Angel With a Bullet (12 page)

Sixteen

When the phone rings,
I am having such a wonderful dream that I forget Tip #1.

A familiar voice says, “Dixie, sorry, it's an emergency.”

“Wrong number,” I say sleepily, eyes still closed. “There's no one by that na—”

“No, listen!” The voice is squeaky and girly and—though I hate to say it—blonde. “We're desperate.”

“Hoo-ray.” I muster a total lack of enthusiasm. When I try to roll over, my back goes into spasms and I bite back a cry.

“Fuck sake, Kristy,” grumbles a voice in the background. “I have to pee.”

“Keep your panties on, Sa-man-tha.” Kristy giggles. “Oops, guess we're too late for that.”

I groan and open one eye. Declan isn't beside me and instinctively I know he isn't just getting a glass of water.

“What do you need?” I ask as I slowly sit up and glance at the clock. It is 2:34 a.m.

Bubbles is officially ninety-four days old. My body, however, has aged a hundred years.

Despite the pain and lack of sleep, I actually feel rather happy. Must be the endorphins. Gotta love those little suckers.

“Ummm, do you still have those handcuffs we bought you for Christmas last year?” Kristy asks.

“Yeah, somewhere.”

“And the key?”

“Sure.”

“Ummm, can we borrow it? Just the key, I mean. I seem to have misplaced ours, and Sam is—”

“I get the picture. I'm coming over.”

“Yay, Dixie! You're our hero.”

_____

After slipping into pajama bottoms and a crumpled T-shirt with
San Francisco NOW—Independent and Proud
silk-screened across the front, I decide to add a green terry-cloth robe from behind the door and my Godzilla slippers.

Kristy didn't say if it was a formal emergency, but I hate to be underdressed.

The tiny steel key is in my nightstand. The thought crosses my mind that if I had used the cuffs on Declan, he would still be lying in my bed. Of course, there are probably laws about that. I'll need to ask Frank.

I retrieve the key and cross the hallway.

“Come in,” Kristy calls when I knock on the door. “It's open. We're in the bedroom.”

Dixie's Tips #10:
When entering the bedroom of a couple in need of a handcuff key, it's best to keep one's eyes aimed at the ceiling
. The one flaw to this tip, as I was about to find out, is when the ceiling is mirrored.

“Jeez, girls, what are you doing?”

The bedroom looks like someone has stepped on a landmine filled with dildos, and judging by the size of some, there was a reason this pair had chosen the same-sex route; no Earth-born male could hope to compete.

“Nothing,” Kristy says indignantly. “It's research.”

“I've really got to pee,” injects Sam.

“You're naked,” I say, trying to avert my eyes but finding that nearly every surface in the room contains a reflective surface.

“Naked happens,” admits Sam. “What happened to you? You look like you've been boxing. And lost.”

“Forget about me. You're wearing a dog mask and collar.”

“Awkward but true.”

“And is that a tail?”

“I have one, too,” Kristy interjects excitedly as she turns around to shake her too-perfect-to-be-best-friends rear at me. “Isn't it purr-ty?”

Blonde and petite, Kristy is dressed in a red dental-floss thong, crimson leather bustier with black lace peek-a-boo windows, and a cat-ear headband made from dyed rabbit fur. She has also drawn whiskers on her cheeks and a black triangle on the tip of her nose.

I wonder what King William would think.

Sam rattles her handcuffs. “I really have to—”

“Here!”

Kristy snatches the key from my hand and frees her partner from the bedpost. Handcuffs jangling on her wrist, Sam rushes by me in such a blur she could have inspired a certain Ray Stevens's song from the Seventies.

Kristy returns the key.

“Thanks again, Dix. You're a life saver.”

“Call the S.P.C.A.,” I say. “Maybe they'll give me a medal.”

Kristy smiles apologetically as we wander out to the living room. “Feel like some wine? We have a bottle of white in the fridge.”

“As wonderful as that sounds, I just want to go back to bed.”

“You OK? Sam's right, you do look like you were in a fight.”

“Just stiff. But at least it'll look worse in the morning.”

Kristy doesn't laugh. “He didn't hit you, did he?”

“Who?”

“Your date.”

I shake my head. “No, it was a car thing. Declan was really nice, actually. He thinks I'm sexy.”

Kristy smiles. “I'm glad.”

When Sam emerges, she has removed the dog mask and slipped on an oversized San Francisco 49ers sixtieth-anniversary football jersey. The crimson jersey falls to around mid-thigh and shows off long, athletic legs. She is still wearing the leather collar, but it actually goes well with her buzzed black stubble and ear piercings. Until a few moments ago, I didn't know she had pierced other, more tender parts of her anatomy as well.

“You're looking ruff,” I say.

“Ha, ha,” Sam replies without humor.

