K Is for Killer

exactly an 'item.' He prefers to be thought of as footloose and fancy free. One of those types."
    She plunked several ice cubes in a tall glass and splashed Scotch halfway up the side. She squirted in seltzer water, using one of those devices I'd seen in old thirties movies. She took a sip, shuddering slightly, and then set the glass aside while she found a wineglass in the cupboard. She held it up to the light and decided it wasn't clean enough. She rinsed and dried it. She took the Chardonnay out of the refrigerator and filled my glass, then put the bottle in a cooler and left it on the counter. I moved over to the pass-through and took the wineglass she handed me.
    "I don't know if you're aware of this, but Russell's very screwed up," she said.
    "Really. I've never met him."
    "You can take my word for it. You want to know why? Because he's hung like a mule."
    I said, "Ah." Having seen him in action, I could attest to that.
    Cherie smiled. "I like the 'ah.' It's diplomatic. Come on back to my room and we can talk while I change. If I don't get out of this girdle, I'm going to kill myself very soon."

Chapter 11
----
    Cherie's bedroom furniture consisted of a fifties "sweet" of blond wood with curving lines. She sat down at a dressing table with a big round mirror in the center and two deep drawers on either side. She turned on a dressing table lamp, leaving the rest of the room shrouded in shadows. She had twin beds with blond-wood headboards, a blond bed table, an old forty-five record player with a fat black spindle, and a black canvas-and-wrought-iron butterfly chair covered with discarded clothing. My only choice for seating was one of the twin beds. I elected to lean against the door frame instead.
    Cherie wriggled out of her girdle and panty hose and tossed them on the floor, then turned to study herself in the mirror. She leaned forward, checking the lines near her eyes with a critical gaze. She shook her head in disgust. "Isn't aging the pits? Sometimes I think I should just shoot myself and get it over with."
    While I watched, she spread out a clean white towel and took out cold cream, a skin toner, cotton balls, and Q-tips, apparently in preparation for removing her makeup. I've seen dental hygienists who weren't as meticulous in assembling their instruments.
    "Did you know Lorna?" I asked.
    "I met her. I didn't 'know' her."
    "What'd you think of her?"
    "I was envious, of course. She was what they call 'a natural beauty.' All so effortless. It's enough to make you sick." Her eyes met mine in the mirror. "You don't wear a lot of makeup, so you probably can't relate to this, but I spend hours on myself, and to what end, I ask? Fifteen minutes on the street and it all evaporates. My lipstick's eaten off. My eye shadow ends up in this crease... look at this. My eyeliner gets transferred to my upper lid. Every time I blow my nose, my foundation comes off on the tissue like paint. Lorna was just the opposite. She never had to do anything at all." She peeled off a false eyelash and placed it in a small box, where it lay like a wink. She peeled off the other lash and placed it beside the first. Now it looked like two eyes closed in sleep. "What I wouldn't have given to have skin like hers," she said. "Oh, well. What's a poor girl to do?" She put a hand to her forehead and lifted off her hair. Under the wig, she wore what looked like a rubber bathing cap. She dropped her voice to its natural baritone, addressing my reflection. "Well! Here's Russell now. Nice to meet you," he said. Like a disappearing act, Cherie vanished, leaving a slightly gawky-looking man in her place. He turned and struck a pose. "Be honest. Which do you prefer?"
    I smiled. "I like Cherie."
    "So do I," he said. He turned and looked at himself again, squinting closely. "I can't tell you how obnoxious it is waking up every morning to a beard. And a penis? My gawd. Picture that in your lacy little underpants. Like a big old ugly worm. Scares me to death." He began to put cold cream on his face, wiping off foundation in swipes.
    I couldn't take my eyes off him. The illusion had been perfect. "Do you do this every day? Dress up in women's clothes?"
    "Most days. After work. From nine to five, I'm Russell: tie, sport coat, button-down collar, the whole bit. I don't wear wingtips, but the moral and spiritual equivalent."
    "What sort of work do you do?"
    "I'm the assistant manager at the local Circuit City, selling stereo systems. Nights, I can relax