It was so much easier to be open-minded when it wasn’t happening to me.
Taking a deep breath (and clutching denial in a two-fisted death grip), I crossed the room and shoved the lip gloss under a long blond wig. There. That was better.
I decided to start with Larry’s nightstand, reasoning that that was where the contents of my pockets ended up every night. Maybe Larry had left a receipt or matchbook-anything that might tell me where he was now or what he was running from.
I started with the top of the nightstand, unfolding one small piece of paper after another. Mostly receipts from the grocery, drug store, some fast food restaurants. Nothing terribly telling except that he should be eating a lower-fat diet. I made a mental note to tell Dana my junk food cravings were genetic.
Coming up zero on the nightstand, I moved on to the closet-not sure my denial cocoon was strong enough yet to withstand the sight of the “intimates” that might be lurking in Larry’s dresser drawers.
I opened the closet door and gasped. Shoes. Dozens of beautiful, shiny, designer shoes. It was like looking in a boutique store window. I knelt down to examine a pair. Michael Kors’ last season black satin wedges with rhinestone detail and ballerina straps. If they hadn’t been five sizes too big, I would have been in heaven. I turned them over in my hands, letting the long silky straps run through my fingers as I took in every little detail. If these were fakes, I was a rugby player. Whatever Larry’s connection to the containers of counterfeit shoes, this wasn’t it. These were the genuine six-hundred-dollar-a-pair article. I did a little sigh and set them back in the shoe rack with all the reverence they deserved.
I stifled a little squeak as I spied the next pair. Jimmy Choo Mary Janes in fire-engine red with three-inch heels and gold-plated buckles. I had to hand it to Larry, he did drag with style. I pulled the Mary Janes out of the closet and held them up to the mirror. The light from the window shone off the patent leather like glass. I couldn’t help myself. I slipped out of my kitten heels and treated my toes to a moment in Choos. I’m pretty sure I moaned out loud. Okay, so I was a small seven and these were a big ten, but I didn’t care. They looked fabulous. Beyond fabulous. These were Sarah Jessica Parker-tastic! I did a couple of foot model poses, checking them out from all angles. I was just contemplating how many cotton balls I’d have to stuff in the toes to wear them on my date with Ramirez tonight, when I heard the sound of a door opening downstairs.
I froze.
“Hello?” a voice called out. “Larry? You here?”
I willed myself not to hyperventilate. I recognized that voice. It was the same one I’d heard arguing at the club with Monaldo. Unibrow.
“Lar-ry,” he singsonged. “You here, buddy? Your front door was open, so I thought I’d come pay you a visit.”
Liar. If Unibrow had come in the front he was a hell of a lot better at breaking and entering than I was. Not a totally comforting thought.
“Larry!” Unibrow called up the stairs, his voice sharper now. “I’ve got something here for you. Don’t make me come up there looking for you.”
Crap, crap, crap! I quickly scanned the room for a hiding place as Unibrow’s bulk thump, thump, thumped up the stairs. The closet would have been the obvious choice, had it not been filled to capacity with pumps. Bed, dresser, nightstand-none of which were large enough for me to hide behind. I lifted the leopard-print bed skirt. More boxes of shoes were stacked under the bed. Wow. Aside from myself and Imelda Marcos, I didn’t think anyone owned this many shoes. I quickly shoved a stack out of the way and wedged myself in with the shoeboxes and dust bunnies, just as Unibrow reached the landing.
I could hear his labored breathing as he entered the room, but all I could see were his brown wingtips and the hem of his black slacks.
His feet crossed the room to the dresser, then I heard the sound of him opening drawers and tossing the contents. Tubes of lipstick fell to the floor, along with three Styrofoam heads and a handful of costume jewelry. The long blond wig fluttered down from the dresser, the Raspberry Perfection lip gloss rolling out from under it, across the carpet, and coming to a stop just inches from my nose.
Okay, why was fate taunting me like this? Can you cut a girl a little slack? I’m doing denial here!
Unibrow grunted something and gave up on the dresser. I watched his wingtips move toward the closet, cringing at the thought of his big meat cleaver hands tossing Larry’s precious designer footwear aside. I heard one shoe rack meet its demise, collapsing with a crash, and felt a tiny piece of my heart break. I was glad now I’d put on the Mary Janes. At least they were safe.
Apparently feeling he’d caused enough destruction, Unibrow’s wingtips moved away from the closet. I gave a little sigh of relief for the spared pumps.
Then I held my breath as he turned toward the bed.
I felt my eyes growing bigger as his shoes slowly came at me. One step after another until the tip of his right foot was inches from my face. I could smell the leather and pungent shoe polish he used, along with the faint scent of Odor-Eaters. I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer to the saint of bad hiding places that Unibrow didn’t sit down on the bed. With his bulk, I’d be an instant pancake.
Someone up there must have heard me, because he didn’t, instead veering to the left and out the bedroom door.
My sigh of relief was so big, the dust bunnies in front of my face danced. His footsteps lumbered back down the stairs as I scrambled out from under the bed. I waited until I heard the front door open and shut before kicking off the too-big Mary Janes, grabbing my kitten heels, and taking the stairs two at a time. I padded barefoot across the kitchen to the garage door and slipped inside just as I heard the front door open again. I slid my shoes back on and did a little tippy-toe across the garage in the dark, hoping I didn’t bump into anything but too chicken to wait until my eyes adjusted to get the heck out of Dodge.
I only tripped once, over a sack of fertilizer or something that someone had left in the middle of the floor, before I made it to the outside door. I gingerly twisted the handle, cracked the door open and peeked my head out. No sign of Unibrow. I slowly shut the door behind me, trying to make as little noise as possible even though my hands were shaking harder than a 7.2, and jogged over to the side gate. I did another crack and peek. A black Lincoln Town Car was parked at the curb, the trunk popped open. I’d watched enough HBO to know this car had Mob written all over it. I craned my head to the left and right. No sign of its driver. I prayed he was still inside the house. I gave myself a three count, then darted out of the yard and across the street to the Mustang.
It took two tries before I could keep my hands steady enough to fit the key into the ignition. But once I did I wasted no time in punching the gas and squealing my tires down the street, seriously appreciating the zero to sixty qualities of a muscle car with a V8 engine.
By the time I got back to the hotel room, my hands had finally stopped shaking, my teeth were no longer chattering together like castanets and, I realized with a stab of regret, I had missed my appointment at the Regis. Not only was I being followed by a stalker and cornered by Mob goons, I was stuck with my mustache until the Fran Drescher sound-alike could fit me into her schedule again. (Apparently when Bette was in town, not only were the low-rent rooms booked, but salon appointments were also in high demand.) After setting up a four-thirty appointment for tomorrow, I flopped down on the double bed and stared at the textured ceiling again, trying to make sense of all I’d seen that day.
What had Larry gotten himself into? By now even I had to admit it looked like something just this side of legal. And from what Maurice said, things seemed to have taken a turn for the worse two weeks ago. That’s when Larry and Hank had fought, and Hank had started carrying a gun. So what was it? And what sort of “something” did Unibrow have for Larry? Had it been in the trunk? Did it have anything to do with the counterfeit shoes? Or was “I have something for you” code for “I’m gonna snuff you out execution-style”?
I wondered. In fact, I wondered so hard I fell asleep. By the time I woke up the sky had turned into a deep blue and there was a little puddle of drool forming at the side of my mouth.
I rolled over and looked at my cell phone. The display told me I had two new messages. Still holding out a small hope that one of them might be Larry trying to contact me again, I keyed in my pin number and listened to the recordings.
Unfortunately neither, it turned out, was from Larry. The first message was from Mom, telling me about this
