Saturday, May 17, 2008
It's hard talking to a wire-wearing snitch, especially when my crotch is on fire.
Dec 13, 1999 | Dec. 13, 1999
Wednesday, October 20
I was anxious to get April away from my apartment building. "I'm sorry I snapped at you," I said. "I'm having the worst period ever!" My period was a ruse but I didn't have to fake my anguished grimace. "I -- I have to go back to Duane Reade. Why don't you come?"
April looked uncertain, then curious. Could I neutralize her? I showed her the contents of my shopping bag. "I forgot to pick up Advil," I explained. "Come with me," I added with forced generosity. Due to the accident in Claudia's waxing room, I was walking slowly, to protect my stinging loins.
April's bubbly, brassy manner had vanished. As I led her down the aisles of Duane Reade, she radiated resentment. Having finally tracked me down, she didn't want to let go of me. But this unexpected side trip annoyed her. She obviously hated having to act concerned about my stupid period -- and had trouble hiding that beady glint in her eyes. The new haircut made it even harder to hide.
Sitting in Starbucks, across the table from April, I opened a bottle of spring water and downed two generic ibuprofens. I envied the ease with which April placed her own recently waxed pussy onto the chair. How do you make small talk with a girl who might be wired? I didn't want her to know that I might actually suspect her of taping me -- that would give the whole game away. Watching her sip a mochaccino, I thought, Let her wonder if her threats -- telegraphed through Claudia -- have hit home.
"I don't have a lot of time to waste," she said. "I think you owe me an explanation."
"An explanation for what?" I asked innocently. I wanted badly to be lying on my back, lower lips apart, applying cool aloe vera gel to my skin, but I braved a few more minutes on the chair and listened.
"I've left three messages for Allison." A slight whine was creeping into April's voice. "You girls have no right to hold onto my $1,500," she continued. "I'm leaving next week and I want my money by the weekend. How much of a cut did you get?" she asked, changing her tack. "Why don't you give me your part and I'll collect the rest from Allison?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said carefully. "But if you need money for any reason, I -- I'll make sure you have $1,500 by the weekend."
"Oh, come on," she insisted. "I know you got a cut. Besides," she said in a kinder voice, "you shouldn't have to give me the whole thing. After all, I gave that money to Allison. So how did you split it? And who did you two sell her book to after I left New York?"
Her questions were getting more and more deadly -- pointed weapons. I couldn't, mustn't, acknowledge that anyone had tried to sell a client book -- least of all me.
"I -- uh -- think you're jumping to a lot of conclusions," I told her. Then I pleaded uncontrollable menstrual cramps and came home, promising to meet her on the weekend.
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