Sex, Murder And A Double Latte

Everything about Andy was massive and awkward. He worked as the stock clerk at the corner market, and at six-seven and with a body weight that had to be well over the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound mark, he was pretty hard to miss. Andy also suffered from brain damage. I wasn’t sure how that came to be. Alice, the market’s proprietor, had said something about his being seriously abused as an infant. Whatever had happened, it certainly hadn’t affected his disposition, which was one of the sweetest I’d ever come across.

I carefully extricated the sports section and used it to absorb some of the liquid penetrating my shoes. “No—I’m sorry, Andy. If I hadn’t have been so preoccupied, you wouldn’t have been able to surprise me. I didn’t mean to swear.” Well, I sorta had, but not at him.

He bent down and examined the mess. “I’m really sorry about your boots and your drink. Was it a Frappuccino?”

“Yeah, they’re one of my favorite vices.”

“I like them too. They’re kind of like a milk shake.”

The paper crinkled as my fist tightened around it. “Andy, I really have to go upstairs and see if I can salvage these. I’ll see you later okay?”

“Okay, Miss Katz. I really am sorry.”

“I know, Andy.” I stuffed the soiled pages inside the now-empty cup and went upstairs.

Mr. Katz was spread out on the love seat, leisurely grooming himself. “Well, at least one of us is having a relaxing day.”

The phone rang and I dumped my stuff onto the dining table in order to free my hands to answer. “Hello?”

No response. That was the last straw. “Listen, asshole, I don’t know if you think you’re funny or scary or what, but if you don’t cut this crap out right now, my husband, who just happens to be a cop, is going to get his hands on the phone records and drag your juvenile butt to jail for harassment, got it?”

They hung up.

Ten seconds later the phone rang again. I picked up the receiver. “Oh, you are sooo asking for it.”

There was no immediate response but I thought I could detect some background noise this time. It sounded like…Donna Summer.

A voice on the other end cleared his throat. “Honey, the only thing I’m asking for is world peace, the end of deforestation and a Miami beachfront property with a six-foot live-in housekeeper named Ricardo.”

“Marcus.” I leaned against the dividing kitchen counter. “Did you call before this?”

“No, but I’m guessing that the person who did, left you a tad out of sorts.”

“Understatement, but it’s not important. What’s up with you?”

“I got a last-minute invite to an art opening for an artist named Donato Balardi. It’s at the Sussman Gallery tonight. Want to come with?”

“That actually sounds fun. I’ve just finished a manuscript and I’ve been trying to celebrate, but so far I’ve been failing miserably.” Mr. Katz blinked his eyes in what I took for agreement.

“You finished your book? Honey, that’s great! Tell you what, I’ll throw in dinner at Puccini and Pinetti to mark the occasion. My last appointment is at four but it’s just a trim and style, so if we plan for me to pick you up at six-thirty I’ll still have some wiggle room.”

“Wiggle away. I’ll see you at six-thirty.”

I spent the rest of the day reading what was left of the paper and napping. It had been over a week since I had gotten a good night’s sleep, and I had no intention of going out with saddlebag eyes. Knowing Marcus, he’d be fifteen minutes late, which was fine with me because I needed the extra minutes to do something with my hair. Tonight I would make Marcus proud, even if it killed me.

Several hours later, it was killing me. It was six-forty and I had been torturing myself with a blow-dryer and a curling iron for the last hour and a half, and my reward was hair that was big enough to intimidate Diana Ross. Marcus was so lucky; he had those short little well-groomed dreadlocks, and all he had to do was shave, get dressed and voilà—he was the next Blair Underwood. I was desperately searching my bathroom drawers for some styling product to fix the problem when the phone rang.

I rushed out into the living room to get it. “Hello?”

It was a hang-up. I stared at the phone. Either I hadn’t been as convincing as I thought, or the person prank-calling somehow knew I didn’t have a police officer husband. How would they know that? The buzzer jarred me out of my thoughts. My hand flew to my hair. “Damn it!”

I crossed over to the intercom. “Marcus, I just need another minute to finish putting myself together.”

“In another minute, I’m going to have a meter maid in my face.”

“Maybe you could flirt your way out of it?”

“Are you suggesting he’s gay?” Marcus asked. “Honey, there isn’t a gay man alive that would be caught dead in that polyester thing they call a uniform, and I’m not even going to get into that white scooter-deally they drive…. Oh shit, Sophie, he sees me! Oh my God, he’s getting into the white scooter-deally… Run, Sophie! Get your little ass down here now!”

I kicked a nearby pillow with enough force to propel it across the room and send my cat running for cover. I looked over in the direction of the kitchen where the diamond studs I’d planned on wearing rested on the counter, and quickly decided against them. Considering the state of my hair, nobody would see them anyway. I did want to bring my cell phone, though. Funny, I thought I had left it by the earrings. The buzzer blasted again. Obviously I’d have to find it later. I grabbed my purse, and booked down the three flights of stairs to the entryway of my building. As I hurried out the door I saw the meter maid puttering toward us, less than fifteen yards away.

“Get in, get in, get in!” Marcus screamed from behind the wheel of his Miata, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror.

I jumped into the passenger side, and Marcus, without so much as giving me a sideways glance, put the car into gear and we were off, leaving the meter maid snarling in our wake.

“You know, you could have just driven around the block.” I yanked my seat belt across my chest.

Marcus snapped his head in my direction for the first time that evening, a move that I assumed was a precursor to a snappy comeback, but the retort froze on his lips. “Oh my God, what happened to your hair?”

“Oh, well, I thought I’d do something different. Close your mouth and watch the road.”

Marcus turned part of his focus back to the narrow street leading us toward downtown, but his eyes continued to dart in my direction. “You tried to use a curling iron again, didn’t you?”

“Um…”

“How many times do I have to tell you…stay away from the curling iron. In the wrong hands those things are like deadly weapons. It’s like that little Australian crocodile man always says—danger, danger, danger.”

“Okay, fine, I look like shit. Point taken.”

“You don’t look like shit. The makeup’s all good and the little camel suede halter dress, paired with the three-quarter leather is a look ripped right out of April’s In Style. It’s just the hair that’s giving me ‘Tina Turner in the eighties’ flashbacks.”

“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad!”

“Well, it won’t be in a few minutes. I’ll fix it in the parking garage.”

“You have hair supplies with you?”

“Never leave home without them.”

I relaxed back into the seat. He brought hair supplies. Earth-shattering crisis averted. Unfortunately, that allowed my mind to wander back to the phone calls. It was pretty ballsy to crank-call after my last threat, even if the perpetrator didn’t believe me. It showed that the caller was not just looking for an easy target to intimidate. In my book, Sex, Drugs and Murder, the bad guys had prank-called my protagonist and her roommate in hopes of determining when they were home. That way they didn’t run the risk of running into them while breaking in. Could someone be thinking of breaking into my apartment? Had I remembered to close the kitchen window? The thing was almost impossible to close and I usually left it open a crack… No, I was being paranoid. The first part of my day had been hideous, and there was no way I was going to let a few phone calls ruin my night. I forced myself to think of a more removed topic that would hold my interest.

“Have you been following the JJ Money murder case at all?”

“And we’re back in the stream-of-consciousness world of Sophie Katz.”

“You know me, I’m all about keeping you on your toes. It’s what gives me my edge.” I made an attempt at a playful smile. “DC Smooth’s appealing the verdict. I honestly think the guy is innocent. All the evidence against him is just way too convenient for my taste.”

“As a mystery writer this is probably a hard concept for you, but in the non-MTV real world, people who are convicted of crimes are usually guilty.”