Her Obsession

“Hello, Richard.”

         Richard Sorter stopped moving.  His subconscious must have recognized the voice before the rest of his brain did; his bloodstream felt cool, like the time he donated plasma and the phlebotomist piped chilled saline back into his vein.  He turned his head, hearing the creak in his neck too acutely, and there she was.  Right in the middle of the frozen food aisle.  The best place for Miss Icebox to be, unless there was a “Fires of Hell” aisle he missed.

         “Hi, Jeannie.  How are you?”  He fought the tremor in his voice with everything he had.

         Jeannie smiled that little half-a-smile he remembered disliking at first sight.  “I am fine, thanks.”  She paused for a moment.  “But is that all you can say to me?  After all this time?”  She gave a slight titter that didn’t fool Richard.  She sounded almost sane, seemed absolutely calm, but her light blue eyes blazed like furnace pilot lights.

         “I… don’t really know what else to say.  It’s good to see you.  Is everything going okay?”

         “Oh, perfectly.  I couldn’t be better.  And you?”

         “Fine, thanks.  Just… fine.”  He tried a smile that he hoped didn’t look as bad as it felt.

         He was almost mumbling his answers.  This was not a pleasant surprise.  Richard felt like he was in a semi-daze, some hypnopompic state that made his brain and mouth feel numb.  This couldn’t be reality – her bad news ended a few years ago and he rarely thought of her outside the occasional nightmare.

         “Oh.  Well, you don’t sound so fine.  Not at all.  Must be all the junk you eat.”  Her hands absently indicated the frozen dinners to the left and right with palms up.  It reminded him of a flight attendant showing the emergency exits on a Boeing.

         “Or maybe…” she said, putting a fist under her chin and rolling her pretty eyes to the ceiling, contemplating.  “Maybe you have a lot on your mind.  Maybe things in the past.  You should just let those go.  You always let your past get to you,” she told him, looking straight into his eyes now.  She smiled again.  A young woman passed with a cart; she took a brief look at Jeannie and hurried down the aisle.  Don’t blame you a bit, ma’am, Richard thought.

         “I don’t have anything on my mind, Jeannie.  Just kind of tired, is all.”  He struggled to keep up the pleasant veneer.

         “Well, maybe more sleep then, right?”

         There was a silence as Jeannie stared at Richard and he stared at something in his shopping basket that suddenly seemed very interesting.  Go away, he thought.  Leave me alone.  Forever.

         “Look, I’m fine, Jeannie.  I hope you are, too.  I’m just tired, had a long week and want to get this shopping over with.”  When he looked up while speaking, she was still staring, still smiling, still blazing those gas-flame eyes at him.

         “I won’t keep you, Richard.  I just saw you and wanted to say hello.  It’s been ages.  My life is going well and I was hoping yours was also.”

         “It is.  Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.  I’m glad you’re doing well.”

         “Thank you.  I’m so pleased I got to talk with you again.  I tried calling, but your phone number was not working.  I stopped by your home, but you didn’t live there any longer.  I just guessed you moved, and now here you are.  How nice.”

         This little surprise was becoming less pleasant by the minute.  Were it not for the overkill on the air conditioning and the icy foods nearby, Richard was sure he would be sweating.  His face felt flushed despite the arctic surroundings.

         “So you live around here?” Richard asked, fishing for information that might help him detour around her.

         “Not too far away.  How about you?”

         “Aways away.  I just stopped here on my way out to see a friend.”  And it’ll be the last time I stop here, or the Starbucks down the street.

         “Oh.  In that case, it’s very fortunate I stopped in here when I did.  Well,” she said in a wrap-it-up tone, glancing at her oversized watch, “I need to be moving along.  I should be having some company shortly.”  She looked into his eyes as she slowly lowered her wrist.  “It was very nice to see you.  I mean that.  I hope to see you again some day.”

         She sounds almost sane.

         “It’s nice of you to say that, Jeannie.  I’m sure I’ll run into you again.”

         She smiled, turned, walked along the aisle toward the front of the store.  Richard began moving again.

         “Richard.”

         He stopped once more, turned.

         “You know I still love you.”  There was no smile now.  She didn’t wait for a reply and was gone before he could even think of one.  Something besides her appearance itself had seemed strange to him during the time they spoke, and he just now realized what it was.  She was not carrying a purse or a basket.  She didn’t have a cart or anything in her hands.  Except a cigarette.

         Wrong.  Not almost sane, not even in the same zip code as sane.







