Death by Sarcasm (22 page)

“I’m done,” the old lady said.

“Done?”

“I’ve done what I needed to do. I want to go back now. Call your boyfriend. Jake. That’s his name?”

“Go back where?”

“To the hospital,” Marie Stevens said. “I don’t like it out here. Besides, with this,” she said, and pointed at her laptop. “I can send my stuff out. Leno used one of my jokes a couple weeks ago. Under a false name, of course.”

Mary put away the .45. She felt funny, almost sleepy. Her foot was soaked in blood and now it felt cold.

“I want to hear it,” she said.

“Hear what?” Marie Stevens said.

“The joke.”

Jake and the Shark arrived minutes later with a whole contingent of LAPD’s finest. They entered the room with guns drawn.

“Hate to interrupt you two,” the Shark said. “But one of you is under arrest for murder.”

“I didn’t know reptiles could become homicide detectives,” Marie Stevens said, and looked Davies up and down. “Or is this some kind of diversity mandate?”

Mary, still feeling lightheaded and like she was going to pass out at any moment said, “Yeah, she has to sit out in the sun to raise her body temperature.”

Davies took out a pair of handcuffs.

“Don’t worry,” Mary said to Marie Stevens. “Those are for Jake. They have his and hers. Instead of monogrammed towels.”

“He went from you to her?” Marie said. “And I thought my judgment was questionable.”

“That’s enough,” Jake said. “Come on in guys.” A team of paramedics came through the door and Jake directed them to Mary. He followed them over and held Mary’s hand as the paramedics began to set up the stretcher and examine her leg.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” Marie said as the Shark put her in handcuffs. “Getting arrested. Or getting arrested by a Macy’s mannequin and her eunuch.”

“Save it for prison, honey,” Davies said.

“Bet you’d love a conjugal visit,” the old lady said to Davies. “Well, forget it, even if I get 20 years, I wouldn’t be
that
desperate.”

Davies shoved her toward the door where two uniforms escorted the lady to a patrol car. Davies turned to Jake, saw him holding Mary’s hand, and turned and followed the old lady out into the sunshine.

Jake smiled at Mary as the paramedics lifted her onto the stretcher. He still held her hand and stroked her hair.

“That old lady’s pretty funny,” he said. “For a murderer.”

In response, Mary passed out.

“T
his is downright painful,” Mary said, taking a long pull of her beer.

“Brutal,” Alice said.

They were seated at a table inside the Funny Factory, a small and sparsely attended comedy club in Santa Monica. Uncle Kurt Cooper was on stage, in the middle of his act. Inspired by his return to L.A. and the comedy scene, Uncle Kurt had decided to stick around and start doing standup again.

“I think he’s funny,” Jake said.

Mary and Alice both looked at Jake.

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard tonight,” Alice said.

Jake quickly changed the subject. “So they shipped Marie Stevens back to the mental institution today. Unfit for trial. She could’ve gotten the death penalty.”

Mary idly wondered if letting Marie Stevens live had been the right thing to do. She could have taken her out at the house in Malibu. Instead, she had called Jake while she was en route, shot and bleeding.

“Those guys didn’t just take her material,” Mary said. “They took her soul and her sanity.”

“Lots of people got ripped off back then,” Alice said. “If people got shot out here for stealing material, Hollywood would have a population of maybe ten or twenty people.”

Mary nodded and looked at the stage. “Speaking of material,” Mary said.

They all looked at Kurt Cooper on stage, holding a microphone to his lips. “And why do they call the tank top the ‘wife beater’?” he said. “Hell, every shirt I own is a wife beater. It’s not like when I’m about to knock my wife around I say, hey, let me go put my tank top on!” He beamed at the crowd.

Some of the people in the club laughed. Some didn’t.

“I think his stuff is safe,” Mary said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mary watched Jake take a drink from his beer. God, he looked so handsome. And he’d been so good helping her recover from the gunshot to her leg. Luckily, there’d been no nerve damage. But Jake had jumped right in to help, buying her groceries, cooking for her, visiting Alice, too.

Now, Jake turned and saw her looking at him.

“What?” he said.

She reached across and held his hand. Squeezed it gently.

“Jake. I…”

He waited. “You what?”

“I…” she said.

He leaned toward her, as if she were going to whisper.

Finally, she spoke.

“I think you’re the best Wal-Mart underwear model I know.”

D
ani Amore lives in a city that’s as innocent as Amish country – Los Angeles, California. But you can find her most often at
deadlysarcasm.com
where she discusses serious issues ranging from animal husbandry to the art of floral arrangements with absolute sincerity.

Copyright © 2011 by Dani Amore

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Edition: March 2011