Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller (20 page)

“I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Do you want some stew?” she asked.

Ah, I had forgotten about the stew. Whoever programmed my robot of a mother installed an exceptional cooking program inside her. I’m actually surprised I did not look to food as my savior during childhood and balloon to eight hundred pounds.

“That would be great, Mom. Thanks.”

A little more shuffling behind me and soon a hot bowl of stew was my reward. She placed it on the table before me, followed by a glass of water. Ever since my father died, there had never been so much as a drop of alcohol in the house.

I took a bite as she joined me at the table. “Mmm…it’s good, Mom.”

She nodded a thank you. “How’s work? Are you still massaging?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

I thought of Angela, her beauty, the sex. And then before I could help it, my mind showed me the rest: the freak, Stephanie, the fucking shark.

Looking down at my bowl I muttered, “No, not really.”

My mother reached across the table and patted my hand. “You’ll find someone.”

I faked a smile. “What about you? You seeing anyone?”

She made the sign of the cross on her chest. She was the only one in the family whoever went to church. “Calvin, your father is gone.”

I swallowed a bite of stew. “So?”

She frowned a little. “So my husband has passed on.”

“Yeah but you haven’t.”

“Oh, stop it, Calvin.”

“Well, Christ, Mom, it wasn’t like he was a poster boy for monogamy.”

Now she frowned a lot. “
I beg your pardon?
”

I looked down at my bowl again. “Sorry, Mom. I just worry about you being on your own, you know?”

“I have you and your sister to check in on me,” she said.

I snorted. “And when was the last time
she
dropped by?”

My mother didn’t answer, just closed her eyes and turned her head as if I’d said nothing, as if my sister wasn’t a woman who placed substance abuse—

(
HA!
)

—and promiscuity above all else.

I tried denting her armor of denial anyway. “I’m just saying, what if I wasn’t around anymore, Mom? What if something happened to me?”

She made the sign of the cross again. “God forbid.”

I sighed and gave up. Took a final bite of stew, pushed back my chair and stood. “Okay—well I better get going.”

She followed me into the foyer. “Do you want to take some stew home with you?”

“I’m not going home, remember?”

“Oh right. Where are you staying while your house is being bombed?”

“Paul’s.”

“You know you’re welcome to stay here.”

I gave her another fake smile. “Thanks, Mom. Paul’s expecting me though.”

I started calling for Pele.

“How long will I have to look after him?” she asked.

Pele appeared and made a beeline for me, circling and rubbing against my shins.
We’ve stayed long enough. Take me home.

“Not sure yet,” I said. “Hoping it’s not long.”

I bent and picked him up. He began purring immediately. I hugged him and kissed the top of his head a few times. He usually didn’t mind being held, but he hated being kissed. He allowed it now, and I felt my throat swell and my eyes fill. “You’ll take good care of him, right?” I managed, my voice nearly cracking.

“Of course I will.”

I hugged and kissed Pele again. “I love you, buddy. Be good.” I set him down, turned and hugged my mother without warning. The tears in my eyes were stronger now. “I love you, Mom.”

She seemed stunned by my sudden—and heartfelt—embrace. But before long she was hugging me back with equal affection. “I love you too, sweetheart.” She pulled away from the hug and grabbed me by the shoulders, studying me. “Are you okay, Calvin?”

I smiled—a real one this time—and wiped a tear away with the back of my hand. “I’m fine.”

“I’ll see you soon?”

“I hope so.”

I couldn’t tell him. No way. Like the night at the bar where I hacked into my calf to remind me to keep my mouth shut, I needed to be just as disciplined here—more so. If I’d slipped up at the bar, my punishment would have only been a barrage of questions followed by a barrage of rhetorical questions, asking if I used to take the short bus to school. If I slipped up now? Told him everything? I don’t even want to
think
about my punishment. As I said, Paul—after telling me I was a fucking idiot—would insist on some kind of involvement. If something happened to me, so be it. If something happened to me
and
Paul? Christ, I got sick just thinking about it.

I pulled into the parking lot of the Winchester Hotel. It was the nicest place with the closest proximity to the club. Angela had selected it, and she was inside, waiting for me. I was a few minutes early—as I’d planned—and I used that opportunity to call Paul. I dialed his cell, and was still unsure as to what I was going to say, even after the third ring. His voicemail eventually came on, and a part of me felt relief—it would be better to leave a message than to suffer his questioning.

“Hey, man, it’s me. I’m just calling to apologize for my weird behavior lately. I’m actually sitting outside the Winchester Hotel right now. I’m about to go inside to meet this girl I’ve been kinda seeing lately. Unfortunately, I’m not going in there to do what you think I’m going in there to do.” I paused a second and took a breath that felt like smog down my lungs. “I got into some serious shit, man…and there’s a good chance I’m not gonna…” I cleared my throat. “If I don’t see you again…”

Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry

“…I just need you to know how lucky I am to have a friend like you. I love you, man.”

I hung up, turned off my phone, and cried.

I raised a fist to knock, froze, and then lowered my hand.

If I run, he’ll find me, right?

(
Maybe.
)

If I do this, I could die. If I don’t do it, I’ll definitely die.

