He said, “I’ll take care of it,” and I turned the lights back on.
~~~~~~
I was probably only asleep for thirty minutes when I woke up with the realization that someone was sitting beside me on the bed. I could smell him. For explanation, I asked, “Sergiu?”
“You no say my name. Why? You know my name, but you no say Marco. You say Sergiu.”
“I thought you were going to New York.”
“Something happen with Jaguar. Maybe you know. It has no doors.”
I quietly laughed at the way he mentioned it.
“I have new car. I go soon. But first I tell you: You see Rick again, I kill him.”
I sat up and warned, “You will get the electric chair.”
“The what?”
“Texas will execute you.”
“No.”
“Yes. He’s a cop. You will get the death penalty.”
“No,” he shook his head in the dark, condescension chuckling in his throat as though I were the clueless one. “Five years, ten most,” he tossed it away as trivial.
“When you get to New York, ask your friends to tell you what happens to cop killers in the United States. Even better, you ask them about the death penalty in Texas. And then, when you come back, you tell me what you think.”
He stood and remained motionless for several moments while I listened to his aggravated breath. Huffing out frustration, he turned and leaned down as though he were going to kiss me goodbye but stopped when I recoiled. He left, saying flatly, “You see him again, I kill him.”
Unwanted Attention
Days later, with Sergiu still in New York, I went to his townhouse and used the spare key I had made.
I searched through the cabinets and drawers, pushing aside the collection of filed down car keys, but slipping into my purse a receipt to a Dallas parking garage, his phone bill, and some New York addresses scribbled on ripped out phonebook pages. There was no clear plan in my mind on what I intended. I went looking to see what there was, and I took what I did because I thought it could be useful.
When I returned home, Tricia was eager to see me. “I just spoke with two of Ron Howard’s assistants. They want to make a movie about you!”
I could not imagine how they had found her, but she wasn’t delivering any more of that news to me. I retreated into my head to board up the house and tack on a vacant sign.
She caught me fleeing out the back. “If you can give them enough material, they want to film a three-part television drama.”
I hadn’t expected it to get worse. I knew Tricia was still talking but I was gone, remembering every midweek made-for-television movie that had ever chased me from the living room into a book. They were all so earnest, and depressing, and something worse that I couldn’t quite place except they induced pity, like the doctor clucking over my wrist, and I truly could not bear the thought of it.
My con was already going horribly wrong. I was going to be better known as a slave than a countess. What was worse, everyone who knew anything about my story treated me with sad sympathy. It mattered not the least that I was practically always smiling. And it was sincere; I was happy as long as Sergiu wasn’t holding me down. But no one knew about that, so the somber, delicate manner people assumed with me was disconcerting, and I imagined after a three-part miniseries, strangers would clutch my hand and weep.
The best way to deal with it was to ignore it. It would stop.
But Ron Howard’s assistants kept calling, and Tricia entered negotiations with them on my behalf. As soon as I was told, “You’ll spend at least two weeks, possibly even two months, with a writer going over the details of your life,” I started sabotaging the assistants’ attempts. The phone kept mysteriously being unplugged, the wires frayed, the cord lost.
When they managed to get through, I’d back away from the phone like three of Sergiu’s brothers had just called for a date.
I had spent maybe three hours with Patrice from the Austin American Statesman and within thirty minutes, I felt more thoroughly interrogated than I had in all the FBI, DEA, sheriff, and psychological interviews combined. My story was abstract, amounting to little more than great colorful swipes of a brush on a black canvas. I could smile, act coy, or look away when Patrice broached an unknown or uncomfortable topic, but she hadn’t paid for it. Ron Howard was planning to pay, and I didn’t imagine my stubborn silence over the details would be accepted.
And for all the trouble, the price was far from compelling. His company was offering fifteen thousand dollars for the rights to film, stage, books, songs, all print, including newspapers and magazines, quotes and interviews, then, in case they missed something, any and all media for the duration of my life, past and bloody future.
