Richard Stevenson - Cockeyed

“They said they talked to a lawyer in Schenectady, and they can have the money held in a bank in the Cayman Islands. They told me not to be concerned about that, and they would work it out.

They said they saw a report on ABC 20/20 about how people get away with this kind of thing all the time. They said they had worked hard all their lives, and other people were getting away with murder, and now it was their turn to make the system work for them, and it was time for them to clean up.”

The wall phone next to Hunny rang, and he picked it up.

“Good evening, Mr. Sands’ office. Susie MacNamara speaking.

May I help you?”

Hunny listened and said uh-huh several times, and then, “Just a minute.” He put his hand over the receiver. “It’s the Focks News people out front. They said they know I’m in here and if I don’t come out they will stay all night, and sooner or later I’ll have to talk to them. Maybe I should say something. They’ve already interviewed Marylou, and I doubt she told them anything helpful to our situation. Also, they may check and find out she isn’t the real Marylou Whitney, and this will only add to all our woes.”

Lawn said, “Well, you certainly can’t allow them into the house. The place is a pig sty, and there are people in the living room in varying states of undress, and they’re looking at some obscene video. It will just be fodder for what this busybody antigay, pro-morality organization is trying to do.”

Art said, “It’s a great video. Carnival in Costa Rica. But it’s not the one with Cesar Romero and Vera-Ellen.”

Hunny said into the phone, “Give us just another minute, okay?” A few seconds later, he yelped, “Oh no!” and hung up the phone. “They said Marylou invited them into the house for some good weed, and they’re on their way in!”

That’s when we all heard the sound of a woman’s high-pitched shriek.

The Focks cameraman lay on the porch moaning and clutching his chest, and the woman with him was prone behind the porch railing, yelling into her cell phone, “Send the police! Send the police!” The 911 operator must have asked her where she was, because she said, “It’s on my gPs! It’s in the car on my gPs!”

I asked Hunny to remind us of what his house number on Moth Street was, and he said 126, and the woman yelled into her phone, “One twenty-six Moth Street, in Albany!”

We had all heard a car screech away, but there was no sign of the vehicle by now.

Hunny switched on the porch light, and I looked down at the whimpering young man on the floor. I got on my cell and told 911 that in addition to the police we would need an ambulance.

I said, “Hunny, is anybody in the house a doctor or nurse?”

The remaining partygoers were crowded just inside the front door, chattering and peering out.

“No.”

The woman with the cell phone came over and said, “Bert!

Bert! Don’t die on us. Bill needs you. We all need you.” She had a hard time bending down because the jeans she was wearing were so tight.

As I got down on my knees to examine the cameraman’s soaked T-shirt, I saw with relief that the shooting was not what it first appeared to be. The mess on the man’s chest smelled not like blood but like paint. I touched it, and I said, “You’ve been hit with a paintball pellet. It exploded but it didn’t penetrate your body.”

“But, hey, this fucking hurts,” the cameraman groaned. “I hurt my back. It hurts.”

“They tried to kill us!” the woman said. “My God.”

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“Who fired the paintball? What did you see?”

“I think it was a car. We were just coming up the steps.”

Then I remembered that the man dressed as Marylou Whitney had been ushering the newsies into the house, but where was the Saratoga and Palm Beach socialite?

Art had come out now with a flashlight, and he was shining the beam around the porch and the wooden front steps. More red paintballs had struck the porch railing and some of the shingles on the front of the house. A border of marigolds ran along the concrete walkway from the steps down to the sidewalk, also paint-splattered, and it was when Art shone the light down there that we saw the bottom of Marylou’s pink gown. Her legs were sticking out from under the forsythia bush below the porch.

Hunny raced down the steps, shouting, “Marylou! Marylou!”

A muffled voice came out from under the bush. “Hunny, I’m stuck. I fell off the steps, and my necklace is caught on something.”

“Oh, girl, you look like the Wicked Witch of the West and the house fell on you.”

“Somebody shot a gun.”

“But it was just paint, Donald says. Were you hit? Are you wounded?”

“I don’t know, darling.”

Now the woman in the tight jeans was on her cell phone again, and I heard her say something about “they tried to kill us” and “a transvestite may have set us up.”

I asked Art for his flashlight and then crawled under the bush to find out what was holding onto Marylou. Her diamond necklace had become entangled on a forsythia branch, and while she aimed the flashlight I broke off bits of the branch and tried to free the Whitney jewels without damaging them further.

Marylou said, “I know we have known each other for such a short, short time, but I have to tell you, whoever you are, that I think I am falling in love.”

“Okey-dokes.”

She had scratches on her neck and jaw and her wig was seriously askew, but Marylou did not seem to have been hit with a paint pellet.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” I asked.

“I am feeling a bit moist, but that may be from the excitement.”

I yelled, “She seems to be uninjured. We’ll be with you in a second.”

Hunny said, “Maybe the attackers will be back. Oh, where are the Albany police when you need them!”

There was a sudden brightness, and as Marylou and I wriggled free of the forsythia and I helped her to her feet, I saw the woman in the tight jeans wielding a video camera with a light atop it and recording our struggles. Apparently this would be Marylou’s debut on Focks News, and mine also.

I said, “I heard you speculating on who the paint shooter was after. It’s a safe bet that they were not shooting at you but at Hunny or Art or their friends. No one even knew you were here.”

“Who are you?” she snapped. “I need a name please. And your position here.”

“Don Strachey. I’m a private investigator working for Hunny.

Billionaires attract bad people occasionally, and that’s why I am present. Based on your remarks on the phone just now, it sounds to me as if you are among the bad people Hunny needs to be protected from.”

“I’m Jane Trinkus and I don’t need lectures from you on how to do my job. If Bill was here, he would make short work of a dickhead like you. As his representative, I am telling you to watch out or I will do the same.”

“I’m making a note.”

There were no sirens, but the cop car that turned off Transformer came up Moth Street fast, flashing like a meteor.

Art said, “Finally, Alice Blue Gown.”

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There were plenty of parking places along the street, but the patrol car double parked and two officers got out. “Who made the 911 call?” the older one asked.

Trinkus identified herself as a producer for The Bill O’Malley Show and said, “We know that we are not liked in the homosexual community, but this is the first time anyone actually tried to kill us. My cameraman Bert Spatz is lying on the porch severely wounded, and I am just lucky to be alive.”

The cop indicated to his junior officer to go up and check on the cameraman, while Hunny said, “Somebody shot paint pellets from a car and raced off. Very noir — ish, even without the fog and other cheesy effects. But I don’t think they were shooting at these Bill O’Malley lovelies. I won the lottery this week, and I’ve had nothing but trouble since then. I have a private detective, in fact, Don Strachey here, who is looking into a number of unfortunates who have shown up since Wednesday.”