         Jeannie sat cross-legged on the floor the next morning, smoking like a chimney and paging through the telephone directory.  Of course she had known Richard was here, had in fact known almost from the beginning.  She had followed him here years ago.  She had been almost inhumanly patient, a spider waiting in a lonely web.  Her patience was now at an end; now her time had come.

        She found the number and address for the Ford dealership on I-394 and recorded it quickly in her beautiful script, then folded the paper in precise quarters.  She uncrossed her long legs and stood all in one movement without using her arms.  She looked at her lacquered midnight blue nails then rubbed them briskly against her halter top, buffing an imagined mar in the gleaming surface of one.  She stepped into her too-high shoes that made her well over six feet tall.  She checked her appearance in the full-length antique mirror near the bedroom wall, tousled her anachronistic, short ‘80s hairdo, rearranged her breasts, smoothed down her brief skirt, then left the house, lighting a cigarette.







         She killed her cigarette outside and walked into Valor Ford, glancing about.  A young woman was behind the unpopulated counter near the front door.  The nameplate announced that this was Krystal.  Very few people were around, staff included.  Jeannie hoped her timing was right.

         “Can I help you, ma’am?” the young woman asked with a stiff smile.  Jeannie did not like anyone under 30.  She suddenly felt like causing trouble.

         Jeannie returned the smile.  No one can help me.  And it’s may, not can.  And what is with the ma’am shit?  Do I look like June Cleaver?

         “May I speak with Richard Sorter, please?  Is he available?”

         “I’m sorry, but Mr.  Sorter is out to lunch.”  You bet he is, thought Jeannie.  “He should be returning at around twelve-thirty.”

         “Oh.  I’m afraid I cannot return, so… I guess I’ll have to call him later if I am able, unless… well, do you know his girlfriend’s name?  I’m Elizabeth from Melton Title and I promised Mr.  Sorter I would get some documents to her immediately for her signature.  She was a very nice lady, but we were rushed and I only got her first name.  I do have her fax number, but it is a big office.”

         “Oh, Mary.  Yes, she’s nice.”

“Yes.  You don’t have her last name by chance, do you?”

         “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

         “Oh, that’s quite all right, dear.  You probably couldn’t give out that information even if you had it.  I should not have asked.  My apologies.”

         Jeannie began to leave (great, just fucking great) when the youngster blurted, “Miss… uh… miss, wait a minute.  I remember now.  It’s Miller.  It sounds like a made-up name, that’s the only reason I remember.  I met her only a couple of times.”

         “Right, that’s it.  Now I remember, too.  It does sound… made-up.  Thank you so very much.  Oh, wait,” Jeannie said, snapping her long fingers theatrically.  “I did have to stop by her current residence to look it over for the real estate agent.  If I remember correctly it’s a St. Paul address.  Does that sound right?”

         “No, she lives somewhere in Minneapolis near Rick.”

         “Oh sure, north of downtown.  Now I remember.  I do truly thank you for your help.”  Jeannie beamed a genuine smile at the young lady.  Big mouth for a little girl, she thought.  My lucky day.

         She looked around briefly again.  “Hmm.  A quite disturbing lack of checkered sport coats,” she commented.

         Krystal appeared not to have heard; she had been looking Jeannie up and down subtly and her eyes seemed to lock on Jeannie’s hands.  “I like your nails,” she said timidly.  Her voice was impressed but tremulous.  Jeannie often had that effect on people.  In her solid-core high heels, she towered over Krystal.

         Jeannie lit a cigarette then turned a palm up and adducted her fingers, examining the nails as if she had never noticed them before now.  “All the better to defend your territory, my dear.”  She drummed them briefly on the counter – clickclickclickclick clickclickclickclick – and was gone in a cloud of blue smoke before Krystal could say anything else.  The door swooshed shut softly behind her swinging hips.  That night Krystal would have a nightmare about a witch, one that awoke her, panting and sweating, only to keep her staring at the ceiling until dawn.







         Jeannie drove her Mustang through the area she had last seen Richard and Mary, not far from Richard’s residence (she knew where he lived already).  She pulled to the curb and parked, leaving the top down and the car unlocked.  Jeannie began her tedious task by lighting a cigarette.

         She entered the fifth shop, feeling as if she had been walking for miles, the platform heels not making life any easier.  The price of fame.  Jeannie described both Richard and Mary to the young clerk and was told that yes, the woman might have lived in the neighborhood since she came to the store frequently.

         “You have a pay phone?” she asked him.

         “Over there,” he said, pointing.  “Near the doughnuts.”

         She glanced at the phone.

         “There isn’t a directory.  Could I look at yours, please?”

