Johnny Are You Queer?
Travis Richardson
Lori sits on her well-worn couch, binge-watching Cheers on Netflix while taking sips of rum and Diet Coke. She loves the early episodes, when Sam and Diane played cat and mouse and Shelley Long hadn’t made her career-ending choice to leave the show. Back in a time when Lori had all the answers and then some. She and Shelley stood on top of the world and then, wham! Reality smacked its heavy hand across their faces.
She holds her drink up to Shelley and with a crinkled, wry smile says, “Here’s to us, sister.”
She takes a gulp and sets the glass down harder than expected. The overflowing ashtray spills used filters and gray ash powder on the coffee table. She eyes her pack of Camels, knowing she shouldn’t take another puff, or at least she should clean up before she lights the next.
“Fuck it.” She shakes out a cancer stick.
The doorbell rings just as she’s about to spark up. Who the hell could that be? Definitely not her ungrateful children. Little shits. Standing up with a heave, the room weaves a little. How much did she drink? She tightens the belt on her robe and lights the cigarette. A deep inhale later, she walks to the door. If it’s a Mormon or a JeHovee she’ll put the Camel out in their eye.
She opens the door to a beautiful young man. Perfect hair, clothes, teeth, face. Thirties. There was a time when that was old, now it’s young, prime of life. Being north of fifty, everybody else seems so youthful these days. Too flawless to be straight, the guy is one hundred percent gay. (She considers herself an expert on sexual orientation through hard experience). Even though he won’t try to convert Lori to a religion, that doesn’t stop her from being annoyed.
“Who are you?”
“Are you Lori Zider?”
“Answer my question first. Who are you?” She blows out a white stream of smoke toward his face.
He grimaces. “Do you remember John Frick?
Lori’s throat clenches. Johnny. “What’s this about?”
The man studies her for a moment, his eyes taking her in. Self-consciousness, something Lori thought she no longer needed, comes back like hornets from a burning nest. She tugs her robe closer together. Why hadn’t she done her hair this morning? Put on a touch of makeup?
“My name is Terrance Lowe. Johnny was my partner.”
“Was? Did you separate?”
The man shakes his head. “He passed away.”
Air escapes her lungs and a heavy weight of sorrow fills her stomach. We can’t live forever, can we? “When?”
“Almost a month ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
The man nods, gazing at his pristine white canvas shoes. “We knew the end was coming. Cancer.”
“Dammit. I remember when…he was so healthy.”
“May I come in?”
Lori opens the door and leads him into the living room. Grabbing the remote, she turns off the comedy. “Take a seat.” She points at the couch. “Would you like something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Feeling tears forming in her eyes, she dabs them with tissues from her robe’s pocket. She lowers herself into a recliner, stubs out her cigarette, and clears her throat. “I haven’t talked to Johnny in years. How did cancer get him? Lung cancer got my parents, and it’ll probably be that for me, too. That’s why I don’t mind sucking on these things. I know what’s going to get me.”
Terrance sighs. “It was more than cancer. He had HIV. It was bad. He went faster than expected.”
Lori flinches in spite of herself. “Poor Johnny, you need a hell of an immune system to keep up with chemo treatments. Having both…that just isn’t fair.”
“You knew he was gay, right?”
Lori inhales and nods. “He came out to me when coming out wasn’t a thing yet. Did you marry him?”
“He didn’t want to, but I would’ve.” He pauses, then says, “He never told me about you. How did you know him?”
Confusion clouds Lori’s brow. “Wait, why did you contact me?”
“After Johnny died, his lawyer asked me to deliver this to you.” He hands Lori an envelope. It has a crimson wax seal with the letters JF imprinted across the flap.
“Should I open it?”
“Please do.” For the first time Terrance puts some enthusiasm in his voice.
She breaks the seal and reads.
Dearest Lori,
If you’re reading this, I’m dead and the man who delivered it to you may well have murdered me. I have a huge, final favor to ask of you. I need your help to prove Terrance Lowe is a murderer and I promise to make up for this unseemly request big time. For what it’s worth, I’ve always regretted how things ended between us, and now I’d like the chance to make it right. If you’re willing to help me, contact my lawyer, Allen Ridgley. He knows about this arrangement. His contact number is below. The future of my estate is in your hands.
Yours,
Johnny
The signature is definitely Johnny’s loopy scrawl. Looking up from the letter, she sees Terrance lean forward. He scoots to the edge of the couch, his knees almost touching hers.
“What does it say?”
