Sex, Murder And A Double Latte. Kyra Davis

toward the publication.

      “There are some really interesting articles,” he said. “Corruption in the political world, greed in the business world—violence in the art world, all the usual sensationalism.”

      I begrudgingly took the paper. “Violence in the art world?”

      “Mmm…it seems there’s been a conviction in the KK Money murder trial.”

      I noted the headline on the front page. “It’s JJ Money.” JJ Money was a gangsta rapper who, seven months ago, had been killed in the exact same manner as one of his songs, shot in both kneecaps, once in the stomach and once in the head. Rival rap star DC Smooth, who already had a rather long criminal history that included a few assault-and-battery charges, had been tried for the murder and had now been found guilty, despite his continual protests of innocence, a detail I found a little odd. After his previous arrests he had been known to brag about his crimes. But then again, this was a different situation. This time his victim didn’t just end up in a hospital but in a morgue.

      “Well, I knew it was some letter of the English alphabet. The basic premise is the same, reaping what you sow and all that.”

      I nearly choked on my Frappuccino. “What did you say?”

      “What, that the premise was the same?” he asked.

      “No, the other part…you know what, never mind. Look, thanks for the paper. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to read it and enjoy my coffee by myself.”

      The man nodded and stood up. I couldn’t help but notice his physique. He certainly spent enough time at the gym. He turned to leave, then paused and leaned over me, causing me to shift uncomfortably in my seat.

      “By the way,” he said, his Russian accent a bit more pronounced, “That’s not coffee, that’s a milk shake.” And with that he walked out.

      I stared at the door. Had he just insulted my coffee drink? Unbelievable! Everyone who had evolved passed the Cro-Magnon level knew that one should never make snide remarks about a person’s weight, religion or choice in caffeinated beverages, which meant he was most likely a Neanderthal. A Neanderthal with really good hands.

      I grabbed my drink and paper, and stormed home. At least my cat knew how to shut up and let me enjoy a few minor indulgences. When I reached my building, I struggled to retrieve my keys from my purse without putting down either of my two purchases. You never knew when a greedy tourist was going to sneak up and snag your periodical.

      “Hello, Miss Katz.”

      The voice from behind startled me enough that I dropped my Frappuccino, spilling the beverage all over my suede boots. “Fuck!” I looked up from the disaster to see the pitifully distressed eyes of Andy Manning looking down at me.

      “I’m so sorry, Miss Katz. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to say hi. I guess I should go.” He rubbed his massive head in a way that caused his fine blond hair to stick out in a rather awkward spiked configuration.

      Everything about Andy was massive and awkward. He worked as the stock clerk at the corner market, and at six-seven and with a body weight that had to be well over the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound mark, he was pretty hard to miss. Andy also suffered from brain damage. I wasn’t sure how that came to be. Alice, the market’s proprietor, had said something about his being seriously abused as an infant. Whatever had happened, it certainly hadn’t affected his disposition, which was one of the sweetest I’d ever come across.

      I carefully extricated the sports section and used it to absorb some of the liquid penetrating my shoes. “No—I’m sorry, Andy. If I hadn’t have been so preoccupied, you wouldn’t have been able to surprise me. I didn’t mean to swear.” Well, I sorta had, but not at him.

      He bent down and examined the mess. “I’m really sorry about your boots and your drink. Was it a Frappuccino?”

      “Yeah, they’re one of my favorite vices.”

      “I like them too. They’re kind of like a milk shake.”

      The paper crinkled as my fist tightened around it. “Andy, I really have to go upstairs and see if I can salvage these. I’ll see you later okay?”

      “Okay, Miss Katz. I really am sorry.”

      “I know, Andy.” I stuffed the soiled pages inside the now-empty cup and went upstairs.

      Mr. Katz was spread out on the love seat, leisurely grooming himself. “Well, at least one of us is having a relaxing day.”

      The phone rang and I dumped my stuff onto the dining table in order to free my hands to answer. “Hello?”

      No response. That was the last straw. “Listen, asshole, I don’t know if you think you’re funny or scary or what, but if you don’t cut this crap out right now, my husband, who just happens to be a cop, is going to get his hands on the phone records and drag your juvenile butt to jail for harassment, got it?”

      They hung up.

      Ten seconds later the phone rang again. I picked up the receiver. “Oh, you are sooo asking for it.”

      There was no immediate response but I thought I could detect some background noise this time. It sounded like…Donna Summer.

      A voice on the other end cleared his throat. “Honey, the only thing I’m asking for is world peace, the end of deforestation and a Miami beachfront property with a six-foot live-in housekeeper named Ricardo.”

      “Marcus.” I leaned against the dividing kitchen counter. “Did you call before this?”

      “No, but I’m guessing that the person who did, left you a tad out of sorts.”

      “Understatement, but it’s not important. What’s up with you?”

      “I got a last-minute invite to an art opening for an artist named Donato Balardi. It’s at the Sussman Gallery tonight. Want to come with?”

      “That actually sounds fun. I’ve just finished a manuscript and I’ve been trying to celebrate, but so far I’ve been failing miserably.” Mr. Katz blinked his eyes in what I took for agreement.

      “You finished your book? Honey, that’s great! Tell you what, I’ll throw in dinner at Puccini and Pinetti to mark the occasion. My last appointment is at four but it’s just a trim and style, so if we plan for me to pick you up at six-thirty I’ll still have some wiggle room.”

      “Wiggle away. I’ll see you at six-thirty.”

      I spent the rest of the day reading what was left of the paper and napping. It had been over a week since I had gotten a good night’s sleep, and I had no intention of going out with saddlebag eyes. Knowing Marcus, he’d be fifteen minutes late, which was fine with me because I needed the extra minutes to do something with my hair. Tonight I would make Marcus proud, even if it killed me.

      Several hours later, it was killing me. It was six-forty and I had been torturing myself with a blow-dryer and a curling iron for the last hour and a half, and my reward was hair that was big enough to intimidate Diana Ross. Marcus was so lucky; he had those short little well-groomed dreadlocks, and all he had to do was shave, get dressed and voilà—he was the next Blair Underwood. I was desperately searching my bathroom drawers for some styling product to fix the problem when the phone rang.

      I rushed out into the living room to get it. “Hello?”

      It was a hang-up. I stared at the phone. Either I hadn’t been as convincing as I thought, or the person prank-calling somehow knew I didn’t have a police officer husband. How would they know that? The buzzer jarred me out of my thoughts. My hand flew to my hair. “Damn it!”

      I crossed over to the intercom. “Marcus, I just need another minute to finish putting myself together.”

      “In another minute, I’m going to have a meter maid in my face.”

      “Maybe you could flirt your