         “Uh, sure.  Sure thing.”  He reached under the counter and brought out the white pages with alacrity.  “White?  Or yellow?”  He was obviously infatuated.

         “White,” she purred sensually.  She turned it around on the counter and flipped through it.  She asked for a pack of Virginia Slims and dumped a few bills on the counter.  He laid down the pack and the change; she took the box and ignored the coins.  Her long arms were draped across the counter, showing off bangles and rings.

“Pretty hot out today, huh?” he asked nervously as Jeannie searched through the M section.

“Yes,” she replied quietly, not looking up from the book.  “And I love to sweat, if you know what I mean, baby.  But let’s not go making it any hotter than it already is.”  She leaned forward even more.  Now the kid looked intimidated and uncomfortable.  Jeannie pulled a Virginia Slim from her hair, clicked a Zippo that appeared from nowhere and disappeared just as quickly.  She inhaled deeply and blew smoke toward the ceiling.

“Uh… you can’t, you can’t smoke in here.”

“I know,”  she said.

         She found the entries for Miller.  All six thousand of them.  She looked for Miller, Mary and found nothing at all.  Then she found the Miller, M listings, a more manageable number.  She tore two pages from the tome.

         “Hey, uh, what’re you doing?  You can’t do that.”  A feeble protest, but the clerk was faced with a brand-new experience: a tall, gorgeous, venomous-looking Amazon woman, smoking, making thinly-disguised sexual comments and ripping up his phone book.  Jeannie strode from the store without another word, staring down at the papers, the cigarette burning between two long manicured fingers.  Time to make some calls.







         The first round of calls via pay phone was elimination; Jeannie was able to cross off several names.  The voices on the answering machines or live at the end of the line were either too old or male.  She was left with less than what she estimated in terms of possibilities, and just as she was about to leave those until tonight she had an inspiration.  She drove to a Kmart and strolled down the main aisle to the electronics department.  There was an array of prepaid cellular phones from which to choose, and each came with ten minutes of free air time.  She found a Motorola for only $9.95, and took a card good for 200 minutes to the woman at a small kiosk nearby.

         “How would you like to pay for that?” the employee asked.

         I wouldn’t, thought Jeannie.

“Cash,” said Jeannie.

She pulled two twenties from their hiding spot in her tight halter top over her left breast, dropping them on the counter.  As usual, she wasn’t wearing a bra.  The clerk gave her an odd expression.  Two teenage boys who witnessed this operation stood staring, mesmerized, as Jeannie leaned over the counter, the leather perfectly contouring her rear.  As the clerk totaled her purchases and began the activation process for the phone, Jeannie noticed the boys.  She turned and stared directly at them, smiled, then opened her mouth slightly, and ran her tongue slowly over her lips.  She noticed one of them actually get aroused physically just before he quickly turned in obvious embarrassment.  His companion could not stop staring.  He looked fearful now.

         “See something you like, sweetie?” she asked alluringly, running her hands over the tight leather skirt down her hips.  “Way, way too old for you, kiddo.  Too much machinery for you to handle.”

         “Uh, miss… this phone is, uh, ready to go.”  The woman at the kiosk had witnessed everything and was both embarrassed and scornful.  Not that it mattered to Jeannie; the last thing she cared about right now was what anyone thought of her behavior or her clothing (or lack thereof).  She thanked the clerk and walked toward the exits, lighting a Virginia Slim and carrying her new acquisition in one swinging hand, ignoring protests from employees and shoppers, dropping the coins from her change carelessly on the floor while stuffing the currency into her top.  Her outfit was far too constricting to stuff the phone anywhere.







         Jeannie drove down a deserted street in the warehouse district and parked.  She sat in her Mustang, top down, the sun cooking the pavement, the asphalt re-radiating waves of heat.  She began calling the answering machines of the “possibilities.”  On each machine she left a message; when she was finished she tuned the radio to KDRM, the ‘80s station, lit a cigarette and leaned back in the seat.

After about an hour the cell phone trilled at her, demanding attention.  She lit up and got to work.







Mary Miller cocked her head to one side, puzzled, as she listened to the message:



“Good afternoon, Ms.  Miller.  This is Amber Lynn of NSP.  I am a field technician and need to get to your residence in order to check on a power surge, and want to confirm your Minneapolis address.  I’m here in Northeast right now, so if you could call me at 617-0029 as soon as possible, I can get out to check the problem.  I do not need access to the inside of your home, so you do not need to be here to let me in.  Thank you.”



