I frisk my friends carefully and then search them with the metal detector, which I practiced using on the NYU students yesterday. Everyone is wearing pants, as I’d instructed. No one sets off the metal detector, which means they didn’t conceal razor blades on or in their bodies. It’s nice to know I won’t have to worry about them whipping out a razor blade when they go to the bathroom. I will only have to worry about them whipping out a piece of broken glass encased in a nonmetal tube inserted in their bodies in the fashion of a tampon or suppository. Frisking them every time they exit the bathroom should be enough to guard against such a danger. Metal detecting won’t be necessary again.
I confiscate bags, cell phones, and shoes.
I then stand before my friends and say, “I want you to be extremely vigilant this evening. The killer could be swift. Be on the lookout for any abrupt movements from any of you, and be prepared to pounce. If the killer is Jack, we should be particularly alert because he’s stronger than the rest of us and will be more difficult to restrain.” They all nod, including Jack.
I continue with, “The rules are: No one goes near the kitchen area; no one near the food before it is served; from the moment it’s served until Strad has finished eating, we should all keep a close eye on Strad’s plate and glass to be sure nobody puts anything in them; everyone stays in the living room at all times, no wandering in the rest of the apartment; and nobody goes to the bathroom unaccompanied.”
They all nod again. “Sounds good,” Jack says.
“Oh, and let’s not forget to try to act natural, for Lily’s sake,” I say. “We don’t want him to think her friends are weirdos.”
“I appreciate that,” Lily says.
“Even if we’re weirdos, we’re still the Knights of Creation and he knows it,” Georgia says, scornfully.
We wait for Strad as 7:30 approaches. It comes and goes. We look at one another. At 7:45 p.m., I instruct Lily to call his cell phone. She does, on speakerphone. He says he’s on his way, had to take a cab because there’s a problem with the subway.
I stare at my cuckoo clock as eight o’clock nears. I ask Lily to call him again. She does, again on speaker. He says he’s two blocks away, that maybe he’ll get out of the cab and walk the rest of the way because there’s traffic.
“No!” I exclaim. If he’s out on the street alone when eight o’clock strikes, who knows what could happen, what the killer might have planned. “No,” I repeat, more calmly, and whisper: “Tell him not to worry, to stay in the taxi until it reaches my building.”
She tells him this. He says he’s now one block away. It’s three minutes before eight. He says he’ll see us soon. He says he can’t wait. Lily hangs up.
I stare at my intercom, waiting for the doorman to buzz me. Finally, he does. It’s Adam, and he softly says to me, “You clownish fool, someone is here to see you, don’t ask me why. His name is Strad. I don’t envy him. He’s in for quite—”
“Send him up,” I say, having no time for his disorder right now.
“Jee-zuss!”
“Real fast, please,” I add.
“Fine, cunt,” he says, and hangs up.
I look at the clock. We’ve got two minutes left before the danger starts.
Ten seconds left. He’s still not here.
“CUCKOO!” shrieks the bird eight times at eight o’clock.
I hear a grim voice in my head saying, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, let the games begin.”
Ten minutes go by, and still no Strad. Perhaps he got lost in the building. This is a common problem in my building, which is huge and consists of four towers, requiring visitors to take two elevators, which are separated by a long hallway and some turns.
I tell Lily this, to reassure her. She nods, chewing her lip.
Strad finally arrives at 8:11 p.m. and sheepishly confesses to me in the entrance hall that he got lost in the building.
“Yes, it’s very complicated,” Georgia calls out from the living room, her sarcasm unfair because it is.
Strad is carrying a shoulder bag, a violin case, a bunch of mixed flowers, and a bottle of red wine. He hands me the flowers and wine. “Thank you so much for inviting me,” he says, following me into the living room. “You can’t imagine how…” He stops mid-sentence as he steps across the threshold. He gazes around the living room at the masked and costumed furry mannequins. “Wow. Amazing. Wow.”
“Aw, we love eloquent guests,” Georgia says.
“Your decor is spectacular,” Strad says to me.
“Thank you,” I say.
He puts down his bag and violin case. He notices that none of us is wearing shoes, so he takes his off and puts them by the door.
Then he goes straight for Georgia. “Man, what an honor it is to finally meet you!” He takes her hand in both of his.
“Thank you,” she says.
“No, thank you. For all your books. Spending this evening with you will be such a blast.”
“A blast, possibly.” She turns to the rest of us and asks, “Did we cover that possibility? That it might be a blast?”
“Many times,” Jack says.
“And? What did we decide?”
“That it can’t be a blast as long as he’s with us.”
It’s true, we did cover the possibility of a small bomb and quickly realized that the killer would never use a method that had any risk of hurting the rest of us. As long as Strad is with us, no explosive would be used on him.
So I’m outraged at Jack and Georgia’s unnecessary exchange and offensive double meanings aimed at insulting Strad. Have I not just told them to act normal? Do they not care how their weird behavior will reflect on Lily? I guess they don’t, come to think of it.
Trying to hide my annoyance, I say, “I thought we decided not to be eccentric tonight?” I put a little water and Strad’s flowers into a small plastic vase. “If I detect even a whiff of eccentricity this evening, you will not hear the end of it.”
I take Strad’s belongings (except for his violin case, which he’ll need) and put them in my bedroom, because the killer might have cleverly hidden a weapon in Strad’s bag or coat earlier.
I then pour the wine into a lidded plastic jug and I lock the empty wine bottle in my bedroom with all the other glass items.
Strad strolls around my living room, looking at the costumed mannequins. He stops in front of my ballet bar and asks me, “Why do you have a ballet bar if you don’t use it?”
“What makes you think I don’t use it?”
He looks me up and down. “Wild guess.”
I feel slapped in the face on behalf of overweight people who do use a ballet bar. “The previous owner installed it,” I explain. “She was a ballet dancer. And I do use it for my costume design work with actors.”
“Fun piano,” Strad says, standing in front of the mirror piano. “The sound must suffer a bit in that kind of casing, but it’s great-looking. Am I right, Lily, that the sound suffers?”
“Yes, it suffers,” Lily says.
The thought of suffering reminds me that we’re due for some, right about now. “Speaking of music, weren’t you going to play a little something for us?” I ask him.
“Oh, yes, why don’t you bless us with some of your music,” Georgia says, with an impressive lack of sarcasm.
“Sure!” Strad goes to his violin case.
I follow him. He opens it.
“Can I see this case? It’s so beautiful,” I say.
“Sure.”
I hold the case, caress the lining, examine it thoroughly inside and out and when I’m relatively certain that it’s safe, I say, “And can I see your violin too?”