The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins (39 page)

Bitch had to take that to the back of her throat like it was a barbed-wire dildo.

And I’m walking out, pushing through the door, into the warm night air. Standing outside in the street, I shout at the faggot valet to get my car. I’m pacing up and down, waiting for the Caddy to appear, as I anxiously check my phone. No calls but five new emails and I realize I’m on Sorenson’s account. One that makes my fucking blood stew:

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: (no subject)

I am your father!

Asshole! I write back:

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

Subject: (no subject)

I AM YOUR FUCKING DAUGHTER!!!

As soon as I press send, a psychic rock immediately thuds down in my gut. Fuck. I had myself signed in as Sorenson on my fucking iPhone! I’ve gotten so used to corresponding with those assholes.

I’m waiting for what feels like hours until my Cadillac arrives, watching the dramas of street drunks as they stagger along the sidewalk to the beat of hip hop and EDM from cruising convertibles. I glance back inside through the restaurant window to see Mona spilling fake-bitch tears as Dad’s hairy, withered tree branch of an arm coils around her bony shoulders. I can’t think which one of the two is the more oily, manipulative scumbag.

I jump in the car, leaving the valet without a tip. — Thank
you
, he minces bitterly.

— Fuck you, I snarl, giving him the finger and speeding off, taking 14th toward Alton. Asshole should have shown some fucking urgency, then I’d have been spared the sight of that fake-assed bitch hitting on my dad. On Alton I’m passing the liquor store when I notice a sloping, shuffling figure emerge, carrying a bottle in a brown paper bag. Timothy Winter. He heads across the parking lot and I do a sharp right turn into it, eliciting a toot from some asshole behind me. I look back to make sure he hasn’t stopped, as I see Winter’s thin, Hawaiian-shirt-clad back appearing in my dipped headlights. I pull up close to him and stop the Caddy. Even though it’s dark, I put my shades on.

As I jump out the car, he turns to me, looking malevolently curious.

— Listen, buddy, I
really
need a drink. Gimme a slug of that and I’ll buy another when we’re done and then we can party!

His eyes squint in the mottled darkness. Looks to me, then to my beat-up wheels. Then he smiles, exposing those yellow teeth. — Best offer I had all day!

I’ll make you a fucking offer, pedophile trash
. I take the proferred bottle from his extended greasy hand, then pivot, smashing it with force across the side of his head. It shatters, leaving me with the jagged base in my hand. I jab it at him, turning my wrist boxer-style, as the twisting spikes and shards of glass rip into his waxy puppet face.

Winter doesn’t make a sound, just rocks back on his heels. Things seem to freeze, then a deluge of blood falls from his face, splashing onto the asphalt. Then his head jerks up and he seems ready to scream, filling his chest with air, but I spring forward and punch the motherfucker hard with a larnyx-crushing blow to his throat, which produces a muffled, gargling noise. Winter’s blinded by the blood and disoriented by the choking as he staggers off, gasping, making for Alton and safety.
No dice, short-eyes.
I’m right into the car, starting it up, accelerating at his swaying figure, smashing into him, as he spills over the hood and crumples to the ground in a series of staccato thumps. I wind down my window and shout out at the broken mass on the deck, — JUST FOR OLD TIMES, YOU CHILD-BENDING FUCK!

Then I’m tearing out the lot and heading north up Alton.

After the charge of excitement has dissipated, I find myself shaking and sobbing outside Lena’s house on 46th Street. I was so fucking stupid. I could go to prison. For a fucking
pedophile
. I’m trying to get a grip of myself, to sort out my short, jagged breathing. Suddenly, there’s a tap on the window. Fear is searing my skin; I’m expecting a uniform to be on the end of the knuckles, but instead two sharp black eyes peer at me from in between a mop of dark hair, and an ironic hipster mustache.

He’s garbed in a black T-shirt and jeans; I instinctively know who he is, even though I’ve never met him before. It’s the would-be artist turned photographer. Sorenson’s squeeze. What the fuck did she call the prick? Jeffrey?

— Hey. You okay?

I roll down the window and switch off the ignition. I quickly decide I’m gonna play the dumbass here. — Sorry . . . it’s been one of those days.

— I know those days, this guy says with a glum smile and empathetic nod. His face is cute and bright. God, this guy is fucking good.