Lori stands, clutching the letter to her chest. She’s still wobbly on her feet, but this isn’t the booze. Fear mixing with overwhelming weirdness. What the hell are you doing to me, Johnny? How big a threat is this guy sitting in my house? A man you sent to me?
“It’s personal,” she says. “I need some time to digest this.”
He shoots to his feet. “Can you tell me what it says?” His eyes widen, pleading. “Please.”
Lori studies him. The quiet confidence has vanished, replaced by desperation. Lori lights another Camel and takes a deep drag. Why did Johnny have his murderer deliver a message to the person who is supposed to expose him? What kind of twisted relationship did they have? Am I the punchline?
“There are issues I need to discuss with his lawyer. Leave me your contact info. I’ll fill you in after I talk to him.”
He scribbles some numbers on a notepad Lori keeps on the coffee table. He looks up, focusing on the folded paper inside Lori’s robe pocket, not her eyes. She swings the lit cigarette by the pocket as a burn warning.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he says, letting himself out the door.
“Wait until I contact you,” Lori calls as he walks down the steps and slides into a convertible roadster. A car like Johnny used to have.
Lori locks the door and walks to her messy bedroom, stifling tears. Bittersweet memories flood her mind. She falls back on her bed.
“Oh Johnny,” she whispers. “What the hell is this all about?”
After a restless night’s sleep, two cups of coffee, and three smokes, Lori calls the attorney, Allen Ridgely.
“So, you’re the infamous Lori Zider,” a chipper voice says.
“If that’s the one who has to prove somebody murdered Johnny, then yes, I’m your woman.”
“I believe you have something for me.”
“The letter? I have it here. What can you tell me about Terrance?”
“Ah, the mysterious young lover who swooped in to care for a dying man?”
“Sure. I guess.”
“Johnny has no heirs, so Terrance’s going to inherit Johnny’s estate unless you can prove he doesn’t deserve otherwise.”
“How big is it?”
“Roughly twenty-eight million in cash and stocks with properties in L.A., New York, and Honolulu.”
Lori’s jaw drops toward the floor. “Holy shit.”
“Come to my office. We can talk more.”
Entering an ultra-modern office in a Century City sky-rise with a ceiling-to-floor view to the Pacific, she meets Allen Ridgley. The tall lawyer wears a perfect fitting blue suit. His threads, along with his freshly cut salt and pepper hair, make him look like an attorney who belongs in an overpriced firm.
“Tell me everything about this crazy situation Johnny put me in,” Lori says, sitting down. “Why me? I haven’t talked to Johnny in years.”
“You look gift horses in their mouths?”
“Life has taught me that nothing is free.”
He eyes her for a moment and nods. “Got your degree at the school of hard knocks, I see.”
Lori stares, eyebrows raised.
Allen clears his throat. “I’ll cut to the chase. Johnny told me he wanted you to look into his death because you’re the most determined person he ever met.”
“Johnny said Terrance may have killed him. Why? Why didn’t he get rid of him or call the cops? That’s kind of nuts.”
“There were a few things that didn’t add up for Johnny and he got suspicious. A month before he died, he hired an investigator. Unfortunately, Johnny’s hunch was right. The P.I. dug up a bunch of bad news about Terrance.”
“How bad?”
“Two dead husbands.”
“Whoa.” A chill creeps down Lori’s spine. “Why isn’t he in jail?”
“He’s slippery. Both deaths looked natural.”
“Like Johnny’s?”
Allen opens a file on his desk and looks at a document. “According to the investigator, Terrance’s first husband was an insurance man from Cincinnati who died from pneumonia in December 2015. He was in his late fifties and had HIV but was vigorously healthy according to his sister. They’d been married for only three months. Police couldn’t find anything criminal. Terrance liquidated the assets and moved to Florida, partying it up in Miami. There he met Antonio Chavez. An even wealthier man in his fifties. They married in April 2016.”
“How long until he died?”
“August. This time, a boating accident. Antonio fell off his yacht into the Atlantic. Supposedly, Terrance was sleeping in the cabin below. When the body washed up later that day, the coroner determined Antonio had a high blood alcohol level mixed with Ambien.”
“That’s powerful stuff. Mix it with alcohol and…” Lori whistles. “Wasn’t Terrance suspected of murder?”
“The cops investigated, but they couldn’t come up with the evidence. A surprise came for him later. Antonio was in debt to his eyeballs. He didn’t own his house, either.”
Lori lets out a loud “Ha!” and slaps her legs with both hands. “Serves the little shit right.”
