_ _ _

The shades on the slider window were now drawn so that there was no seeing in, no peering out. If you listened hard enough, you could hear the voices of Lana and her husband while they enjoyed their cocktails and barbequed out on the deck. Or maybe enjoy was too strong a word for it. Because the voices were not always kind. They were, more often, filled with acid.

Susan went back into the bathroom, this time with the Victoria’s Secret package in hand, closing the door behind her. After a few seconds, I heard the toilet flush, and although I had no way of knowing it for certain, I imaged that the pink note card from “You know who” was now on its one-way trip to the Albany water treatment plant stationed along the Hudson River.

I went to the window, stood still and listened. While John accused Lana of spending her day with her new friend, Hollywood, and she defended herself by replying, “Just because I have a man who is a friend and an interesting person, doesn’t mean I’m fucking him.”

She was right of course. And also, very wrong.

It was all very strange.

By all means, I should have been shaking with fear considering the nature of the Cattivos very audible argument along with the fact that her husband was a hothead cop who carried a gun. When Susan came out of the bathroom for the second time, she was holding the underwear in her hand, the paper package and the box it protected now apparently tossed out. Opening up the drawer under the table, she set the underwear inside, then closed the drawer back up.

I was quite certain she could make out the war of words being waged by our new neighbors, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, she decided not to comment on it. Instead, she headed into the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed the local Chinese restaurant.

“Do you want wanton soup with your sweet and sour pork, Killer?” she called out.

“Sure, baby,” I said, my gaze shifting from the slider window to the bathroom. “Whatever you say.”

Hobbling across the bedroom, past the dressing table and into the bathroom, I peered into the wastebasket. The torn packaging material and the Victoria’s Secret box had been tossed inside it. Bending down carefully, my left hand holding to the crutch for balance, I quickly rummaged through the box and the paper. The note was gone. My gut could be trusted after all.

Susan had disposed of the note, like so much waste.