— A friend of mine vanished recently, I say. — She’s not answering her calls so I keep coming round here, to her house, just to see if she’s shown up.

— That friend wouldn’t be Lena Sorenson, by any chance?

I’m nodding, as I climb out the car. — Yeah . . . do you know her?

— Well, he smiles and shrugs, — we’re . . . well, I guess we were kind of married, then he fixes me in a fervent, brooding gaze. — I’m Jerry Whittendean. And who might you be?

Jerry
: that was it. — I’m a friend of Lena’s.

He looks at me in this searching way, but that’s all he’s getting. I can stare. I can do this shit all fucking night. He concedes, and nods slowly. — Listen, I need to get inside to pick up some stuff of mine. Did Lena leave you a key?

I’m not thinking straight, still partly fixating on the mess I left Winter in, back at that parking lot, wondering if anybody saw me or called it in. So I lamely fucking hand this Jerry the key, instantly regretting it as his strong but manicured fingers close around it.

— I’m glad I met you, he smiles in smug triumph. — I was getting so desperate I was gonna break in. As you say, she isn’t picking up the phone, or replying to her emails, and nobody’s seen her around. I thought I’d figure out where she was if I managed to get inside.

— Right, good thinking . . . I’m saying blankly as I’m following him through the gate, down the path and into the house, — . . . why don’t you have a key?

— We’ve been going through a rough patch, he says, with a charmless smile. — I’ve been up in New York, giving her some space.

By that he means banging that other sorry-headed bitch. This is one smooth asshole. That Melanie chick called it right in her letter: he’s dangerous to women. But
I’m
fucking dangerous to men like him. So we’re hunting around in the house, me knowing that he’ll draw a blank as I’ve made sure there’s nothing incriminating lying about, like his fucking notebook.

His frustration soon starts to show. — Do you swing by this place often? Only there’s no sign of any mail, and I know she got sent a package that has my property in it.

— No, I quickly tell him, — a friend of ours, Mona, she picks up the mail.

— Where does she hang out?

— She lives in SoBe or somewhere, but she’s in Atlanta, I lie. — Her boyfriend’s a writer. They’re doing a book tour.

— Yeah? Anybody famous?

— Some asshole who writes crappy crime novels.

— What’s his name?

— Tom Brennan.

Jerry smiles, and points a digit at me in recognition. — The Matt Flynn guy? Man, I love those damn books!

— Yeah, that’s him.

Jerry nods but he’s lost interest and starts going through the bureau in Lena’s office. — Nothing . . . he moans, then his face ignites. — Wait . . . He pulls open another drawer and produces a key. — Jackpot! I think this opens the studio. I’ve a hunch that what I need might just be in there.

I’ve a hunch you’re fucking wrong, asshole.
— I don’t feel so good about us going through her shit, especially in her studio.

Jerry seems not to hear and heads off, compelling me to follow him out into the dark backyard. A motion-sensor light shines in his face, and he blinks in annoyance as he thrusts the key into the studio lock and turns it. — Eureka, he says, as he opens the door and I follow him in. He clicks on a light. The big sculpture, still a work-in-progress, dominates the space. This prick barely registers it. Instead he starts going heavily through Lena’s cupboards, pulling shit onto the floor.

— Hey, take it easy! I protest, as he hisses “fuck” every time another drawer or cupboard produces no bounty, but it’s soon evident that there’s nothing there, or nothing this motherfucker wants; the notebook and pictures are at my apartment.

We go back to the house and Jerry takes a bottle of wine from a rack in the kitchen and opens it. He pours himself a glass and offers me one. I can take the odd glass of red wine as it’s high in antioxidants, but I’ve had more than enough of that shit at the reading and the restaurant and I’m fucked if I’m drinking alcohol with this prick. I open a San Pellegrino. This asshole sure loves himself; he seems less concerned with Lena’s disappearance than his own career, such as it is.

— I was getting stuff together for an exhibition; I got people in New York and London lined up, but it all takes money and I kinda ran out of bread. I’d been hoping that Lena . . . well, that’s another story, he shrugs, lifting the glass up to the light then taking a sip. — Any idea where she could’ve gone?

— She was banging on about some big art project and wanting to go out to the Glades to shoot film, I lie again, then adding, — She wanted a filmed landscape as background for her little green men.

Jerry looks intently at me, like he’s trying to work out if I’m bullshitting. — Her future humans, he laughs, sitting down in one of the leather chairs.

