That’s sad, really sad.”
“What’s your last name, Lonny?”
“Edge.”
“Lonny Edge. Nice name. Is that your real name or hooker name?”
“It’s my real name, and I don’t like being called a hooker, Hector,” said Lonny. There was a menacing note in his voice.
Hector recognized the note and looked at him. Beneath the cushion of his chair was the gun he always had at the ready for protection in case any sort of unpleasantness should break out with one of his night visitors.
“This is what I do for a living,” said Lonny, explaining himself. “I have no problem with it.”
“Oh, of course,” said Hector, smiling nervously. “It was just a figure of speech. No offense, old man.”
“I also happen to be a very big name in video,” continued Lonny.
“Yes, yes, I think I may have seen some of your videos, now that I think of it.
Hard, Harder, Hardest
? Wasn’t that you?”
“Yeah, man. That was me,” said Lonny, pleased that he was recognized.
“Marvelous film. Why don’t you come over here,Lonny,” said Hector, getting down to the business of the evening. He placed the little dog on the floor and then lifted one foot, on which he was still wearing his black patent leather dancing pump, and pointed it at the crotch of Lonny Edge’s black jeans. Hands on hips, ready for anything, Lonny watched the rich bachelor. Hector drank from his whiskey glass and slowly moved the toe of his black patent leather dancing pump up and down on the fly of Lonny’s jeans, smiling at him at the same time.
“Let’s see if what you’ve got in there is as good as Manning Einsdorf says it is, Lonny,” said Hector.
The next morning, an hour before dawn, five shots rang out in the living room and library of 9221 Humming Bird Way. Hector Huberto Luis Paradiso y Gonsalvo, the last member of the great Paradiso family that had helped to found the city, turned and stared in disbelief into the mirror over his mantelpiece and saw the blood drain from his tanned face, leaving it a purplish gray color. Beyond in the mirror, his eyes met the eyes of his killer as that person looked back in haste before making for the front door. Astrid, his dog, barked furiously at the departing figure.
Leaning against the wall for support, Hector edged his way to the door of the library, trailing blood as he slowly moved toward the telephone. On his desk was a pile of blue stationery from Smythsons on Bond Street in London, with his name, Hector Paradiso, engraved across the top of each sheet. The stationery had been a favorite gift from Pauline Mendelson. “So personal, so thoughtful, so typical of Pauline,” Hector had said at the time to Cyril Rathbone, to whom he sometimes flaunted his close friendship with the grand lady. As he leaned over the top sheet and wrote the name of the person who had fired the five shots that were causing his death, several drops of blood fell on the piece of paper, partially covering his childlike scrawl. The dog, Astrid, hugged his leg, crying.
Hector buzzed the intercom that connected with the room of his houseboy in the pool house across the lawn.
“
Si
?” came the sleepy voice of Raymundo.
“Police,” Hector whispered into the phone. “Get the police.”
“You all right, señor Hector?” asked Raymundo.
“Get the police.” His voice was so weak it could scarcely be heard.
Raymundo, alert, hopped out of bed.
From the intercom came the last words of Hector Paradiso. “And get rid of all the porn before my niece gets here.”
Flo’s Tape #2
“
There’s something you’ve got to understand. I never for a moment expected Jules Mendelson to divorce his wife and marry me, and he never gave me any line like that either, in order to keep me hanging in there. If he had any complaints about his wife, he never talked about them to me. The thing is, the Mendelsons had an ideal marriage, like a great partnership, except that he was in love with me, as well as being in love with Mrs.