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  “That’s because I wasn’t here.”

  “Yeah.” He forces a laugh. “Guess that’s probably why.”

  He takes another bite of his hot dog as he tries to think of something to say. He’s usually pretty good with chicks, but with this one he’s in brain freeze.

  Finally, he says, “I read somewhere that hot dogs are bad for you.”

  She looks at him from behind her sunglasses but says nothing.

  “Too many nitrates.” Hal shrugs. “They say you shouldn’t eat them.”

  Mrs. Pitt studies him as she bites off another piece of the hot dog and slowly chews it. “What do you suggest I eat instead?”

  “Don’t know.” He shrugs. “Guess I’m a big one to talk.”

  “Are you?”

  He tries to grin, completely lost now, treading water.

  “I’m married,” she says.

  “Oh. I’m not.”

  She lowers her head to stare at him over her sunglasses. “How long is your break?”

  Hal checks his watch. “I’ve got to head back in ten minutes.”

  “Too bad.” She stands. “See you around.”

  “Wait.” Hal stumbles to his feet. “How about tomorrow? It’s one of my days off. Wednesdays and Thursdays.”

  Mrs. Pitt pauses, staring at him from behind her sunglasses. “How about what tomorrow?”

  Hal tries another grin. “Whatever takes longer than ten minutes, I guess.”

  She glances down at his empty plate. “Does anything take you longer than thirty seconds?”

  “Depends what you have in mind.”

  “A beer.”

  “Sure. I can make that last longer than ten minutes. Guaranteed.”

  She smiles. “That sounds nice.” She tells him her address. “Come in through the alley. Twelve-fifteen.”

  Stunned, Hal watches her walk toward her Corvette, staring at that awesome little round butt swinging back and forth in the tight jeans. He jogs over to her car as she starts to gun the engine.”

  “Mrs. Pitt, I don’t even know your first name.”

  “Cherry.”

  She guns the engine again, puts it into gear, and roars away.

  Hal watches her speed down the street.

  “Cherry,” he repeats aloud, and then he smiles. “Dude.”

  Watching her red Corvette disappear around the corner, he never once considers the improbability of their encounter at Primo Dog. If you’d asked him right then, if you’d come up to him as he stood out there by the curb in the warm afternoon sun and asked him if he didn’t think it a bit odd that the wife of a millionaire lawyer, a woman you’d normally expect to see at lunch at the Zodiac Room in the Neiman Marcus at Plaza Frontenac or maybe at the Women’s Exchange on Ladue, just happened to be eating at a hot dog joint in West County at exactly the same time as him—well, if you would have asked him that, he would have given you one of those thousand-watt smiles and a shrug and said, “Hey, dude, guess the lady’s got good taste.”

  But at the same time as you? you’d ask. On the only day of the week you go there?

  Another shrug, and then a cocky wink. “Luck of the draw, dude. Luck of the draw.”

  Chapter Seven

  Twenty-four hours later, we are in Cherry Pitt’s kitchen. The telephone on the granite countertop starts to ring. Cherry comes in from the den and lifts the receiver.

  “Yes?”

  She takes a seat on the bar stool. Following behind her is Hal, a bottle of Corona in hand.

  “Mrs. Pitt,” says the familiar voice on the other end of the line, “this is Belinda. Mr. Pitt wanted me to call to remind you that you’re supposed to meet him downtown at five-thirty for the reception at the Missouri Athletic Club.

  Hal takes a seat at the breakfast room table facing Cherry.

  Actually, staring at Cherry. She is wearing a St. Louis Blues jersey and sandals. The jersey ends mid-thigh. Hal is staring at those long, tanned legs.

  “Okay,” Cherry says into the phone. “I’ll be there.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Pitt. Have a nice day.”

  There is a click on the other end and then the sound of the dial tone. Cherry looks up at Hal for a moment, the cordless phone still against her ear. Turning her head to block Hal’s view of the receiver, she presses the disconnect button, silencing the buzz.

