Runner-up 2

Evelyn Falco, the one-time beauty queen runner-up, never forgot how to make an entrance. Years of gliding on runways had taught her that much. And years of small-talk, the specialty of every Congressional wife, made her secure in her role as glad-hander, always knowing the perfect line to utter from the stable of perfect lines.

“Hello, how are you?” “So good to see you again.” “Thank you for coming.” And the ultimate L.A. compliment, “My don’t you look wonderful! Have you lost a little weight?”

So today, she almost danced across the mahogany floor in her Beverly Hills dining room, a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and sugar-rimmed Tom Collins glasses in her hands. Sugar Ray, her devoted 9-pound Maltese, clickety-clacked right behind her high heels.

“Why, Charlie Bonner! So good to see you! You boys want a little refreshment? I just made it from our wonderful lemon tree!”

Bonner couldn’t stand the sight of Evelyn. The plastic effrontery, perfect nails and swept-back hair. She was just a little too cute. Still, the cuteness could be useful -- especially when playing to a crowd. Evelyn might be annoying, but she was also necessary to Bonner’s plan.

“This 18-year-old McCallan Scotch is just fine,” Bonner volleyed in her direction as he lifted his gun above the table. “Your husband and I are in the middle of something here.”

“What’s going on? Are we in trouble?” Evelyn returned.

“Not we,” Charlie shot back. “You? Maybe. Your husband? Definitely.”

Evelyn was stunned into silence. The rapid fire of the intercom buzzer at the front gate sliced through the air. Falco jumped.

“We know who it is,” Bonner said. “Buzz ‘em in.”

The double-wide front door creaked open to reveal Genie and a man with a pockmarked face and the darkest sunglasses Evelyn had ever seen.

“Hi! How are you, Genie? Good to see you. Who’s your friend?” Evelyn was never off camera.

“Shut up, you idiot. And he’s no friend,” Genie screamed as she held her Beretta on Ernesto and pushed past Evelyn, nearly stepping on Sugar Ray.

“Where is it, thief?” Charlie spat. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”

Sizing up the room and its gun-wielding occupants, Ernesto came back with, “I do.”

“I told you to keep quiet,” Genie screamed. “I’m directing this show.”

And with that, Genie flipped the gun around and brought the butt squarely down on the back of Ernesto’s head. Ernesto fell as Genie swung around to re-aim at her husband. Charlie fired first, a bullet grazing Genie’s arm and shattering Evelyn’s collection of English bone china. Genie’s gun clattered as it hit the floor. Sugar Ray began barking as though he would never stop. In the confusion, Ernesto jumped up, grabbed Charlie by the arm and knocked the gun out of his hand.

As Ernesto wrestled with Charlie, Evelyn calmly stooped to pick up Genie’s gun and turned it on the grappling pair.

“Hold it right there,” Evelyn screamed. She may have been a former beauty queen, but her father, a rodeo bull-rider, had taught her at an early age how to use a weapon. Now she held Genie’s Beretta in one French-manicured hand. In the other, she held her fluff ball of a dog.

“Kick the gun over to me and everybody sit down. And Charlie, reach into that drawer behind you and get her some napkins to stop the bleeding. No, not the embroidered ones. Hurry. All this blood is about to ruin my mahogany floor.”

David Futch, second-time runner-up, is a former writer turned Florida fishing guide who moved to Santa Monica in 2007 to become a writer again.