Allen smiles.
“So how did he get hooked up with Johnny?” Lori asks.
“Moved out west a month later and volunteered at an AIDS clinic. He picked up on single men. Older men of means. Most affairs didn’t pan out, but his with Johnny did. He was a donor to the clinic.”
“Johnny wasn’t with anybody when they met? The idea of Johnny being single seems wrong somehow.”
Allen sighs with a nod, losing a little bit of his positive poise. “He’d been in perpetual mourning after his partner died.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Nineteen-ninety-nine.”
“That’s like twenty years ago. They must have had an intense relationship.”
“It was beautiful. True love. Unfortunately, they couldn’t marry back then.”
A wistful smile creases her lips as sadness and joy swirls inside. “Ten years too late. At least they found each other.”
Allen dabs his eyes with a handkerchief. “Sorry. We were close friends.”
Lori gives Allen a moment before she asks, “Why didn’t you or Johnny get rid of this evil sack of shit Terrance when he showed up?”
“Believe me, I tried. So, did the P.I. he hired. Johnny was in love again. I think his heart was overriding his mind, regardless of what we found.”
Lori shakes her head, knowing too well. “Love can make us pretty fucking stupid.”
“Not as stupid as you might think. Johnny didn’t want to confront Terrance, but he left instructions that if he were to die before the end of the year, you’d be the executor of the estate. Kind of a premeditated revenge, I suppose.”
“I have to prove Terrance killed Johnny or I get nothing?” Lori asks.
“Not exactly. You’re the executor of the will. You get three percent regardless. Charities get half, and Terrance gets the remaining forty-seven, unless you prove Terrance is a criminal.”
“Why have Terrance deliver the letter to me?”
Allen chuckles. “I think Johnny wanted you to size up your competition.”
Lori smirks. She likes Allen, even though he’s a lawyer. “If we know he killed Johnny, why aren’t the police involved?”
“They couldn’t find anything definitive. The Medical Examiner says Johnny stopped breathing. The autopsy revealed he hadn’t kept up his AZT and antiretroviral regimen, which wasn’t like Johnny at all. He took his pills like it was a religion.” Allen pauses, wiping his eyes. “He was so damn weak by the end that if Terrance wanted to take matters in his own hands, he could’ve easily done it. Especially if Johnny revealed his suspicions.”
Anger wells up inside of Lori. Yes, she wants the money—big time—but even more she wants to nail that bastard. He shouldn’t get a dime of Johnny’s money. And she’ll do her damnedest to make sure that doesn’t happen.
Lori calls the private investigator, Martin Wu, and meets him at his Westwood office an hour later. Martin is tall and well-toned, with gray hairs starting to expand around his temples. He has photos on the wall of himself as a young cop in LAPD’s black uniform.
“Terrance is a piece of work and then some,” Martin says. “I still keep tabs on him. Have a tracking device on the Jag. He’s playing the part of the bereaved widower pretty good. Waiting around to see what he gets in the will.”
“They didn’t marry. Why does he think he’s getting something?”
“He pressured Johnny to change his will until his dying day. He declared his love, bemoaned his poverty. Used every form of manipulation possible. Johnny, as far as I know, never actually said no. He said he’d think about it. Kind of offering hope if the kid would stay. But Johnny was suspicious, too, and hired me to look into Terrance’s past. I uncovered his trail of dead lovers and told Johnny to kick him out, but he wouldn’t. Said he’d come up with a back-up plan but didn’t say what it was. He died a few days later. I take it you’re the plan.”
Lori chuckles. “I’m the plan all right. This is bizarre on overdrive.” She tells him what Allen told her.
“So, you need to catch Terrance admitting to the murder, the cops come and get him, and several millions are yours?”
“Something like that. But if police in three states can’t catch him, how am I going to do it?”
“All Terrance wants is the money. I imagine he’s desperate for it. And desperate people make mistakes.”
“So do amateur detectives.”
“Well, you must’ve been something special to Johnny. He saw something inside you and thought you could pull this off.”
“I haven’t seen him for a long time. Several decades. I might’ve changed.”
Martin shrugs. “Johnny didn’t think so. But if you want to catch Terrance you’ll need to get him on audio admitting his crime. Hire me, and we’ll take this bastard down together.”
Lori studies Martin’s determined face. “You’re hired.”
Lori calls Terrance.
“We need to talk about Johnny’s estate.”
“Where?”
