By zeezeewriter
The caller ID on my phone read, Virus. I let it go to voicemail. Somedays, I can't cope with a needy, neurotic narcissist. And, I'm talking about myself.
Virus, AKA Iris, only calls when her life is circling the drain, or she's craving corned beef on rye. My intuition-needle pointed to the former.
I only say this because I'd not heard from Iris since she started shacking up with Just Jim, of the notorious Smith family.
That was three months ago when she showed up on my doorstep with her new love train-wreck trailing along behind her.
"Zee," she said as if I were her best friend. (I am not. I am no one's best friend.) "I just had to introduce you to the most wonderful man (Giggle Giggle). Promise you won't try and steal him away!" (More giggling.)
I reluctantly opened my door and led them to my living room.
"Hi," he said, thrusting a limp appendage in my direction. " I'm James Smith. Just Jim to my friends.
"Of the infamous Smith tribe?" I said, firing up a cigarette and blowing smoke in his face.
"Pardon me?"
"Have a seat," I said, wiping my hand on the sleeve of his paisley print shirt.
They seated themselves on my white couch. I sat in Q's Eames Lounge Chair. The one I bought him ten years ago. The one he refuses to allow me to sit in while smoking.
"Iris says you've moved in with her." A statement, not a question.
"Ahhh...yes," he answered. "My home in Wentworth is being rehabbed."
"Really? A home in Wentworth...? How lovely."
"I don't want to brag, but five bedrooms is a bit much," he said with a double wink. As if one "wink" is insufficient to downplay his wealth and privilege.
I lit another cigarette and calculated how many times I'd have to hit him with a golf club to render him unconscious.
"And, between you and me. (Double wink.) I like living close to the action," he said, as he chubbed Iris's double chin with his trout like hand.
And, Iris, in true love-sick fashion, wiggled about like a cocker spaniel having its tummy rubbed. I settled on five if I used an eight iron.
"I see you smoke," he said and pulled out an ornate pipe worthy of a prop in a Charles Dickens play. "Do you mind?" He asked.
(I hate men who smoke a pipe.)
Mr. Smith crossed his legs and showcased his worn in the heels Tom McCane loafers.
(I hate men in cheap shoes...who smoke a pipe.)
"So, James, what do you do for a living?"
"Just Jim," he repeated while tamping down his Captain Jack with a stained tobacco finger. "I am devoting myself, full time, to making this little lady happy." (knee pat, knee pain, wiggle, wiggle.)
"So, you're unemployed," I said.
Now...I know what you are thinking. "Give the guy a chance. He makes Iris happy."
First, let me continue. Besides the cheap shoes and pipe smoking. (As if that were not enough) Just-Jim wore a lice-infested hairpiece, a full face beard, and a Handlebar mustache you could mount on a Harley Davidson. (I'm only guessing about the lice, but I thought I saw something crawl out of it and land on my white couch.)
"Alexa, remind me to call an exterminator," I said.
"Pardon me..." he said, his voice trailing off in the direction of Iris.
"When do you want me to remind you?" Alexa asked.
"Hopefully, in the next hour," I said.
"I'm sorry. I don't understand." Alexa said.
"Not to worry. Life is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma," I said in my best Winston Churchill voice.
Just Jim turned to Iris, "What did she say?"
"She's a writer. You never know what she is going to say," Iris said, giving me the fisheye.
So that's how the next half hour unfolded. Just Jim blathered on about his collection of stuffed walleyes (now objects de art in Iris's living room) and his master plan to corner the market on pickled herring. (Soon to become an endangered species of minnow.) I drummed my fingers on the arm of Q's Eames Lounge chair in anticipation of their departure.
I smelled rotten fish, alright. And his name is Just Jim.
| Author Notes | Just a day with my characters. I'm bored. They are bored. Ho Hum. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
The message on my phone sounded urgent, hysterical. In other words, typical Iris. I called her back. She answered on the first ring.
"Zee, is this you?" she asked in a breathless whisper.
"That, my dear, is a question for my psychiatrist," I said, kissing my finger and pressing it to my four-by-six framed picture of Sid sticking his tongue in my ear.
(Side note: Stella finds this picture to be vulgar. Stella, the girl who wears a bathing suit with crotch hair hanging out the bottom.)
"What's up, Iris? It's 10:30 in the AM, and I've not had my coffee yet."