“I thought you were barking mad there, when—”

“OK!” Sam interjects. “I get it. You're a wit. Can we drop it now?”

“Sure,” I smirk. “But before I go, I'm just curious how you got the pet license. I would have thought—”

“Arrgh!” Sam stomps into the bedroom and slams the door behind her.

I turn to Kristy.

“Has she had her distemper shots?”

Kristy giggles and shows me to the door. I can hear my bed calling.

Seventeen

When the phone rings
again, it is barely 7 a.m.

Every muscle in my body aches as I edge my hand over to the receiver and bring it to my ear.

“Don't hate me because I'm beau—Nah, that's not true today. Hello?”

“You sound awful, kid,” Frank says.

“Somebody tried to run me over last night. But apart from some cuts and bruises …”

“Jesus!” Frank's voice turns hard. “Are you OK? Did you get a plate?”

“Didn't get a damn thing or I would've called.”

“Son of a bitch! Who did you piss off this time?”

“Oh, so being nearly killed is my fault? Don't yell at me, Frank, my head is delicate.”

The line goes silent for a moment. “Sorry, kid. I don't like to see you get hurt.”

“I'm not too fond of it myself.”

“Any thoughts on who or why?”

“I was thinking the Diego Chino story may have stirred some people up, but I don't get the point of warning me off when at the moment it's little more than a sad profile.”

Frank exhales loudly.

“What?” I ask.

“It's probably nothing.”

“But?”

“I was playing cards with some of the regulars last night, and Willie from Northern said someone picked up the painting we found under Chino's bed.”

My half-closed eyes snap open. “A relative?”

“I asked that, but the body is still in the morgue. Nobody has even looked at it, never mind claimed it.”

“Did Willie get a name?”

“That's all he had, and I didn't want to push. Like I said, it could be nothing.”

“But it's odd.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“I'll look into it. Thanks.”

“Just be careful.”

“Always.” I know how hesitant I sound. “Oh, and by the way, can you check out a Paul Gibson for me? He lives in the apartment below Diego's.”

“What gives?”

“I don't know yet, but he slept through the gun blast directly above him and didn't wake up until I arrived on his doorstep the next evening.”

“Drop by the Dog House later, I'll see what I can dig up.”

“We can compare bruises,” I say cheekily.

Frank laughs. “You've got a lot of life to live before you get anywhere near my score, kiddo.”

After Frank hangs up, I debate getting into the shower but decide to take a page out of King William's book and sink under the covers for an extra catnap.

Eighteen

Cowering in a corner,
I struggle to breathe beneath a blanket of heavy smoke. Wood splinters and cracks. I am trapped. But where?

Suddenly, the smoke parts and he stands in front of me—the artist. His skin is deathly white, butchered lips twisting in a sneer. A waterfall of blood pours from a gaping hole in his skull where the rest of his face should be.

I shrink back, hoping to hide within folds of smoke. He moves closer and I squeeze my eyes tight like a child. Fingers of ice touch my skin to peel back eyelids. A nightmarish laugh cackles in my ears.

I try to push his face from my dreams, but I can't wake up. Hate flows from him and oozes toward me like a giant slug. It smells of bacon.

Bacon?

I sit up quickly, feel my muscles scream, and collapse back down. I am awake, my body tender, but the smell of bacon lingers.

I crawl out of bed, grab my slippers, and pad into the living room.

“Morning, Dix. Sleep well?”

Kristy is sipping a cup of coffee in front of the computer. She has clicked on the TV tuner and is watching
The View
. The guest is former host Rosie O'Donnell.

“Did you know that Rosie has four adopted kids?” Kristy asks.

“And she still has the baby fat to prove it.”

“That's not nice!” Kristy's attention twitches slightly in my direction, but her eyes refuse to break contact with the screen.

“It's one of Rosie's own jokes.”

“That means it's only funny when she says it.”

“OK.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “But do I smell bacon?”

“In the oven. A breakfast sandwich for my late-night hero.”

“You're a doll. A pain in the ass, but a doll.”

Kristy playfully sticks out her tongue before returning to watch the estrogen gang dish dirt and scold naughty celebrities.

I open the oven door to breathe in the warm bacon, egg, and processed cheese on a sourdough biscuit. The sandwich's wax paper wrapping has melted slightly onto the bun, but I don't think a little wax is going to do me any greater harm than the artery-clogging filling.

“Coffee?” I ask hopefully.

“Red thermos by the microwave.”

The coffee is still piping hot, so I pour myself a large mug with just a splash of cream.

I have half the sandwich stuffed in my mouth when the commercials come on and Kristy turns to give me her full radiance. She reviews my swollen and discolored face.

“You look awful.”

“I'm OK,” I mumble as my tongue attempts to free itself from the processed cheese flypaper that coats the roof of my mouth.

