Runner-up 4

“You have a gun?” Genie asked Ernesto.

“No.”

“Knife?”

“No.”

“Pepper spray?”

“No.”

“What kind of a hit man are you?” Genie asked. This was perfect. Her husband’s all-purpose guy, his fixer, didn’t carry heat. You get what you pay for, she thought.

Ernesto looked pained. Genie had plainly touched a nerve. The greasy Neanderthal’s gaze drooped, and his lower lip began to twitch. Genie felt sick just watching him.

“Pull it together, dude,” she said. What in the world was she doing here, in the Valley, associating with scum like Ernesto? She should be at Xiomara, lunching on seared ahi salad, leafing through scripts with her agent. How quickly her life had changed.

Ernesto took a deep, cleansing breath, nodded resolutely and went into the house. Genie followed at a distance, ready to make a break for the Crown Vic if things got dicey.

The first thing she noticed about Carmen’s apartment were the pictures. Propped on tables and hung on walls were photos of her with celebrities, sports stars, politicians. Carmen in a hula skirt, arm-and-arm with a Laker. Carmen in a business suit, at a podium with a congressman. Ratty Reseda apartment house notwithstanding, Carmen had it going on. Perhaps Genie had underestimated her.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice cried out from somewhere in the apartment. “Who’s there?”

Genie glanced at Ernesto, who shrugged. It dawned on Genie that she didn’t have a plan. All she needed was information, and she assumed Ernesto had some crude but effective interrogation skills. Well, at least he looks intimidating, she thought.

They found Carmen and an older gentleman sitting in the kitchen, smoking a hookah pipe. The geezer looked a little buzzed, like he’d never had hookah before.

“Who’re you?” Carmen demanded.

Genie was momentarily stunned. She had expected to find Carmen bound and gagged, or at least beaten up a little.

“The door . . . ,” she stammered. “It was broken. . . .”

“Oh, that,” Carmen said, puffing out a cloud of apricot-scented smoke. “Stupid hinges rusted off. Doesn’t give you the right to burst in here without ringing the bell.”

The old guy got to his feet. “I better be going,” he said to Carmen.

“Sit down, Falco,” Carmen said. “You’re in no condition to drive.”

“You’re probably right,” he said and plopped back down.

Genie considered her options. Ernesto could take Falco down easily, if Genie could motivate him to assault a congressman. But that would give Carmen time to improvise. The dancer was on her home turf, relaxed, and already on the offensive. Genie realized she was way over her skis.

“I want to know what you’re doing with my husband,” she blurted out.

Carmen snickered. “Which husband?”

“Charlie Bonner.”

Falco’s face turned mojito green. “You’re . . . Charlie’s wife?” he said, as if swallowing back bile.

“In the flesh.”

“I don’t know what you came for, honey,” Carmen said, “but lots of guys like your Charlie do what he did, and no wife ever likes it. Ain’t gonna change a thing.”

Genie fingered the flash drive in her pocket. “Where was Charlie going?”

Carmen smiled sweetly. “I never kiss and tell.”

Genie felt rage boiling up inside her. This woman and her husband were hatching something, and it was all being kept from her. “You home-wrecker!” she screamed and lunged at Carmen.

Carmen shrieked and ran behind Falco. “Stay away from me, psycho!” she shouted.

Genie grabbed the hookah pipe and held it over her head. It was heavy but she could throw it pretty hard if she wanted to. “Keep your filthy hands off my husband!”

Damon Feldmeth lives in Pasadena. He is a commercial real estate broker, husband, father of two wonderful boys, and a wanna-be writer.