(Of course, that's a lie. But I want an excuse to get off the phone.)
"He's been kidnapped," she said, again in a breathless whisper.
"Who's been kidnapped?"
"Jim. I just found the note and his ear."
"Which ear, and how do you know it's his?" A moment passed with the sound of shuffling in the background.
"Left ear. And I can tell by the adorable tuft of hair still protruding from the ear canal."
"How did you determine it is the left ear?" I asked.
"I held it up to my head and looked in the mirror."
"Fascinating," I said.
"Whatever you do, don't call the police," she said. "Let me read the note." note:
Put (hiccup) one million dollars in small (hiccup) bills in an oversized Gucci tote, and (hiccup) we'll call you back tomorrow and tell you where to make the (hiccup) drop. "Well, what do you (hiccup) think?" she asked.
"I think you have the hiccups," I said.
"No! I mean, the ransom note? (hiccup)."
"A couple of things come to mind. I'm not sure a million dollars in small bills will fit into a Gucci tote. At least not the one I have. And, no you can't borrow it. And, lastly, I'm not loaning you a million dollars."
"I thought you were my friend?" Iris said in an accusatory tone.
"Iris, they don't make Gucci totes anymore. How about my canvas overnight bag? It's got the word Coochie on it. Close enough."
"And the million dollars? Can I borrow that as well?"
"Sorry, Iris. All my assets are tied up in liabilities." (I heard that somewhere, and it sounds reasonable.)
"But where can I get a million dollars?"
"How about your Mother?" I said, wedging the phone to my ear with my shoulder while I light a cigarette.
"She hates Jim."
"Frankly, I'm not that fond of him either."
"How can you put a (hiccup) price tag on a human being?" she said, honking her nose into a Kleenex, paper towel, or possibly her sleeve.
"I'm not the one who assigned the price tag. Take it up with the kidnappers when they call back," I answered in my best Go-fuck -yourself tone.
"Poor Jim. How will he be able to wear his glasses without an ear?"
"Where is his ear?" I asked like someone who cared.
"On my coffee table."
"Ewww..." I said.
"No, silly, it's still in the box," she said.
"What box? You didn't mention a box."
"It came in a lovely music box. It looks old. Kinda expensive."
"So, let me get this straight. Some ne'er do wells kidnapped Just Jim. Cut off his ear, concocted up a note, and neatly packaged them in a music box."
"Yes, it plays, You Light Up My Life, every time I open it."
"I hate that song," I said, tamping out my cigarette.
"It was our song. He (hiccup) sang it to me every time we made love ."
"How thoughtful of the kidnappers."
"I know, (hiccup) right?
"Iris, I'm going to set the phone down for a moment."
A brief history to follow: Iris met James Smith on Match.Com. Like in the fairy tales, it was love at first fuck. I pegged him for a guy on the lamb. No one can look that shady by accident. His full-face beard, black horned rim glasses, and ragged toupee screamed Witness Protection Program or creepy guy in a van rub-a-dubbing his dick outside a grade school.
The name Just Jim morphed when he stuck his trout-like hand out and said, "Hi, I'm James Smith. But, just Jim to my friends."
They consummated their short engagement with a quicky marriage at city hall. I played bridesmaid to Q's best man, and we all went to lunch at Manny's Delicatessen. Of course, I popped for the check--my wedding gift to an old friend.
That was six months ago and a half million dollars of Iris's 401 K. It seems Just Jim had a few outstanding debts to some men wearing gold chains and pinky rings. In other words, he tapped Iris out.
Now the big question to ask, who would snatch him and why?
"Q, can you come in here. There's been a kidnapping."
Q came into the room wearing white coveralls splotched with assorted colors of paint. His muscular arms were glistening with sweat. He's repainting the foyer after a pizza incident involving Stella and Cecil, the delivery guy.
"Please tell me someone kidnapped Stella. I'm still scrapping pepperoni off the walls."
"No. Just Jim."
"Rats," he said, wiping his long fingers on the front of his coveralls.
I took a moment to appreciate how utterly delicious a man can look in stained coveralls and wondered if he was naked beneath them. And, if he were, could the brushing of the crude material against his untethered genitalia cause him to get aroused?
A question for another day.
"Who'd want to kidnap Zippy-the-Wonder-Slug? And if they did, who'd be stupid enough to pay the ransom?"
"You'll have to ask Iris," I said and handed him the phone.
