Vows, Vendettas And A Little Black Dress

“What the fuck’s up her ass?” he asked.

“She’s pissed,” Dena said with a shrug.

“Why?” I asked incredulously. “She mad at you for getting shot?”

“Not really.” Dena picked up the remote control to the television and turned it over in her hands. “For my mother being pissed isn’t so much a mood as it is a permanent state of being.”

“Oh, got it.” Jason let out a long sigh of relief. “I thought maybe she didn’t like me or something.”

“You’re not the one she doesn’t like,” Dena said shortly.

I smiled and settled myself into the chair by Dena’s bedside. I knew Isa didn’t like me. For one thing she thought I was going to hell because I was a Jew. It’s always hard to have a positive relationship with someone who thinks you’re going to hell. I also suspected that she was clinging to not just a few racist sentiments…not that she ever came out and said so. It was just the way she always seemed surprised that I spoke grammatically correct English and didn’t have any friends in prison that tipped me off.

Dena gave me a sharp look. “I wasn’t talking about you either,” she said. “The only person in this room that she has any real antipathy for is me.”

I swallowed. How did I respond to that? Of course the best answer was probably not to respond at all. “Does she still go to church three times a week?” I asked.

“Yeah, but in her last letter she told me she switched congregations again. It’s hard for her to find a religious community that’s intolerant enough for her.” Dena turned on the television and started flipping through the channels so quickly it was impossible to tell what was on what station.

“All religions are institutions of intolerance,” Jason sneered as he walked over to the window. “They’ll never embrace the beauty of the alternative lifestyle. They’re always spouting shit about heaven and hell. They fail to grasp that it’s about the now, man. It’s about the fucking now.”

“The fucking now,” Dena repeated, finally settling on CNN. “Maybe that’s my mom’s problem, she doesn’t like fucking anything. She doesn’t even like fucking in the literal sense.”

“Dena,” I said with a laugh, “we don’t have to get that graphic about your mom.”

“No, I’m serious. I think the reason she is so into her religion is that it gives her a good reason to be against casual sex or any sex that isn’t for the explicit purpose of procreation. But the truth is my mom doesn’t like sex because it’s hard to be completely in control of yourself during the throes of ecstasy, and Mom doesn’t like to ever be out of control.”

“Are you serious?” Jason turned away from the window, so that his figure was framed by the blue-gray backdrop of the San Franciscan sky. “She doesn’t dig ecstasy?”

“Nope.” She looked up at the face of Wolf Blitzer, wrinkled her nose in distaste and changed the station to Headline News. “All my life she’s been telling me that I must always be in complete control of myself. She can’t understand why I ditched that lesson in favor of the ‘wild life.’”

“But you didn’t—” I started but then quickly stopped myself. The truth was that no one maintained control during sex as well as Dena did. Sex was always on her terms. She chose the positions, she decided if there would be role-playing or if her partner was going to be tied to the bed or not. She may not have realized it, but Dena had totally internalized her mother’s life lessons. But I sensed that pointing that out to her now wasn’t going to go over all that well.

But Dena wasn’t paying attention to me anyway. She was staring down at her legs. “A wild life,” she repeated. “I wonder how wild it’ll be now.”

Jason laughed. “Trust me, baby, it’ll be wild. You don’t have it in you to be tame.”

But Dena didn’t even break a smile. She was still staring at her legs and the look in her eyes… God, I had never before seen her look so sad. It made me want to hold her and then throw things and then wave my fists in the air and rail at God for the unfairness of it all.

Dena looked up at me, and behind the sadness I saw the flash of anger. “The guy who did this…he has to be found. I don’t think I’ll be able to live if the person who did this to me gets away with it.”

“The shooter won’t get away with it,” I said softly. “On that you have my word.”

She looked at me for a long moment before nodding. And then she turned her eyes back up to the news.

By the time I pulled my car into my own driveway the sky was darkening and the air was damp and cool. I liked the feel of it. It gave me a sense of place.

