by Denise Dietz
“Roo, I need your help. Are you there? You’re playing bloody machine, aren’t you? Please help me.”
“Randy? What’s wrong?”
“Can’t talk now. Pay phone. Gas station. Can’t. Be. Seen.”
The disjointed words and sentences were punctuated by sobs. Suddenly, the phone went dead.
“Randy? Shit!” Anissa thumbed the cradle, slammed down the receiver, and aimed her remote. Hepburn and Bogie faded into oblivion, leaving behind the mugginess of an African swamp. Anissa’s window air conditioner fought a losing battle. She dabbed at her sweaty forehead with the hem of her nightie. The sun must have passed its torch to the moon like some damn relay racer, she thought, just before the phone rang again.
Grabbing the receiver, she said, “Randy, tell me what happened.”
“Disconnected. Mistake. Stupid.”
“I meant . . . never mind. Where are you?”
“Pay phone at gas station. It shuts down at midnight, the station not the phone, and I’m out of bloody coins.”
“Give me the number. I’ll call you back.”
“No. Please. Just come. Hurry.”
“Where are you?”
“Malibu.”
“Malibu? I thought you and David drove to San Francisco for the weekend.” She took a deep breath. “Tell me exactly where you are and how to get there.”
She listened carefully, said goodbye, hung up, and quickly dressed in denim shorts and a white T-shirt. Running a brush through her hair, she twisted the long strands into one thick braid. Then she splashed cold water on her face.
Her green Mustang had been falling apart and repair bills clogged her glove box. She inserted the ignition key. Feeling like a rat in a claustrophobic maze, she heard the engine cough, wheeze and die. Did her car have incurable lung cancer? Christ, it smoked enough. Turning the key again, she gingerly pressed the accelerator with her right sneaker, and heard a horror-movie-screech. Finally, the engine cleared its throat and settled into a steady, hostile buzz.
“Just get me to Randy, you rubber-hoofed monster,” she half-threatened, half-pleaded, shifting into second gear.
His directions were easy to follow. Challenging cops, Anissa drove expeditiously, parked, then raced up a staircase toward a third-floor beach condo.
Inside, an overturned sofa and chair provided an effective detour through the living room. Pillows lay like soft cemetery headstones amongst snowy drifts of spilled stuffing. Smashed stereo equipment and a shattered mirror made a bristly, splintered trail toward a balcony. The balcony’s sliding glass doors were open and in the distance Anissa could see an ocean view.
“Watch out for the glass, roo.” Randy’s anguished voice came from the other side of the room.
He wore khaki shorts and a brown golf shirt, stained with streaks that looked like dried seaweed. Cross-legged on the floor, underneath a framed scenic print of Switzerland, he flipped through the pages of a paperback dictionary.
“Come see, roo,” he said, his voice a childish whine. “This book doesn’t have shithead so I looked up idiot, which means ‘a mentally deficient person with intelligence in the lowest measurable range.’ That’s me. An idiot.”
Sniffing at ocean breezes and a strange metallic odor, Delly edged around the sofa, dropped to the floor, and cradled Randy’s head on her shoulder. The sound of a radio wafted from the rear of the house. Van Halen.
“Who owns this beach condo?” she asked.
“David.”
Gently releasing Randy, she stood up. “Where is he?”
“In the bedroom. No! Don’t go in there!”
She sat on her heels, facing Randy. “Is David hurt? Sick?”
“Dead. David’s dead.”
“Oh my God! What happened?” Briefly, she glanced toward the balcony. “Did David fall? Jump?”
“My mate’s dead. I don’t know what to do.”
“How did David die?”
“He had a bloody heart attack.” Randy laughed, a high shrill wail.
“Stop it!” Without taking time to think, Anissa slapped him across the face. “Calm down and tell me what’s going on.”
The hysterical laughter ceased abruptly and his eyes clouded with tears. “I told you hearts don’t break, but I was wrong. They do if they’re attacked.”
Standing again, she pulled his unresisting body up with her. “Show me David. Now!”
Obediently, Randy led her toward the back of the house. He halted at the bedroom entrance and pointed his finger.
