can haul your skinny ass out of here . . .”
Nice place.
“Let’s get out of here before Dwight Hansel sees us,” Helen said.
“I’ve been ready to leave for a long time,” Sarah said, starting for the door.
It was too late. Hansel saw them and stepped in front of Helen. He was standing so close, she could smell the sweat on his purple muscle shirt. His skin looked slick and slippery.
“You following me, Helen?” he said, pointing to his chest with his beer. The bottle was sweating, too. “You can save your energy. I’m going to be following you. In fact, I’m gonna be all over you like a cheap suit. You know why? Because I think something is going on in that store. I’ve been talking to some people. That Christina was selling more than dresses. And you’re in on it. Or maybe it’s the boyfriend. Hey, I like that even better. You’re in on it with the boyfriend.”
“Joe?” Helen said. It came out as a croak.
“Yeah. Maybe you wanted a rich boyfriend for yourself. So you murdered your friend Christina.”
Helen was so insulted he’d accused her of wanting Joe, she ignored the charge of murder.
“Joe? You think I’m interested in Joe? I wouldn’t go out with Joe if he was the last man on earth. He’s even dumber than y—”
She stopped just in time. She almost said “you.”
“Than what?” Hansel said.
“Your beer bottle,” she ended lamely.
“Joe’s smart about money,” he said. “He has a couple million in the bank. You’re making how much pushing dresses? Maybe you’d rather spend your days sitting out by some rich guy’s pool.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Helen said.
“Oh, no,” he said, softly. “I’m dead serious.” Then he walked back to his friends and left Helen standing in the middle of the seething crowd of drunks. Helen felt the fear in the pit of her stomach, coiled and knotted and heavy. She’d trapped herself. This man would never believe her.
“Are you OK?” Sarah said.
“No,” Helen said.
“What do you want to do?”
“Get another drink,” Helen said.
Helen was surprised it was still early when she got out of the bar. Which bar it was, she couldn’t remember, and the sign seemed kind of blurry. But her watch, which she could read, said it was only eight-thirty. Helen was tipsy. No, not tipsy. Hammered. Hammered in Himmarshee.
“I can walk home,” Helen said.
“You’re not walking home in your condition,” Sarah said. She held her liquor better, or maybe she hadn’t drunk as much as Helen. Anyway, Sarah drove Helen to the Coronado. Helen nearly fell out of the big Range Rover when she opened the door. She walked carefully to her apartment, as if her head might fall off. Then she put on her cutoffs and Tweety Bird T-shirt and poured herself some wine in an iced tea glass. She filled the glass to the brim.
Margery was sitting at the picnic table, smoking Marlboros and reading a paperback. Her landlady’s shorts were the color of a new bruise. Her toenails were ruby red. She saw Helen lurch into a chaise longue.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” Margery said. “I think I made a mistake,” Helen said. Her words sounded slurred.
Margery picked up Helen’s iced tea glass and poured the wine on the grass.
“Hey!” Helen said.
Margery ignored her. She went into her place and came out with a ham sandwich, a bag of pretzels, and a big glass of water.
“Eat this,” she said. “And drink all the water. I’m not making you coffee because that will just make you a wide-awake drunk.”
Helen ate. She was hungry and thirsty. Then she told Margery what she had done.
“You made a mistake,” Margery said. For some reason, Helen felt better when her landlady said that. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to the Sunnysea police? They have the worst force on the beach. Didn’t you hear about the homeless guy who was Tasered?”
Helen looked blank.
“Must have been before you moved here. There was something wrong with the guy. He was mental or on drugs or something, and he went into a Sunnysea cafe and started tearing up the place. Broke a window, flipped over two tables, scared the owner half to death. The cops were called. Four of them showed up. They held the guy down and hit him with a Taser. A stun gun. The guy died. Some witnesses said the cops were justified. Others thought they used excessive force. One of the papers asked if there was going to be an investigation. Know what the police chief said? ‘Why? We didn’t shoot him or anything.’ ”
Helen groaned. She could feel a headache starting. She could feel that heavy coil in her stomach grow tighter. It was squeezing her guts.
“Look, Sunnysea Beach has some good cops,” Margery said. “But the city can’t afford to pay much, so they can’t hire the sort of police you’d get in a richer place. They get young, inexperienced cops who think they know everything. They get rejects from other departments. They get retired guys from up North with attitudes and pensions who don’t care any more.”
Helen groaned again. Now her head was throbbing, and her guts were in a viselike grip. Snakes of fear slithered around in the pit of her stomach. She had not felt like this since she ran from St. Louis.
“Too late for regrets now,” Margery said briskly. “You talked. The damage is done. I’ll do my best to protect you. If those cops show up here, you call me. If you need a lawyer, you call me. I know a good one who owes me a favor. If you need any other help, let me know. . . . What the hell is that?”
Margery’s head swiveled around like the kid in
Helen thought they made a stunning couple: long-legged, red-haired Peggy and Daniel with the rippling muscles and the tiny shorts with the large bulge.
Helen saw the couple was actually a threesome. A grumpy-looking Pete sat on Helen’s shoulder. Daniel seemed to realize that Pete was out of sorts, too. He reached out to pet the parrot. Pete clamped down on Daniel’s finger and refused to let go. The parrot had a wild, piratical look in his eye.
“Pete!” Peggy said angrily. “Pete! Stop it right now.” But Pete hung on. She gently pried his beak open to free Daniel’s digit.
“Is that a parrot or a pitbull?” Daniel said.
“Pete’s going to his room,” Peggy said. “Daniel, I am so sorry.” And she was gone.
“Let me get you a Band-Aid. You’re bleeding,” Helen said. There was a tiny teardrop of blood on Daniel’s finger. It was perfect, too.
“You better put some antibacterial ointment on that,” Margery said. “Do you have any?”
“Yes,” Helen said.
Daniel followed Helen docilely into her apartment. She was grateful that she’d hung up her work suit and put the wine box away before she went out by the pool. At least she didn’t look like a drunken slob. With Daniel so near, Helen was sobering up fast.
When Daniel stepped into her apartment, the place suddenly seemed much smaller, and the bed much bigger. The bed was very big. It seemed to take over the apartment. It was pulsating, throbbing, beckoning. No matter where Helen looked, she saw the bed.
Daniel was standing much too close. She didn’t want him to do that. No, she did. She wanted him even closer. But Helen was afraid she’d do something embarrassing, like throw herself into his arms and start kissing him. Helen was also afraid to take Daniel into her bathroom, which was the size of a phone booth. She had him sit down on the couch and brought in the ointment and a Band-Aid.
“Would you put it on for me?” he asked. Helen took his wounded hand and held it in hers. Daniel had huge fingers, and Helen wondered if that meant his other appendages were large. Feet, for instance, she told herself, trying to clear her pheromone-fogged brain.