I found Anatoly in the kitchen unloading a bag of groceries as Mr. Katz sat on the floor watching him with hungry eyes. Anatoly stopped when he spotted me, a baguette in his hand. “How is she?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I had given up on trying to answer that question. “I thought you might stop by the hospital,” I said.

“I considered it, but I knew she would be inundated with visitors. I’ll go when she doesn’t feel like she’s playing hostess from a hospital bed.”

“Ah, good call.”

He was quiet for a moment before placing the baguette on the island in the middle of the kitchen with a definitive thump. “I’ll make you a sandwich.” His tone implied that an I’m-not-hungry response would not be accepted. I hopped up on the marble countertop as he pulled out ingredients that he had just put away: Brie, garlic cloves and a bowl from the refrigerator filled with what looked like slices of tomato marinating in oil and spices.

“Wait,” I said as I watched him place the tomatoes next to me. “When did you do this?”

“I had a little spare time in the middle of the day so I gave myself a project.” He came over and gave me a slow lingering kiss before going back to the middle of the kitchen where he had placed all the other ingredients. “It’ll take a half hour to bake the garlic,” he said casually as he threw some cloves in a pan.

This is why I’m okay with overcast skies. I had a boyfriend who marinated tomatoes when he was bored. Life doesn’t get sunnier than that.

“They’re reporting the story on the news,” Anatoly said, interrupting my silent reverie. “It’s sensational enough to get a lot of play.”

And now the dark clouds were coming indoors. I sighed and adjusted my position. “What’s the angle? Woman shot by unknown assailant in the Lake Street district while celebrating her cousin’s engagement?”

“Yep,” Anatoly said. “They finally released Dena’s name a couple of hours ago. I take it that means Mary Ann was successful in contacting Dena’s parents?”

“Yeah, they’re here.” Mr. Katz was circling Anatoly’s legs. He knew food was being prepared. Still, it seemed unnatural that a cat would have a craving for Brie. “I can’t imagine that Dena wants to be San Francisco’s celebrity victim,” I mused.

Anatoly nodded. He pulled a bottle of sparkling water out of the fridge and poured me a glass. “I talked to the other tenants in Mary Ann’s building today.”

“Oh?”

“They all insist that they didn’t buzz anyone into the building last night.”

“Okay.” I sipped my drink and let the bubbles play on my tongue. “So whoever did this had a key to the building or had access to one.”

“Maybe. Or maybe the tenants are lying to me out of embarrassment,” he said as he dribbled extra-virgin olive oil over a small pan of garlic. “There’s no security camera to prove anything. Also, a lot of the people who live in that building are older and many of them are beginning to lose their hearing. They wouldn’t necessarily have heard someone running up or down the stairs.”

“So you spent the day questioning tenants and you learned exactly nothing.”

“I learned that they all like Mary Ann.” He put the pan in the oven and slammed the door. “I think she’s the youngest person living there. More than one of the other residents said she brightens the place up. I seriously doubt that this was an inside job.”

“Okay, not nothing then. You learned that grandma didn’t shoot Dena with a silencer. Well, I suppose that’s progress.”

“We have to start somewhere, Sophie, and it’s usually a good idea to start with the immediate area around the scene of the crime.”

“I know but…God, I just want someone to pay. I mean, not just someone. The right someone. I was talking to Leah today and she said—”

Anatoly’s phone started ringing. It was by the tomatoes and I picked it up to see the number.

“It’s a 212 area code. Who’s calling you from New York?”

Swiftly Anatoly crossed the kitchen and took the phone from me. He glanced at the number once and then dismissed the call.

“Who was that?”

“Just an old client.”

“An old client?” Mr. Katz was staring at the oven. It would be horrible if he ended up being the first kitty to die jumping into an oven in an attempt to attack an oiled clove of garlic.

“Yes, old. I’m not taking on any more of her cases.”

“Her?” He had my attention now. “Her who? It’s not that Mandy bimbo is it?”

“It wasn’t Mandy, not that it would be a problem if it was.”

“She was coming between us.”

“She was a client, Sophie.”