Tricia thought it was great, telling me, “You can buy a brand new Pontiac Fiero.”
I nearly choked. “If I’m going to get raped like that, I at least expect a Porsche.”
I offended myself with the joke, but Tricia had little idea of what was happening with Sergiu. I pleaded in hushed tones, afraid to make a scene, and then silently endured it. Tricia had heard it only once, lingering outside my room, hearing me repeat no, and please no. She had mimicked me the next day over morning coffee, saying, “No, Sergiu, stop. Please, Sergiu, don’t.” It seemed grievously cruel. I couldn’t breathe for fending off the numerous ways the mockery stabbed me in the chest, but her focus was in the newspaper and she shook her head with amused acceptance, saying, “I went to bed when I heard you laugh.”
She thought my no was a fetish yes.
And I knew exactly what had been so funny. Wrist shackled to the frame of the bed, I had been taking a mental inventory of my bedside drawer with its scattering of hairpins, safety pens, and paperclips. I’d known since I was twelve how pick handcuffs, so I’d found genuine humor in Sergiu’s assertion, “You no take my car tonight.”
Costly Mistake
Sergiu was accustomed to saying, “Come, we go to dinner,” and having me obediently comply, but I hadn’t done that since tearing apart the first Audi. He’d say, “Come,” and I’d shake my head and put it back in a book. I could say no to dinner out, but I didn’t think I had the right to tell him he couldn’t be in the house. It wasn’t my house, and Daniel was paying the bills.
They’d still take over the kitchen, and he’d call for me to join them, shouting cheerfully into the living room, “Constanzia, come, I show you little fish,” as though he were still the same mirthful guest, utterly safe, holding no ill intent toward me whatsoever.
When I didn’t respond, he came to wrap his hand around the back of my neck and whisper, “I no touch you. Everything is good. You come.” And I believed him. We all had a marvelous evening, but after it was over, he didn’t keep his word, so I had to rip the doors off another Jaguar.
The next time he was driving a Porsche, so he kept his distance. But the following week, he brought the Pinto again, and when I got to his townhouse, there was nothing in his garage. I was tired and the Ford hardly seemed worth the effort. I’d also been warned that Pinto’s were prone to explode, so I left it in a ditch.
Then, there was the mystery car.
Sergiu came to plead with me on the couch, cajoling, “I be good with you. I leave after dinner,” hand over heart. “You be my dinner theater and I no touch.” But I’d heard it before and was shaking my head. He continued, “You come and start show, I bring you something from New York. Yes?”
The last time he’d brought a Bvlgari watch but I’d refused to take it. It was ugly, and I wasn’t fond of keeping up with the time. But I was curious what he’d bring next, so I asked, “After dinner, you promise to leave?”
He cut his hand through the air to underscore it, “I no touch you.”
But he did. And outside was the Pinto again. And his garage was empty.
But he was going to New York, so there was a car somewhere.
I knew he was violent, but I wasn’t afraid of him. I was resentful. I
felt put-upon. And after so many assurances, I was in a crazy state of rage. I was looking around his townhouse thinking there were many things I could destroy, but it was all so trivial. None of it had the scope or complexity of demolishing a car that was expected in New York.
I went out to search the few vehicles parked on the street, but all their doors were locked. The doors on Sergiu’s cars were never locked. They opened without resistance and the ignition turned either without a key or with any key.
In a moment of insight, it occurred to me where the car was, but I couldn’t remember the address. I searched the drawer under his phone for another monthly receipt to the parking garage and then took the collection of filed down car keys.
The multilevel car park was in a business district. It was nearly 3:00 a.m. and the place was dimly lit but empty. It took me an hour to find the car whose doors weren’t locked. It was under a fitted tarp that was tied to the front and rear bumper. It wasn’t coming off easily, so I only worked on one side. At first glance, I thought it was a mint condition ‘68 Mustang, but once I got the tarp half removed, I changed my mind and considered it might be a new design for the Mazda RX7. It was neither and I didn’t recognize the winged emblem on the hood.
