Jonathan Nasaw - When She Was Bad

Mick was on his second toke when the phone rang; he coughed out the hit and answered it as his nonexistent French receptionist. “MacAlister and Associates, zis is Gabrielle, ’ow may I direct your call?”

“Mr. MacAlister, please.”

“’Oo may I say is calling?”

“He wouldn’t recognize my name.”

“What is zis in reference to?”

“Just tell him it’s about Lily DeVries.”

“’Old ze line, please.” MacAlister, a little surprised at how little surprised he was, put the phone down while he filled his KPIG mug with lukewarm black coffee from the thermos on his desk. “The monkey’s got the locomotive under control,” he whispered to Alice before picking up the phone again. “MacAlister here. What can I do you fer?”

Lyssy stared in wonder at the naked, sleeping girl. He thought back to the first time he’d laid eyes on her in the arboretum. He felt as if he’d known even then that she was fated to be a part of his life.

But how deep a part, he could never have guessed. Since they’d made love, clumsily at first, then with increasing skill as instinct and muscle-memory took over (for both of them), every inch of her had somehow become precious to him, verging on holy, the curve of her breasts and buttocks no more or less so than the curve of her calves or earlobes.

She stirred and rolled over onto her side; a snore bubble formed and popped on her perfectly shaped lips. In this position, he could see the dark shadow between her legs. Lyssy grew aroused again, realized he had to pee.

The bathroom facilities in the attic consisted of a toilet and a low sink hidden behind a blanket at the far end of the room. Before Lyssy could put on his prosthetic leg-he’d taken it off earlier, at Lilith’s insistence; she’d said it was like having somebody else in bed with them-Lilith sat up and hugged him from behind.

“Is that a bullet hole?” she asked him sleepily, gently tracing the round, indented scar in the hollow of his left shoulder with her fingertip.

“Nine millimeter, they told me in the hospital.”

“Does it hurt real bad, getting shot?”

“I don’t remember getting shot-just waking up in the hospital with this shoulder all bandaged, and a thing like an upside-down basket over my knee.”

Lilith changed the subject. “If you want, we could do it again. There’s lots of ways, you know.”

Lyssy could feel himself blushing. “Sure, maybe. I have to pee first, though.”

“No you don’t,” said Lilith mischievously.

“I don’t?”

“No, you have to pee second,” she told him, hopping out of bed butt-naked and racing for the toilet.

“Hurry up,” called Lyssy, frustrated but laughing; obviously, sharing a bathroom was something else he was going to have to get used to.

Carson was still in bed when Mama Rose called from town. He smiled when he heard her voice, remembering their spirited romp that morning. Whoever said more than a handful of titty was a waste must have had some big goddamn mitts, he decided. But despite the conjugal workout, he still hadn’t changed his mind about tucking into that sweet Lilith at least once before he had to kill her-now that would have been a real waste.

“Hey babe, what’s up?” he asked his wife.

“Everything okay on the homefront?”

“So far, so good-they don’t even know they’re locked in yet.”

“Good, good. Listen, I ran into Dennie in town.” Dennie, half full-blooded Aleut, half Okie pipeline worker, was Li’l T.’s immensely pregnant ol’ lady. “We’re thinking about grabbing some dinner.”

“No problem, long as you get back before nine o’clock.”

“Why nine o’clock?”

“That deal with those guys from San Berdoo? Remember, me and Li’l T., we’re supposed to meet ’em in town, drive ’em up to the shop?”

“Oh, right,” said Mama Rose. “It completely slipped my mind.” A purposeful lie-she’d needed to verify that Carson was still planning to go out that night, but had been afraid that a direct question might have aroused suspicion on his part.

“It’s just I don’t think we want to leave our friends in the attic home alone.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back in plenty of time.”

“Okay, see ya then.”

“Love ya,” said Mama Rose.

“You bet,” said Carson, whose thoughts had already turned back to the girl in the attic.

“Lyss?”

“Hmmm?”

“Want to get some fresh air?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Lyssy sat up-they’d moved the two beds together for the second go-round-and started looking around for his leg, while Lilith slipped on her jeans, her brown cashmere sweater, and her sneakers, then bent over and grabbed the handle to the naked-looking wooden trapdoor set into the linoleum. It wouldn’t budge.

“Fuck a duck, it’s locked. They never locked it when I was here before.” She stomped on the closed hatch like a three-year-old having a temper tantrum. “Hey! Hey, the fucking door’s locked.”

They heard footsteps on the ladder, the click of a padlock. “Go ahead, open it.” Carson’s voice.

Lilith yanked. The trapdoor swung up and over, crashing top down against the linoleum; years of such abuse had worn a harelip-shaped gouge in the face of the Ninja Turtle with the blue headband. “You first, lamb chop,” called Carson, still wearing his bush hat, bathrobe, and flip-flops.

The ladder was steep, but the rungs sturdy and wide, of the same unfinished wood as the trapdoor. Lilith scrambled down, but before Lyssy could follow-he hadn’t found his pants or his leg yet-Carson sprang up the ladder. Waist-high in the attic, he waved a stubby-looking revolver in Lyssy’s direction.

“One customer at a time,” he said, keeping his eyes and the gun trained on Lyssy, while he felt around for the handle of the trapdoor. He raised the hatch to the vertical and held it up with one hand, dropped the gun into his bathrobe pocket with the other, then let go and ducked simultaneously. The trapdoor came crashing down, nearly crushing his jaunty bush hat.

Lilith watched from below while Carson reattached the padlock and snapped it closed.

“Lilith? Lilith, what’s going on?” There was panic in Lyssy’s voice.

“It’s okay,” she yelled, as Carson scooted nimbly down the ladder, skipping the last few rungs and landing lightly on his flip-flops. “We’ll get it straightened out, I promise.”

Carson laughed. “Oh, we’ll get it straightened out all right,” he said. “We’ll get it good and straightened out.”

No rewards for Maxwell had been posted by the time Mick MacAlister and E. L. Pender left Santa Cruz Thursday afternoon in a red Cadillac convertible with white upholstery and a Grateful Dead skull-and-roses bumper sticker. But Pender had already called Lily’s uncle to tell him they had a line on Lily’s whereabouts, and might need to offer a reward, and Rollie DeVries had informally agreed to pony up another ten grand.

This one wasn’t about the money for MacAlister, though. It was about glory-or its modern equivalent, celebrity. Bringing in Maxwell while the hot white glare of the media spotlight shone full upon him would all but guarantee Mick his allotted fifteen minutes of fame, which nowadays could be extended almost indefinitely.

As for Pender, who’d been driving through Moss Landing-quaint fishing village on one side of the two-lane highway, hellish power plant, like something out of The War of the Worlds, on the other-when MacAlister reached him on his cell phone, it had been a mixed bag of motivations, none of them financial, that inspired him to turn around and head back to Santa Cruz.