She arranges to meet at a cute coffee shop on Ventura Boulevard at two-thirty.
Judging by his sour expression, the location doesn’t impress Terrance. He carries the Westside snobbery through and through. Quite a large leap in taste for a rural Kentucky boy. Lori sits at a table in the middle of the shop with a microphone taped inside her blouse. Martin is parked across the street, listening. Terrance sits in front of her.
Lori sips a foamy latte. She needs the caffeine and sugar to power through this charade as well as the drops of brandy she added to calm her nerves and keep her hands from shaking.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Terrance says. “Is this about the will? Ridgeley won’t tell me anything—just says there’s been some kind of delay in probate. It’s not fair. I loved Johnny, you didn’t.”
“You’re wrong. I did love him. Anyway, it seems that Johnny wanted us to spend some time together.”
“That don’t make sense,” Terrance says, letting a little Bluegrass accent slip out.
She shrugs. “Can’t say I’m thrilled either. You being so warm and friendly.”
“I’m not…it’s just…Is that really in the will?”
“As the executor who has to sign off on everything, I have to make decisions,” she says, as coached by Martin. “First, I need some information. Where are you from?”
Terrance gives a well-rehearsed story about being from a wealthy family in Florida. His parents died when he was in high school, so he has nobody but himself and he never saw a dime of the money he was supposed to inherit. “If I don’t get this money, I won’t have anything. I’m sorry I’ve been rude to you, but my emotions are all tangled up with Johnny dying and my future so uncertain.”
He puts on a contrite face, eyes wide, mouth turned down. For a second Lori’s heart almost buys it. He can be convincing when he wants to. A master con artist.
“Tell me about Johnny’s last days.”
He studies her, his eyes scanning her like X-rays. “Why? It was awful.”
“I need to know.”
“The cancer was eating Johnny alive. The chemo was killing him, too. His immune system was wiped out from HIV. It was awful.” Terrance’s eyes are wet, but firm. Calculating. “One day I woke up, made breakfast for him and when I came back to bed he was gone.”
He covers his face with his hands and turns away.
According to Allen and Martin, Johnny died faster than he should have. Even with a compromised immune system. Lori reaches across the table and touches Terrance’s arm. It’s a sympathetic gesture. Terrance lowers his shoulder, relaxing slightly.
In a soft voice, she asks, “Did you want Johnny to die, Terrance?”
He slaps her hand back. His mouth twists, and his eyebrows tighten in rage. “What are you accusing me of? How dare you. I—”
“Chill, man. I just wondered if…you wanted to ease Johnny’s suffering.”
“Are you trying to con me out of money that’s rightfully mine?”
“That’s a hell of leap, Terry,” Lori says with a penetrating smile.
Terrance stands up, knocking his chair over with a crash. The entire café notices him. “You’re tryin’ to get me to admit something I didn’t do so you can steal all of his money. That’s not going to work on me.”
“Sit down or you get nothing.”
He points at her, his face contorted in anger. “No. You’re trying to squeeze me out. I see what you’re doing. I didn’t murder Johnny.”
“I didn’t ask if you killed him. You brought that up yourself.”
Terrance’s eyes widen in confusion and anger. “We’re not finished, bitch.”
He storms out of the café, a jangling bell echoing his rapid departure. All eyes settle on Lori. She doesn’t give two shits and smiles back. They probably think he’s her hyper-emotional son.
“Boys. What can you do with them?” After the customers return to chatting and typing screenplays on their laptops, Lori mutters into the wire, “That was a bust. What’s next?”
Sit and wait. That’s what Martin said to do. The turd will contact you again. Oh, and here’s a gun, by the way. You know, just in case.
She opens up an old shoebox from the back of her closet that contains mementos. The glory years. A photo of her and her prom date sits on top. Her brown hair was blow dried and sprayed into a gravity-defying mane. Holy shit, didn’t she rock that shiny aqua strapless dress like an MTV diva? It’s clear as vodka why all the boys in high school wanted her.
Digging deeper, she finds the baby blue satin lace garter, the only thing she kept from her first wedding day. Damn. She’d been so stoked that morning. Relatives and friends from all over were coming. Two-hundred plus guests at the Porter Valley Country Club, high class and nothing less. It set her parents back tens of thousands of dollars, but they’d finished paying their mortgage a couple of years back and had change to spare. After the ceremony, The Deadly Dames were going to rock out the reception. It was going to be freakin’ awesome.