Anissa saw a blood-soaked body draped across the bed. The metallic odor was very strong. A small radio perched on top of an antique bureau.
Randy made an about-face, returned to the living room, and slumped down, assuming his former position against the wall.
Anissa sat next to him. “Tell me what happened.”
“We got into San Francisco last Thursday. David said we were being followed. He refused to leave our hotel room. But we finally did, Friday night, down a service elevator. This beach house belongs to David’s auntie, only she’s in New York. David promised to water plants and collect mail, so he had a key . . .”
“He had a key,” she prompted.
“Yesterday, Saturday, David began to relax. This morning he went to church, and tonight we ate at a local pub. Steamed crabs. White wine. Boiled shrimp. It was overcooked, the shrimp. They shouldn’t charge those prices if they make something wrong. The crab was smashing, but the shrimp tasted rubbery. Chewy, Anissa, like raw chook.”
“Raw chook,” she repeated, dazed by his recitation, full of detail but lacking any real emotion. “Go on, Randy. What happened after you ate supper?”
He gave her a belligerent glare. “That’s your bloody problem. You’re too nice. You won’t complain. I grizzled and they took it off the bill. I said shrimp shouldn’t taste like raw chook and they agreed. You have to grizzle if you want satisfaction. Or you can’t get no sat-is-faction.”
As if stuck in some horrible Hitchcock nightmare sequence, worse than her Maxine Graham dream, Anissa heard the bedroom radio—Jagger singing about going to a go-go.
“Don’t move,” she said, a rather stupid request under the circumstances. She climbed a kitchen counter and jumped down, landing on tile. Searching through cabinets, she found a bottle of sherry and poured the remains into a coffee mug. Then she returned to Randy, grasped his chin, and opened his mouth.
He swallowed automatically.
She glanced around the littered living room. “Is the phone working? Should I call the police? You can tell them—”
“No, Anissa, please. I’ll tell you. After we ate, we walked along the beach. David thought he saw someone lurking and insisted we come back here. I grizzled, said he was a spoilsport. I called him paranoid, said we could be in ‘Frisco if he hadn’t been such a bloody nark. My poor mate. Oh, God, my poor mate.” Clambering to his feet, Randy leaned against the wall.
“What happened?” she cried, desperately.
“There was a knock on the door. David said, ‘Don’t answer.’ I laughed and said, ‘Have some more grog, mate. Maybe you’ll see the ghost of Monty Clift.’ David looks like Clift, the reason why I have all those stills on my living room—”
“Randy!”
“I opened the door. David’s ex-lover stood there. He’s a big bloke, called Popeye because he likes to boat and has muscles. Isn’t that an alfy name?”
“Yes, totally alfy. Tell Anissa what happened next.”
“Popeye was drunk. He shoved me back and walked inside. He was holding an ice pick. Wait a minute.” Randy bent forward, retrieved the dictionary, and thumbed through its pages. “Here it is. Ice pick. ‘A pointed tool for chipping or breaking ice.’ It doesn’t say anything about breaking hearts. See?”
Rising, she untangled his fingers from the paperback. “I see. What happened after Popeye walked inside?”
“A freaking ice pick. Why not a chain saw? I just stood there, frozen stiff. Frozen, roo, get it?
I didn’t even try to stop Popeye when my mate struggled and the stereo shattered and David shattered and my life shattered. I’m such a beaut at pouring puke remedies down throats, but I couldn’t move against a big prick holding a little pick.”
“Randy darling, don’t blame—”
“Popeye didn’t touch me, not at first. I just stood there and watched him attack David’s heart. Popeye wore a dirty sweatshirt and cut-off daks, and beneath his daks I could see that he was big, Anissa, and ready. Sometimes a bloke can’t get an erection when he’s drunk. Not Popeye. He was big. He walked toward me. I threw pillows. He slashed at them with the ice pick. Then he heard a noise and left flat out. David . . .”
“Go on, Randy. Please.”
“David’s eyes were open, staring. He had no pulse. I carried his body into the bedroom and called you. My father was right. I’m a loser. A drongo.”
