by Lois Greiman
I cleared my throat. “There wasn’t much you could have done.”
His eyes smiled again, thoughtful and wise. “Not so much as you, I suspect. Still, Salina was my friend…in a manner of speaking.” I didn’t ask what manner. He drew a deep breath. “I did not love her as she deserved to be loved. As every woman deserves to be loved. But I should have done what I could to find her killer. Instead, you have taken the burden upon yourself.” He had returned his attention to my hand, stroking the scraped skin. “Poor brave child.”
I squirmed a little. The conductor was aces at his job. “I’m not exactly a child, Mr. Manderos.”
He laughed. The sound was sweet and low, like the little packets of sugar substitutes. “That is good to know, Ms. McMullen,” he said, perching carefully on the edge of my bed. “Good indeed, for I was hoping I might call on you from time to time.”
“Call on me?” My voice squeaked. I cleared it and tried again. “Call on me?”
“Perhaps we might have dinner together from time to time.”
“You’re still conscious,” Laney said, reading my mind.
“Certainly,” I said. “I’d like that.”
Leaning forward, he kissed my cheek. He smelled like kindness and sunlight. “Thank you, for being that which you are.”
I watched him rise to his feet. The room shifted with him. I glanced at Laney.
She laughed. “Go to sleep,” she said, and I did.
Eddie Friar stopped by the next day. He looked like a caramel sundae. Good enough to eat. I refrained, which, considering the hospital food, was no small feat. A wooden basket with fuzzy chicks sticking out of a bunch of foliage had joined the flowers, and there was an array of colorful cards.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“My back hurts, and I can’t stay awake more than ten minutes at a time. My butt is getting sore, and I’m starting to hallucinate about ice cream.”
“No pirates?”
“Just one.”
He laughed and dropped a book on my stomach. The Princess and Her Pirate, by my favorite author.
“Eddie,” I said, feeling a little teary-eyed. Probably from lack of sugar. “You do love me.”
“You bet your sore ass I do,” he said, and dropping into a chair, he put his feet up on my bed.
We’d been talking for a few minutes about the vagaries of the human psyche—in other words, the fact that it was just plain bad luck that people kept trying to kill me—when Cindy Peichel walked in. She was carrying a peanut fudge parfait and not smiling.
“Hi,” she said.
I sat up a little straighter, took the offered treat, introduced her to Eddie, and waited to see if she was one of the many who wanted me dead.
“Go ahead and eat,” she said. “I was in a Thai hospital for a week after an accident with an elephant.” She sat down in the only available chair and stretched her mile-long legs out in front of her. “Lost five pounds and the will to live before they’d let me back with the herd.”
I was munching peanuts and slurping ice cream. “You went back?”
“There are only about fifteen hundred of them left in the wild there. Less than half what there were only twenty years ago.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. It’s hard to talk while sucking in ambrosia.
“I’m not sure it’s your fault specifically.”
“I’m sorry about some other things, too.”
She seemed to consider that for a moment. “After I confronted him, Daniel admitted he’d been cheating on me.”
I wondered if she’d been holding some kind of tranquilizer gun when she’d done so, but the thought was vague.
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
She nodded. “So you don’t really work for Sharpe, huh?”
I shook my head, chewed, and swallowed. “I’m a psychologist.”
“A psychotic or a psychologist?”
I choked on a peanut and hoped rather wildly that Eddie would save me if she tried to kill me.
“Just joking,” she said, her face absolutely solemn. “Danny’s pretty broke up about Peachtree. Shocked. You know, after we heard what happened, read the article, saw your picture in the paper. I put a couple of facts together. Found out you were here.” She nodded. “I just came by to thank you.”
I gave another feeble cough. “For?”
“I don’t like lies.”
“Sorry again.”
“I meant his specifically.”
I nodded, still feeling badly about my part in the fiasco. “Daniel seemed like a nice guy.”
“Other than the fact that he was screwing someone else?”
“Yeah.” I winced. “Other than that.”
She exhaled quietly, slumped back in the chair, and watched me. “In most ways he’s extremely intelligent. Articulate. Environmentally conscious. He’ll do some good in the world.” She looked thoughtful.
“So you’re staying with him?”
She laughed. It was the first time I’d seen her do so. “So I’m going to let him live. Stay with him? You kidding? I’d rather be run over by a herd of pachyderms.”
“You would know.”
She looked at me. The expression almost seemed fond. “Finish that up,” she said, “so I can recycle the dish.”
I did as ordered. She stood up. “I owe you one,” she said.
“One broken engagement?”
“Something like that.” She took the plastic dish before I’d had a chance to lick it out, and reached for my hand. I gave her my untubed one. Which was a good thing, because she had a grip like a mountain gorilla. Okay, I’m just guessing.
“How you feeling now?” Eddie asked when she was gone.
“Am I dreaming?”
“Not yet.”
“Anyone trying to kill me?”
“Not so far as I know.”
“Feeling pretty good, then,” I said. “Kind of sleepy.”