She was marrying Johnny Frick, the most handsome man she’d ever seen. All of her bridesmaids wanted to bone him, but he chose her. Or rather, she chose him. One night at The Roxy, after the Go-Go’s played a rockin’ gig. He might’ve been the only dude at the club who hadn’t tried to pick her up. Somehow, that made him even hotter. Johnny wasn’t up in her business, trying to control her like some guys did. They gave each other freedom. He had his friends, she had hers.
She toyed with the 1.25-carat diamond engagement ring. If it caught the light just right, it turned the ceiling into a planetarium. Yes, everything was perfect.
The hairstylist was putting the final layer of hairspray on her fabulous hair when someone pounded on the door. Susie, her maid of honor/best friend/biggest enemy, ran to open it. Her teal dress was shorter and lower cut than the other bridesmaids, because she wanted attention, too.
“Who’s there?” Susie asked in a sing-song voice.
“It’s Johnny,” a slurred voice said. “I need to see Lori.”
Lori’s heart froze. Something wasn’t right.
“Duh, Johnny,” Susie said. “You know you’re not supposed to see the bride before the wedding.”
The doorknob turned. Lori slapped the stylist’s hand as she continued to coif her hair. “Stop,” she hissed.
“Oh my God,” Susie said. Her happy, coke-fueled voice changed to a tremor tinged with horror and disbelief.
The bridesmaids gasped in unison. It took Lori a few seconds to comprehend what she was seeing. Johnny stood in the doorway, bleary eyed and swaying. He wore a USC half-shirt and cutoffs and held a half-empty fifth of Jack Daniels.
Holy shit. He was not ready to stand at the altar anytime soon.
“Everybody out. Now!” Lori shouted, pointing to the door.
“Everything okay, Johnny?” Susie said, lingering at the threshold, as the others herded out.
“Get out, you bitch,” Lori said with a shove. She grabbed Johnny’s arm, yanked him inside, and slammed the door. She got in his face, hands on her hips. He reeked of booze, sweat, and something else. Something she knew but couldn’t identify.
“What’s the hell’s the matter with you? We’re a couple of hours away from our wedding and you’re like this?”
His bloodshot eyes teared up. “I can’t do it. It wouldn’t be right for you, for me.”
“What do you mean it wouldn’t be right? We’re the hottest couple in the San Fernando Valley. Everybody can see that.”
“But we’re not right for each other.”
“What does that mean? We like the same music and movies. You like to go dancing. We never fight.” What else was there? They loved each other, right?
He put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not you, it’s me.”
She pushed his hand off. “Are you saying you don’t love me?” It sounded weird out loud. She blinked several times. No, don’t cry. She couldn’t let her mascara and eyeliner run.
He looked away. “I’ll always love you. But it’s bigger than that. I don’t—”
Lori’s head swam in confusion. “Bigger than what?” She poked him in the chest with her finger. “I guarantee you’ll never find another woman hotter than me.” Johnny chuckled and shook his head with an agape mouth. Rage burned inside Lori causing her to tremble. “What’s so fuckin’ funny?”
“Lori, I need you to listen to me. Just listen. Don’t say anything, okay?”
She crossed her arms and nodded, afraid what she might say if she opened her mouth.
He took a deep breath. “I. Like. Men.” His face relaxed as if he unloaded an anchor from his shoulders.
Lori shrugged. “So? I like all sorts of people.”
“No, I like men. I’m physically attracted to them.”
She blinked several times, trying to make sense of what he said. “Like you’re queer or something?”
“Yes, I’m queer. Homosexual. But gay is what I prefer.”
Suddenly, she knew what that third scent was. “You had sex with a man on our wedding day?”
Johnny’s face clouded with confusion. “It was early morning and I was drunk, not paying attention to the time.”
She paced around the room, running her hands through her styled hair, frazzling it. “We can work this out, right? Still get married, skip Hawaii if you want and go to a shrink instead. Have them figure out why you’re not right.”
“Lori, this is me. It’s who I am. I’ve known it for a long time.”
Her tears started to flow. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“It’s not about you.”
“No shit, this is about you. You’re making my day all about you, you selfish asshole. Why didn’t you tell me before if you’ve known all along?”
He sat down on the floor and stared at the bottle. “I was in denial. I wasn’t honest with you and I wasn’t honest with myself.” He paused. “If it makes you feel any better, I tried committing suicide a week after I proposed.”
Lori cocked her head sideways, eyebrows merging. “What?”
He nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Took a dozen of Mom’s sleeping pills, but I barfed them up. I thought getting engaged would get me over being gay, but it made me feel worse. I’m so sorry, Lori.”