“Are you absolutely certain David’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
“My coins were all used up.”
“Doesn’t Auntie’s phone work?”
“She had it temporarily disconnected.”
“What about the neighbors?”
“They couldn’t hear Popeye. David always played the radio and the stereo at the same time.”
“I meant phone, Randy.” Anissa tried to keep her frustration under control by carefully placing the dictionary on a bookshelf between Mailer and Michener. “Surely one neighbor will let us inside when we—”
“No. Please. Publicity. Maxine. I once told you they accepted me for what I am. They would never . . . my father . . . what am I going to do?”
“We have to call the police, Randy. Wait. Let me think. What’s your relationship with David?”
“My relationship? Anissa, for Christ’s sake!”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean personal. Isn’t he your stockbroker? Was that a nod, Randy? Okay. So if you were seen with him in San Francisco, it was a business meeting. Did anyone recognize you here in Malibu?”
“No. Just Popeye.”
“Damn! The pub. They would remember, especially after you complained.”
“No, they wouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I was disguised. David didn’t like it when fans asked for autographs. I have special gear. A long black wig and a beard.”
“What about your car?”
“It’s at home, on the street. We used David’s Mercedes. He was so proud of that macho, status motorcar.”
“Fingerprints. Did Popeye wear gloves?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think, Randy, think!”
“Why would he wear gloves, Anissa? It’s summer. You don’t wear mitts in the summer.”
“Never mind, you’re right, the cops will find him through his fingerprints. They’ll find our prints too, but if we both stick to one story—”
“Stop it!” Randy swiveled and pounded on the wall. “I don’t know what the bloody hell you’re talking about.”
She turned him around and wiped his perspiring brow with the edge of her T-shirt. He smelled hot and sick.
“Listen, Randy. It doesn’t matter if you were seen in San Francisco, or even Malibu. You kept your appointment with David, stock business, then spent the night with me. I’ll swear to it. I was all alone in my apartment. I watched an old movie on the telly. Rebecca, starring Lawrence Olivier. Delly called and thought the voice in the background was you.”
“Olivier’s British.”
“Of course he is, darling, but sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. I mean, Brit and Aussie sound the same.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Hush. I’m still thinking. Remember your story about Topher Coombs and his gay mate? Pat Huxley said that appearances were deceiving. She said Topher’s mate was married. So we’ll drive to Vegas and get married. Maxine will be livid when I don’t show up at the studio, but she’ll be thrilled when she hears—publicity! Think of the publicity, Randy. We were together all night and decided to get married. That will stop any rumors.”
“I grizzled with an accent.”
“What?”
“At the pub. I grizzled with an accent.”
“Randy, you spent the night with me.”
“The cops will put it together. People know David’s my mate.”
“If the cops question us, I’ll insist that David was alive when we left him.”
“I can’t marry you. I can’t let you lie for me.”
“You can’t stop me. Change your clothes. Hurry.”
He staggered down the hallway, and stopped mid-step. “This is mad, Anissa. We won’t get away with it. I wish Popeye had killed me, too. Oh, God. I can’t think.”
“I’ll think for both of us. Please listen, Randy. You didn’t kill David, and you couldn’t fight Popeye. He was armed with an ice pick. That’s the same as a knife. Do you understand?”
“No.”
She heaved a deep sigh. “We’ll discuss it later. Are your clothes in the bedroom closet?”
“No. Auntie’s closet was filled with flash gear, and we planned to leave early tomorrow. I packed a suitcase. It’s in the bedroom.”
“Okay. Stay here.”
Entering the room, Anissa averted her gaze away from David’s broken body. She would pretend this was a scene from her soap. David was a day player. He wasn’t dead, just acting.
Vaguely, she recalled performing from her own script, outside a college library. She had been successful, hadn’t she?
It wasn’t your child, Joe.
David isn’t really dead.
Grabbing Randy’s suitcase, she bolted from the room.
