“Sort of?”
“Fine. I called and hung up. Happy?”
There was a pause on the other end. I expected laughter but instead his voice held a note of concern. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Damn. I hated that I was acting like a teenager and he was being all concerned and touching. Maddie, you are seriously screwed up girl.
“Yes. I’m okay. I just got a disturbing phone call.”
A pause again. “Tell me about it.”
So I did. It didn’t take very long. It was a short call, but the chill in the caller’s voice was leaving a long impact. When I finished there was a silence on the other end again.
“Do you want me to come over?” he asked.
Boy, did I. And I wasn’t even thinking about sex. Much. Just the thought of Bad Cop with his big bad gun guarding my door made me feel a lot less like hiding under my futon. On the other hand, calling and hanging up had been pretty girly of me. And asking him to come spend the night just because some woman was crank calling me would be
“No, thanks. I’ve got my thighmaster. I’m fine. Really.”
I could hear him sighing on the other end. I don’t think he believed that any more than I did.
Finally he said, “You have my number, right?”
“Yes.”
“Put it on speed dial.” Then he hung up.
I turned off the ringer and complied, adding Ramirez’s number to my speed dial. Then I clutched my thighmaster in one hand as my pride and I hunkered down for a long night. Punctuated by dreams of killer Mattel dolls and naked Ramirez. Was my subconscious screwed up or what?
The next morning I woke up early and checked to make sure all the doors and windows were still locked. They were. Which should have made me feel better, but only served to heighten my paranoia. I skipped the shower – visions of Janet Leigh’s psycho scene playing through my head – and downed two cups of coffee instead as I quickly got dressed.
I checked my messages and found one from Althea saying that visiting hours at the prison were from two to four, and she’d put me on the list to see Richard. I said a silent thank you that at least someone was on my side.
The second message was from Dana. She’d changed her mind about borrowing an outfit, but now she needed a new pair of boots. So, did I want to shoe shop with her?
On the one hand, it seemed kind of frivolous to be shopping while my boyfriend was in jail and my life was quickly crumbling around me. On the other, a new pair of shoes always helped me think more clearly…
I quickly called Dana back and told her I’d meet her at Neiman’s in half an hour.
Neiman Marcus was located in Beverly Hills just three block from Wilshire’s famous Miracle Mile, teeming with museums, restaurants, and most importantly, store after designer store filled with fashion temptation for the visa challenged such as myself. I rounded the block, parking in the garage, and found Dana sitting in Neiman’s shoe department, a pile of boots on the seat beside her.
“You’re late,” she said.
What was with people continually pointing this out?
“Sorry. I had a long night.”
“Ooo… with your detective?”
“No!” Thanks to my stupid pride. “And he’s not
“Too bad. So…” Dana got that wicked twinkle in her eyes. The one that through many years of friendship I’d come to associate with short-term men. “Ask me about my night with Sasha.” She wiggled her eyebrows up and down.
“Would you hate me if I said I’d rather not?”
“It was fabulous! Maddie, the man is a machine.” She held up four fingers. “Four times. Four separate orgasms in one night. Can you imagine?”
I was ashamed to say, I almost couldn’t.
“I’m telling you, he’s like the Energizer Bunny. He just goes, and goes, and goes…”
“I get the point.”
“And the best part is…” She leaned in close, pseudo whispering. “…he has a friend. Micha.” She winked at me. “Wanna double date tonight?”
I admit, the Energizer Bunny aspect was tempting. “Dana, I have a boyfriend.” Sort of.
She cocked her head at me. “I thought you said he was married? And, like, in jail?”
I hated that she had a point. “Can we not talk about this right now?”
She shrugged. “Okay, whatever. Just, think about it, okay?” She held up four fingers again.
I rolled my eyes and quickly changed the subject. “Are those Prada?”
“Uh huh. You likey?” Dana wiggled her toes in a pair of camel colored calfskin boots.
“Likey? Honey, I’m in lovey. Can you afford Prada?” I asked.
“I wish. But I can afford to try them on.”
As if on cue a salesman emerged from the back room, carrying three more boot boxes that he deposited on the seat beside Dana.
“Thank you, David,” she said reading his name tag. “You’re an absolute doll.” Then she flashed him her biggest, flirtiest smile. “And would you mind checking if you have these,” she pointed to a pair of spike heeled Gucci’s, “in black?”
“No problem.” He then looked expectantly at me.
“Oh, I, uh…” I looked from the calfskin Prada to the salesman. What the hell. “And those in a seven and a half.”
Twenty minute later I was warring with my Visa over whether or not there was any chance in hell I could afford Prada. Maybe if I sold my car, and didn’t eat for the next six months I could swing them. And, I decided as I looked at myself in the mirror, it would almost be worth it. The soft tan leather felt as light and airy as silk against my legs and the soles were so finely crafted it felt like I was walking on clouds. Not to mention that the three inch heels made my calves look almost like Dana’s. Tiny precision stitching, perfectly molded contours, and that shiny little Prada logo zipper. Ladies and gentlemen, this is what shoes were meant to be. I twirled in front of the mirror and did a little sigh.
Unfortunately my Visa won the argument when I did the math on how many pairs of kiddie shoes I’d have to design to afford one pair of boots. It was not pretty. Reluctantly I put my own emerald slingbacks back on. Dana and I left Prada at Neiman’s and she settled on a pair of white, vinyl go-go boots for her reinvention of Mod Squad Chic.
Purchases in hand, we walked down the street to Leon’s where I ordered extra cheesy chili fries and Dana munched on a low fat cucumber and sprouts pita as I told her about my late night caller.
When I finished, Dana looked thoughtful, grazing on her sprouts. “So, who do you think it was?”
“I don’t know. Bunny maybe? She was pretty pissed when I ran into her at Charlie Platt’s.”
“Uh huh.” Dana popped a cucumber into her mouth, chewing as she nodded.
“Or maybe Andi. She did sound like she had a vicious streak to her.”
“You know,” Dana said, licking her fingers, “I’m wondering, have you thought about the wife?”
“Celia?” I asked. “She’s dead.”
“No, I meant Richard’s wife.”