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
Q reluctantly took the phone and answered with a resounding, "What?". Then he listened and said, "Okay." Then, he hung up.
"What?" I asked. "That's it?" I inquired.
I realized many years ago that Q is a man of few words. Still, "what" and "okay" seem oversimplified or an indication of lack of interest or perhaps feigning interest. The "what" comment didn't bother me as much as the "okay" word. Okay, what?
I didn't have to wait long. "She's coming over," he said.
"Iris is coming here...now? Is she bringing Just Jim's ear? Are you wearing any underwear?"
(Okay, I know the last question doesn't fit the string of consciousness, but if I don't ask now, I'll forget.)
All my questions went unanswered -- he left the room.
I smoked three cigarettes, drank two more cups of tepid coffee, and stabbed Trevor, the stuffed bear, repeatedly with an olive pick leftover from my morning Bloody Mary.
Q returned wearing a black tee-shirt, black jeans, and Christian Louboutin Dandoline Spike loafers. Somewhere a GQ magazine was missing a centerfold. My saliva gland responded appropriately.
(Note to self: Call your doctor and ask if he can transplant my saliva gland into my vaginal canal.)
"Why is Iris coming here?" I asked, wiping drool from my chin with Trevor's fuzzy paw.
"So I can beat the truth out of her."
"Is that a standard interrogation technique when dealing with a friend?"
"No, but it is the quickest. I got tickets to the Cubs game."
"What makes you think she's in on it?"
"Cause she's stupid. Her story smells like leftover Sashimi."
"What the...?"
"Sushi."
"You could have just said fish!"
Before he could respond, security rang. "Send her up," I said.
She looked sufficiently distraught in leggings and a plain white oversized shirt with a button missing at the boob area. Her paisley print brassiere peaked out the gap. Smudged mascara lined her eyes. She held tight to her purse and a wad of Kleenex.
"Nice to see you, Iris," I started to say, but Q interrupted my salutation.
Q grabbed Iris by the back of her shirt, thus ripping off three more buttons, and escorted her to the living room. "Sit the fuck down and spill," he said, glancing at his wristwatch. "I don't have all day."
Iris did indeed sit down on the couch with a thud. "Zee, are you going to let him treat me this way?"
Q gave me the; "You're next" look and pointed to the other end of the couch.
"I suggest you start talking; kick-off is in one hour," I said hurriedly, seating myself next to Iris.
"First pitch," Q said.
"Whatever," I said with a staredown.
I turned my focus back to Iris. "Just tell us what happened. We know your story is bullshit. Where's Just Jim?"
The truth poured out of her like Old Faithful on double-time. An old story with no surprises. Con man seduces a lonely woman, blows through her money, and coerces her to tap into friends and family.
"How did you intended to pull off the severed ear con? Didn't you think we'd notice?" I asked.
"I just got caught up in the drama. I remember Frank Sinatra's son had his ear cut off during a kidnapping."
Q unscrewed the cap on a Pelligrino and took a drink. "I told you she was stupid," he said and checked his watch one more time.
"I don't get it?" Iris said, looking at me like a basset hound on anti-depressants.
"You got your celebrities mixed up. It was J. Paul Getty's grandson who had his ear cut off."
"Oh, I guess I messed up," she said.
"Ya think? Where's he at now?" Q asked
"The St Clair hotel on Ohio Street."
Q donned his Cubs hat on his perfectly shaped shaved head, checked himself out in the mirror, and left.
Iris spent the next twenty minutes wallowing in self-pity. I spent the time in the remorseful reflection of days gone by. If I shoveled all my acts of stupidity into a pile, mine would be the motherload.
Iris had Just Jim. I had two Franks, a Fred, and a sorry sack of shit called Hog Head by his fellow beer-drinking buddies. If they gave out sheepskins for lessons learned the hard way, I'd be a shepherd.
I dosed Iris with a valium, tucked her into my bed, and kissed her on the forehead.
"I love you, Zee Zee," she said, wiping her snot-filled nose on my Sferra Capri Honey Egyptian pillowcase.
"I love you, too, Iris," I lied. "Tomorrow will be a better day," I lied.
I lie a lot.
| Author Notes |
Zee: Old Broad with too many friends.
Q: Her faithful bodygaurd. Iris: Dumb and helpless. Just Jim: Rat bastard. Married Iris for her money. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
Iris slept ten hours straight. My walnut-sized pee bag requires draining every two hours. I initially envied her bladder. Then, Stella marched into the kitchen.
