Chapter 2
They were in the cozy kitchen of Judy's place, a cute bungalow with a large front garden, walking distance to the Pacific Ocean, and steps away from the monolith of Shutters hotel, the only hotel in Los Angeles which sat directly on the beach.
Judy, a quick, slim woman, her elfin face crowned with arty, spiked wisps of henna-tinged black hair, conducted an experiment on a Foster Farms all natural chicken. The bird appeared to have fared poorly in life, only to have died badly.
"Hirschfeld always pulls this little number on Friday," Judy said.
"Not every Friday," Rickie said.
"Don't argue," Judy said. "When you defend him, it makes me feel like you're blind. Admit it, Rickie!"
"You're right. Friday is usually the day."
Rickie's mood was tamped further into its dark emotional hole by the steady splatter of the big, flat, wet drops against the kitchen window, the storm gaining in power by the minute.
"I don't know how it all came to this," she said. "Can you believe the man was a charmer when I met him? And a genius."
Judy began basting heavy dollops of what may or may not have been plum sauce over the skinless breast of the dead chicken prior to the final insult--its incineration on her downdraft grill.
"Do you remember it was I who advised you not to marry him? He always scared me, but you never saw past his charm."
"I guess I'll be here awhile," Rickie said.
"You can stay here as long as you like. Same rules as before. Hirschfeld doesn't come inside for any reason. I'll put the police baton under the couch the way we did last time."
"Thank you, Judy."
"You better put your car in my garage. We don't want the bastard to see it. Not to mention nobody leaves a hundred and fifty thousand dollar vehicle parked on the street in this neighborhood. I'll park my old heap out front. It'll be like last time you stayed here. We should probably close all the curtains. I suppose he'll be cruising by here at all hours of the day or night."
"Leave the curtains open. I want him to know I'm not alone. He won't try anything if he knows you're with me."
"We don't know that. Last year he was bragging about how he hired two hit men to kill somebody."
"He was drunk," Rickie said. "I'm sure that never happened."
"Are you? Rickie, do you really know this man?"
Rickie sighed. "I almost made it to the weekend. I had the perfect evening planned. Juana and I cleaned the house top to bottom. I personally spent most of the day waxing the kitchen floor. I had his favorite old Bronson movie cued up."
"Why'd he hit you? What was his excuse?"
"I think it was his usual end of the week blues," Rickie said. "He has his greatest emotional difficulties during the latter part of the week. He's been under a lot of strain lately."
"The man is a psycho," Judy said.
"He's under a lot of pressure. The production company's behind schedule and they won't take his phone calls, even though he controls a fifteen point share. They've got a big pyrotechnics scene to shoot Sunday night down near the bus terminal. He's pretty worked up. He's tired of being the only one on the project holding up his end."
"Everybody's under pressure," Judy said. "What was his specific reason for flying into a rage and punching your lights out?"
"I screwed up. I forgot to order the wine he likes."
"Right, Rickie. You screwed up again. Or maybe that wasn't the real reason. Maybe the big fat slob hit you because you are too thin, or because you could double for Audrey Hepburn, or because you're a whole lot smarter than he is, or because you didn't have your makeup on quite right. The handwriting's on the wall, Rickie. The man is going to kill you."
Rickie's voice squeaked. "I'm not going back."
"You don't have to say that to me," Judy said. "It's only the two of us here. Besides I'm tired of you saying that and always changing your mind."
"I know I've threatened to leave him before. I know I've always gone back. This time I mean it."
"Rickie, don't tell me. Convince yourself."
"I know. I always go back to him because I can't stand the pain and loneliness of the separation. You don't know him like I do, Judy. After we have a blowout, he becomes his old self again."
"Correction," Judy said. "It's not after we have a blowout. It's after he has a blowup."
"I'm a little worried that he might have hurt me. I've got a sharp pain in my stomach where he slammed me with his knee."
Judy refilled their squat tumblers with the excellent, buttery, dark red cabernet, which Rickie sipped carefully.
The roof leaked in a few places, and Judy had placed several pots, the resulting atonal symphony of droplets providing a sort of droll music for the interior spirit of the home.
"It won't be easy for you, Rickie. Adjusting to the single life, I mean. There'll be nobody to hug you, nobody to fill in those little blank spaces life seems to be so full of. Maybe you shouldn't be promising yourself anything right now. Just make it through tonight and we'll go from there."
"I'm getting a little buzzed from this wine. I better go put my car away while I still can."
At that exact moment, there was a loud bang and scrunch of glass breaking in the living room, followed by tires squealing in the street.
Judy caught Rickie's arm and squeezed it tight. The two women remained united for a moment in their fearful frozenness, aware that the signposts guiding their lives no longer pointed at the heart of happy things, but rather to distant, fearful domains, places where anguish and disbelief, like the storm outside the cottage, caused one to lose sight of all the little pretenses people invented to make their lives bearable.
Judy broke free and went to peer out the living room window. "It was him. Oh! I can't believe this! He threw a tequila bottle through my front window! Hirschfeld's been out there the whole time, watching us, and getting drunk. He's a fucking stalker."
"I'm going to put my car away before he comes back."
All the tires were flat. Shaken, Rickie rushed back to the safety of the kitchen.
"He must have turned off my car alarm before he flattened all my tires," Rickie whispered. "I'm sorry, Judy. I'll pay for the damage to your front window. I won't stay here tonight."
"Where will you go?"
"I'll have to brave the storm. I'll call a cab stay with my son."
"You can't do that. He's only been out of rehab a few months. It's not easy on him being newly sober. You need to give him a little space. Besides, you can't get a cab when it's raining."
"You're right. Jesse Edwin might fall apart when he finds out. It would be unfair of me to test my son's fledgling sobriety. I'll tell you what. Let me borrow your umbrella and I'll walk over and book a suite at Shutters and call you in the morning."
"That's way too expensive."
"It's Hershey's money. Think of it as payback."
"Hirschfeld's a belligerent sonofabitch," Judy said. "He's beneath contempt." She released her grip on Rickie's arm and began puncturing the burning chicken carcass with a long-handled fork, the action vigorous, gratuitous, even, as though the chicken represented certain specific parts of Hirschfeld's lower anatomy.
"It'd be a whole lot easier if I hated his guts. Not that I still love him."
"You've got Stockholm syndrome. Hirschfeld is a terrorist and you bonded with him. He's done nothing but humiliate and degrade you. Not only physically, but in everything he says to you and everything he does."
"We're not as bad as some couples. We've never been featured on an episode of COPS."
"That's because COPS doesn't film in Beverly Hills."
"It's not like we're trailer park trash. For heaven's sakes, Judy. Even our house has a name. The Dell. How many people do you know have a name for their house?"
"It's not a house. It's a medieval mansion, with you trapped in the dungeon. Now do me a favor."
&n
bsp; "Anything."
Judy speared the chicken carcass and unceremoniously dumped it into the trash. "Shut up for the next five minutes and get yourself together. I'm treating you to dinner at the hotel."