Seven Women: An Erotic Private Investigation

Chapter 18…

Amelia says, “I always have these strange dreams that I’m getting stuck in an elevator. I think I might be claustrophobic but I’m not sure.”

We’re in the building Holly lives in, an uptown skyscraper, crammed in the elevator and going up.

“I was stuck in an elevator once,” Cara says. “But only for twenty minutes or so.”

“Alone?” Holly says.

“No, there were some other people with me.”

“Any good-looking men?” Sheila asks. “If you’re going to get stuck in an elevator, you better be with some good-looking men. Like several. Now wouldn’t that be nice?”

Cara says, “Actually, there were two men and two women, and both the men were fat and sweaty and didn’t even act like men when the elevator got stuck. They got nervous and whiny. No balls at all. It was a sorry sight.”

“Well,” Sheila says, “nothing ever works out the way you want it to.”

The doors open.

*****

Holly closes the door. I hear the sound echo.

She does have a very large place. I’m impressed. I wonder if she pays for this from her salary or has any family money. Looking at her, I’d say family. I won’t ask. I’m always trying to assess people quickly — it’s part of my job. At least I like to think it’s part of my job; I’d like to think I am the kind of private eye you find in movies and books. Things would be a lot simpler that way.

Holly turns on the lights. Plush white carpet, minimal furniture, paintings on the wall with a punk feel to them, maybe European — hell, I don’t know shit about art.

There’s a bar, which Holly points to, and says, “Make anything you want. But I don’t have any beer.”

Amelia wants to play bartendress. In fact, she says, “I worked as a waitress in a bar a long time ago.” This was, of course, before she got knocked up by a spaceman.

I ask Holly where the bathroom is. I figure I better go before they all have to. Holly points down the hall, tells me to take the second left.

The bathroom smells nice. On the wall, near the shower, is a small picture of Holly with a man. A man with light black skin. Holly looks younger, hair shorter, and they are both smiling at the camera, holding one another. I wonder what happened; they both look so happy in this moment. But that’s all it really comes down to, I think: moments. We live lives of moments, not the neat construct of uniformity that, say, the silver screen gives us. Maybe Holly will tell us her story with this man.

I unzip my pants and begin to pee into the toilet, trying not to think of anything, but I can feel the dried product of Sheila’s sex on my cock, and I can faintly smell it, and this makes me start to think. I think again about Veronica, who was Tasha’s friend at first, and later became my friend. Hell, she was my lover — that one night. But no, no, no — funny how memory plays tricks with you. There was another time, when Veronica and I had gotten together to discuss what happened, maybe try to make some sense out of it, and we made love, alone, together, away from the watching eyes of my wife. This happened before Tasha had told me what she’d done with Frederick Slater.

I hear a scream. Holly’s scream, I believe, a short burst, like one of surprise — and then several other small screams. Then silence.

I zip up and listen. I hear muffled words, can’t make anything out.

I open the bathroom door, slowly, quietly, instinct and experience telling me not to be quick or loud. I hear a man’s voice saying something. I move down the hall, see the six women by the bar, and the back of a man wearing a raincoat and large black shoes. He’s holding a knife. He has graying hair.

“How the hell did you get into my apartment?” Holly says, trying to sound tough but not doing a good job of it.

“I can do a lot of things,” the man says. “I’m a talented guy.”

His voice is deep but uncertain. He’s probably just as scared as they are. He was expecting her to come home alone, had no idea she’d have so much company.

I move slowly.

“You’re crazy,” Holly says. “You’re getting yourself into deep shit.”

“What does it matter?” he says, waving the knife. “I just lost my fucking job because of you. I won’t ever get another job like it in the field. Because of you, you fucking cunt-bitch.”

“You caused the trouble yourself,” Holly says. “You got caught.”

“And you expected me to just take it like it’s nothing?”

“Buddy,” Sheila says, “you need professional help.”

“Fuck you!”

“Put that knife away, please,” Holly says.

The man says, “Oh? Does it scare you, bitch?”

“There are six of us here,” Holly says. “What do you plan to do? Kill us all?”

“Maybe I will,” he answers, but I know from his voice that he isn’t going to do anything.

Amelia sees me coming up behind him. Her face registers this. I have to act fast before he catches on and turns.

I overtake him easily, too easily. I grab his arm, slap the knife from his hand before he knows what’s happening. He tries to turn and swing, tries to kick. I slug him a good one in the stomach. He doubles over. I wrestle him to the ground, pin his arm behind his back until he gags and wheezes and pleads for me to let him go.

“You’re hurting me!” he whimpers.

“Yay!” Amelia claps her hands and jumps up and down, like a cheerleader.

Both Lisa and Tasha lean against the bar, the color coming back to their skin.

“Call the police,” I say.

“I’m doing it,” Holly says, picking up the phone.

“Let go of me,” the man protests. Whine, whine.

“Who is this guy?” I ask.

“The creep who was sending me the harassing e-mail,” Holly says.