"I'm not cleaning up her pissy sheets," Stella declared with arms folded and lips pursed.
"Shhhh.... she'll hear you!" I said.
"And I care, why? She's been in the bathroom for twenty minutes, and it sure ain't been to pee. Who knew urine could puddle on a mattress?"
I calculated the odds of having a new mattress delivered on a Sunday. Fuck me. But, I did feel slightly better about my own personal pee problem.
"Iris is going through a difficult patch, and we need to be supportive. Treat her with kid gloves," I said sanctimoniously.
Iris entered the kitchen looking shiny, freshly scrubbed, and wearing my black nightgown. The one I wear for first-time fucks. One must look their best when auditioning. First impressions are essential in the game of love.
"You're wearing my nightgown."
"My clothes are soiled. I hope you don't mind. Any coffee left?" she asked, lifting the empty pot and waving it about.
"You pissed in your pants and all over my three thousand dollar mattress. Make your own damn coffee," I said.
Stella laughed, then hee-hawed. "Way to go with the kid gloves."
"Shut the fuck up, Stella. Make another pot of coffee. Our guest is in need of caffeine."
"She needs adult diapers," Stella added under her breath and left the room.
Iris walked around the kitchen with the empty coffee pot in her hand.
She picked up the bag marked coffee beans and opened it. She fished out one bean and held it between two fingers.
"How does this work?" she asked with the perplexed look a twelve-year-old girl gets the first time her mom hands her a tampon.
"I take it you don't drink coffee at your house," I said, firing up a Marlboro.
"Jim made the coffee. And, I wish you wouldn't smoke in front of me. I have COPD."
I blew smoke in her face and continued. "Do you know how to make a Bloody Mary?"
"You're not going to drink at this hour, are you? Why it's not even noon."
"You bear a striking resemblance to Carrie Nation. Are you sure you're not related?" I said.
"Who?"
"I've spent one night with you, Iris, and I'm already missing Just Jim."
"Me too," she said and started to cry.
I filled a glass with ice and vodka and tossed in a few prunes. I may be an alcoholic, but at least I'm regular.
The doorbell rang, followed by a stiff pounding and the calling out, "Chicago police."
"You didn't!" Iris screamed.
"I didn't," I said on my way to answer the door.
Two of Chicago's finest detectives stood in my doorway. Well, not really. One stood in the door. The other hung back and played with his phone.
The one in the doorway looked old school--sort of a Colombo type. The word disheveled comes to mind. He held a small notepad in his left hand and a short, chewed-up pencil over his ear. He was not wearing a wedding ring. I stored this morsel of information in my mental black book.
His partner came across as a rookie--handsome, tall, fit, tan, long manicured fingers. In other words, gay. I had a distinct feeling he was texting someone, maybe setting up a squash match for later or confirming dinner reservations with his mom.
Columbo spoke. "Mame, we're looking for an Iris Smith. Is she here?"
"Who's asking?" I said.
"Very funny," he said.
Iris stepped forward with her arms out and wrists together in proper surrender mode. I slapped her hand. "Stop it."
Columbo took charge. "Mrs. Smith, my name is Detective Corbin, and this is my partner Dudley Canfield. I have a few questions for you. May I come in?"
Considering he was already in, I appreciated the common courtesy, albeit after the fact.
Iris leaned on me like a Great Dane after a pitcher of Margaritas. I nudged her with my shoulder into a righted position. "Right this way," I said, ushering Iris and the Detectives toward the living room.
After we were all seated, Detective Corbin looked at me and asked the appropriate question. "And you are?"
"Single," I said. "And you?"
He lowered his head slightly and peered over at me with renewed interest. A twinkle danced across his eyes. Or at least it looked like a twinkle. He pursed his lips and made a sucking sound with his tongue against his teeth.
Note to self: Refill Viagra prescription.
Dudley spoke, "Zelda Markowicz."
Corbin turned to face his partner with a quizzical look on his face.
"She's a local celebrity. Writes books about Chicago corruption and old people having sex," Dudley said.
Corbin turned his gaze upon me. "Is that true?"
"Certainly the last part," I said with a wink.
Corbin cleared his throat and refocused. "Mrs. Smith," he said, "are you in possession of a ransom note and your husband's ear?"
