Twisted

her neck hard, pulled her lips to his. She kissed back, just as hard. She enjoyed a kinky little shiver, feeling the gloves on her neck. Maybe she’d have to play dress-up sometime with Don. Or some other lover. Maybe leather would be fun. . . .
    He released her and she looked into his eyes. “Good luck,” she said.
    He climbed out, crouched beside the car, looked around. The street was deserted. Still hunched over, he ran through a wedge of shadow beside the hotel and disappeared behind a row of boxwood.
    Carolyn laid her head against the leather rest and clicked on Lite FM.
    Now, finally, the nervousness descended like a spray of cold rain. The horror of the evening unfurledwithin her and her hands began to quiver.
    What’m I doing? she wondered.
    The answer came to her: what I should’ve done a long time ago. Suddenly her uneasiness turned to rage. I hate these damn clothes, I want to be dressed up, I want to be going out for nice wine and martinis, I want that idiot Stan out of my life, I want to get the whole thing over. I want—
    Two sharp cracks from the hotel.
    Sitting forward, staring into the parking lot at Stan’s Cadillac.
    Two more bangs. They sounded like gunshots.
    Lights went on in some of the hotel windows.
    Carolyn felt the fear inside her like a cold stone.
    No, no. They were just backfires. That’s all. She scanned the parking lot. More lights came on. Doors opened. Several people stepped onto balconies, looking around.
    Then there was motion to her right. She glanced toward it.
    Lawrence stood in the shadows. His eyes were wide; on his face, a look of terror. Was he holding his stomach? Had he been shot? She couldn’t tell.
    “What?” Carolyn screamed.
    He looked around, in panic, then gestured her frantically to leave. Mouthing, “Go . . . go. Get home fast.” He disappeared back into the bushes.
    Had a guard or off-duty cop seen him with the gun? Did Stan have a gun with him?
    Two people stepped from the hotel manager’s office, a fat woman in a turquoise jumpsuit and a skinny man wearing a short-sleeved white shirt. They looked around the U-shaped building, saidsomething to each other, then listened to some of the people on the balconies and the sidewalk in front of the ground-floor rooms. Carolyn couldn’t tell what they were saying.
    She looked back toward where Lawrence had whispered his warning. No sign of him.
    Time to go, she thought. This is trouble.
    She floored the accelerator.
    But as the car sped forward she heard a soft pop and the whup whup whup of a tire going flat.
    No! Not now! Please . . .
    She kept going. The hotel guests and the couple from the manager’s office were staring at the Lexus as it swerved down the street. Then the rubber fell off the rim of the flat rear tire and the car jolted to a stop against the curb.
    “Damn! Damn, damn!” she screamed, slamming her fist on the steering wheel.
    In the rearview mirror, flashing lights—a police car was speeding toward the hotel.
    No, no . . .
    The young officers glanced at her car but passed it by and parked up the street. They trotted to the crowd of guests by the manager’s office. Several of them pointed to a room on the first floor and the cops hurried to it.
    Two other squad cars showed up and then a boxy ambulance.
    Run or stay?
    Hell, they can trace my car. It’d seem more suspicious if she ran.
    I’ll come up with a story. My husband called me and asked for a ride.
    My husband wanted me to meet him here. . . .
    I happened to see my husband’s car . . .
    The cops knocked on the door to room 103 and, when there was no answer, the skinny man in the white shirt unlocked the door. He stood back as the cops, their guns drawn, pushed inside.
    One stepped back outside and spoke to the ambulance attendants. They walked inside slowly. If it was Stan’s room, and if Stan was inside, Carolyn guessed he was dead.
    But what had happened? What—
    A rapping on her car window. She screamed and turned around. A large cop was standing beside her. She stared at him, her mouth open.
    “Miss, could you move your car?” asked the beefy crew-cut cop politely.
    “I—The tire. It’s flat.”
    “Is something wrong, ma’am?”
    “No. Nothing’s wrong. I just . . . It’s just that I had a flat tire.”
    “Could I see your license and registration, please?”
    “Why?”
    “Please? Your license and registration.”
    “Well, sure,” she said, staring at him, his badge, his