He stood up, kissed me on the forehead, promised to return, and left me to my pirates.
When next I awoke there were three dozen roses residing in a fat earthenware vase beside my bed. Someone was fussing with the arrangement. She turned.
“Christina.” It was Rosita Rivera, looking extremely well groomed and perky. I considered trying to mess with my hair, but there wasn’t much motivation and even less hope. “You are well, sí?”
“Sí.” I tried to sit up. She helped me. Her hands were warm.
“I was very worried.”
“I’m fine.”
“Robert Peachtree.” She shook her head, scowling. “The one man I thought wise enough to keep his pene to himself, huh?”
“Go figure.”
“Sí. Go figure.” She sat down in the chair closest to me. “I did not know about the rats with the cancer, Christina. This I promise you.”
I nodded again. “I don’t think many people did.”
She grinned. “In truthfulness, the men I see these days will not have to worry about the baldness for some time.”
So young Manny was indeed her lover. I gave myself a mental high-five. Right again.
“My Gerald has been worried to sickness about you also,” she said, cutting my self-congratulations short.
I could tell when he called me a fucking nutcase, I thought, but decided not to mention it to his mother.
“He blames himself.”
“Alpha personality,” I said. “He likes to be in control.”
“And you are not the one to be controlled, sí?”
I sighed. “Maybe in this case, it wouldn’t have been so bad to listen a little.”
“He wishes to protect you.”
“I guess so.”
“He cares a great deal. But he is like the small boy yet inside, and afraid to show his feelings.”
“You think so?”
“I do. A small boy inside, but a hunk of burning love on the outside, sí?”
My face was already hot before he stepped through the door. But this t
ime I wasn’t surprised by his entrance. My hair was greasy and the hospital gown was twisted around my neck like a noose. Murphy’s Law ordained his imminent arrival.
“Gerald,” Rosita said joyously. “We were just now speaking of you.” Her smile dropped away. “What happened to your eye?”
He turned his dark gaze on me. The eye itself looked okay. But the skin around it had sprouted some pretty spectacular hues, like magenta and puce.
“Tell me the truth,” I said. “This time I’m really having a nightmare, right?”
He grinned. My stomach coiled up. He turned back to his mother. “What were you talking about?”
“How you are a hunk of burning love.” She touched his face with gentle fingers.
“I didn’t say that,” I said. “Not even in the nightmare.”
He laughed, squeezed his mother’s hand, and stepped toward the bed. “I brought you something,” he said, and passed over a pamphlet. It was a schedule for self-defense classes. I opened it up and glanced down the list.
“I have to work,” I said. Besides, I was too tired to think about moving.
“Are you fishing for private lessons?”
I snorted and stared at his eye. “Looks like I can kick your—”
But his mother was already clapping her hands. “That is the marvelous idea. Gerald would be the perfect one to teach such a thing. See his eye, he was most probably in a fight with a lord of drugs or perhaps the boss of mobs.”
I didn’t say anything. He laughed. “How are you feeling?”
“You should have told me not to get involved,” I said.
“I’ll remember that in the future. And maybe—”
Someone stepped into the room. We turned toward Senator Rivera in unison. Everyone stopped breathing.
“Ms. McMullen.” He gave me a nod. His voice was low and formal. There was a Styrofoam take-out box in his hand. I was just glad Cindy wasn’t there anymore. There’s nowhere to recycle that Styrofoam crap. She probably would have killed us all.
I cleared my throat and wished I could do the same with the tension. “Hello, Senator.”
“Miguel,” he corrected, and stepping past Rosita without a word, stood opposite his son. His back was very straight. “I was out of town on business, but I came as soon as I was able,” he said, and handed over the box with a slight bow. “It is tiramisu. Gennaro made it especially with you in mind.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“No.” He shook his head. His expression was sad. “It was kind of you…to prove my son innocent.”
I watched him for a moment. “You never really thought he was guilty.”
He raised his brows, managing to look surprised and amused all at once. “I did not say I did.”
“But you implied it…subtly, but absolutely.”
He shrugged. “You are an extremely intuitive young woman. I cannot control your thoughts.”
“You wanted me to think you doubted him. To feel that I had to prove you wrong.”
He laughed. “Perhaps I should have—”
“You sorry, fucking son of a bitch!” Rivera was all but spitting, fists clenched as he leaned across my bed. “You put her up to this?”
They faced off, the senator regally affronted. “I did no such thing. She was concerned. As was I. We—”
“You think she’s a damn pawn? Someone—”
“You underestimate both her abilities and her intellect.”
“She could have gotten herself killed.”
Rivera Senior shrugged. “It was your task to prevent such a thing, was it not?”
“Shame on you, Miguel!” Rosita hissed. He spared her a glance. Perhaps there was some guilt in it.
“I should slap your sorry ass in jail.”
“For what?” the senator scoffed. “Trying to save your job, ridiculous as it might be?”
“Ridiculous!” The word was a growl.
“You could have been anything you wanted. I have given you every opportunity.”