  And then she says into the phone, “But that’s not fair. Jesus. Leonard.”

  She parts her legs slightly, revealing the thin strip of her white cotton panties.

  “Come on, Leonard. I can’t believe you.”

  As she pretends to listen, she squirms on the chair, and her legs open and close.

  Hal is mesmerized.

  Cherry stares down at the floor, slowly shaking her head. “Can’t this wait ’til tomorrow?” she says into the phone.

  A pause.

  A sigh.

  Legs part again.

  “All right,” she says. “I said all right. Where are they located? Wait a minute.”

  As she reaches across for a notepad and paper, her legs open wide. Hal chokes on his beer.

  “Okay. One-thirty? Is that north of the Old Post Office? Okay. I’ll try to be there. Okay, Leonard. I’ll do it.”

  She hangs up, her head slumped. She sighs. She closes her legs.

  Hal says, “Problem?”

  Cherry looks up, dejected. “That was my husband. The bastard claims I’m spending too much money. He just told me he canceled my credit cards and put me on an allowance. An allowance? Have you ever? I have to go downtown to meet with his accountants.”

  “Oh, man. Bummer.”

  Cherry stands up. “I need to change. I have to leave here in ten minutes. I’m sorry, Hal. Maybe some other time, huh?”

  Hal struggles to his feet, covering the crotch of his shorts with the beer bottle. “Sure. No problem. I hope you get it worked out.”

  She stops him as he walks past her toward the back door. “It was so nice to be able to spend time with you. You’re such a sweet man, Hal. We’ll find another time later.”

  “Sure. That’d be awesome.”

  “Leave the beer bottle here. I’ll throw it out.”

  He sets it down.

  She smiles, grabs him gently by the crotch, and widens her eyes. “Oh, my. Nice.”

  With her other hand, she pulls his face down to hers and gives him a kiss.

  After Hal leaves, she puts on a rubber dishwashing glove, picks up his empty beer bottle by the rim, and carefully places it in the back of the cabinet below the sink, behind the two boxes of dishwasher detergent.

  Chapter Eight

  We are in the small kitchen in a run-down third-floor apartment on Miami Street in the section of St. Louis known as South City. Milton Bernstein is seated at the round table across from Gloria Sanchez, a heavyset Hispanic woman in her fifties. Seated next to Milton is Janet Perry. She’s scribbling notes on her yellow legal pad as Milton studies the document Ms. Sanchez has just handed him.

  “I see.” Milton nods his head. “And this document is what Mr. Pitt gave you when you came to his office for your settlement money?”

  “Si. He give this to me. He say I need to sign in order for to give to me my money.”

  Milton points at one of the line items on the statement. “It says here that his law firm settled your case for eleven thousand dollars. Is that what he told you, Mrs. Sanchez?”

  “That what he say. He tell me sign right there—” she leans forward to point to her signature “—and then he give to me the money for my share.”

  “Did he say anything about the settlement? Did he tell you it was a good settlement?”

  “Si. He tell me insurance company only want to pay seven thousand dollars but that he talk and talk and bang table and talk more and finally they say
si to eleven. He tell me if I don’t sign right then, the insurance might go right back down to seven.

  Milton glances over at Janet and nods, barely able to restrain his smile. He turns back to Mrs. Sanchez. “Did Mr. Pitt ever show you the check that the insurance company sent him to settle your case?”

  “No, Señor. He say he pay me direct and he worry about getting that check to be cashed.”

  “And did he pay you your share of the settlement?”

  Gloria Sanchez smiles and nods. “Si, Señor.”

  “According to this statement you signed, you were to receive 5,820 dollars.”

  “Si, Señor. He had his assistant to give to me the money.”

  “In cash?”

  Gloria smiles. “Si, Señor.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later, on the sidewalk outside the apartment building, Milton turns to Janet with a manic grin.