“No, you're not. Are you sure he didn't hit you?”

“It was a car,” I say as I finally swallow. “But it missed—well, it mostly missed.”

“That's horrible.”

“Agreed, and now I'm even more pissed if I look as bad as your expression says I do.”

“Sorry. It's just … your dates are never exactly normal, are they?”

“Look who's talking. What were you doing with the dildo factory and handcuffs last night?”

Kristy twists a curl of hair with her finger. “Research,” she says timidly.

“Who for this time?” I ask. “Alex Kava? Elmore Leonard? Stephen Hunter? No, I bet it was John Sandford. That Lucas Davenport character is a frisky devil.”

“You know I can't say.”

“Hmmm, well, some of us do our own research, and that occasionally includes the perils of dating.”

Kristy smiles. “Was he nice?”

I smile back. “He was, actually.”

“But he didn't stay over?”

“No.”

“Did you want him to?”

“No,” I lie. “A gal's got to have her independence.”

Kristy smiles wider as she invades my personal space to pull me into a hug.

Quietly she whispers, “Men are bastards. Be careful.”

Sometimes, she breaks my heart.

_____

After dressing and attempting to cover the worst of my bruises with spackle and makeup, I stop in at Mrs. Pennell's.

She opens the door in her housecoat. King William leans against her left foot, licking one of his paws and rubbing it over his face as though trying to remove a smudge. How she isn't constantly tripping over him, I don't know.

“Ah, Dixie. We've been expecting you. Tea?”

“Not this morning, Mrs. Pennell, too much to do.”

“Late night?”

I nod.

“Your male friend left around two this morning.”

I nod as if it's no surprise.

“He looked in better shape than you, dear.”

“There was a car.”

She reaches out and gently touches my cheek. Her fingers feel like fine sandpaper.

“I worry about you. The work you do, the type of people you meet.”

She removes her hand, her eyes beginning to glaze as though remembering another time, another life.

“No need to worry, Mrs. Pennell. I'm a tough cookie.”

“Mmmm, sometimes tough isn't enough.” Her eyes shift back into focus. “I'll get the note.”

“You got another one!” I blurt.

“It arrived this morning,” she says over her shoulder. “Sam knew; I thought that's why you dropped by. I'll just be a second.”

While I wait, I reach down to scratch King William's ears and the bridge of his nose. Instantly, he plops onto his back, stretches to his full three-foot length, and spreads arms and legs.

“Can't scratch your belly today, I'm afraid,” I tell him. “The flesh is weak … and stiff, and sore.”

King William holds up his paws to imitate a sea otter, but no amount of cuteness can win me over today.

When Mrs. Pennell returns, she looks at King William and tuts.

“Have you no shame, William?”

The cat looks up at her with loving eyes and purrs louder.

I laugh again and accept the note.

Like the first, it is the size of a small invitation or gift card. I open it. The writing, to my untrained eye, looks identical.

It reads:

Abandonment of love is an acceptable loss.

Abandonment of responsibility is not.

—Pearl

Before I can ask anything, Mrs. Pennell says, “I am no more enlightened by this note than I was by the last.”

“And no memory of a Pearl?” I ask.

“None.”

“Abandonment of love?” I say aloud.

Mrs. Pennell shrugs. “I have no children. Nor ex-lovers, still living, who would bear me ill.”

Her use of the word
lover
takes me aback. Coming from the mouth of a white-haired pensioner, did I expect her to say “gentleman caller”? And, come to think of it, how many gentlemen are named Pearl? Not only was I being ageist, but I could also be accused of sexism. Or sexual-orientationism?

So much for my being an enlightened, modern woman.

I place the note back in its plain, unaddressed envelope.

“Do you mind if I take this?”

“Not at all. Any answers you find would be appreciated.”

I slip the note into my pocket, wink at King William, and turn to leave.

Mrs. Pennell gasps. “Dixie! Your coat!”

“I know.”

I am wearing my green trench coat despite the large rip in the back that oozes silk lining like a weeping wound. The beautiful leather is also marred by grease, dirt, and water stains. It looks like I've been dragged down a dark alley behind a car.

“I don't have another coat for this weather,” I say. “And”—it almost sounds silly—“it's my favorite.”

Mrs. Pennell smiles. “I know a wonderful seamstress who works from her home. Leave it with me when you return and I'll see what can be done.”

I beam. “That would be wonderful.”

Mrs. Pennell laughs. “Well, King William and I cannot have our tenants looking homeless now, can we? It reflects badly on us all.”

I try not to look too embarrassed as I exit the apartment.

_____

Mr. French does not answer my knock, though I can hear Baccarat chirping happily in his cage. I slip the note under his door with a brief, hastily scribbled explanation.