| |
The cell phone startles me awake in the same face-planted position I fell to sleep in a mere few hours ago. It’s constant chiming and vibrating tells me it’s not a text message but a real phone call. I glance at my watch. Eight in the morning. I taste the dry, sour paste that coats my mouth. My head pounds and my ribs ache like nobody’s business. For certain, I bruised a rib or two.
I dig for my phone in my coat pocket. It’s not there. Patting the rear pocket of my jeans, I feel the device and yank it out. It’s a WhatsApp video call from the cop. Rolling onto my back, and scooching up in the bed, I reluctantly answer. She’s obviously out for a jog, judging by her tight Nike tank, wraparound sunglasses, and the matching Nike baseball cap she’s wearing over her ponytail. She’s also bobbing up and down in the video feed while she runs and video calls at the same time.
“Stop running for God’s sake,” I say. “You’re making me nauseous.”
She stops, inhales, and exhales her breath.
“You look like shit,” she says. “And you’re still in bed when you should be in your studio writing up a storm. Let me guess, you stayed up with the whiskey bottle.”
“I was up late writing if you must know,” I say. “Yeah, I had a shot or two. But mostly I just wrote for about three and a half hours straight. It was like the creative floodgates decided it was time to open.” Then, “Let me guess. You’ve been up since five.”
“Five-thirty,” the cop says. “I slept in.”
“Wow, you’re slacking,” I say. “Either that or the old man threw a leg over you. How was it?”
“He’s awesome in the sack,” she says, not without a grin. “Very sensitive and caring. Not like you who’s basically replicating his favorite porn sequences.”
“If you’re trying to kick me in the balls,” I say, “consider my nether regions bashed in.”
“I wouldn’t say shit like that if you wouldn’t talk about the old man having sex with me,” she says. “You know he can’t get it up after his cancer surgery.”
“My bad,” I say. “I guess that’s why you have me. It’s either that or the Pakistani mailman.”
For a quick second, I’m ready for her to hang up on me. But she doesn’t. I sit upright and feel all the blood inside me settle in all the right places. Who shoved a fistful of sand in my mouth while I was sleeping?
Running my free hand over my closely cropped hair, I say, “I had a visitor last night. Two-thirty in the morning.”
“Don’t tell me,” she says.
A car drives by the cop, the driver honking the horn. Mary smiles and gives whoever it is a quick, friendly wave.
“Who’s that?” I say.
“Couple college boys who go to the state college down the road,” she says.
“You still got it,” I say.
“You gotta take care of yourself, bestseller,” she says. “Now tell me about the visit. It’s important.”
Since I need coffee more than my lungs need air to breathe right now, I give her the quick version. I tell her about the late night (or early morning, depending on how you look at it) text, and how I invited her to have dinner with me Sunday evening at the house. Then I tell the cop about Jennifer letting on about my standing inside my studio.
“Only way she could have known that shit was if she was looking directly into my window,” I add.
“She was spying on you,” she says.
I tell her about running outside with my gun, how I shot a couple of rounds in the car’s general direction, and how it sped off into the darkness.
“If you text with her today, and you will text with her, I’m sure of it,” she says, “don’t mention last night’s incident. Just pretend it didn’t happen. If she is as psychotic as I believe she is, she will put it out of her mind as a non-event.”
I slide off the bed and attempt to stand up straight. As usual, my lower back is tighter than hell and therefore killing me.
“Advil,” I say.
“What?” the cop says.
“You know how my back gets in the morning,” I say. “I need Advil.”
With Mary still on the phone, I leave the guest bedroom, enter the destroyed master bedroom, and go into the bathroom. I find the bottle of Advil in the medicine cabinet and set the phone on the sink. Opening the bottle, I pour out four coated pills into the palm of my hand and pop them into my mouth. Turning on the cold water, I place my sore head under the spout and drink the cold well water until I feel like I’m being water boarded.
“How’s the head feel?” Mary asks. “You feel dizzy at all?”
Coming up for air, I touch the sore lump on the back of my head. Cupping some of the water, I splash it onto my face then dry it with the white towel hanging on the wall-mounted rack.
Picking the phone back up, I say, “No dizziness. Just a sore as hell bruise.”
“Try not to drink today,” she says.
That’s when I remember the dinner date I have with my young neighbors. I remind the cop about it.
“I’m sure you’ll have a couple of beers with them since their goal in life is to brag about having a literary celebrity for dinner,” she says. “Be ready for plenty of selfies.”
“I can’t help it if they think I’m rich and famous,” I say.
“Well, you are sort of famous,” she says. “Promise you won’t drink during the day today, at least.”
“Cross my broken heart,” I say.
“I thought it was your head that was broken,” she says.
“Tonight you’ll get back in bed with the old man,” I say. “What if his wiener decides to get hard for a change?”
“Will you please cut it out?” she says. Then, “I’ll be in early Sunday afternoon. We need to be serious about Jennifer’s visit. I’ll have a backup with me, and we’ll bust her on the spot for a B-and-E.”
“You get the prints off the note?” I ask.
“Forensics hasn’t called me yet,” she says, “but we both know she’s responsible for the note. If her prints aren’t on it, then it’s because she wore gloves. We got her on the Ring system video for having trespassed, and now you have a first-hand account of her parking outside your home. I think we’ll have enough to put her in jail for at least a few nights.”
“What happens after she gets out?” I say.
“That could be an issue,” she says. “Look it, I’m cooling down. I gotta finish my run. I’ll try and call you before Brent and I head out to dinner at the country club.”
“Oh,” I say, heading back out of the bedroom, and making my way down the stairs. “Don’t worry your little head off. Instead, think of what stunning outfit you’re going to wear tonight to make your octogenarian banker hubbie feel proud about his young trophy piece of ass under his arm.”
This time she hangs up on me and I can’t blame her.