  “Sanchez makes three, Ms. Perry, and three is our magic number. We definitely have a lawsuit. I will notify Mr. Armstrong when we return to the office and he will notify the client. You need to contact our process server. Tell him we should have our lawsuit on file and ready to serve by the beginning of next week.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ah, Ms. Perry.” Milton laughs. “We are about to ruin Leonard Pitt’s summer. And, let’s hope, many summers to come.”

  Chapter Nine

  Another crash of thunder. The rain pelts Hal’s bedroom window. He’s on his bed, head propped on a pillow, watching the Cardinals game on TV, sipping a Bud Light. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of Voltron boxer shorts—the one with the image of the Power Sword.

  Another crash of thunder, this one sounding closer. A miserable night out there. Perfect weather at the ballgame, though. Cards are playing the Padres.

  Southern California. Rain. What was that song?

  Oh, yeah. “It Never Rains In Southern California.” He hums the tune, recalling the lyrics.

  It never rains in California,

  But girl, don’t they warn ya,

  It pours, man, it pours.

  Spent six months out there last year, mainly working the counter at that In-N-Out Burger in Glendale. Just like the guy in the song—hoping to land something in TV or the movies. And just like the guy in the song—ended up out of work, out of bread, underloved, underfed, wanting to go home.

  Hal tilts his head and frowns, listening. A faint chime of the doorbell to his apartment. He sits up, grabs a pair of shorts, steps into them, and zips and buttons them as he walks to the front hall.

  “Who is it?” he says.

  “Open up, Hal. It’s me.”

  Cherry Pitt? What the heck?

  He unlocks and opens the door.

  Cherry. Standing there in a stylish black raincoat, an overnight bag in one hand, car keys in the other.

  She smiles. “Can I come in?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  She walks past him into the small living room, tosses the overnight bag onto the couch, and turns to him.

  He says, “What’s up?

  “My husband left town today. He won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

  Hal looks at her uncertainly, not yet ready to believe his luck. “Oh?”

  Cherry unbuckles her raincoat. “I’m all wet.”

  She lets the raincoat drop to the floor and turns sideways as she shakes out her hair. Hal stares. She’s wearing nothing but black thong panties and black pumps.

  “Is that the bedroom?” she asks, nodding toward it.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  She glances back with a smile as she sashays toward the bedroom.

  An hour later, Cherry comes out of the bedroom, naked. In the darkened living room, she kneels down by the couch, where there are dozens of magazines in piles. She opens one—a Sports Illustrated—flips through it, tears out a page, turns a few more, tears out another page, closes it, sets it down on the couch, reaches for another one. Within a few minutes she has maybe two dozen pages in a pile on the couch to her left and seven magazines scattered on the couch to her right. She gathers the seven magazines, crouches down low in front of the couch, and slides them far underneath. Then she reaches for her overnight bag, unzips it, and stuffs the loose pages into it.

  “Cherry?”

  She turns as she slowly zips up her bag. Hal is standing in the doorway.

  “What are you doing, babe?” he asks.

  She walks over to him and kisses him on the neck.

  In a husky voice, she says, “I was looking for my toothpaste.”

  She pushes him backward back into the bedroom and onto the bed, crawling on top of him.

  Between kisses, she says, “I thought you were asleep.”

  “I was. I’m up now.”

  She moves her face slowly down his chest and stomach. “Ah, I see everyone is up.”

  And she lowers her head.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Twenty minutes later, Cherry is in the bathroom rinsing her mouth. She leans back to peer into the bedroom just as it’s illuminated by a flash of lightning. Hal is on his back, snoring.

  She dries her mouth on a towel and walks back into the bedroom. Stopping by the window, she turns to gaze down at Hal as the distant thunder rumbles. She steps away from the window and slides into bed.