After a pregnant pause, the melody "You light up my life" interrupted the silence. We all looked in the direction of the music. Q, dressed in white coveralls, stood holding a music box.
"Anybody missing an ear," he said, holding up the bloody appendage.
| Author Notes |
Zee: Old Broad with too many friends.
Q: Her faithful bodygaurd. Stella: Her housekeeper and general pain in the ass. Iris: Dumb and helpless. |
By zeezeewriter
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Q's untimely entrance falls into the category of an unforeseen event. A brief explanation of his prior movements and motivation is helpful at this juncture.
Q dislikes unfinished business. Jim's lame attempt to extort a cool mil from me based on friendship and sympathy put him directly in Q's crosshairs.
While Iris and I slept the night away, Q went hunting for Just Jim. Finding him was easy. He was right where Iris said he would be, at the St. Claire Hotel registered under his own name--a mastermind criminal, Just Jim was not.
The problem or solution, depending on how you see it; someone else beat Q to the punch. (no pun intended.) Q found him tied to a chair, beaten, and unconscious. Not known to pass up a perfect opportunity when it presents itself, Q removed one of Jim's ears. He chalked it up to poetic justice. It sounded better than revenge.
A short stop off at Iris's condo yielded the music box along with the fake ransom note. Except, his plan backfired. He'd not counted on the cops finding Iris so soon.
Q bounding into the living room with Jim's ear caused a chain of events worthy of an entire chapter in the Guinness Book of World records.
Detective Corbin, AKA Columbo, leaped to his feet and assumed the position. The combat position. Feet splayed, arms extended, both hands firmly grasping the handle of his firearm. It could have been a Kodak moment were it not for his trench coat wedged in his butt crack.
What I did not know until a lengthy courtship (two days) Detective Corbin suffers from a syndrome we've all come to know as "goosey." So, when Iris took hold of his trench coat and gave it a hearty yank, he reacted by discharging his firearm in the direction of my ceiling, sending fragments of plaster ricocheting across the room.
Dudley Canfield dropped his phone and took cover behind the couch.
Iris dropped to her knees, clutched her heart, and announced she'd been shot.
Q leaped forward, disarmed Columbo, and elbowed him in the groin. But not before tossing Just Jim's ear into the air where it landed in Q's fish tank occupied by one lone red-bellied piranha.
Recovering his composure, Dudley sprang into action and grabbed hold of Q's coveralls. A struggle ensued, the straps uncoupled from the bib, and the coveralls fell around Q's ankles -- thus answering my original question.
Q, now spectacularly naked, coiled his leg in a cobra stance and kicked Dudley in the chest, sending him hurtling into the doorway of the kitchen.
After much eww'ing and oww'ing, an ambulance arrived and carried Iris and Dudley to the hospital. With the absence of a gunshot wound, Iris diagnosed her chest pain as a possible heart attack. Dudley interpreted his chest pain as an assault and battery.
Detective Corbin decided not to call for backup. Two swollen testicles and a discharged weapon would dog him into retirement.
I fetched an ice pack for Detective Corbin's testicles. (Now affectionately referred to as Sigfred and Roy.) Q changed into a silk robe I bought him for Christmas. (The word scrumptious comes to mind.)
After a brief introduction, Q poured Corbin a whiskey neat. I opted for a scotch old-fashion. Somehow rolling a cherry around in my mouth with the stem between my teeth had a certain Je ne sais quoi.
Of course, Detective Corvin demanded answers, so we began the storytelling--some true, some lies, as all good stories go.
We stuck with the part about the kidnapping--no point in throwing Iris under the bus. When asked how he acquired the severed ear, Q claimed a man approached him in front of my door and hand-delivered the music box. (An absolute lie.)
And then we all looked at the fish tank. Detective Corbin rolled up his sleeve, determined to rescue the remainder of Jim's ear.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Jeff can't resist warm-blooded appendages," Q said.
"Who names a fish Jeff?" Corbin asked, continuing his rescue attempt with a long-handled skimming net.
"Dahmer, " Q said. "Jeffery Dahmer."
THE END (Thank goodness.)
| Author Notes |
Zee: Old Broad with too many friends.
Q: Her faithful bodygaurd. Stella: Her housekeeper and general pain in the ass. Iris: Dumb and helpless. Detective Corbin - Columbo type Detective Canfield - rookie detective. |
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