“You gave me the determination to be nothing like you.”
“Gerald, please,” Rosita murmured.
“Well, that is good, then, for you do not measure—”
It was then that I put my hand to my throat and pulled in a loud, ragged-assed breath.
The three of them turned to me in terror.
“McMullen!” Rivera was leaning over me, gripping my hand. “Jesus, McMullen, are you all right?”
“Breathe slowly.” The senator’s face was taut with concern. “Try to relax.”
I dragged in another dramatic breath, holding my throat and motioning them closer.
They leaned in, listening hard.
“You’re acting like children,” I said.
They straightened in unison, identical expressions of surprise blooming into anger.
“Fuck it, McMullen, don’t ever—”
“You,” I said, rounding on Rivera. “You wanted to believe your father was guilty. While he believed in you enough—”
The accused made a sound of denial, but I went on, louder now.
“And cared enough to try to prove your innocence, all the while knowing you would never appreciate his efforts.”
“It is true,” said Miguel. “You have forever disregarded—”
“And you,” I said, spearing the elder Rivera with my glare. “You need to reevaluate your life. You’re not a young man anymore. The clock’s ticking, buddy. If there are people you truly care about, you sure as shit better figure out a way to prove it.”
He straightened with regal aplomb. His lips tightened and then he turned and walked out.
The room was silent. I felt a spear of regret and guilt, but in a second he reappeared.
“Rosita.” His voice was low, his expression solemn. “I have not yet eaten. Would you, perhaps, wish to join me for lunch?”
She raised her chin and her brows in haughty unison. “I’m meeting Manny in but a few—”
I cleared my throat, loud and authoritative. She glanced at me. I shifted my gaze from one man to the other, then settled it back on her.
“I suppose I can spare a few minutes,” she said.
They left together. Not arm in arm, not singing love tunes, but not spitting at each other, either.
“I suppose you think you’re clever,” Rivera said.
“Hardly.” I scowled. “He took my tiramisu.”
“Serves you right.”
“You two are idiots,” I said.
“Is that your professional opinion?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you have a perfect relationship with your mother.”
“Well…” I said, and snorted out a breath. Truth be told, I was feeling pretty clever, and kind of powerful. “At least we manage to conduct ourselves with a modicum of maturity.”
“Do you?”
“I’ve learned through the years that one cannot—”
“Chrissy!”
I jerked my eyeballs front and center, but my mother was already rushing toward me.
I made some kind of noise, like “Ackk.”
“Chrissy. What have you done? I called your house. No answer. Elaine said you were in the hospital. I caught the first plane out here. There were two kids yelling in my ear the whole way. Some people don’t have any idea how to raise—”
“You must be Mrs. McMullen,” Rivera said. There was a smirk in his tone.
“You knew she was coming,” I said, but my voice was almost inaudible, drowned out by screaming acne and the oompaaing huff of a tuba.
“Who are you?” Mom asked, eyes narrowed, and Rivera laughed.
Unconsciousness never looked better.
About the Author
LOIS GREIMAN lives in Minnesota, where she rides horses, embarrasses her teenage daughter, and forces her multiple personalities into indentured servitude by making them characters in her novels. Write to her at [email protected]. One of her alter egos will probably write back.
/> If you enjoyed Lois Greiman’s Unscrewed, don’t miss the next mystery from this “dangerously funny”*1 author.
Look for
Unmanned
Available from Dell Books in Fall 2007
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Unmanned
Lois Greiman
On Sale in Fall 2007
Honesty is for folks who don’t know how to lie good.
—Chrissy McMullen’s fifteenth boyfriend, who was actually more honest than most
MCMULLEN,” RIVERA SAID. I was juggling a stiff slice of pizza, a cell phone, and ten million irate commuters when he called—an average Tuesday morning in L.A.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry about last night.” He had said he would drop over after work, but he hadn’t shown up. Still, he didn’t sound sorry so much as angry…and borderline psychotic. If I had a nugget of sense the size of a germ cell I would have drop-kicked our so-called relationship into the distant memory bin long ago, but Rivera’s got an inexplicable appeal. And a really great ass.
“No big deal,” I said.
There was a moment of impatient silence, then, “You’re pissed.”
I gnawed off a chunk of coagulated mozzarella and glared through the blob on my borrowed windshield. The weatherman had failed to predict an early-morning bird poop deluge. “I don’t get pissed.”
“It couldn’t be helped.” He sounded irritable and a little distracted, but I wasn’t too thrilled, either. This was the third date he’d missed in as many weeks.
“Yeah? An emergency with another ex-fiancée?” I asked, and immediately knew I should have kept my mouth shut. Intelligent silence isn’t a new idea…just a good one.
“You jealous, McMullen?” he asked.
“Please,” I said, but it’s difficult to sound haughty while masticating.
He laughed.
I bit my tongue. Literally and figuratively. “Listen, Rivera,” I said. “It’s good of you to call, but I have to get to work by—”
“I’ll come over tonight.”