* * * * *
Anissa drove through downtown Las Vegas, parked, paid for a marriage license, then drove again until she found a white chapel with colorful neon lights. From outside speakers, Sinatra sang about love and marriage going together like a horse and carriage.
She drove a Mustang. It was an omen, right?
Randy repeated his vows as if a script prompter fed him lines. “I, Stuart McNeal, take Anissa Helene Stern Cartier to be my lawfully wedded wife, to love, honor and cherish . . . please, Anissa, I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.”
“So help me God.”
Barely past noon, the temperature topped one hundred. Vegas shimmered and Randy sweated. He looked so sick, Anissa registered at the Sahara.
They had to walk past a pool where people ate or drank breakfast, and one obese woman shouted, “Ain’t that Charl and Adam? Adam looks like he lost a bundle. Did ya lose all your money, Adam?”
When they reached their room, Randy cried himself to sleep in Anissa’s arms. Exhausted, she couldn’t fall asleep, so she watched TV while her arms grew numb from Randy’s weight. Soon the Morning Star theme music sounded.
Randy stirred but didn’t open his eyes.
Anissa watched her show, taped less than a week ago. Randy, strong and virile, strutted in the midst of exercise equipment. The camera scanned Wayne County’s health spa, then pulled in for a close-up; Adam kissing Charl. Everybody agreed that Randy was the best kisser in Soapland. Charl’s mouth opened under the onslaught of Adam’s lips, and even Anissa could see that Charl lost her breath. Adam tossed his head and laughed.
You’ll laugh again, my darling, I promise.
In his sleep, Randy moaned and muttered, “David . . . Popeye . . . ice pick . . . help.”
“I’ll help,” she whispered. “Trust me. I love you.”
She eased his head from her shoulder, onto the pillow. Then, reaching for the bedside phone, she had a sudden image of Maxine Graham. Eyes oozing. Skin melting. Skeletal jawbone unhinged as she said, “Merde, what a nice surprise. When did Randy switch gears, my dear? I always thought your relationship was more like sister and brother.”
Anissa bolted for the bathroom, where, for the second time in twelve hours, she splashed her face with ice-cold water
.
Oh, God, she thought. I can still smell David’s blood. No. That’s my blood. I’ve got my damn period.
Wadding up her shorts, she stuffed them inside the bathroom trash can. Another omen? Hadn’t she once stuffed a bloody wedding dress into a gas station’s trash can?
Before leaving Vegas, Randy would buy her a new pair of shorts, souvenir shorts, with an I-heart-Vegas logo.
I heart Vegas.
I heart Randy.
She turned on the shower, shed her T-shirt and bra, and stood under the pelting spray. Lathering her body, she sang about love and marriage going together like a horse and carriage. Because she was a soap opera star.
Soap. Opera. Get it?
After her shower, she dug through her purse until she found an emergency tampon.
“Sorry, Senator,” she said, “but that’s the way the wind blows and the estrogen flows.”
Wrapped in a white terrycloth hotel robe, her hair turbaned by a bath towel, she perched on the edge of the bed. As she waited for the operator to place her Maxine, person-to-person call, she suddenly remembered an old Charlie Chan line: Bad alibi like dead fish. Cannot stand test of time.
Chapter Fifteen
The restroom had fluorescent lighting.
Standing in front of the mirror, Delly critically inspected her blue jeans and Jon’s white shirt, the scalloped edges falling below her knees. Were her long shaggy bangs too childish? How about her curly ponytail?
She had wanted to look like a disturbed teen. Instead, she looked like a 1940’s bobby-soxer; a pubescent Shirley Temple. All she needed was cuffed jeans, saddle shoes, and Cary Grant. Then she could be Delilah-Shirley-Temple-Diamond.
Didn’t Delilah give Samson his haircut outside some Shirley Temple? For the first time in years, Delly wanted to share her name-joke with her sister. Old habits never die, she thought. They don’t fade away, either.
The audition script called for Pandora to carry a doll, so Delly had picked Raggedy Ann from her collection. Her reading was to take place inside Maxine Graham’s office. The office door gaped open. Vance Booker greeted Delly, his right eye blinking unintelligible Morse code.