         “Hmm… weird,” she muttered absently.  Although it seemed plausible, something felt strange about the situation, but since there was a callback number for the power company she could certainly check on its veracity.  She quickly looked to the internet for the NSP trouble line, but the number was quite different.  Yet Mary decided to first call the number on the message, see if there was some sort of fraud or scam then, if necessary, call NSP directly to report it.







         The first call was a bust, the caller telling Jeannie that no, this wasn’t Mary Miller but Martin Miller.  Jeannie told him it was nice that he called, but the blowjob was the prize for the tenth caller.  The next call was from Ms. Mary Miller.

         “Amber Lynn speaking.”  She exhaled smoke upward.

         “Yes, Ms.  Lynn, this is Mary Miller.  You say there’s a problem with the power?”

         “Not really a problem for you, I just need to take a voltage reading and maybe make some adjustments at our end to avoid any problems.  I was calling to verify your address.  It appears I have erroneous information.”

         “Um, your phone number is not an NSP number.”

         “No.  I’m calling from my personal cell phone.  I’m in the neighborhood right now, checking another residence.  Yours will be the last.”

         “Oh.  I see.”

         A pause.  Jeannie/Amber waited.

         “So you need my address?”

         “Yes.”

         Another pause.  Finally Jeannie said, “Look, miss, I understand you aren’t comfortable giving out this information.  But I gave you my phone number, you called me back, and if you feel better about it you could call NSP’s direct line to make sure I am who I say I am.  Last name is spelled L-Y-N-N, first name Amber, spelled like it sounds.  If you would, call me directly after you finally speak with an NSP representative.  They are all swamped with calls today, and it will take an eternity for someone to call me with the information.  Most likely, though, it will take awhile for you to get through to them as well, and I need to leave before five p.m.  It might not be possible to handle this today.”  She pinched out the cigarette and dumped it to the pavement.

         Jeannie could almost hear the woman weighing the risk of divulging her address against the risk of her home computer blowing itself to smithereens in a fiery flash if the “power surge” wasn’t addressed immediately.

         “So you aren’t going inside the house?” Mary asked.

         “No.  The problem isn’t there, it’s in the main line outside your house.”  Jeannie hoped like hell the woman knew little or nothing about electricity other than when she turned on her waffle iron, there it was.  Jeannie wouldn’t be able to answer too many questions on the subject.  So far, Jeannie’s verisimilitude held.

         “So… you will only be outside?  The power to my house is fine?”

         “I won’t even be on your property.  The box is actually on city property, and I just need to know which address is behind the box.”

         “What box?”

         Jesus Christ!!!  The cereal box with the muscle-bound tiger on the cover saying They’re Grrreat!  God, one more stupid question and I’m going to blow an o-ring in my fucking brain and spray blood everywhere!!!

         “It’s a box that contains electrical junctions.  That’s where I need to go.  As soon as I can.”

         “Okay.”  She sounded resigned.  “The address is 2916 North Blake.  It’s a white house.”

         “Thank you.”

         “Miss, about this surge, does it—”

         Jeannie closed the phone.  Lit another cigarette.  Inhaled deeply.







         There was an alley behind 2916 North Blake that was filled with tiny garages set back from the pavement only a few feet.  As Jeannie crept along, she counted up from 2900 by twos to find the house.  It was almost white, probably had been at one time before the years turned it a dull eggnog hue.  A high privacy fence surrounded the property.  Jeannie kept moving and turned right onto the next street to the north, parking a legal 30 feet or so from the stop sign.

         She went down the sidewalk, up to the 2916 fence, and through the gate without looking over her shoulder or checking from side to side, having the dichotomous belief that, while people stared at her body per se, when she was doing something like this no one was watching.  A narrow concrete walkway guided her along the side of the house.  The privacy fence was a bonus; no one could now see her lurking about the property.  At ground level there were some small windows that looked into the basement.  Jeannie crouched down and cupped hands around her eyes to peer inside.  She tapped on the glass.  Old, flimsy.  She looked to her left.

         After breaking the glass with the rock she found, she wriggled through the jagged-edged portal, a glass shard slicing through her thigh.  Sexy, she thought.  She eased herself down to the floor then stood, rearranging her skirt, hair, and boobs.  She looked around the cellar, unimpressed, and spied the stairs.  The risers creaked as she ascended, in concert with the distant booming of the approaching headache.  She grasped the handrail for support and wasn’t surprised to find it loose and ineffective.  At the top she found a small kitchen with tawdry linoleum that was peeling and cracked in places.  Stepping gingerly across the derelict floor, Jeannie opened the refrigerator, finding a half-empty bottle of cheap wine chilling inside.