“She was Playboy’s Miss August, Anatoly,” I snapped. “And did she have to call you at two in the morning? Was that part of your client-detective contract? Did you have to hold your meetings on her boat where she could model bikini tops that could double as friggin’ sails! Size-four-triple-D bimbo. Those things were nothing more than a couple of man-made buoys.”

“That case ended six months ago. I never touched her.”

“But you wanted to touch her. I bet you even looked at her Playboy pictures.”

“I was curious. I’m a guy, Sophie.”

“If by ‘guy’ you mean total jerk, I’m in complete agreement.”

“I am making you a tomato and Brie sandwich. Jerks don’t do that.”

“Okay, fine. A lot of the time you’re great. But there are also times when you’re a little bit of an asshole.”

“A little bit?”

I held up my hand revealing a little bit of space between my thumb and finger to show how much a little bit is…then I widened the space by about half an inch.

He smiled. “Let’s not argue about things that don’t matter. She really didn’t interest me. Not only did she look like a plastic doll but she had the intellect of one, too.” He came over to me, making space for himself between my thighs. “I prefer women who are less…manufactured.”

I laughed despite myself and trailed the tips of my fingers along his bicep. “You’re really going to help me find Dena’s shooter?”

“I will.” He tucked my hair behind my ears and kissed me on the nose before returning to his cooking work. “I have a connection at the police department who might get me a little more information than what’s being released to the press. Tomorrow morning I have to do some work for the lawyer who hired me to investigate that workman’s comp claim, but I should be free by the late afternoon. I’ve arranged to meet with my police contact for an early dinner tomorrow after his shift. In the meantime don’t do anything stupid.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said vaguely.

“Yes, you do. If you find something out, tell me. If you think you’ve identified a suspect, don’t go running over to confront them. Leave that stuff to me and the police.”

“Oh, right. That is a more logical way of doing things.” I chewed on my lower lip. I had been pestering Anatoly about opening up to me more about his childhood lately but maybe full disclosure wasn’t all it was cracked up to be after all. I had recently read an article that suggested the happiest married couples consisted of individuals who were skilled in the art of denial. Maybe not telling him about my plans to talk to Chrissie was just another way I could help Anatoly maintain some useful delusions about his life with me.

He pulled out a long knife with a serrated edge and started slicing the baguette. “We need to make a list of possible suspects.”

I winced. I had to tell him. How could I ask him to help me find Dena’s attacker and not tell him everything I knew? I would just make him understand that meeting with Chrissie was a good idea…and when I wasn’t able to do that, I’d let him think he had convinced me of the error of my ways and then I’d meet with her anyway. At least that way I could say I tried to be up-front. It’s the thought that counts, right?

“Anatoly? Okay, um…as I was saying before, I was talking to Leah and—”

His phone rang again. This time it was in his pocket and he took it out only long enough to dismiss the call for a second time.

“Okay, seriously, who was that?”

“I told you.” He yanked open the refrigerator and took out some mayonnaise.

“You worked as a P.I. for an insurance company when you lived in New York,” I reminded him. It was one of the few things about Anatoly’s pre-Sophie years that I could remind him of. It was like he had given me an outline of his early life but only included all the parts one would number with roman numerals and left out everything that might be labeled with 1, 2, 3 or a, b, c.

“I didn’t work for her in New York. That number is just her cell phone.” He scooped out a few tablespoons of mayonnaise and dumped it in a small bowl before going back to the refrigerator and taking out some fresh basil leaves. This was becoming a very complicated sandwich.

“So you worked for her in San Francisco?”

“Sophie, if a client doesn’t give me express permission to discuss their case with other people, I can’t. It’s confidential even if I don’t work for them anymore.”

“You can’t even tell me if you worked for her in San Francisco?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Huh.”

Mr. Katz finally abandoned the oven and hopped up on the counter next to me. I gently ushered him away from the marinating tomatoes.

“We need to stay focused. Think about who might have it in for Dena. I’ll pick the brain of my contact and then we’ll compare notes,” he said. “Are you going to be spending tomorrow in the hospital again? Or do you have other plans?”

“I’ll be seeing Leah but other than that no plans at all.”

Fuck him. My plans were confidential.

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