Page 4 of The Alibi Club

A half-naked woman emerged from the bathroom with a sheen of sweat on her skin. A tattoo of a serpent snaked across her right shoulder blade and ran all the way down to the small of her back. She looked for her bra in the rumpled sheets on the bed.

“Jesus, is it too much to ask for a cool breeze?” She fanned herself with a Thai takeout menu.

“Santa Anas,” Cliff replied, still staring at the bright orange glow in the distance. He moved away from the window so she could get a clear view. She glimpsed outside, unimpressed, and went back to searching out the rest of her garments, which formed a loose trail to the bed.

Cliff had arrived in Manhattan Beach after seven long hours on a Greyhound bus where he’d sat next to a lifetime alcoholic who kept weeping over his broken marriage. By the time he got off, Cliff was hungry and strung out from the endless miles down the center of the state, nothing to look at but farmland. He lugged his small bag of belongings up the street until he finally saw the burger joint Frank gave him the card for, a surfboard as its sign, OB’s Pub & Grill. He went in.

Three hours later, Cliff stared out at that sky on fire, astounded at how fast he could fall into bed, and into the same old bad habits, namely waitresses with looming problems.

Amber, the waitress at OB’s burger joint, had had aspirations of being a Laker girl, and “only took this job to make ends meet until my big break.” As she told it, she’d dated a couple of local sports stars (basketball, hockey), but the story always ended the same way, in bitter disappointment with a small amount of money as a payoff to never contact them again. She had also been a massage therapist. Cliff was unclear if she was a legit masseuse or the kind that gave happy endings for an additional fee. He didn’t want to know after Amber made it clear that she didn’t like being used.

Cliff became wary. He’d been to this rodeo before.

“So, here’s my number.” She handed Cliff her massage therapist card. “My friend is having a birthday party this weekend. Might be fun if you came along. I could introduce you to some locals.” Amber shot him a sharp look and smiled like a shark, one tooth sharp and flinty, her stare full of salt and challenge.

“That is so kind.” He cocked his head toward her and put his hands together as if in prayer and added, “But I think I need to get settled this weekend. I just got to town today, so maybe another time. I’ll call you.” Cliff gave her a thin smile and walked over to his wallet, where he demonstrably put her card inside the stiff pockets.

This seemed to please the slightly unstable waitress. Cliff dressed rapidly and started to count down the minutes before he could leave.

Amber slid back into her black jeans, which had somehow ended up behind the headboard. She slipped back into her OB’s T-shirt and dragged her boots back on. “Okay, I gotta go to the john so I can get back before Pub Quiz starts. Let yourself out. See ya soon, sexy.” She walked over, grabbed Cliff’s head and licked the side of his face from chin to eyebrow. “Yummy.” She walked into the bathroom. “Call me!”

Cliff snatched his keys then his backpack and headed for the door, quietly cursing himself before he realized he’d left his watch on the dresser. He retrieved it and caught one last glimpse of the stunning sky in the distance. A sky created by fire; dangerous, out of control, and at its very nature, destructive.

If there was one thing Cliff was sure about, it was that you can’t change your nature.

CHAPTER THREE

A Nightmare in Lemon Chiffon

JAMIE

Jamie looked at her watch and her blood ran cold. Ten AM. Did she forget some hideous brunch plan? She glanced in the mirror, looked disapprovingly at her blond hair in a messy bun, thin streaks of gray exclaiming her age. She frowned at her pajama pants but had no time to change. She rushed to the front door. Her mother didn’t abide delays.

There stood the tyrant herself, midsixties, clad in a pale-yellow chiffon dress, a hat so extravagant it belonged at the Kentucky Derby, and lips painted a perfect shade of blood red. Elaine Cromwell Frisco always came camera ready.

Her mother stood there holding a basket of baked goods and a bottle of champagne. Behind her was her brawny, lovable fuckup of a brother, Ripley “Rip” Frisco, in torn jeans, a Ramones T-shirt, his hair and beard in need of a trim, but his eyes sharp and sparkly as usual. Rip was only two years younger than her but somehow always appeared to be perpetually twenty-five. He occasionally got carded for alcohol.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” Jamie tried to hide the hysteria in her voice. She cleared her throat.

“This is admittedly an impromptu visit, but I have news.” Elaine Cromwell Frisco sashayed into the beach cottage and put down the basket on Jamie’s small dining table.

She swirled around, handed the bottle of champagne to Rip and said, “Will you do the honors?”

Without a word or a delay, Rip immediately took the bottle and headed back to the front porch to open it.

“News,” Jamie said flatly, worry starting to build like a hurricane.

She rushed to the kitchen for champagne flutes, gave them a quick rinse to get a year of dust off them, and scurried back. In the distance, the cork of the champagne popped off followed by the yelp of a neighborhood dog.

Rip came back in and headed straight for the flutes, which he filled to the brim. He gulped his entire glass down and filled it again before handing one to Jamie. He shot her a look of warning. Then stuffed a croissant in his mouth and began to chew.

Jamie didn’t miss the hidden sign and felt herself breaking into a sweat.

Jamie’s mother cast a look around her apartment. She followed her mom’s disapproving eye and clenched her stomach. Jamie had leaned into the idea of home as sanctuary. She bought a new sofa she could melt into, stocked up on new vinyl for the turntable, and put every single light switch on a dimmer. The house felt like a cocoon. She’d set up food and alcohol delivery and as a result, barely had to leave the house. She’d even adopted a tiny rescue dog named Dash, who had taken one look at Elaine Cromwell Frisco, started to shiver, and scuttled into the bedroom to hide.

She sat down next to her brother on her couch, took a swig of her champagne, and waited for the other shoe to drop. The two exchanged a wary glance.

“Barry Bonavico and I are getting married,” Elaine stated.