         “Is the glass half full or half empty?” she murmured, unscrewing the cap.  With the bottle’s mouth in her own, she upended it and drained its contents in one long gulp.  “Ahhhh… the glass is all empty.”  The bottle was dropped in the sink, where it cracked itself and a small dish.

         The bedroom was semi-tidy, but the bed unmade, something Jeannie found unacceptable.  Unmade beds signaled sloth.  On a dresser stood a small rack holding a number of necklaces.  Jeannie found one she liked; it had what looked like a hawk dangling between rows of wooden beads.  She put it around her neck and fastened the clasp.

         There was no Motrin, Advil, Tylenol, or even generic aspirin in the bathroom’s cabinet.  She snatched a handful of toilet paper into a wad and pressed it against her thigh, which had refused to stop bleeding.  Along with the missing painkillers was a lack of adhesive bandages.  She dumped the bloody TP ball and returned to the kitchen and began rifling through the drawers, pulling aside can openers, melon ballers, cheese graters, ice cream scoops, and wooden spoons, along with a myriad of other assorted implements.  Who the hell needs melon ballers in this neighborhood?  Her frustration level was rising; she was not finding the thing she needed.  She was about to get very angry.  As she slammed the last drawer closed, she saw a wooden block on the counter near the stove.

         The block contained a number of knives, from a very small paring knife to larger ones designed to carve or chop.  Jeannie selected a long carving knife, holding it up to the afternoon sunlight filtering through the window over the sink.  It had a heavy steel blade that drew blood when she stroked the edge with her thumb.  Perfect, Jeannie thought happily, a smile blooming on her lips.  Carrying her prize, she went into the living room to see what was on television and KDRM.  On her way, she fired up another Virginia Slim.







         It was hot, so bloody hot, thought Mary as she drove down the alley behind her house.  It had to be the hottest day of the year and, of course, her air conditioning was not working all too well these days.  Always seemed to be the first thing to go on a car.

         After parking in the small garage and latching the door well, she opened the back gate with a key and headed toward the house.  She unlocked the door and entered, anticipating the coolness that would envelope her home once her air conditioner went to work.  She planned on standing in front of it for a minute or two, maybe even topless.  At least that AC did its job.

         Why she did not notice at first Mary could not figure, but she did notice now – the television was running.  So was the stereo – it was playing the ‘80s station.  Who listens to that shit?  She became very still.  She had not forgotten to switch the TV off this morning and hadn’t turned on the radio at all (certainly not to that retro crap); of that she was certain, remembering that the TV had been turned off in disgust following the weather forecast at 6:50 a.m.  The whole house stunk of cigarette smoke.  Standing very quietly, breathing shallowly, she debated whether to run out the door.  It was locked now and would take a moment to open, but what other choice did she have?

         “Hello there,” said a voice, breaking Mary’s paralysis.

         “Aak!”  Mary squawked briefly, jumping.  A face slowly came around the hallway passage that lead into the living room.  The face smiled, then a body followed.  The woman stood in the hall, smiling at Mary, her long arms hanging loosely by her sides.  A comfortable stance; no fear at all.  Mary, however, had a great deal of fear coursing through her body.  The strange woman was… well, strange for one.  She was very tall and dressed in bizarre clothing, a too-short and too-tight skirt under a too-short and too-tight halter that showed off her flat tummy.  Long legs, platform FM shoes.  A huge watch, bigger than a man would wear.  A ridiculous blue ring.  A head topped by a haystack of M&M-red hair with bleachy streaks through it.  Pale mauve lipstick.  Darker mauve eye shadow and eyeliner.  Inhumanly bright blue eyes.  Gas-stove burner eyes, she thought hysterically.  To add to the insanity, “You’re the One That I Want” from Grease was coming out of the stereo speakers.

         The woman put up her hands, palms toward Mary, and pushed at the air in a take-it-easy gesture.  “Shhhhh, girl.  Relax.”

         “Wha—who are you?  Who, who… what…”

         The woman put a long lacquered index finger against her lips.  Shhhhh.  She slowly walked toward Mary, her hips swinging like a streetwalker, bangles making alternately clacking and clinking sounds as she moved.  “Oh, where are my manners,” she said, an apologetic look furrowing her brow.  “My name is Jeannie.  You might also know me as Amber Lynn.”

         The fearful look on Mary’s face deepened as her eyes grew wider and wider still, until Jeannie thought they might just roll out of her face and bounce across the kitchen floor like runaway olives.

         “You… you… the NSP lady.  Am—Amber.”

