Page 15 of The B!tch is Bad

“Whack that thing off!”

The last was the braless fake blonde woman.

Sure as shit, Creed took his last muscular swipe with the convex blade, a hollow tinny sound against the glass, and the cork shot off, along with the top inch or so of bottleneck. It whacked Timothée Chalamet in the shoulder, but he just laughed it off as he danced purple footprints on the stage.

Santiago informed me, “That is called ‘sabering the bottle.’”

Slushy impatiently wielded his scissors. “No one told me about this bullshit! These scissors don’t just go to any old opening! I cut the ribbons at the grand opening of the Hip Quiver and Triple Exposure Studios! Hell, I’m going to go pick my own bushel of apples.”

Santiago waved a dismissive hand at the lawyer. “Ah, keep your camisa on. Here, Patience. Let us refresh our refreshment and go speak by these rose bushes.”

We passed by Wolf Glaser, who was telling his archnemesis Tobiah Weingarten, “Doesn’t that sound like the name of a medication, Gysol? Guy’s all waiting to be used. Guy’s all dying to be eaten.”

Tobiah said, “Guy’s all knowing if you don’t swallow him, you won’t feel very well.”

Tracy, their mutual off-and-on girlfriend, said, “I like Wolf’s lines better.”

Well, that would start off a never-ending battle. I couldn’t figure out why Wolf and Tobiah got within five miles of each other. Or why Tracy didn’t make up her mind once and for all.

“You Krelboyne,” snapped Tobiah.

“Douche canoe,” Wolf rejoined.

Tracy smiled a grin of satisfaction.

The band started up as we posed by the rose bushes, so we had to talk pretty loud. The Beatles cover band blanketed us as the fake John sang about people having wet dreams.

“Now tell me,” instructed Santiago Slayer. “Who are you really hiding from?”

I put my head close to his as we pretended to watch the musicians. “Not my mother, not really, although she was hell on earth, too. I was like Britney Spears at the mercy of her abusive conservatorship. But no. I’m hiding from the rich guy she forced me to marry.”

“Ah.” Santiago nodded with knowledge. “That is a major bitch. If he is rich, I assume he’s some violent asshat?”

It was funny, listening to his syrupy thick Spanish accent curl around a word like “asshat.” “Yes, total asshat. Beat me up, assumed I was cheating, gave me bruises so I couldn’t model.”

Santiago’s eyes glimmered with empathy. “I see. Has he tried to follow you?”

Unsure, I shifted on my feet. “I’ve seen a few suspicious guys looking like they’re following me, but nothing conclusive.”

The braless chick did a fist pump and went, “Whooo!”

Santiago held his chin between his fingers. “You know, Mr. Creed Trucks is a very crafty animal. He’s got wild animal cunning. He will find out your background.”

Just the thought of it put the fear of the devil in me. “Oh God, no! No, no, no. Creed cannot find out. I don’t want to get fired, or put him in some awkward position where this old asshole Paul Fingerhut embarrasses him in public.”

I realized I’d just said the odious mofo’s name, but Santiago pretended not to hear. He turned to face me. “I tell you what. Give me the particulars, and I will set out on a fact-finding mission.”

I splayed my hands at him. “No, no! Nothing that draws attention to me.”

He tilted his head. “Well. I could send Lock Singer instead. He is the owner of Los Toros Hermanos Bail Bonds in Lake Havasu City. He is with our brother club, the Bent Zealots, a very good, sly man tracker. Nobody will associate him with you.”

I still hesitated. “Can you just kill him?”

I admired the lack of emotion on Santiago’s face when he thought about murder. “That is entirely possible.”

His impassive attitude encouraged me. “Then I’ll have you do it. God knows he’s tried to kill me enough times. If we involve this Lock Singer, that’s one more person who knows about it. I made a new bank account to transfer money from him, and I’m seriously afraid he’s onto me.”

“It’s a deal,” said Santiago. “I will get the particulars when you are not so busy.”