jade got the shoe box in her closet where she kept what little makeup she owned. She brought it to the bathroom. Ruthie rummaged through the box.

  “Lordy, Lordy. You been to a drugstore since high school?”

  “Yes,” Jade said indignantly. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  “Maybe for tampons…”

  Jade took the box from her, dug around and found a lip pencil. She handed it to Ruthie.

  After examining it for a moment, her friend said, “Well, better than a crayon, I guess. Hold still now.” Ruthie applied the lip pencil. The jar of gloss was so old she had trouble getting the lid off, but she finally managed. She spread it over Jade’s lips using her little finger. “So far so good,” she said, examining Jade’s face in the mirror. “But we’ve got to put something on those eyes.”

  “I don’t like eye makeup. It itches.”

  “Maybe in 1973. But, lucky for you, I’ve got a drugstore in my purse. You wait here.” She got her purse. “Sharing makeup’s about as bad as sharing needles, but this is an emergency,” she said, taking liner and mascara from her purse.

  “I don’t need that.”

  “The hell you don’t. Looking like a peeled grape you wouldn’t bring twenty bucks on the street. Now hold still.” After Ruthie finished with her eyes, she pointed to the mirror. “So, what do you think?”

  Jade looked at herself. The effect was rather surprising. She wouldn’t use the word glamorous, especially out loud, because she wouldn’t give Ruthie the satisfaction, but something about the face staring back at her was intriguing.

  “Well?”

  “Painted lady,” Jade said.

  “My ass. You know you hot.”

  Jade did smile. “Now that you’ve got me looking like a welcome mat, what’s your advice when Art tries to put his hand up my skirt?”

  “I think you’re old enough to decide if you want his hand there or not. Just don’t break his knuckles if you say no. But keep this in mind, Jade, you can have fun with a man even if you don’t want to have his babies.”

  “I’ll be polite,” Jade said, “and I’ll dance, but I’m not getting laid. By Art Conti or anybody else. I’ll go to the poorhouse first.”

  Just then they heard a vehicle out front. A car door slammed.

  “I think Mr. Wonderful has done arrived, girl.”

  Jade felt herself tense.

  “You want me to go now or lock up after you’re gone?” Ruthie asked.

  “Stay until we go.”

  They heard steps on the porch, then the doorbell rang. Jade drew a deep breath, then went to the front room and opened the door. Arturo Conti stood there in the glow of the setting sun. He was in a powder blue dinner jacket with a white ruffled shirt and a black bow tie. His mustache was neatly trimmed, his dark hair was combed back, with enough gray in the temples to prove he was a man of experience. He wore a handsome, self-confident grin, which evolved from cocky self-assurance to awe as he took her in. He ran his eyes up and down her twice.

  “Jesus, Jade,” he said. “You look beautiful.”

  Brentwood

  Darkness had fallen by the time Mac turned off Wilshire onto Bundy Drive. He felt a curious sense of morbid anticipation building. Glamour Puss might be dead, but who else was he going to stare down?

  Ten minutes later he wound his way up the street where he’d built that pool for Aubrey and Stella. Mac had been twenty-four years old the last time he’d been here. Now he was trying to understand why and how, at forty-five, he was being dragged back into the same nightmare.

  He followed the route he’d taken in that old pickup truck of his, the most valuable possession he’d owned when he met the St. Georges. During those critical weeks he’d made his daily trek up this hill, eager to see the beautiful blonde who’d anointed him her champion, Mac had been so obsessed with St
ella’s salvation that he’d blinded himself to reality, abandoning common sense. He wondered what tugged at him so relentlessly now. Was it Aubrey’s ghost, his own demons or a faceless enemy lingering in the shadows?

  The street had changed considerably. There were houses where before there was only vacant land. Saplings were now large trees shading gracefully aging homes. Rounding the last curve before reaching the old St. George residence, Mac slowed. The lights from a car coming down the hill flashed in his eyes, momentarily blinding him. Then, when it was past, Mac was suddenly at the house. He pulled over and stopped.

  The first thing that caught his eye was a Realtor’s For Sale sign in the front yard. The house was dark, though the place next door was brightly lit. The neighboring homes on either side hadn’t yet been built in 1978.