Sitting in it, I was certain it was expensive though. The ignition switch was in the dash but none of the keys from Sergiu’s drawer would start the engine. The keys would turn from vertical to horizontal, but then nothing happened. It gave me a terrible feeling. I covered my mouth and sheepishly whispered, “Oh sorry,” to whoever the owner was. Tying the tarp back around the bumpers, I spent another hour looking for a car with unlocked doors. There were two. Neither worth the trouble of taking to New York and their ignitions didn’t turn.
I went back to the mystery car. Sitting in the driver’s seat the first time, I had thought it was me that smelled like Sergiu. I couldn’t seem to scrub the scent out of my skin. Everything smelled like Givenchy. It was in my room, in my clean sheets, and my pillow kept returning it to my hair. I’d turn a corner in the house and it was on the wall, on the couch, in my books. I couldn’t imagine what had ever been appealing about the scent. It was aggressive and heavy and suffocating. And it was in the mystery car. The scent was cold, not like what was rising from my skin. It smelled different. I put my face into the driver’s seat to confirm it.
It made me want to return the violence.
I used the filed down keys again, trying to turn the ignition, but it wouldn’t come to life. There had to be a trick, and I was searching for it. I didn’t think I’d find it in the glove box, but I discovered a photocopy of an ad with the car’s emblem. It was an Aston Martin. It meant little to me except now it had a name. I fanned through the maps, an oil change book, and several restaurant menus, but there was no registration or insurance to tell me the age or model of the car.
I passed my attention briefly over the dash and then down the steering column. I had seen countless actors reach under the driver’s dash to hotwire a car and hoped to find two obviously exposed wires, but instead of wires, I knocked loose a small black box with a button.
It absolutely terrified me.
I knew I’d have to push it, but I didn’t want to. I hated being startled. I was hard to scare but easy to startle, and I was afraid the button was going to set off alarms.
The first noise surprised me into releasing the button and dropping the box, but it was an overreaction. The engine turned on the second attempt.
I had thought destroying the Jaguar in Sergiu’s garage had been the most sneaky, thrilling thing ever, but the Aston Martin hidden in the parking garage beat everything else. Sergiu was going to flip. I was laughing imaging his face when he started peeling back the tarp. He’d know instantly I had done it. He’d see the black paint on the central column between the second and third level and he’d know I had driven it up and down the ramp, running the sides into the concrete. He’d see the glass shattered on the ground where it was parked and know I had run it repeatedly into the wall, forward and reverse, headlights and brake lights, and when I was done, I’d kicked the muffler under the chassis. It wasn’t the most devastating wreck I’d ever left him, but it was worth more because he thought it was safe from my retribution.
~~~~~~
It was 7:00 a.m. by the time I returned the keys to Sergiu’s phone drawer and parked the Pinto in front of Tricia’s house. I had gone from one end of Dallas to the other and then back again. I was deliriously tired. I did not want to deal with Sergiu, but he was standing in the living room waiting.
“Constanzia,” he drew the syllables out long. “Where you go?”
The house was small and there were not a lot of places to retreat. I didn’t want to enter my room because he’d follow, and I didn’t much care for what happened in there. The kitchen was too close to Tricia’s room, and besides not wanting to wake her, I didn’t want to draw her into whatever this was about to become. So I remained just inside the door, putting on my innocent face to say, “Out for a drive.”
“Constanzia,” it was full of warning. “You make me angry?”
I could not stop a smirk from turning my face evil.
“You go to my house?”
Laughter rolled in my throat with pleasure.
“You use knife in my closet?”
I let him wonder for a few moments before reminding him, “You know I prefer your cars.”
He looked pleased and asked, “You like car in garage?”
“Yes, actually.” I was softly laughing, but he was confused.