— Yeah. I force a smile, annoyed at myself for colluding with this prick against Lena. I sit down on the couch opposite him.

— Cool . . . he says, then nods. — I tried to get her into multimedia, so I guess I gotta take some of the credit for that, and he flashes a self-satisfied smile. — So how do you know her? Are you an artist?

An aggressive snap of the air conditioning clicking to life makes me shudder. He catches the weakness and acknowledges it with a smile. It chills the room as much as the cold air pumping out of the ducts. — No, I’m a personal trainer. She works out with me.

— Wow, I thought you looked kind of, well, fit. He raises an eyebrow. — But that doesn’t seem like Lena’s thing.

— No, she’s been — I check myself, — well,
had been
working very hard.

— Good. Well, um . . . He raises his brows, settling his drink down on the glass table.

— Lucy.

— Well, Lucy, his eyes narrow, — if you’re feeling better, you should get off and I’ll carry on with my bad Sherlock Holmes impression.

— No, I’m going to have to ask
you
to leave, and to give me that key back. It was entrusted to me, and I can’t let you keep it.

Jerry suddenly switches on that cutthroat gaze again. It unnerves me and I detest myself for it. — Why would Lena entrust a key to you, Ms. Fitness? I’m not getting this.

— I dunno, she just did. Look, I know who you are, and I know that Lena doesn’t want you here!

— Oh yeah? He smiles, pulling himself out the chair and standing tall. He must be 6’, 6’1". There’s nothing but cruelty in his eyes and his tight mouth. That utter certainty of his own power. I feel fear rippling through me, weakening me. — Well, I don’t know who
you
are. You got some fucking nerve. You gonna take the key back? You gonna throw me out?

Oh my God. The last thing I want now is another fight. But the adrenaline is starting to rise in me, to burn off the anxiety. — If I have to. I stand up from the sofa. In addition to his height, he has a swagger, like he’s maybe done a bit of boxing or karate.

— Well, he smiles, patting his pocket, indicating the key, — come ahead, little lady.

Fucking patronizing creep; I just want to get close enough to do to his balls what that fish did to poor Jon’s. I open my palms in a conciliatory gesture. — Look, it doesn’t need to be like this . . .

Then he suddenly lunges toward me, his hand reaching out and grabbing my chin.
I didn’t react.
I feel his alcohol breath in my face and I didn’t react. — Know what I reckon? I think you’re the one who’s been up to no good. I can smell it off you!

I have to stand strong.
Thank God that the fury is rising, melting fear’s paralysis, and I break his half-grip with a sweep of my forearm, then smack him with a left jab, which rocks him back. It’s not a killer blow, but I’m relieved to be in the zone, reacting like I was trained to do. — I’m warning you, back the fuck off!

He touches some blood around his lip. Looks at it, then me. — Too late for that now, bitch!

Then he leaps at me and, once again, I’m found wanting in my response, trying to bring up my knee, but missing, as we crash to the floor, him on top of me, his weight squeezing my breath out. I’m struggling to get traction, as he’s punching at my face. I’m blocking, but I’m pinned, and if he connects properly and I see stars it’ll be ground-and-pound and it’s all over. My sacred numbers aren’t stacking up. The stats never lie. They predict the outcome of the tennis game before a single ball has crossed the net. The election result before a single vote is counted. And as he connects again, a hook around my guard, I can feel it, feel
him
, pressing against me, hard against me, and I shout, — STOP! . . . and he halts for a second, and I tell him in an urgent, desperate gasp, — . . . we should fuck . . .

— What?! His fist is clenched above my face, ready to pound down again. — What did you say . . .?

— Don’t pretend this isn’t where this is going, that you don’t want to either . . . you get off on this as much as I do . . .

He looks flabbergasted for a second, then an abhorrent smile rips his face. — Looks like I’ve finally found a bitch who fucking gets me . . .

— And some, I pant, as he rocks onto his knees and starts to unbuckle his belt and unzip himself. I’m groping behind me with my left hand, and feel something solid in my grip, I’m thinking it’s a fireside implement, like the brass tongs or a poker. I see his expression change in recognition, but as I lift it and bring it down on him, with everything I’ve got left, I realize it’s the ax, and it’s swinging toward his head: wedging into his skull, almost perfectly splitting his parting.