Chapter 29
Rickie overslept and awoke at 8:30 A.M. and realized she was afraid. The house acquired a foreign, evil caste, which stirred within her feelings of grave apprehension. It was almost to the point where she could not ascend the stairs by herself and get ready for her breakfast meeting with Dr. Black's group. This left her stuck downstairs on the couch in the heavy white terry robe and short fright wig of sleep disarrayed red hair. She put through the call.
"Dr. Black's exchange."
"This is Rickie. I'm afraid to go upstairs. I can't make the meeting because I'd have to go out in my robe."
"The Doctor left a message for you. She said if you call up here making excuses, to tell you, and I quote, "You're suffering from phobophobia."
"From what?"
"Phobophobia--fear of your own fear. She said to tell you to get your sorry behind to the meeting, no ifs ands or buts."
"Message received." She'd have to attend the meeting in her robe. Oh, well. This was Los Angeles, the City of Angels. Stranger things occurred, especially in a town where designer evening gowns costing thousands of dollars often came in total fabric weights of less than five ounces. At certain cocktail parties she'd attended, where the ratio of exposed, over-processed starlet flesh to square inches of sheer fabric often approached 100 to 1, her robe would be considered overdressing.
If she dropped the hammer on the Rolls, she'd merely make the 9 A.M. start time. Gathering herself together, she grabbed the car keys, but stopped when she saw the note. It was from Shank. Scrawled in childish handwriting was a poem.
Oh! Think what a world we should have of it here, If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee, Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere, And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.
"Curse you, Shank. I'm not going to fall apart and cry over this lousy poem." Her eyes brimmed and burned from the effort of not releasing a steady stream of the salty stuff, the source of which stemmed from a wild burning in her heart. Good God, you fool. You've fallen in love with the man--and at the worst possible moment in your life. The man was a poetry lover. Never in a million years would she have guessed. What other secrets would he slowly reveal, secrets hidden for a decade behind the closed door of his heart? Stuffing the poem into the pocket of her robe, she opened the connecting door to the garage. Her Mercedes was still there beside Hirschfeld's Silver Seraph. Obviously Shank chickened out on her offer to take her car on a solo drive attempt and no doubt simply called for his car and driver to continue living life on life's terms one day at a time, according to the dictates of God as Shank understood Him.
She hit the button and the garage door quietly rolled up to reveal two men standing in the driveway. At first, them being well dressed in dark blue suits and both young enough to be still in college, she figured them for Mormon missionaries or something of a similar ilk. Until she noticed the first man's boots, shiny black patent leather with pointed toes tipped in silver. Not the sort a Mormon missionary would wear. In fact, now that her perception took this twist, she realized the men looked exactly like a couple of mafia hit men. She'd reacted too slowly, they'd taken advantage of this, moving in close, violating her personal space, cutting off the possibility of retreat. The first man, shaven so close his skin shined, his breath reeking of mint, said quietly, "Mrs. Hirschfeld?"
"What do you want?"
"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. H. I'm Mr. J. This is my associate Mr. G." Mr. J. reached out almost casually and fingered lightly the lapel of her robe, his eyes casually studying her from head to toe, the eyes dead, displaying no particular interest. "We've got a message for you from Mr. Hirschfeld. He wanted us to tell you it takes two to make a marriage, but only one to break it."
Rickie understood immediately real trouble had arrived. That all of her crazy husband's smirking, boasting references to mafia hit men and his use of them were absolutely true. It seemed totally unreal, as though she were dreaming, but here they were. The two men wore the faces of hardened murderers, right down to the soul-dead expressionless pupils staring out from their diseased craniums. They'd smoothly closed in and taken complete control of her space. There had been no time to think, no time to stage a counteroffensive.
"I'll do whatever you want. Please don't hurt me." Silently, she cursed herself for her instant docility, her admitted willingness to do anything Messrs. J. and G. asked of her only seconds after they'd made contact.
Mr. J. released her lapel and slowly walked his eyes up to hers. "We're going to kill you. Not today. Mr. Hirschfeld wants you to be scared for awhile first. When we next meet, we're going to hurt you with a box cutter in the most painful way imaginable and then piss on your exposed and still beating heart while you die."
"Those were my husband's instructions?"
"Those were them. Have a nice day, Mrs. H."
It was over as quickly as it began. Rickie stood stock still until the two men disappeared down the driveway and out the gate. A long black sedan pulled up, she guessed a Crown Vic, or maybe an Impala. The blasted thing looked almost like an undercover police car. The two men got in and were gone. No roaring engines, no squealing tires, everything nice and easy.
It took her a second to realize she'd stopped breathing. And wet herself. With a huffing, primal exhalation, she restarted her circulatory system. She thought about calling the police, and then decided against it. What could they do? I've been threatened by two nicely dressed men who told me to have a nice day.
She needed to do something with the energy roaring through her body. With stoic deliberation, she went back to the kitchen and selected an ice pick. Returning to the garage, she jabbed the pick into the sidewall of each tire on Hirschfeld's Rolls. The tires hissed and groaned as the rubber slowly collapsed under the gross vehicle weight of the most technically advanced and refined Saloon motor car ever made by Rolls-Royce. Opening the driver side door, she considered an infantile impulse to scratch up the custom stainless steel veneers, choosing instead to plunge the pick into the cowhide covered seat back in the approximate place where Hirschfeld's rotten heart would be had he been sitting there. Returning to the kitchen, she opened the freezer and removed the Gelson's shopping bag which held the frozen remains of Just Plain Dot. The bag rattled in her shaking hands as her adrenalin hit the downside of its peak with a raw grinding of her insides and a feeling of needing to puke.
"That was the last straw," she said to the cat as she returned to her own car and tossed the bag into the trunk before backing out into the uncertainty of an overcast February morning.
Just Plain Dot did not reply; which in no way minimized the force of Rickie's feeling it was time to do something about Hirschfeld. What that something was, she couldn't say, but that it would involve possible elements of atrocity and barbarism, she was certain. Whether she herself would be capable of such a violent act, she was equally uncertain.