         Jeannie shook her head slowly.  “Uh uh.  Amber Lynn was a porn actress from the glorious ‘80s.  Didn’t know that, did you, pris?  But then, so am I.  A porn actress, I mean.  I have a web cam.  I’m on a DVD, too.”  Her voice became slightly husky.  “Do you like girls?” she purred erotically.

         “Get out of here!”  Mary screamed, far more fearfully than forcefully.  The fact that this woman was wearing her necklace registered briefly and insignificantly.  Jeannie was now only a few feet away, impossibly tall and threatening.  She took a long, drawn-out moment to remove a Virginia Slim from behind her ear, pull an enormous silver lighter from somewhere out of her skirt and spin the wheel, flicking up an orange flame that she applied to the cigarette tip.  She put away the equipment and blew smoke politely away from Mary.

         Jeannie made a comically exaggerated moue.  “You aren’t making me feel very welcome,” she pouted.  Her right hand reached in back of her skirt; when the hand returned front and center it was holding the knife.  Mary’s eyes, impossibly, grew even larger into flying saucers of fright.

         “Do you know Richard?” Jeannie asked calmly, cigarette tucked in the corner of her mouth, canting her head one way while tilting the knife blade casually the other.

         When Mary did not answer immediately, Jeannie’s façade broke.  “DO YOU?!?!” she screamed, eyes blazing with madness.

         With that, Mary bolted.  She was very fast, faster than Jeannie thought possible for this insignificant little woman.  Jeannie was faster still.  Her hand shot out and snatched the last few inches of the tiny woman’s hair, then jerked mightily backward.  Mary flew off her feet and swung in Jeannie’s grip for a moment before she came loose, landing on her rear on the kitchen floor.  Jeannie bent over and snatched up the hair again and yanked.  Mary howled.

         “PLEASE DON’T HURT ME!  What did I do to you?  What?  What did I do to YOUUUU???”

         Jeannie crushed the cigarette under one large heel and told her.  Mary, insane with terror, madly noticed the mild smell of the woman’s perfume as she leaned over her and whispered in her ear, a scent like lilacs after a gentle rain.  A faint puff of Altoid’s mints, cigarettes and wine came with every breath.  Foreigner was playing “Cold as Ice” over the radio.  When Jeannie finished speaking, she drove the knife’s blade completely through Mary’s slim neck.







         Hours ago Krystal had told Richard about the visit from “Elizabeth.”  His mind was preoccupied, as it had been since his encounter with Jeannie in the grocery store; consequently, he did not give the Elizabeth story much thought.  Had hardly listened to it, in fact.  But now, at 4:15 p.m., he suddenly leaned forward in his chair, a horrible revelation coming to him.  The chair flew backward and slammed against a wall as Richard jumped to his feet, walking hurriedly toward the reception area.

         “Krystal.  What did that Elizabeth woman want, exactly?”

         Krystal looked at him, puzzled, then remembered.  “Um… well, like I said, she wanted to get some real estate papers to her.  Wanted to know if I knew her last name.  I did end up telling her it was Miller.  That’s okay, isn’t it?  She knew where Mary worked and wanted to make sure the fax got to her.”

         “I don’t know if that was okay or not.  Maybe.  You didn’t know, so don’t worry, I’m not mad, but… uh, what did this Elizabeth look like?”

         “Well, she didn’t look like someone in real estate, really.  She was dressed kind of… out there.  She had like pink hair and a real short skirt.  Lots of makeup.  Tons of it, like house paint.  Nails like owl claws.  Dark blue.  Oh, and she actually lit up a cigarette in here right before she left.”

         Richard’s body temperature cooled appreciably.  “How tall was she?”

         “Eiffel Tower.”

         “Did… did she want to know anything else, about me or Mary?”

         “No.  Yes.  Yes, she tried to think of where Mary lived, but she finally remembered it was a suburb, I think.  I think she knew how to get there, I think she remembered the address.”

         “You didn’t give it to her?”

         “No.”

         Richard tried to act casual as he hurried back to his office.  He immediately dialed the number for Mary’s work phone, but got voice mail.  He punched zero for the receptionist, who informed him Mary had left early, something about a power problem at her house.  Richard thanked her distantly and hung up, then immediately called Mary’s cellular phone.  Voice mail again.  He called her house.

         The phone burred one ring after another in his ear.  He was ready to hang up when a voice said, “Hello, Richard.”

         Richard could not speak.  He tried but absolutely could not, could not even make a sound for at least ten seconds.  He finally forced out one word, “Jeannie.”

         Jeannie laughed a polite little chuckle, breathing out cigarette smoke.  “Yes.  How are you?”