She met his sad, bloodshot eyes, brimming with truth. Her heart ached worse than ever. A new kind of hurt on top of the others. As much as she hated Johnny now, and maybe forever, she didn’t want him dead. Gawd, why was life was so insanely mixed-up crazy?
“Fuck me.” She reached down, snatched the bottle, and took a swig. “Jeezus. Somebody killing themselves because they’re going to marry me…that’s worse than cancelling my wedding on the fucking wedding day.”
Lori comes back to the present. Man, she was dense and then some back in the day. Ignorance and ego, pedal to the metal. The wisdom of the time, even in “liberal” California, was that sexual orientation was a choice. Thank God, most people have a better understanding now. She was mad as hell when Johnny called off the wedding, but over the years, she’d almost forgiven him. He went off to live with the guy he fell in love with, while she married a dumbass jock from high school who knocked her up within the first month of dating. The rest is a swirling downward toilet bowl trajectory.
Lori shoots the garter like a rubber band and it lands on the bed. She puts it back in the box and shuffles into the kitchen. She takes the pistol Martin gave her out of her robe pocket and puts it on the breakfast table. Stupid heavy thing. Opening the refrigerator door, she pulls out a can of Diet Coke and eyes the Bacardi. God, she wants it bad. Her cell phone rings in the bedroom. Is it Martin? He told her to stick to her phone so he could contact her in case of an emergency. Unfortunately, she took the gun instead. Back to the matter at hand, she needs booze. As she grabs the bottle from the door, she hears a window break.
“What the—” She drops the bottle. It shatters. “Shit.”
She senses movement coming from her bedroom. She looks at the gun six feet away and then the shards of broken glass surrounding her bare feet. Move, woman. As she lifts her foot, a man in a ski mask with a tire iron raised over his head rushes into the kitchen. Lori steps back, bare feet crunching on sharp glass. With a scream, she falls as curved iron whips in front of her face, missing her nose by inches. She rolls on more broken glass. The pain is immense as her senses sharpen, as if she’s just gulped a double espresso. She grabs the broken top of the bottle by the cap and thrusts it into the man’s kneecap.
Terrance’s voice howls. He falls on top of her and hits her with the iron. She bites his arm while jabbing a shard of glass into his side. She has to get to the gun. It’s the only way.
She hears a frantic knock on the door. “Help!” she screams.
A pounding noise sounds like feet are kicking in the door.
“That’s my money, bitch,” Terrence shouts between her screams. “You can’t take it from me.”
The tire iron blows hurt, but his angle is bad, and her clenched teeth don’t allow much movement, limiting the severity of his swings. The Bacardi, however, stings like hell on her open cuts. She splashes rum into his open wound.
“Ow!” Terrance screams.
He drops the tire iron, and she shoves him to the floor. Hurrying, she staggers to the kitchen table, grabs the pistol with her bleeding hands, and pivots, swinging the gun in front of her.
Terrance is on his feet, limping toward her with the tire iron raised. She puts her finger on the trigger and, closing her eyes, squeezes. Nothing. What? Oh, the fucking safety. She pushes it off as the iron smashes down on her hands. Bang! The pistol fires and clatters to floor.
Her hand might be broken, but she keeps her full attention on Terrance. His blue eyes widen with horror. She follows his gaze down to his belly as dark crimson blood flows from a hole in his shirt.
Martin runs into the kitchen with a pistol aimed at Terrance. “Get on the floor, asshole.”
“He’s going to get there any second,” Lori says, probably louder than necessary from the ringing in her ears.
Terrance drops the tire iron as his eyes roll to the back of his head and he collapses.
A week later, Lori lounges in Johnny’s private theater. Well, hers now. Her feet are bandaged, a wrist casted, and nasty bruises spot her back. All of this should hurt more, but Vicodin packs one hell of a punch. Cheers seems funnier too. Although she can’t help feeling like she was used as bait to lure Terrance to her house, Martin assures her that it wasn’t the expected outcome. Yeah, right. Telling a psychopath that she stood in the way of his money, what did they expect? She now has fourteen million ways to forgive.
Regardless, Terrance went into surgery with septic shock and lost several inches of his lower intestine. And that’s the not worst of his problems. Once he’s recovered and put into the penal system—a judge denied bail—Allen heard that Terrance’s second husband had family ties to a drug cartel with a strong prison network. Karma can be one mean bitch…kind of like Johnny’s jilted bride.