LATER THAT LAST summer…
“What if we get caught?” Corey whispered, his hand on Margo’s shoulder as they both crouched in darkness next to the house, suddenly feeling he might have taken a wrong turn in his quest for meaning.
“That’s the point, Gomer-things can go wrong-your crime could be reported in the tabloids, the cops would treat you like a felon, your career would be crippled by the notoriety… but you can’t have the juice without the risk,” Margo said.
She’d jimmied the door and turned off the alarm the way some ex-con crewman had shown her earlier that week at the sound stage. It was pretty dark in the foyer, though some faint light was coming from a distant room.
They made their way quickly up to the master bedroom, knowing they had less than an hour or so before the owner was to return to the house.
Making love was heightened by every tiny noise they heard, but it was as much the idea of trespassing that turned Corey on; brought up by an aunt and uncle who were fanatics about their privacy and respecting the privacy of others-step off the sidewalk onto somebody’s lawn and you got a good smack on the back of the head. He’d learned to avoid the edge, not even walk along it.
After the lovemaking, they decided to not straighten the covers, Margo reciting from “The Three Bears”: “Somebody’s been sleeping in my bed,” leaving washcloths and towels strewn about on the bathroom floor-then down to the kitchen where she made them sandwiches while Corey poured them stemmed glasses of wine, dribbling some on the counter.
They ate, drank, and talked until they heard the garage door go up-that would be Garry Howard, the former producer who owned the place returning home; this was a guy who hated Corey because he’d refused to do a couple projects and the industry rags had picked up on the rejection, ridiculing the executive, ultimately getting him demoted a few notches, assistant-assistant to someone or other.
Corey knew Howard would press charges if he caught them. Scream to the tabloids. Yeah, this little game was something of a risk-but they were both grinning at each other as they jumped to their feet, headed for the side door leaving the mess on the counter, laughing and giggling like teenagers.
DEAD.
An intense feeling of remorse flooded through Corey; he wanted so very badly to be able to look at Margo at least one more time-and in the wanting he could almost hear her breathing-no, that was the other woman, Vince’s squeeze.
“What’re we going to do?” the female voice asked anxiously, the sound of fingernails being nervously clicked together over and over.
“Jesus, why’s some movie star in here anyway-my wife doesn’t know anybody like that.”
“You sure, hotshot? Maybe you got that wrong, too.”
Corey heard a rustle of movement followed by a loud slap. The woman shrieked.
“I didn’t get nothing wrong, bitch-dammit, we gotta figure our way out of this!” Vince said. His voice held panic, almost strident.
Silence.
Finally, the woman’s voice. “Well, they don’t belong here, if we just leave and let your wife find them she’ll call the police and it’ll look like somebody broke in and shot them-let her explain it,” she said, adding, “when is she coming home?”
Vince snorted. “I didn’t even know she’d be gone-thought that was her in bed with somebody.”
“Well, why don’t we just leave and let her find them-you’re supposed to be in Seattle, right?” the woman said.
Corey could hear his own breathing, slow and shallow, hardly audible; like he’d been drugged or something.
Drugged?
– hell, that was it! Margo had told him that she knew the woman who lived here, heard she and her husband were not getting along and that he was out of town and the woman would be home at around-well, about now. So that was it; Margo had set it all up. They’d made love and afterward he’d dozed off like always-his ritual post-coital nap-and she’d injected him with something. The drug immobilized him, numbed him all over and temporarily shut down his vision. In fact, it was like a movie he’d refused to do for Garry Howard, the producer whose house they’d broken into-the plot was about a guy shot up with a drug that evoked catatonia. Too implausible, he’d told Howard.
Vince’s voice interrupted Corey’s musing. “I guess you’re right… we’ll take off and just let my wife find these bodies and call the cops.”
– empty wire hangers rattling, sound of something being taken from the closet-swishing sound.
“What’re you doing?” the female asked.
“Wiping for prints.”
“You live here, dummy, your prints belong here.”
Corey smiled inwardly. These people should get an Oscar for their performances. Very convincing. And how ’bout Margo’s acting-lying over there so quietly he’d thought she was already dead, doing it all so he’d appreciate life more, being on the edge of death.
From downstairs came the sound of a door opening and closing, someone moving about.
Vince whispered, “Jesus, must be my wife.”
Silence. Then more sounds of movement from downstairs. Humming.
The sound of a gun being cocked. “Vince, what’re you doing?” the woman in the bedroom asked.
Dull footsteps on the carpeted stairs could be heard, another woman’s voice calling up from below. “Vince, I saw the light-are you home?”
The woman in the room whispered harshly, “Watch that gun, dammit, it’s cocked.”
Vince whispering back, “I’m going to do her-make it look like she killed herself after a ménage à trois gone bad, killed them and then herself.”
“Vince,” the wife called again, “why can’t you answer?” Sound of someone ascending the stairs.
Corey would have shook his head if possible-this little play was pretty involved. Next thing you know they’ll be shooting every-
– booming roar of a gun!
Corey could hear a gurgling sound coming from the woman in the room, Vince gasping in alarm. “Noooo… it went off-the damn gun-”
“My god, Vince-was that a gunshot?” the wife shouted from the staircase, her voice tremulous.
Damn good acting, Corey thought-supposed to think Vince just accidentally shot his accomplice. If he could applaud he would. Now… how long before the drug wears off?
“SHE’S DUE WHEN?” Corey had asked as they entered the house.
“About an hour.”
“Well, Margo, if you know her, where’s the thrill?-she wouldn’t turn you in.”
A wry grin on her face, Margo had replied, “I fired her from a picture once and she hasn’t worked in the industry since.”
“Christ, she’ll probably shoot both of us,” Corey’d answered.
In the bedroom. “Nice armoire,” Margo’d said, already undressed, just black bikini panties and a smile-a sight of which Corey never tired.
Shrugging out of his clothes, he’d asked, “So, she’s divorcing her husband, huh?”
“Yeah, he comes from the hitters.”
Corey’d nodded. “They say it’s the violence in movies.”
A HEAVY THUD!
Corey’d heard enough actors fall onto stages… that was the unmistakable sound a body makes hitting the floor.
“My God, my god, my god…”
And now comes ol’ Vince, overacting after doing so well up to now. Corey felt a finger twitch. Finally, the damn drug is wearing off.
“Vince, please answer me, I’m scared!” The wife screeching now, calling up from a distance, probably the bottom of the stairs-must’ve gone back down after the shot, pretending fear. “Are you hurt, Vince… what happened?” her voice shaky.