         “Why are you there?  Where is Mary?”  He felt detached from himself, lost in a Dali-esque world of surreality.

         “I’m here to talk with Mary.  We had a very nice visit.  She’s here in the kitchen, but she can’t talk right now.”

         “What did you do to her?”  Richard was becoming monumentally frightened, but clung to a faint hope that Jeannie did no more than talk to her.  To his knowledge she had never really, seriously hurt anyone before.  Then he remembered the cat.

         “Goodbye, Richard.”  And with that, the phone line went silent.







         Why he did not call the police first was something he could not reconcile, not, at least, at that moment.  When he got to Mary’s house, he ran for the porch, tried the knob and found it unlocked.

         He came around the corner down the corridor and saw something, then started to slip on the the linoleum as his brain registered the image.  Richard grabbed the wall, staring, as his cheap loafers slid on the oily surface and brought him down on his ass.  The image was of Mary lying on the ground; the oily surface was her blood splashed across the crummy floor.  Her head was cocked about 45 degrees, her eyes were actually open and her throat was maroon.

         warm… the blood is still warm what the hell

         He tried to stand up and slipped on the blood again.  Richard heard the stereo blaring the Go-Gos.  It was surreal.

         “Hello, Richard.”

         Richard looked down the hall and saw Jeannie wrapping herself around the wall like a vamp in a cheap 50s movie, one long arm almost touching the ceiling, a long cigarette dangling from her large purple lips.  The other arm was hanging at her side, caressing her leather-clad hip with a large turkey-carving knife.  Her huge disco-style topaz ring caught the late-afternoon sun and reflected a brilliant azure glare.  A blue laser sight.  She was mouthing the words to “Our Lips are Sealed.”

         “See anything you like, babe?”  She rubbed against the door jamb in a lewd motion, sliding up and down.  She stopped her theatrics and started toward Richard.  The song on the radio changed.  Moments passed with both of them in tableaux as the music played and Jeannie danced in place.  She finally crushed out the cigarette and stared at him.

         “You should hear how she talks about you, you should hear what she says…” Jeannie sang, sounding creepily almost exactly like Melissa Manchester.  She swung her hips and arms like she was in a music video, the knife just another prop in the production.  “Come on, baby, you know you want my tall, pretty ass.”  She turned around to show off her equipment.  A pack of cigarettes was tucked tightly into the ass end of her skirt.

         Richard tried holding the wall for support.  “Get away, you bitch.”  His voice was amazingly placid.

         “Bitch?  Oh no, no, bad choice of words, boyfriend.”  She swung the knife.  “She’s in love with you, boy…”

         “You fucking freak!”  He grabbed the wall corner and got his feet under himself and literally jumped to his feet.  He spread his legs and crouched as Jeannie came within range.  She sliced through air sidearm at him in a hacking rather than stabbing motion, the knife coming far too close.  Richard jackknifed his midsection to avoid being disemboweled.  The blade slashed within inches.  Jeannie was definitely not fucking around.

         Until now he had felt fear damped by shock, but the sharp steel cutting air just in front of him changed that to pure terror.  Holy shit, she’s actually going to kill me.  She now bared her teeth, her left hand grabbing him by his right shoulder as her right drew back in preparation for sticking the blade directly into his chest.  His shoulder screamed with pain as Jeannie’s talons dug powerfully into the joint.

         “You shouldn’t have fucked with me, Richie,” she growled.  Time became a freeze-frame.  The knife poised, wavered, then became immobile.  It was pointed directly at him; he could see a drop of sweat run from Jeannie’s finger to the haft, gather in size, then fall earthward.  Her elbow was cocked 45 degrees toward the ceiling, her large fist curled around the handle, the veins in her forearm standing out from the death-grip she had on the instrument.  Her arms were tanned, her scent terribly feral, feral like musky flowers and wild animals and stale tobacco, a tiny rivulet of purple trickling from her left eye, her Angelina Jolie lips pulled back over straight white teeth marred only by a tiny purple smear.  Deep blue nail polish like paint on a hand-rubbed and lacquered muscle car reflected the light.  Mary’s bird necklace dangled between tight breasts.  Her body and face were flawless in every way except for the part between the ears.

         “I love you, Jeannie.  Don’t… don’t.”  The words came autonomously.

         Her eyes flickered for just a moment, a brief moment of what passed for sanity with Jeannie, before her snarl turned into a toothy grin.  “The hell you do.  Screw you, boyfriend.”  The knife moved swiftly forward.

