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Authors: Gretchen Archer
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this case, former superstar,
to inventory the honey mustard pretzels and grape Nehi soda we’d agreed to stock Jay’s
place with. The more former the star, the more detailed the contract demands. We had
a has-been ’70s rock star recently who wouldn’t agree to perform unless all the linens
in Jay’s place were blue. Towels, bedding, fluffy pillows, in slate blue. The band,
all card-carrying members of the AARP, the drummer on a mobility scooter, had one
hit a million years ago, “Blue Yonder.” The week before, Taylor Swift had asked for
nothing but enough space and time to meet her fans. And she said please.
It was only when I dug in my pocket for my front door key, one of those iron skeleton
numbers, and why wouldn’t it be, that I looked down and saw all kinds of money sticking
out of my bra and the butt of my Glock poking out of the waistband of my von Furstenberg
FBI pants. That’s why the poor Dionne Warwick guy was sweating bullets. He thought
I was going to shoot him. I thought he was one of those people who hated elevators.
I opened the front door and the zipper exploded on the suitcase. Money everywhere.
At ten o’clock in the morning.
The Igloo cooler large enough to stuff a dead body in, which is our makeshift refrigerator,
sits just inside our front door under the shade of the twelve-foot-tall fake magnolia
tree in a hundred-gallon cast iron tub, so we don’t have to lug ice all the way to
the kitchen. It made a perfect shelf for a million or better counterfeit dollars.
So we wouldn’t trip all over it. I lobbed lobbed lobbed the money. The suitcase was
shot. And by shot, I don’t mean I shot it, I mean it was history. I was stacking the
money when I got a whiff of something. Or someone.
She’d been here again . She might still be here. She is so in the middle of this mess, whatever this mess is. I am so sick of this woman.
“Magnolia? Where are you?” My heels clacked around the foyer. “Magnolia?” I could
smell her everywhere and I heard a rustling. It sounded like it was above me, but
the origins of noise in Muffaletta Manor were hard to pin down; the refrigerator drowns
and distorts them. I got out of my new home, locking her in her old one. Not one to
leave anything alone, Magnolia had four huge ficus trees around a black iron patio
set in the hall . I dragged the iron bench across the hall carpet and blocked the front door. “Gotcha.”
I dusted my hands. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I dialed Bradley’s office.
Of the masses who work at the Bellissimo, I can safely say only three outside my immediate
work circle know who I am and what I do. Maybe four. Okay, at this point, maybe a
dozen. One who certainly did was my husband’s personal assistant, Calinda Wilson.
Calinda came with Bradley from the Grand Casino, down Beach Boulevard a few miles,
where he was the former lead attorney and she was his former personal and legal assistant.
She knew me and my job way before Bradley took the casino manager’s position here.
She’s been well aware of our relationship too, having caught us on Bradley’s desk.
More than once.
I texted her: Calinda, I need Bradley upstairs right now.
He’s covered up, she texted back. Four calls and five people waiting.
It’s urgent. 911.
Is it about the refrigerator?
No.
I’ll let him know.
Calinda is in her late forties, knows what Bradley needs before he does, and is armed
with a degree in paralegal studies from Georgetown University and a banana milkshake.
Calinda drinks banana milkshakes all day every day, trying to stay an ounce above
bone thin. She’s bone thin, because she has no taste buds. She can’t taste a thing,
so she cares very little about eating. Every once in a while, she says, she can taste
a hint of banana, thus the banana milkshakes instead of chocolate, or my favorite,
strawberry, but otherwise, nothing. Wouldn’t she be fun at parties? Tossing
to inventory the honey mustard pretzels and grape Nehi soda we’d agreed to stock Jay’s
place with. The more former the star, the more detailed the contract demands. We had
a has-been ’70s rock star recently who wouldn’t agree to perform unless all the linens
in Jay’s place were blue. Towels, bedding, fluffy pillows, in slate blue. The band,
all card-carrying members of the AARP, the drummer on a mobility scooter, had one
hit a million years ago, “Blue Yonder.” The week before, Taylor Swift had asked for
nothing but enough space and time to meet her fans. And she said please.
It was only when I dug in my pocket for my front door key, one of those iron skeleton
numbers, and why wouldn’t it be, that I looked down and saw all kinds of money sticking
out of my bra and the butt of my Glock poking out of the waistband of my von Furstenberg
FBI pants. That’s why the poor Dionne Warwick guy was sweating bullets. He thought
I was going to shoot him. I thought he was one of those people who hated elevators.
I opened the front door and the zipper exploded on the suitcase. Money everywhere.
At ten o’clock in the morning.
The Igloo cooler large enough to stuff a dead body in, which is our makeshift refrigerator,
sits just inside our front door under the shade of the twelve-foot-tall fake magnolia
tree in a hundred-gallon cast iron tub, so we don’t have to lug ice all the way to
the kitchen. It made a perfect shelf for a million or better counterfeit dollars.
So we wouldn’t trip all over it. I lobbed lobbed lobbed the money. The suitcase was
shot. And by shot, I don’t mean I shot it, I mean it was history. I was stacking the
money when I got a whiff of something. Or someone.
She’d been here again . She might still be here. She is so in the middle of this mess, whatever this mess is. I am so sick of this woman.
“Magnolia? Where are you?” My heels clacked around the foyer. “Magnolia?” I could
smell her everywhere and I heard a rustling. It sounded like it was above me, but
the origins of noise in Muffaletta Manor were hard to pin down; the refrigerator drowns
and distorts them. I got out of my new home, locking her in her old one. Not one to
leave anything alone, Magnolia had four huge ficus trees around a black iron patio
set in the hall . I dragged the iron bench across the hall carpet and blocked the front door. “Gotcha.”
I dusted my hands. Pulling my phone from my pocket, I dialed Bradley’s office.
Of the masses who work at the Bellissimo, I can safely say only three outside my immediate
work circle know who I am and what I do. Maybe four. Okay, at this point, maybe a
dozen. One who certainly did was my husband’s personal assistant, Calinda Wilson.
Calinda came with Bradley from the Grand Casino, down Beach Boulevard a few miles,
where he was the former lead attorney and she was his former personal and legal assistant.
She knew me and my job way before Bradley took the casino manager’s position here.
She’s been well aware of our relationship too, having caught us on Bradley’s desk.
More than once.
I texted her: Calinda, I need Bradley upstairs right now.
He’s covered up, she texted back. Four calls and five people waiting.
It’s urgent. 911.
Is it about the refrigerator?
No.
I’ll let him know.
Calinda is in her late forties, knows what Bradley needs before he does, and is armed
with a degree in paralegal studies from Georgetown University and a banana milkshake.
Calinda drinks banana milkshakes all day every day, trying to stay an ounce above
bone thin. She’s bone thin, because she has no taste buds. She can’t taste a thing,
so she cares very little about eating. Every once in a while, she says, she can taste
a hint of banana, thus the banana milkshakes instead of chocolate, or my favorite,
strawberry, but otherwise, nothing. Wouldn’t she be fun at parties? Tossing
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