  Mac stared at the front door where Aubrey and his cat, G.P., had greeted him that day he’d come to inspect the site. Mac hadn’t gone in the front door again until long after Aubrey was dead and the job complete, when he’d come to visit the grieving widow.

  He got out of the car and stood looking at the house in the moonlight. He knew that just because it was dark didn’t mean the place was unoccupied. Unable to resist, Mac crossed the street and went to the front door. Half a dozen rolled newspapers lay on the stoop, indicating the house was either unoccupied or the occupants had been away for some time. He rang the bell. There was no answer. Then he peeked through the shutters on both sides of the door. There was just enough light coming through the back windows that he could determine the place was in fact empty.

  Feeling more bold, Mac went around to the side gate he and his crew had used back in 1978. As he undid the latch, the dog in the neighboring yard began to bark. But Mac wasn’t going to be deterred. He followed the walk down the side of the house, past mature shrubs that hadn’t even been planted the last time he was here. When he came around the corner of the house, he expected to see the moonlight shimmering on the water of the pool, but all he saw was a black hole. The pool had been drained.

  Mac made his way over to the edge of the chasm. The moonlight was strong enough that he could see the muddy scum at the bottom of the pool. Apparently it had been drained for some time. There were predictable cracks in the plaster. The pool was in disrepair.

  Turning, Mac looked up at the house, and especially the window where Stella had watched him as he worked. He could envision her there still—pretty and tragic-sad, looking down at him, waiting for the rest of the crew to leave so they could be together. The pool house, Mac saw, was intact, but also in need of work. He walked toward it, stepping around a broken lounge chair, a pool sweep and hose. The door was not locked. Mac pushed it open. He tried to turn on a light, but either the electricity had been turned off or the bulbs were burned out. He could see, though, that the place was empty. His eyes went to the spot where Aubrey St. George had lain dead, the spot where Stella had repeatedly scrubbed, scouring away her husband’s blood.

  Mac heard a sound behind him and spun around. But it was only a cat, looking up at him and meowing. Even so, his heart raced. G.P., he thought as it slinked off. Then he realized it couldn’t be. After twenty years, Aubrey’s cat was long since dead.

  Mac went outside again and walked to the edge of the pool. He stared down at the spot where he’d dug the grave, thinking how inadequate their measures now seemed. The note proved their secret was not safe and secure. Glamour Puss had risen from the dead.

  The emotions Mac felt were intense. Oddly, fear was not foremost among them. Mostly he felt guilt and a terrible gnawing emptiness, the need to do something. But he did not know what.

  The dog next door had been quiet for a while, but again began to kick up a fuss, barking louder than ever. Mac heard the sound of a second dog, this one with a deeper voice. Then he saw a beam of light coming from along the side of the house. Knowing he was about to be discovered, he looked for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to go. The small yard was bare, without so much as a shrub to duck behind.

  A man carrying a flashlight appeared. He had a large German shepherd on a leash. Seeing Mac, the dog began barking like crazy, straining on the leash. The flashlight swept across the yard, the beam of light coming to rest on Mac.

  “Hold it there,” the voice called. “Police. Don’t move.”

  Mac’s heart rose to his throat. The officer and police dog moved toward him, the light blinding Mac.

  “What are you doing here, sir?” the cop demanded.

  Before Mac could say anything, the police dog lunged, but the officer managed to restrain him, ordering him to quiet down.

  “I saw the For Sale sign, Officer, and wanted to have a look at the yard and view. The house is empty.”

  “Maybe, but you shouldn’t be here at night. The neighbors reported a prowler. Anyway, there’s a Sold sign out there in front, too. Didn’t you see it?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You should be doing your house hunting in the daytime and with a real estate agent.”

  “You’re right, Officer. I had an impulse to see the place and I followed it. It was a mistake.”

  “The Lexus across the street yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Joseph McGowan.”

  “You have some ID on you, Mr. McGowan?”

  Mac got out his wallet. He removed his driver’s license and handed it to the cop. As the police dog made a low rumbling growl, the cop checked out Mac’s ID.

  “All right, Mr. McGowan, you can go, but keep your house hunting to the daylight hours, okay?”

