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Everything about Andy was massive and awkward. He worked as the stock clerk at the corner market, and at six-seven and with a body weight that had to be well over the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound mark, he was pretty hard to miss. Andy also suffered from brain damage. I wasn’t sure how that came to be. Alice, the market’s proprietor, had said something about his being seriously abused as an infant. Whatever had happened, it certainly hadn’t affected his disposition, which was one of the sweetest I’d ever come across.
I carefully extricated the sports section and used it to absorb some of the liquid penetrating my shoes. “No—I’m sorry, Andy. If I hadn’t have been so preoccupied, you wouldn’t have been able to surprise me. I didn’t mean to swear.” Well, I sorta had, but not at him.
He bent down and examined the mess. “I’m really sorry about your boots and your drink. Was it a Frappuccino?”
“Yeah, they’re one of my favorite vices.”
“I like them too. They’re kind of like a milk shake.”
The paper crinkled as my fist tightened around it. “Andy, I really have to go upstairs and see if I can salvage these. I’ll see you later okay?”
“Okay, Miss Katz. I really am sorry.”
“I know, Andy.” I stuffed the soiled pages inside the now-empty cup and went upstairs.
Mr. Katz was spread out on the love seat, leisurely grooming himself. “Well, at least one of us is having a relaxing day.”
The phone rang and I dumped my stuff onto the dining table in order to free my hands to answer. “Hello?”
No response. That was the last straw. “Listen, asshole, I don’t know if you think you’re funny or scary or what, but if you don’t cut this crap out right now, my husband, who just happens to be a cop, is going to get his hands on the phone records and drag your juvenile butt to jail for harassment, got it?”
They hung up.
Ten seconds later the phone rang again. I picked up the receiver. “Oh, you are sooo asking for it.”
There was no immediate response but I thought I could detect some background noise this time. It sounded like…Donna Summer.
A voice on the other end cleared his throat. “Honey, the only thing I’m asking for is world peace, the end of deforestation and a Miami beachfront property with a six-foot live-in housekeeper named Ricardo.”
“Marcus.” I leaned against the dividing kitchen counter. “Did you call before this?”
“No, but I’m guessing that the person who did, left you a tad out of sorts.”
“Understatement, but it’s not important. What’s up with you?”
“I got a last-minute invite to an art opening for an artist named Donato Balardi. It’s at the Sussman Gallery tonight. Want to come with?”
“That actually sounds fun. I’ve just finished a manuscript and I’ve been trying to celebrate, but so far I’ve been failing miserably.” Mr. Katz blinked his eyes in what I took for agreement.
“You finished your book? Honey, that’s great! Tell you what, I’ll throw in dinner at Puccini and Pinetti to mark the occasion. My last appointment is at four but it’s just a trim and style, so if we plan for me to pick you up at six-thirty I’ll still have some wiggle room.”
“Wiggle away. I’ll see you at six-thirty.”
I spent the rest of the day reading what was left of the paper and napping. It had been over a week since I had gotten a good night’s sleep, and I had no intention of going out with saddlebag eyes. Knowing Marcus, he’d be fifteen minutes late, which was fine with me because I needed the extra minutes to do something with my hair. Tonight I would make Marcus proud, even if it killed me.
Several hours later, it was killing me. It was six-forty and I had been torturing myself with a blow-dryer and a curling iron for the last hour and a half, and my reward was hair that was big enough to intimidate Diana Ross. Marcus was so lucky; he had those short little well-groomed dreadlocks, and all he had to do was shave, get dressed and voilà—he was the next Blair Underwood. I was desperately searching my bathroom drawers for some styling product to fix the problem when the phone rang.
I rushed out into the living room to get it. “Hello?”
It was a hang-up. I stared at the phone. Either I hadn’t been as convincing as I thought, or the person prank-calling somehow knew I didn’t have a police officer husband. How would they know that? The buzzer jarred me out of my thoughts. My hand flew to my hair. “Damn it!”
I crossed over to the intercom. “Marcus, I just need another minute to finish putting myself together.”
“In another minute, I’m going to have a meter maid in my face.”
“Maybe you could flirt your way out of it?”
“Are you suggesting he’s gay?” Marcus asked. “Honey, there isn’t a gay man alive that would be caught dead in that polyester thing they call a uniform, and I’m not even going to get into that white scooter-deally they drive…. Oh shit, Sophie, he sees me! Oh my God, he’s getting into the white scooter-deally… Run, Sophie! Get your little ass down here now!”
I kicked a nearby pillow with enough force to propel it across the room and send my cat running for cover. I looked over in the direction of the kitchen where the diamond studs I’d planned on wearing rested on the counter, and quickly decided against them. Considering the state of my hair, nobody would see them anyway. I did want to bring my cell phone, though. Funny, I thought I had left it by the earrings. The buzzer blasted again. Obviously I’d have to find it later. I grabbed my purse, and booked down the three flights of stairs to the entryway of my building. As I hurried out the door I saw the meter maid puttering toward us, less than fifteen yards away.
