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I touch nothing except for the mattress. Lifting up one end, I get ready to shove my gun on top of the box spring.
Another gun’s already there.
I stare at the large silver revolver. It makes the pistol in my hand look dainty.
I am so thrown that I momentarily have no idea what to do. She already has a gun under her mattress.
I start to laugh, the hysteria bubbling up out of my throat. All of a sudden it overwhelms me. I can’t help it. I am crouched down in front of the bed, sucking in deep breaths, tears starting to run out of my eyes.
It feels as helpless as blowback, as helpless as grief.
Finally I get it together enough to put the Smith & Wesson between the mattress and box spring near the foot of the bed. I figure no one grabs for a gun there, and no one lifts up their mattress really high when they’re grabbing for a different gun.
Then I break down the pizza boxes, shoving them into the briefcase along with the jeans and jacket I was wearing when I came in. I dump the extra pizza, paper towels, and wipes in too. I change my gloves. Then I run a bleach-soaked wipe over the floor to get rid of any crumbs, grease, or hairs. I toe it along to the door just to be safe.
Outside the room the poodles’ barking has reached a fever pitch. I tuck the wipe into my pocket.
I hear one of the dogs thump against the knob, and suddenly, horribly, it turns. One of them must have caught it with a paw. A moment later they rush in, barking furiously. I barely jump up onto the bed in time to avoid getting bitten.
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. They’re poodles, right? But these things aren’t little fuzzy toy poodles. They’re standard poodles, huge and snapping at me, white teeth bared and a growl rumbling up their throats when I make a move toward the edge of the mattress. I look at the chandelier hanging above me and contemplate trying to swing from it.
“Hey,” I hear a voice call. “Beth? How many times do I got to tell you to keep those dogs of yours quiet?”
Oh, come on. This cannot be happening.
Of course, it wouldn’t be happening if I’d thought to lock the apartment door after I picked the lock. Cons are all in the details. They’re about the little things that you either remember or you don’t.
“If you don’t shut them up, I’m gonna call the police,” the guy yells. “This time I mean it—Hey, what the—”
He stands in the doorway, looking at me, astonishment silencing him. In a moment he’s going to yell. In a moment he’s going to rush into his apartment and dial 911.
“Oh, thank God,” I say, trying to give him my most grateful look. I clear my throat. “We got a report—one of the neighbors complained. I had an appointment with—”
“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in Bethenny’s apartment?” The neighbor is a guy, balding and probably in his early forties. He’s sporting a pretty heavy beard and mustache. His worn T-shirt has the faded logo of a construction company.
“The apartment manager sent me to evaluate the situation with these dogs,” I shout over the din of barking. “The door was open, and I thought that perhaps Ms. Thomas was in. She’s been avoiding my calls, but I finally got her to agree to a meeting. I didn’t expect them to attack.”
“Yeah,” the guy shouts. “They’re high strung. And spoiled all to hell. If you want to get down from there, you better give them a treat or something.”
“I don’t have a treat.” I decide I better move, if I want to be convincing. I jump down from the bed, grab my briefcase, and run for the neighbor. I feel teeth close on my leg.
“Augh,” I yell, nearly falling.
“You stay,” the neighbor shouts at the poodles, which miraculously seems to make them pause long enough for us to slam the bedroom door.
I lean down and pull up the hem of my pants. My left ankle is bleeding sluggishly, soaking my sock. I have only a couple of minutes before my blood spills over the plastic covering my feet and hits the floor.
“This is ridiculous!” I say. “She told me this was the only time that she could meet, even though it was extremely inconvenient for me. And she’s not even here—”
The guy looks back toward the door of the apartment. “Do you want a bandage or something?”
I shake my head. “I’m going immediately to a hospital so that the wound can be photographed and entered into evidence. It’s extremely important right now that Ms. Thomas not know the building is trying to put together a case against her. Can I rely on your discretion?”
“Are you trying to get Bethenny kicked out?” he asks. I adjust my answer when I see his expression.
“Our first step is going to be suggesting that Ms. Thomas enroll her dogs in intensive obedience classes. If that doesn’t work, we may have to ask her to place them elsewhere.”
“I’m tired of all their noise,” he says. “I’m not going to say anything to her, so long as you’re not trying to mess with her lease.”
