The Groaning Board

gone,
stolen, kidnapped, and I have to worry about other people’s feelings. “Say
again. Slower.”
    “Your friend he say he take dog
overnight, not to worry.“
    “My friend? My friend? What friend?
How did he get in?” Oh, shit. Silvestri. Relief buckled her knees and she went
down.
    “The policeman,” Rafael said.
“Everything okay?“
    “Okay,” she told Rafael. She removed
her finger from the button. “Not okay,” she said to herself. How could
Silvestri be so thoughtless? Anger surged through her like a fever, squeezed
tears from her eyes. “No way,” she said. “No way.” He wasn’t going to get away
with this. Who cared that she wasn’t thinking rationally? She didn’t want to be
rational.
    Without bothering to turn out the
lights, she grabbed her bag and left the apartment. It was when she was locking
the door that she saw the note: a flimsy piece of scrap paper stuck to the door
with Scotch tape. It said: Les, the guys missed Izz. Will return her
tomorrow. Oh, yeah. I’ll bet. He was probably losing, so he thought he’d
bring Izz back to poker night and distract the other players.
    She got on the elevator. How had she
missed the note? She’d been too preoccupied by the events of the day. Also,
she’d never told her doormen that Silvestri was not to be admitted. Hey, wait a
minute, why was she taking the blame?
    In the lobby, Rafael was solicitous.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Wetzon.”
    “It’s okay, Rafael. How would you
know? Lieutenant Silvestri is not welcome here anymore.”
    “He had key.”
    “Not anymore,” she repeated firmly.
She was going down to Chelsea now to collect her dog and her key, but it was
not Rafael’s business.
    It was almost midnight when the cab
pulled up in front of Silvestri’s brownstone. The poker players—-Metzger,
O’Melvany, and three others she didn’t know—were coming down the steps a little
too boisterous for a weekday night in a quiet neighborhood.
    “Go once around the block,” she told
the driver. “Slowly.”
    When the taxi approached the
brownstone again, the street was empty. She paid the driver and got out.
    On the street, she suddenly felt
permeable. She’d come to a strange neighborhood to do battle. She’d come
without armor or weapon. Just her anger, which percolated like a hysterical
coffeepot. She was woman. Did that mean her anger was hysterical?
    “Fuck it.” She climbed the steps,
opened the door, and stuck her finger on the buzzer for 2R. She kept it there
an extra-long time, then gave it one more jab.
    “Yeah?”
    “Bring Izz down here right now,” she
said.
    “Come on up, Les.” He pressed the
button that released the inside door.
    The sound of the buzzer covered her
furious “No!” She waited a minute, then buzzed him again.
    “Well, where the hell are you?” he
demanded.
    “I’m not coming up.”
    “What the hell do you want from me?”
    “I want my dog and my keys.” She
banged her fist on the mailboxes. “You bring them down right now, Silvestri.“
    “Oh, no, dearie,” a cigarette-coated
voice shrilled. “That isn’t going to do you a bit of good. These boys need
honey, not horseradish.”
    Spinning around, Wetzon saw a mass of
curly black hair surrounding a face of pronounced features, all enhanced by
makeup. The ophthalmic eyes wore long fake lashes and phony green contacts. The
Streisand nose had a diamond stud in one nostril. Thin lips were extended
beyond their natural limits by crimson lipstick. The apparition smiled at
Wetzon, showing a mass of horsey teeth, and extracted a key from her little
gold-mesh purse. “Come on, dearie. Let’s beard the lion.” She burst into
giggles. “Beard the lion.” She poked Wetzon. “Get it, dearie?” What Wetzon got
was the choking scent of Diamonds—Elizabeth Taylor’s, that is.
    Wetzon’s smile was uncertain. “You
live here?”
    “Of course, I do.” The apparition
stuck out her hand, a rather large hand with long gold nails that matched the
low-cut strapless sheath she wore with more assurance than Wetzon would have.
“Patrice Buchanan, dearie, but I believe in a woman’s right to choose. You must
be Les.”
    “How do—”
    “No questions, please.” Patrice
pushed the door open as Silvestri’s voice came over the intercom.
    “Les? Les? Goddammit...”
    “If you keep this up, dearie, you’ll
wake the whole neighborhood,” Patrice purred. “Les and I are coming up
together. Pour the wine.”
    “I want him to come down,”