  “Yes, Officer, thank you for your understanding.”

  “If you’d been driving an old Ford and were packing burglar tools, I wouldn’t have been so understanding. Go on,” he said, motioning with the flashlight. “Be careful not to fall into the pool, looks a bit dry.”

  “Thank you,” Mac said.

  He retreated the way he’d come, giving the empty pool a sideward glance. The cop and dog followed behind. When they reached the front of the house, a second patrol car pulled up. The first cop waved them off.

  “Just a home buyer,” he called to the two officers getting out of the vehicle.

  Mac thanked the cop again and went to his car. He got in and started the engine. As he turned around in the drive, he noticed the Sold sign hanging beneath the For Sale sign. Suddenly, it occurred to him the new buyer would probably be repairing the pool, if not replacing it entirely—a routine development that could lead to catastrophe.

  The ghost of Aubrey St. George, he knew, was not through with him yet.

  Long Beach

  Angel Ordon˜ez couldn’t tell where the fuck they were going. He’d followed Conti west on the Santa Monica Freeway, south on the San Diego Freeway, then south on 710, the Long Beach Freeway. What was this? A tour of Los Angeles? If the cocksucker didn’t stop soon Angel’d be out of gas. Finally, though, they exited when they got to the harbor, much to his relief. What the hell they were doing down here, he couldn’t imagine.

  The woman was an interesting twist. So much the better if he could make Conti shit in his pants in front of her. Manuela ought to like that. Of course, she didn’t get all excited when he told her about McGowan. “I think that was his wife, Angel,” she’d said. “Somebody told me she lived in Beverly Hills and that she was older than him.”

  “So, how’m I supposed to know? Wife, girlfriend, what difference does it make?”

  “He doesn’t care about his wife. It’s the girlfriend I want to know about.”

  “So ask him.”

  Manuela hadn’t liked that. Angel could tell she was jealous of somebody she didn’t even know. When he pointed out how stupid that was, she told him to fuck himself. Angel thought that was funny because nothing women did made sense to him. But he went with it because she paid him to hassle McGowan and Conti. He still wanted to do this his way, though.

  “I hope this is making you feel better,” he said. “Becau
se I think it’s stupid.”

  “I’m happy, so don’t worry about it, okay.”

  Angel thought it made more sense to bash heads. If somebody screws your sister over, or gives her a hard time, you do something about it. You show the fucker. Manuela didn’t buy it, though.

  “This is not about you, Angel. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  He went along, biding his time. But the more he saw of McGowan and Conti, the madder he got. Especially seeing them with the broads. It was all he could do to shoot over McGowan’s head. At least it was quick and simple.

  This chasing Conti all over L.A. was a pain in the ass, though. Plus, Long Beach wasn’t Angel’s favorite part of town. It was here where he’d gotten busted for armed robbery. His first visit to Long Beach hadn’t exactly been a barrel of laughs, either. It was back when he was a kid. He’d gone on a field trip with his seventh-grade class to see the big cruise ship, the Queen Mary. He’d actually gone to school a whole month before the trip just so he’d be allowed to participate. Angel figured he’d never have a chance to go on another cruise again, so he wasn’t about to miss the opportunity. The ship was a big sucker and fancy as hell, but the thing wasn’t going anywhere because they’d nailed it to the dock. When he found out they wouldn’t be taking a ride out in the ocean he really got pissed off and started swearing at the teacher, Mrs. Lopez, for tricking him. She told him to shut up, but he wouldn’t. He flipped her off instead, and she grabbed him by the collar and started dragging him to the bus. But Angel fixed her. He ripped her purse away and tossed it overboard into the harbor.

  They suspended him from school for that, but he didn’t care. The bastards cheated him out of his chance to go sailing in the ocean. What was so hot about walking around on some boat that wasn’t going anywhere? False advertising, that’s what it was. Angel could laugh about it now, but for a long time it made him hate school even more than he did before.

  When Conti didn’t cross Queensway Bay, staying on the north side of the harbor instead, Angel realized he wasn’t taking his girl to the Queen Mary. But where were they going? All he knew for sure was it was someplace fancy, considering the way the two of them were dressed. Probably a ritzy restaurant.