And the worst part was, I still didn’t even know how I felt about it. A baby. I mean, I guess I wanted a baby someday. Who didn’t like babies, right? Babies were cute, soft, cuddly. I mean, I’d be a monster not to want a baby, right?
The awful thing was, I kind of did want a baby. I got this warm Florence Henderson feeling when I thought about it that scared the crap out of me. But Florence had had a loving husband, a house in the suburbs, and Alice. I didn’t have any of those things. I wasn’t sure I could do family right now. At least, not alone.
For some odd reason, the image of Ramirez’s family popped into my head. The big backyard filled with laughing children. Mama’s soft, smiling face. The battered piñata hanging from a tree limb. Ramirez, holding his little niece on his lap, his pants sticky with lollipop fingerprints. The air thick with the scent of empanadas and sugar cookies. Then music. And dancing. And the feel of Ramirez’s body against mine as we close danced…
I groaned. I picked up the EPT and threw it in the trash can under my sink. There. One less thing to think about.
I was just contemplating whether or not I should take the can out to the dumpster in the back of the building, when the phone rang.
“Hello?” I answered.
There was a pause on the other end, but I heard breathing.
“Hello?” I tried again, envisioning Richard trying to make a call while rapists and murderers breathed down his neck.
Only the voice I heard wasn’t Richard’s. It was a woman's.
“Greenway deserved what he got. Leave it alone. Or the next bullet’s for you.”
Chapter Eighteen
I froze, the receiver still glued to my ear as the line went dead. Ohmigod. Had it been Bunny? Andi? Thong woman? I couldn’t tell. The voice had been kind of muffled. It was a woman, that much I knew. And she was pissed.
I shivered and quickly replaced the receiver as if she could reach through the phone and shoot me as easily as she’d done Greenway. If ever I needed confirmation that Richard was innocent, that was it.
How had she gotten my number? How did she even know who I was? Did she know where I lived too?
I ran to the front door and checked the lock. Still in place. I unlocked and relocked it again just in case. Then I checked all the windows and shut the blinds. I had the irrational urge to hide under my futon. Instead, remembering my own stint crouching in Richard's closet, I quickly scanned mine. I was relieved to find no one hiding in my seasonal sweaters.
After checking the lock on the front door one more time I sat down on my futon and turned the television on really loud. Trying to fill the now menacing silence with Seinfeld reruns. Only I wasn’t paying attention to Jerry. I was listening for sounds outside. Like the sounds of a crazed thong wearing, stiletto walking, blonde, homicidal maniac. I turned Seinfeld down so I could hear better.
I was truly getting freaked out.
What I needed was a weapon. Something in case Homicidal Barbie tried to break in during the night. Like a sharp knife or a heavy wrench. Unfortunately, since I didn’t cook or do carburetors, I didn’t have either. My eyes scanned the room for anything heavy enough to conk a Barbie on the head. I grabbed my dusty thighmaster from the closet and jumped back onto my futon.
Nope. Still didn’t feel safe.
Reluctantly, I pulled Ramirez’s number out of my purse. I stared at it. The right thing to do was call the cops, right? I mean, I’d just received a death threat. This was the sort of thing cops did. Respond to calls like this.
Only, after the way we’d verbally sparred this morning, I didn’t really want to be the one to make first contact. I mean, I didn’t want Ramirez to think this was just some excuse to call him. If I called him first, that made me the loser right?
I bit my lip, deciding which was worse, being a loser or being Barbie prey. I grabbed my cordless and dialed the number. It rang once. And then I chickened out and hung up. Shit. I was a loser.
The phone rang in my hand and I jumped about three feet in the air. My hands shook as I pressed the on button.
“Hello?” Oh God, please let it be a telemarketer.
“Maddie?”
No such luck. It was Ramirez.
“Oh, hi.”
“Did you just call me? Your number came up on my caller ID.”
I cursed modern invention.
“Oh, uh, yeah. Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Fine. I called and hung up. Happy?”
There was a pause on the other end. I expected laughter but instead his voice held a note of concern. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Damn. I hated that I was acting like a teenager and he was being all concerned and touching. Maddie, you are seriously screwed up girl.
“Yes. I’m okay. I just got a disturbing phone call.”
A pause again. “Tell me about it.”
So I did. It didn’t take very long. It was a short call, but the chill in the caller’s voice was leaving a long impact. When I finished there was a silence on the other end again.
“Do you want me to come over?” he asked.
Boy, did I. And I wasn’t even thinking about sex. Much. Just the thought of Bad Cop with his big bad gun guarding my door made me feel a lot less like hiding under my futon. On the other hand, calling and hanging up had been pretty girly of me. And asking him to come spend the night just because some woman was crank calling me would be really girly. So, despite the fact that my insides were screaming, “Yes, come over, bring your gun and let’s get naked,” I managed to muster up some pride.
“No, thanks. I’ve got my thighmaster. I’m fine. Really.”
I could hear him sighing on the other end. I don’t think he believed that any more than I did.
Finally he said, “You have my number, right?”
“Yes.”
“Put it on speed dial.” Then he hung up.
I turned off the ringer and complied, adding Ramirez’s number to my speed dial. Then I clutched my thighmaster in one hand as my pride and I hunkered down for a long night. Punctuated by dreams of killer Mattel dolls and naked Ramirez. Was my subconscious screwed up or what?
The next morning I woke up early and checked to make sure all the doors and windows were still locked. They were. Which should have made me feel better, but only served to heighten my paranoia. I skipped the shower – visions of Janet Leigh’s psycho scene playing through my head – and downed two cups of coffee instead as I quickly got dressed.
I checked my messages and found one from Althea saying that visiting hours at the prison were from two to four, and she’d put me on the list to see Richard. I said a silent thank you that at least someone was on my side.
The second message was from Dana. She’d changed her mind about borrowing an outfit, but now she needed a new pair of boots. So, did I want to shoe shop with her?
On the one hand, it seemed kind of frivolous to be shopping while my boyfriend was in jail and my life was quickly crumbling around me. On the other, a new pair of shoes always helped me think more clearly…
I quickly called Dana back and told her I’d meet her at Neiman’s in half an hour.
Neiman Marcus was located in Beverly Hills just three block from Wilshire’s famous Miracle Mile, teeming with museums, restaurants, and most importantly, store after designer store filled with fashion temptation for the visa challenged such as myself. I rounded the block, parking in the garage, and found Dana sitting in Neiman’s shoe department, a pile of boots on the seat beside her.
“You’re late,” she said.
What was with people continually pointing this out?
“Sorry. I had a long night.”