“Get in, get in, get in!” Marcus screamed from behind the wheel of his Miata, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror.
I jumped into the passenger side, and Marcus, without so much as giving me a sideways glance, put the car into gear and we were off, leaving the meter maid snarling in our wake.
“You know, you could have just driven around the block.” I yanked my seat belt across my chest.
Marcus snapped his head in my direction for the first time that evening, a move that I assumed was a precursor to a snappy comeback, but the retort froze on his lips. “Oh my God, what happened to your hair?”
“Oh, well, I thought I’d do something different. Close your mouth and watch the road.”
Marcus turned part of his focus back to the narrow street leading us toward downtown, but his eyes continued to dart in my direction. “You tried to use a curling iron again, didn’t you?”
“Um…”
“How many times do I have to tell you…stay away from the curling iron. In the wrong hands those things are like deadly weapons. It’s like that little Australian crocodile man always says—danger, danger, danger.”
“Okay, fine, I look like shit. Point taken.”
“You don’t look like shit. The makeup’s all good and the little camel suede halter dress, paired with the three-quarter leather is a look ripped right out of April’s In Style. It’s just the hair that’s giving me ‘Tina Turner in the eighties’ flashbacks.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad!”
“Well, it won’t be in a few minutes. I’ll fix it in the parking garage.”
“You have hair supplies with you?”
“Never leave home without them.”
I relaxed back into the seat. He brought hair supplies. Earth-shattering crisis averted. Unfortunately, that allowed my mind to wander back to the phone calls. It was pretty ballsy to crank-call after my last threat, even if the perpetrator didn’t believe me. It showed that the caller was not just looking for an easy target to intimidate. In my book, Sex, Drugs and Murder, the bad guys had prank-called my protagonist and her roommate in hopes of determining when they were home. That way they didn’t run the risk of running into them while breaking in. Could someone be thinking of breaking into my apartment? Had I remembered to close the kitchen window? The thing was almost impossible to close and I usually left it open a crack… No, I was being paranoid. The first part of my day had been hideous, and there was no way I was going to let a few phone calls ruin my night. I forced myself to think of a more removed topic that would hold my interest.
“Have you been following the JJ Money murder case at all?”
“And we’re back in the stream-of-consciousness world of Sophie Katz.”
“You know me, I’m all about keeping you on your toes. It’s what gives me my edge.” I made an attempt at a playful smile. “DC Smooth’s appealing the verdict. I honestly think the guy is innocent. All the evidence against him is just way too convenient for my taste.”
“As a mystery writer this is probably a hard concept for you, but in the non-MTV real world, people who are convicted of crimes are usually guilty.”
“Come on, Marcus, what kind of black man are you? Shouldn’t you be chanting ‘Down with the system’ and campaigning for the release of our unfairly accused brother?”
Marcus turned the car into the O’Farrell Street Garage and paused to collect his ticket. “You’re not exactly little Miss Black Panther yourself. The only reason you’re interested is that you think that if you tweak it a smidge you’ll be able to use the case as a basis for a novel.”
“I have no intention of tweaking anything. All I want to do is take what has been a very high-profile case, write about it and feed it to a voyeuristic society.”
“God bless America.” He slid his car into a spot on the third floor and killed the motor without bothering to remove the keys from the ignition. He shifted in his seat so that he could fully appreciate the enormous mass of hair weighing down my head. “We’re going to have to pull it up in a braid thingy.”
“A braid thingy? I don’t get—”
“You don’t have to ‘get.’ Just sit back and let me prove my genius.” He pushed himself out of the car and came back seconds later armed with a wide-tooth comb, some ozone-depleting hairspray and a Tupperware container full of rubber hair bands and bobby pins.
Fifteen minutes later my hair was swept up into a sophisticated little braid and the few curls I had actually succeeded in creating were gently framing my face, keeping the look from going to severe. I examined myself in the side-view mirror. “I don’t care if you are gay, I still want to marry you. I’ll support you, do your laundry, turn my head when you bring home male companionship—all you have to do is my hair every day of the week and I’ll be satisfied.”
“Honey, the only thing I want to do every day of the week is Ricky Martin. Are you ready to eat?”
I took one last look at my reflection and allowed him to escort me to the restaurant across the street. We seated ourselves at the bar between a bearded man wearing a rather unfortunate Hawaiian shirt with pink palm trees on it and a woman who bore a disturbing resemblance to Prince, during his “formerly known as” period. Without bothering to look at the familiar menu, we ordered our prerequisite Cosmopolitans and a gourmet pizza to share. Marcus tugged gently on his locks as he watched the bartender mix our desired poison. “You’re still coming to Steve’s surprise party on Saturday, right?”
I nodded vigorously. “Like I’d miss an opportunity to eat chocolate cake. How’s he doing anyway? Any change?”
