The Sonnenscheins were in Cannes, and I was watering their plants. We’d put in their garden, and Ilona had taken a liking to me. Probably a poor idea.
I met Ben Price at the Sonnenschein house in the Mesa. I wore my white-lady clothes — white denim jeans, aqua shirt, maybe buttoned a little lower than usual. Turquoise bracelets, and Shirley’s “Elke the Swedish Stewardess” wig, a plausible blond, roughly like Ilona’s. “Ilona Sonnenschein,” I gave him my hand. I’d even polished my nails. I could see his eyes widening. He hadn’t expected any sex appeal.
His eyes jumped to the view, clear across the valley. Then glanced at the house dismissively. Back to the view. I saw it through his eyes — fake Spanish with sixties touches. “I know it’s kind of a mishmash,” I apologized in my best white-lady voice.
He indicated the valley, unrolling like a carpet, bright in the morning air. “This view is what it’s all about, Mrs. ... Sonnenschein.”
“Call me Ilona. And I’ll call you Ben.” I rattled him for some reason. He kept staring, then forcing himself to look away.
I walked him to a secluded patio under the ramada, sat across from him at the glass-topped table. “Ben, I’m going to tell you something in strictest confidence. Is that all right?”
Now he was curious, leaning forward eagerly. “You can trust me.”
“It’s about your partner. Alan Thompson.”
He looked so disappointed. Wounded even. “What about him?”
“What kind of business arrangement do you have with Mr. Thompson? Are you incorporated?”
“I don’t see why that’s any of your concern, Mrs. Sonnenschein.” His handsome jaw tightening.
“Ah, but it is,” I said, folding my hands before me. “Let me explain. A friend of mine, her husband actually, used to be in business with this man. His name was Jack West back then. They had a partnership. A construction company. Your partner waited until the company was flush, right ahead of groundbreaking on a big project, then drained the accounts.”
He went pale. Yes, that’s right, Ben. Your partner’s a crook.
I moved into the seat next to his, put my hand on his arm. I wore a good perfume, Ilona’s Dior, it rose on the heat from my body. The wind shook the bamboo chimes. Water splashed in the small fountain. “They lost everything. The husband committed suicide.”
“It was you, wasn’t it?”
I ran my hand over my sweaty neck and his eyes followed. Those long-lashed eyes, the color of pool water, drank from my neck, my mouth.
“Who are you?” he asked, husky. “I happen to know Ilona Sonnenschein, and you aren’t her.”
“Does it matter? I’m a friend. I wanted to warn you.”
“Consider me warned.” He pressed his lips onto mine.
It’d been a long time since I’d really wanted a man. Maybe it was his desperation I found irresistible. I unlocked the house with the key hidden in the eaves, led him by the hand through the Californio-style living room, red tile floors and pony-skin rug, down the hall to the master bedroom with its low ceiling and heavy Mexican furniture.
We fucked like fat men gorging themselves at a casino buffet, stuffing ourselves with anything and everything. I kept the wig on, he seemed to dig it. He liked playing games. Good. He’d need that. He followed my lead.
We lay together for a while afterward under the big ceiling fan. I got us some ice water from the fridge — the ice was stale.
He drank, then he ran his cool hand up my hip, my flank. “I love this curve. Like a Gehry. Do you have a name?”
I leaned back on his sweaty chest, fleshy with muscle. “You don’t like Ilona?”
“I like her fine. I don’t want to fuck her, though. What’s it say on your driver’s license?”
“Miranda.” I licked the sweat from his shoulder. “Promise me you’re going to look into Alan Thompson, Ben. Call me when you figure it out.” I made him memorize the number of the cheap phone I’d bought just for the occasion.
Late that night, he sent a text while I was in the can. Need to see you. Tonight.
Did I want him coming here? I looked around my trailer. Ratty and unaesthetic, a seventies museum — the Swedish modern lamps, the avocado shag, the whitewashed Formica paneling, my grandparents’ club chairs. He would judge it. Mr. Tennis Club, the architect. But fuck it. I wanted to see him. Sure, come.
It took him all of five minutes. He must have done eighty. Down from Melvyn’s or wherever he drank. He smelled of Scotch and someone’s cigar. I answered the door looking like a rich boy’s wet dream of a trailer slut — my cherry-blossom kimono, loosely wrapped, my dark hair in a messy twist. Mr. Frenchy on my shoulder. I could see a wild despair in him, his tawny hair pulled into spikes — he wanted to grab me, but was afraid of the bird.
“Can you?” He indicated my shoulder.
“That’s Mr. Frenchy. He won’t hurt you.” But maybe he would. I put him back in his cage. “Was I right about Alan?”
He was too unnerved to speak. Instead, he untied my robe the rest of the way.
We fucked so hard, I thought we’d crack the wall.
Afterward, we had a nightcap on the lanai’s glider, shared a j, and he came clean. “He’s already moved a little — to a soils company, to a grader, to a geologist, all at the same address. The same account. He’s getting ready to vacuum it all out. I can’t believe it. I got everybody into Sunrise. My mother. My mother-in-law. My doctor. Friends at the Tennis Club. People in my fraternity.”
“Didn’t you have your lawyer look at the paperwork? Didn’t somebody?” We were idiots but I’d expected a rich boy like Ben to be lawyered up.
He groaned. “I trusted him.”
“We did too.” I stroked the side of his face, kissed his cheek, relit the j and handed it to him. “So, tell me about this mother-in-law.”
He started weeping. “I’m a shit. I’m a complete and total shit, and I’m about to have a full high colonic courtesy of Alan fucking Thompson.”
“You could tell them.”
He shook his head.
“Ever hear of an Indonesian monkey trap?” Holding the acrid smoke.
He lay down with his head in my lap, wiped his eyes on my kimono. Those beautiful muscled arms.
I stroked him as I spoke. “You take a hollow gourd and cut a hole just big enough for a monkey’s hand. Then put some rice in. The monkey comes along, sticks its hand in there, grabs a handful.” I could smell him, smoky and musky, scared and turned on. “But now his hand’s too big to get out of the trap. That’s how you catch a monkey.”
“Why doesn’t he let go?”
“He won’t. He can’t let go of it.”
“And that’s me? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Why don’t you tell your Tennis Club buddies that Thompson’s a wrong guy? That you fucked up. Maybe they can freeze their accounts, pull their cash.”
“I can’t. I need Sunrise to go ahead,” he said, rubbing his head against my thighs. “Not just the money. I need it.”
I understood. He needed it, to prove something. To be the big man. Beholden to no one. I leaned over him, my breasts hovering above his face. “What if something was to happen to Alan Thompson?” I whispered in his ear.
He gazed up, his pretty eyes studying me. “Like what, a car accident?” He still wasn’t getting it.
“I mean cancel his library card. Punch his ticket.”
He laughed before he saw the look on my face. The chuckle died. “You’re serious.” He shook his head. “No, I couldn’t do that. Not in a million years.”