(
If they find you.
)

Why wouldn’t they? I’m no survivalist who can live off the grid. I’d have no clue where to even begin.

(
Then we don’t have a choice, do we?
)

No. This IS the safer of the two options. This way I’ve got the element of surprise; like Angela said. If I run, I’m handing that element over to them.

(
Then knock. Take the first step and knock.
)

I raised my fist and knocked.

Angela immediately opened the door. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought she was watching me through the peep hole, studying my apprehension.

As soon as she let me in, she closed the door, locked it, and gave me a powerful hug. “Thank you,” she said.

I pulled away and held her at arms’ length. “I’m doing this for us you know. You
and
me.”

She nodded. “I know that.” Her front teeth were still gone.

“It’s just like you said: I’m saving
our
asses.”

She gave another nod.

I took a deep breath, held it for a second, then let it out slow. “Okay then…what do you have for me?”

She pointed to a black leather bag on the bed. It looked like the kind of bag a doctor who made house calls would carry.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“Hopefully everything you’ll need.”

I opened the bag. Inside were a gun and an impressive looking knife. I held up the knife. “What’s this for?”

She gave a partial shrug. “I don’t know. Just in case?”

I wagged the knife at her like a finger. “If I lose the gun, they’re going to use this to check my prostate.”

“Stop it.”

I put the knife back in the bag and took out the gun. I saw an emblem that read Glock near the gun barrel. A long dark cylinder that looked like a piece of pipe was attached to the barrel. I’m no gun guy, but I’d seen enough movies to guess that dark cylinder attached to the barrel was a silencer. I asked anyway, tapping the end of the weapon with my finger. “This a silencer thingy?”

“Yeah. Don’t ask where I got it.”

I wasn’t about to. For all I knew it was hers—one of many.

I put the gun back in the bag. “What about the key?”

She went into her pocket and produced a thick brass key. “This will get you in the back door. I’d park a good distance away, then make the remainder on foot. A car in the back lot after hours might raise suspicion.” She handed me the key. “You feel good about the floor plans?”

“I think so.” I then studied her carefully after asking: “Still no idea about the money?”

“It’ll be there.
Where?
is the question. You might have to…” She gave a partial shrug.

“What?”

“Get him to show you.”

“I imagine he’ll be eager.”

“So you make him eager,” she said.

I snorted and shook my head. “You really do think I’m James Bond.”

“So…” she said, ignoring my doubt. “They should be there by now. Probably into their first bottle of vodka already. Now’s as good a time as any.”

“No—not yet it’s not.” I sat down on the bed. “I need one last thing from you before I go
anywhere
.”

“I want the tape.”

“What tape?”

“The one with you, me, and the freak, Angela. The one where I was bound—
by you
—and then attacked by some bat-wielding psychopath—at
your
command—forcing me to
defend
myself. Not that edited nonsense that makes me look like Jason fucking Voorhees. I want the
original
.”

She stared back at me with a good poker face. I’m not sure what kind of reaction I expected—maybe I wanted to rattle her a little—but I did not expect her to look as composed as she did. Perhaps she’d been expecting it, wondered why it took me so long to mention the damn thing.

“I want that tape,” I said again. “I’m putting my life on the line here tonight, and if I live, I want proof that I was, in fact, acting in self-defense should any of Mr. John’s friends decide to send that edited bullshit into the wrong hands.”

“It’s a DVD,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Nobody uses tapes, Calvin.”

“Are you honestly trying to divert with this semantic bullshit?”

“No—I was just saying.”

“I don’t care what kind of fucking
format
you use, I want the footage. The
original
footage.”

“How do you know I still have it?”

“What?”

“How do you know I didn’t destroy the original?”

Shit—I’d never considered that. For the very life of me, I don’t know why, but I’d never considered that. Whatever leverage I thought I’d achieved in this exchange was now gone. I could try and bluff, try some kind of psychology about her being the narcissistic type who would prefer to hold on to the original as a reminder of her prowess in all things manipulation, a sociopath who keeps trophies of past conquests. But I no longer believed Angela was a sociopath. I didn’t even believe she was a narcissist. Any bluff on my part would have been transparent to an eye as sharpened as hers. So I said the only thing I could manage:

“Did you?”

She paused a moment, looking down at me. “No,” she eventually said. “I still have it.”

And then, instead of asking for it once more, I asked something else. “Why?”

She sighed. “Maybe I kept it for the same reason you want it.”

“To prove my innocence?”

“Maybe—if it ever came to that.”

(
Do you believe her? Do you believe her??
)

“I’d still like to have it,” I said. “For peace of mind, if nothing else.”

“It’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

“I see—I come back alive, and my reward is the uncut version of Calvin and The Freak.”

She ignored my shot at levity and said: “And me—if you want me.”

My cynicism, momentarily humbled during Angela’s reasoning for not destroying the original film, suddenly resurfaced from its pool of self-preservation. “Don’t forget about the money. Can’t forget about that, right?”

She sighed. “Yeah…and the money.”

I nod.

“Yeah—I’ve actually been there. A buddy of mine had guest passes. Place is unreal. Like one of those Greek bath houses you see in books and movies. Fancy tile, marble columns, fountains. I tell ya; if I had the money…”