         Richard moved his own hand without thinking; it was providence that he caught Jeannie’s forearm and stopped the forward movement of the knife before it did more than stick two inches between two ribs.  Jeannie squawked in anger and frustration, saw the blood and growled deeply, just like a big cat.  His hand slid down to her wrist and squeezed forcefully, more so than he thought he had in him.  He twisted the wrist that held the weapon, hard, hard enough to hear bones crack.  The knife dropped.  Jeannie howled in fury.

         Suddenly a fist was in his mouth.  A tooth snapped and he sucked its broken piece down his throat.  Jeannie’s fist came back and forward again; this time he felt and heard a crunch like a packet of Saltines being crushed as his nose broke.  Richard could see in slow motion as Jeannie drew back her long, tanned, beautiful arm for another punch and tightened her grip on his shoulder, which had never loosened.  She punched again, this time causing stars to erupt, and he dropped drunkenly to his knees.  Right in front of the turkey-carver.

         He scooped the thing into his right hand and jammed it blindly upward toward the towering inferno above him.  A wail filled the air, a sound a wounded mountain lion might make.

         Jeannie looked down stupidly, the haft of the knife sticking out of her right anterior torso.  “You stabbed me.  You… you fffff… you… you fuck.”

         She looked down and grasped the handle, then began to tug.  “Ike!.. Ike!.. Ike!..” she yelped, pulling the blade from her body an inch at a time.  This can’t be happening, Richard thought.  She’s dead.  Yet she pulled the entire ten inches of metal out of her, squeaking with every yank.  Hall and Oates played “Your Kiss is on My List.”

         When it was entirely free she stared at it uncomprehendingly, watching the blood drip from the blade.  She clapped her left hand across her body, over the damaged area.  Dark blood trickled from between her fingers.

         “Wha… wha did you do that for?  What?  Why?”  She looked down at Richard, her voice that of a little girl, her face comically stunned.

         Richard did not answer.  He was in horrible pain, yet numb.  Jeannie took one step to the left and snatched at his scalp.  With only a few strands of hair in her possession, she jerked his head back and the knife did its work.  Richard’s throat was opened so quickly he didn’t realize he could not breathe for five seconds.  … because your kiss is on my list of the best things in life… She smeared his blood onto her skirt.  Breathed hard.  Lit a cigarette.  “I love you too, sweetheart,” she said softly, blowing out smoke, hand in his hair.  “I do.”







         Jeannie limped out of the house on North Blake.  She was losing a lot of blood, but would not let herself drop.  She gritted her pretty white teeth and struggled down the sidewalk.  She panted like a cur.  Only 100 more feet, that’s it, you can do it, babe.  She rounded the corner and saw her beautiful fire-engine red Mustang right there.  Jeannie saw the driver’s door and it seemed like a million miles away, but she kept on shuffling.  Finally, after an eternity, she reached the door, carefully opened it, and fell into the driver’s seat.  A bloody hand reached under the floor mat and retrieved the keys.  Inserted them into the steering column.  Turned back to ACC.  Turned on the radio.  Lit a Virginia Slim.







         The Minneapolis police responded to a call about some “hooker” that was “bleeding her guts out” and that the caller would have helped, but thought the “hooker” looked “dangerous as hell.”







         Jeannie leaned back against the seat, vaguely aware of the flow of blood from her right side.  She dropped her hand after realizing her body was done.  She was becoming very dizzy.  Jeannie knew there wasn’t much time left for her, but she didn’t care.  Not one bit.  She lit her last cigarette.

         Fleetwood Mac was now playing.  She breathed shallowly, starting to slip a little, her breath coming shorter with each try.  Eyelids fluttered over pretty eyes.  Blood drained steadily from her torso.  Blood was everywhere.

         “I’m beautiful,”  she said to the rearview mirror, staring into bloodshot and murdered eyes.  She was perspiring profusely; sweat poured from her forehead and between her breasts.  She reeked of death.  “I’m beautiful.  I’m a fu… fucking knockout.  I’m… a… tall… hot bitch.  I’m… Jean… I… I’M FUCKING JEANNIE GODDAMMIT!  I’M THE HOTTEST PIECE OF ASS EVER BUILT!”  That last scream left her tired and coughing.  She spat diluted blood onto the lap of her expensive skirt.  She looked in the mirror once more.  I’m the hottest piece of tail in the motherfucking world.

         A police car drifted in behind her and two officers emerged.  Jeannie saw them blearily in the rear-view mirror through one watering eye.  She lifted her souvenir.  Thought I am a beautiful queen.  Drew the blade across her throat, the bow against the violin playing her coda.