  Barely visible through that window, down on the one-way street below, parked in front of the apartment building, is that same late-model black Mustang last seen on the country club parking lot. Although the rain has stopped, another bolt of lightning flashes far off. The driver’s window is rolled down, an arm resting on the window. There is a dim reddish flare of light near the hand. The lighted tip of a Tiparillo. The hand disappears into the car for a moment, reappears, and drops the cigar out the window. It lands on the grass near two other Tiparillo butts.

  ***

  “So divorce him,” Hal says.

  It’s the next morning. Hal and Cherry are in the kitchen. Hal is eating a bowl of Cheerios. Cherry sips her cup of coffee.

  “It’s not that easy,” she says.

  “Sure it is. No kids, no custody battles.”

  “And no money.”

  Hal frowns. “No money? With that house? What’s your old man do for a living?”

  “He’s a lawyer downtown.”

  “So’s my brother. Lawyers make a good living.” He pauses, eyebrows raised. “Holy mackerel, are you married to Leonard Pitt?”

  She nods.

  “That dude must be loaded. I’ve seen his TV commercials. Damn, Cherry, if you hate him, divorce him. You’re probably entitled to half his money. Jeez, I should have thought of that before.”

  “Leonard already did.”

  “Huh?”

  “Before we got married he made me sign one of those prenups. Last month I showed it to a lawyer. He says it’s airtight.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “I waive all rights to Leonard’s property. If we get divorced, I get an alimony payment of one thousand dollars a month for two years.”

  “That’s peanuts.”

  “It gets worse. If we stay married but he dies before me, I get a total property settlement equal to one thousand dollars a month for however many months we were married beyond two years. We’ve been married four years and three months. If he died tomorrow, I’d get twenty-seven thousand dollars. Period.

  “That totally sucks. What a creep.”

  Cherry reaches for his hand. “I hate him, Hal. If I had enough money, I’d walk out on him today.”

  “We don’t need any money, Cherry. We’ve got each other.”

  She comes around the table and sits on his lap.

  “My savior,” she coos.

  Chapter Ten

  Cherry Pitt is seated at her makeup desk in the guest bedroom, t
wo doors down the hall from the master bedroom. Wearing disposable latex gloves, she carefully cuts the word “Friday” out of a page torn from a magazine. She has her cell phone cradled against her neck as she cuts.

  Hal answers on the third ring. “Cherry?”

  “Hey, Stud. You still coming tomorrow?”

  Hal chuckles. “I’m hoping at least twice.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  “I miss you, babe.”

  “I miss you, too. Can you do me a favor?”

  She daubs the cut-out word with glue and presses it into place on the sheet of paper in front of her.

  “Sure,” Hal says. “You name it.”

  “Is there a Walgreens or CVS near you?”

  “There’s a Walgreens.”

  “Can you stop in there on your way over tomorrow? I need a roll of duct tape.”

  “Duct tape? Whoa. Are we talking some kinky action?”

  “Dream on, lover boy. I’ll see you at twelve-fifteen.”

  “I’m on it. See you then.”

  “Oh, Hal. About the duct tape.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do me a favor. Don’t pay cash. Put it on your credit card.”

  “Charge it?”

  “And bring me the receipt.”

  “Really?”

  “Please.”

  “Well, okay.”

  She takes the phone in her hand, disconnects the call, and sets it down on the table. Still wearing the gloves, she lifts up the sheet of paper to study her handiwork, nods, and goes back to work.

  Thirty minutes later she’s finished. Some of the words are composed of letters cut from different magazine ads. Others are entire words cut from the ads. The result is a complex jumble of fonts, colors, and sizes. But the message is straightforward:

  We have your wife. uNLeSs you WirE $1 miLLioN into account 113452107, BANquE KreDIt suISSe, geNEvA, by 11 aM this FRIDAY, she will DIE and WE will eXPosE Your INSURANCE ScAm!

  Still wearing the gloves, she slides the ransom note into a manila envelope, lifts the edge of the mattress, sets the envelope on the box springs, and lets the mattress drop down.