“His T-cell count has gotten ridiculously low, but he’s staying optimistic. He’s going to be so excited to meet you. He’s practically memorized every one of your books. I swear, girl, you are just the female John Grisham these days. Every client I have…”
Marcus’s voice faded into the background as I studied a man on the other side of the restaurant talking on his cell phone. Maybe the prank calls had come from a cell. That would mean that the person could have been watching the apartment while making the call. But I hadn’t heard any background noise, so they probably had come from someone’s home or—
“Sophie? Have you heard anything I’ve been saying?”
“Hmm? Oh yeah, of course. You were talking about Steve.”
“Yesss…about five minutes ago. What’s up with you?” He paused to order a second round.
“I’m sorry. There has just been some weird stuff happening.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve been getting prank calls. Five today. At least, five that I was home to answer.”
“Oh, I hate those. You know how you deal with them?”
“How?”
“Heavy breathing. As soon as you realize that the person is prank-calling, start breathing heavily into the receiver. Trips them up every time.”
“I’ll try that.” I swirled the remnants of my Cosmo. It must have been evaporating because there was no way I could have drunk it that fast. I thought I caught the pink-palm-tree guy casting me a disapproving stare. I swiveled my bar stool in Marcus’s direction. “So what made you want to go to tonight’s little shindig?”
A dimple materialized on his left cheek. “You know me. I am all about supporting up-and-coming young artists.”
I gave him a sideways glance. “Uh-huh. There was a picture of the artist on the invite?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“He’s cute?”
“Absolutely to die for.”
“He’s gay?”
“One can always hope.”
“But you don’t know. So it’s possible that I stand a chance.”
Marcus raised his glass in salute. “May the best man win.”
“Or woman.”
“Don’t bother me with semantics.”
We were presented with our pizza and I forced myself to wait until the bartender physically let go of the plate before tearing into it. Marcus must have been equally famished, because our conversation came to a halt as we devoured the pie at locust speed. I indicated to Marcus that he should eat the last piece. I was trying to lose five pounds and I had developed a kind of warped diet reasoning in which I don’t have to count the calories of the food I eat if somebody else finishes it. It doesn’t make sense but it does make me feel less guilty, so I choose to delude myself.
I sipped at my third drink while Marcus polished off our dinner. Alcohol was great for diets. If you drank enough of it, you didn’t feel guilty at all.
Marcus checked his watch and grimaced. “It’s almost eight. We want to be fashionably late but not late-late.” He signed the charge slip and waited impatiently for me to collect my purse and jacket before hurrying me out of the restaurant and into the parking garage.
“You know, there’s no way we’re going to find a parking spot within five miles of the gallery,” I said, “and the bus will practically take us to its door, plus it will be faster than looking for a—”
“Honey, you do not impress a man by showing up on a bus.” His tone relayed the sympathy he felt for any woman who was so misguided.
“You never know, I mean he is an artist, a.k.a. a liberal eccentric. Maybe he prefers public transportation for the sake of the environment, or maybe he likes to rub elbows with all us common people who don’t have cars or won’t drive them for fear of losing our parking spots.”
“Uh-huh.” He tapped the face of his faux Cartier. “You need to close those little Mac-painted lips of yours and get in the car.”
I grumbled some unflattering remarks and took my seat. I slipped my finger under the strap of my super-hip new platforms and caressed the forming blister. We would have to walk four city blocks at least—if we were lucky to even find parking.
When we finally did reach the gallery I was ready for a painkiller. Six blistering blocks. I peered through the crowd and eyed the little makeshift bar set up in the corner. Vodka always made a good pain reliever. Much more fun than ibuprofen.
Marcus shoved his wrist in front of my face. “See! I timed this perfectly. We are now officially fashionably late.”
“Just like the artist.” We turned to acknowledge a short little balding man who was standing close enough to eavesdrop. “Can you believe that this guy actually had the nerve to show up ten minutes late to his own opening? I know he’s all the rage right now, but he still needs to show us collectors a little respect. Don’t you agree?”
Marcus just stared at him blankly. Neither he nor I was a collector. We just wanted to pick up the artist. In the interest of furthering that goal, I asked the all-important question. “So which one is Balardi, anyway?”
I looked in the general direction of where the man was pointing. I put my hand on my chest and tried to keep from hyperventilating. “Marcus, do you see that?”
“Uh-huh, nobody could miss that, girlfriend.”
The disgruntled stranger took his cue and slunk away to complain to someone else, as Marcus and I watched, slack jawed, as Donato Balardi worked the room. His black wavy hair grazed his shoulders, Antonio Banderas–Zorro style. He was slender, but the well-defined pecs visible beneath his silk shirt prevented him from looking slight in any way. His dark Latin eyes surveyed the room until they finally focused on us.
“Oh my God, he’s coming this way!” Marcus dug his fingers into my arm. “I know he’s gay, I can just feel it.”
“No way,” I protested. “God wouldn’t be so cruel as to deprive the women of the world of something that beautiful.”