“There is no car in garage.”
“Well,” I conceded, “not in your garage.”
He had a little think about that, and then shook his head to deny his thoughts were possible. “You smart girl, but no so smart to find my car.”
Not smart enough to find a car with a parking receipt? I didn’t want to give away the surprise, but I also couldn’t stand to have my intelligence insulted. I was smug, “The Aston Martin won’t be going to New York.”
This made him quiet. He was searching his head for the meaning of my words, and then understanding slowly spread across his face with a smile. He was only able to ask, “Constanzia?” Then he had to take a moment, curling his finger over his lips so he wouldn’t break into a laugh. Somewhat composed but too amused, he asked, “You?” and punched a fist into his open palm. “You do this with Aston Martin?”
“Did you not think I would find it?”
He caught a laugh, asked, “Constanzia?” Another laugh, “You think I have Aston Martin?” Then disbelief, “This car is hundred thousand dollars.” He inclined his head with appreciation, “Maybe half million if you,” hand punch, “a special car.”
I stopped breathing.
The smile was sliding off my face.
It wasn’t his.
But it was a hundred thousand maybe half a million dollars.
Going a little dizzy, I inhaled too deeply, closed my eyes and covered my face.
There was only one explanation for it. Sergiu’s cologne smelled cold in the car because I reeked of it. I was the one who made the car smell of Givenchy, and I’d left it to cool while searching for another car with unlocked doors.
I dropped my head with sickening dread, murmuring to myself, “Oh, no, no. No. No. No.”
And Sergiu was chuckling, “Is okay. I fix this. You tell me, where is car?”
“No, no, no.” I had not just destroyed some unknown person’s very expensive car.
“Is no problem, Constanzia.” Sergiu gripped me by the shoulder. “I fix. Tell me where is car.”
I’d wiped clean the door, steering wheel, black box, and gear shift, but not the tarp. I didn’t know if the police could get fingerprints off the tarp. And then it occurred to me, I’d touched everything in the glove compartment. “Oh, this is bad.” I did not want to explain to Rick, or any of the authorities associated with my case, why I had gone into a parking garage and shredded the exterior of a stranger’s Aston Martin. T
here was just no excuse for that. I would be sent back to the psych ward. “Very bad.”
“Constanzia,” Sergiu was calm now, trying to placate.
And I was nearly accusing, “It had a push button start. Why would it have a push button start? It didn’t need a key.”
“Is probably stolen.”
“Ohhoho,” the word shuddered out and I was bending at the waist to expel the hysteria. “Stolen. Oh, God. That is lovely.” Now I was going to be charged with stealing and destroying a hundred thousand maybe half a million dollar car. It appeared I was going to have a prison experience as well.
Sergiu had me by the back of the neck, drawing me up to look at him. He was no longer amused but serious, “Where is car?”
Yes, exactly. I had to get back to the car. Immediately.
Whirling around for the door, “I have to go.”
Then Sergiu had me by my shoulders, pulling me back, complaining to the Madonna in Italian, but I was ducking free, opening the door. He caught me around the waist, kicked the door closed, and swung me back into the room.
I was adamant, voice rising, “I have no time for this now,” and he was carrying on in broken English and another language, but I wasn’t listening. I was struggling to get loose, insisting in a variety of combinations, “I’ve been moronic. I am going to be arrested. Let me go,” not hearing a thing he said until he squeezed me so hard I squeaked to breathe.
“You calm?”
“Yes.”
“I fix. Where is car?”
I was angry. “I don’t need you to fix. It’s a simple …” then I was squeezed to squeaking silence again.
“You no so good with this. I fix. This is my job. Where is car?”
If I told him where it was, he would know I had found his receipts. And while he probably didn’t share my sentiment that going through his private effects was a greater offense than destroying the cars, he’d still hide those effects, preventing me from finding the cars, even if I hadn’t actually found one. Shit was a mess.