Warren Adler - The War of the Roses

Clutching a fiery, golden metallic object, he felt it give and he was suddenly in a cold rainstorm. He lay back, letting the water run over him. Colored drops invaded the space above him, crawling over him like insects. The rain reminded him of something, something long ago. He heard pounding on the windowpanes and the muffled drone of a croaking voice. ‘Going once. Twice.’

‘Sold,’ the voice screamed. His body lurched, grew still. He was certain that it was his tears coming down as rain.

Logic returned in fits, like blips on a computer screen, first as random patterns, then as connections. The colors faded, disappeared. He could see a spear of sunlight through the water rushing above him and finally he was observing himself lying in the bathtub being sprinkled by a gush of water from the shower head.

Testing his reflexes before he made an effort to rise, he felt pain in his buttocks, and as he rose slowly his head spun and ached. Stepping cautiously out of the tub, he held on to the sink and turned off the water. There was blood on the bathroom tile and on his fingers where he had touched the cuts. His eyes focused clearly now, and in the mirror he saw his rump, a network of oozing red tributaries.

Patting himself dry, he sprayed disinfectant on the cuts, then walked into his room. It was a mess. The bedclothes lay in disarray on the floor, which was strewn with broken bottles. He picked his way carefully across the broken glass and got into his shoes. Standing in the center of the room, he tried to reconstruct what had happened. Oddly, he remembered the images he had seen. Nightmarish shapes and sounds. Then he heard Benny’s pained whimper and saw him cowering in the corner, his big brown eyes laden with hurt. He looked mangy, off color. Moving closer, he appeared to be covered with a whitish sticky substance.

Grabbing him by the neck chain, Oliver moved him into the bathroom and drew the blind, throwing the room into semidarkness. Luminous paint. The revelation came at him with a rush. He remembered the orange juice.

‘God damn it,’ he shouted, feeling the rage overflow and tighten into a ball in his chest.

He dressed hurriedly, picked up the orange-juice carton, and, leashing Benny, took him downstairs. He did not even look at Barbara’s closed door, deliberately trying to contain his rage. Soon, he told himself, promising that she would pay dearly. He drove Benny to the vet in Eve’s Honda.

‘What asshole did that?’ the vet asked, looking at Benny.

‘Somebody who didn’t like him, I guess,’ Oliver responded.

‘It’ll take all day to clean him up,’ the vet said. ‘I also want to check his skin.’

Oliver nodded, then thrust the orange-juice carton in front of him.

‘I also need a favor. There’s something in this I want analyzed. I think he drank some.’

‘Orange juice?’ The vet shook his head. He seemed perplexed. Taking the carton, he sniffed at it, then shrugged. ‘I’ll call you.’ He looked at Benny. ‘You poor bastard,’ he said, leading him away.

Oliver went to the office, but he couldn’t concentrate. Occasionally last night’s colors burst in his mind again and he broke into a cold sweat. For most of the day he lay on the couch and tried to hold himself together.

‘You all right?’ Miss Harlow asked, coming into office.

‘I had a rough night.’

‘Tomcats, the lot of you,’ she mumbled.

Finally the vet called. Hiss Harlow put him through.

‘LSD,’ he said. ‘Your dog took an acid trip. Maybe he sprayed that stuff on himself.’

‘Very funny.’ He had suspected as much. The information didn’t come as a big surprise.

‘He looks fine now. We got it all off. He’s a tough old guy-‘

‘So am I,’ Oliver muttered as he hung up. His head felt clearer than it had all day.

He resisted calling Goldstein. Her behavior wasn’t actionable because he couldn’t prove anything. Remembering what he had done to her Valium, he smiled ruefully. ‘Ingenious bitch,’ he whispered. He even felt a touch of grudging admiration.

So she’s getting to be a murderous little viper, he told himself. He’d show her what that really meant.

When he went upstairs to his room that night, he found a note Scotch-taped to his door. He saw Barbara’s left-handed scrawl: ‘I’m having a dinner party Friday night. I would appreciate your not interfering in any way.’

The note was unsigned, as if any identification on her part would have implied a modicum of intimacy. He crumpled the note and kicked at her door. A dinner party? Where was the money coming from? ‘You monster,’ he cried. There was no response.

He decided he needed a drink and went downstairs to the library, opening the armoire and pouring himself a tumbler of scotch. Neat. He swore off mixers, especially orange juice. And vodka. So he was now paying for her dinner parties. How much of his own victimization was he expected to tolerate? It was beyond endurance. She was flaunting him, humiliating him. Sitting down on the couch, his hurt buttocks smarted and he stood up quickly. Besides, something was nagging at him, beyond mere indignation, as if something in the room itself was awry. His eyes did a cursory inventory, like a moving TV camera, and his mind ticked off their possessions as if a page of the list had been inserted into a slot in his brain.

There was some intuitive deductive system at work, triggered by something missing. His eyes roamed, lingered, inspected. ‘ Little Red Riding Hood,’’ his voice boomed out. Little Red Riding Hood was missing. This was different. He rushed to the phone and dialed Goldstein’s number.

‘Little Red Riding Hood is missing,’ he shouted into the phone.

‘I know, the wolf ate her.’

‘Don’t you understand, Goldstein? She stole it to pay for the dinner party. It’s a Staffordshire figure.’

There was a long pause.

‘You should take a long vacation, Rose.’

‘She stole it. Don’t you understand? She’ll get at least two grand.’

‘I’m taking a long vacation. You should, too. As fast as possible. We’ll worry about it when I get back.’

‘How can you go on vacation?’

‘I go when Thurmont goes. Don’t worry. It’s only for six weeks.’

‘Six weeks?’

‘We’re entitled, Rose. We work hard.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘You call me late at night to tell me about Litde Red Riding Hood missing. What don’t I understand?’

It seemed futile to explain. The words hung in his throat.

‘That’s where the money is coming from, Goldstein.’ There was no response on the other end.

‘The money…’ Oliver began again.

‘I’m going on vacation, Rose,’ Goldstein said finally. ‘Which reminds me. You’re behind on my retainer.’

Oliver hung up, staring at the phone in its cradle. So it’s every man for himself, is it? he thought, feeling a charge of adrenaline stiffen his resolve. He’d show them what resolve really meant.

She had to polish all the silver herself. It was difficult work, particularly the rococo centerpiece, a copy of a de Lamerie. She was absolutely determined that nothing, nothing would go wrong.

She hoped, too, that he had gotten the message. She had heard the weird noises. It was not, the pusher had said, much of a dose. Just a short trip. Painting Benny was an afterthought. By now Oliver must realize that he couldn’t attack her with impunity. She was just as clever, just as resourceful. All he had to do was move out. Then it would be over.

And she was entitled to take the Little Red Riding Hood. She had never really admired the piece. And, if the truth were known, she wasn’t that fond of collecting Staffordshire. They were crude figures, had no intrinsic beauty, and the expressions on their faces were insipid. All because of Cribb and Molineaux. She was sick to death of the memory. Getting two thousand for the Litde Red Riding Hood was ridiculous. And the Cribb and Molineaux were now worth five thousand. She hoped he wouldn’t discover the missing figure for a while. At least until Thurmont had returned from vacation. But Oliver, too, was at a disadvantage with Goldstein away as well.