Don’t Rayne On My Parade

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter thirteen, part two

Posted on October 29, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“Wake up,” I hear in my sleep. It must be part of my dream as no one is home but me. “Wake up, bitch.” Not a very polite person; I wish her out of my dream. “Now!” Someone is shaking me. I feel something cold and metallic pressed to my temple. This is the most unpleasant dream I’ve had in ages. I try to move my arms, but I can’t. “Goddamn it! Wake the fuck up!” There is an explosion across my cheek, jolting me awake. I open my eyes slowly, not wanting to give in to my dream. There, a gaunt face is inches away from my own face, the black-rimmed eyes staring at me intently. “’Bout damn time!” She backhands me once for good measure. I stare at her, not knowing what the hell is going on. She looks vaguely familiar, but I’d have to be much more awake to place her. She slaps me again.

“Stop that!” I try to move away, but I can’t. I’m puzzled until I realize that she’s sitting on top of me. Even though she’s smaller than me, she has leverage. She also has tied my hands together in front of me and has a gun pressed to my temple. I tell myself it’s just a dream, but my perspiring body knows better. My heart starts racing, and I can barely restrain my bladder from voiding itself. “How did you get in here?”

“You sure sleep hard,” the vision says critically, pressing the gun more firmly against my temple. My mouth goes dry. I don’t know if she has the safety off, and I don’t want to find out. “The front door was propped open, then I picked your lock. You really need better security.” I stare at her incredulously. She’s giving me safety tips as she presses a gun to my head. Unbelievable! I keep my mouth shut, however, not wanting to aggravate her any more than I have to. She’s already agitated, and I have a feeling it would take little to push her over the edge. Now that I’m awake, I can place her face.

“You were at Moira’s party,” I blurt out before I can think it over and understand that it may not be the best idea to let this psycho know that I recognize her. She was the one sobbing to her male friend about being dumped by Moira. What was her name again? I can’t remember, but it was an unusual name.

“Yes, I was. The bitch.” The woman’s face is taut as she moves the gun away from my temple, then places it against my left breast. “She seduced me, did you know that? I was just a kid, but she didn’t care.” The woman is talking more to herself than to me, but I know better than to interrupt.

“It must have been horrible,” I say cautiously. I want to keep her talking, but I’m not sure what to say. I don’t want to say the wrong thing and hasten my demise.

“It was wonderful!” Her eyes light up at the memory. “I went to sit for her, and she made me feel so special.” It’s clear that she’s rehashed the seduction over and over again in her mind. “Until she got tired of me. After she got me hooked on crack, of course.” She laughs, and I flinch. It’s a harsh, ugly sound devoid of hope or humanity.

“You must be Emil’s daughter, Annie!” I gasp, my mouth once again ahead of my brain. “That’s not your name, though.” I frown. I’m sure she’s Emil’s daughter, but what had her male friend called her?

“You are too damn smart for your own good.” Annie lightly taps me on the breastbone with the gun, making me shudder. “It’s Anya, by the way. Annie is a baby’s name.” Anya. That’s it. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection earlier.

“Did your father know you were at the party?”

“Of course he did,” Anya says scornfully. “Daddy tracked me down at the party right after I—and he demanded to know what I was doing there. I didn’t tell him anything.” So Emil had lied to me. I can understand his need to protect his daughter, but it would have been nice to have had this information earlier.

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter thirteen, part one

Posted on October 24, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

I am in a pissy mood the rest of the day. All requests are unreasonable, and I am barely able to restrain myself from rolling my eyes. Nobody seems to notice my surliness because I’m adept at hiding my feelings, but I can tell that I’m nearing the end of my patience—not that I have much to begin with. All the little things that normally just irk me or make me laugh are angering me. Someone’s been using my stapler and used the last staple. I watch the director of the agency plunk his feet up on his desk and lean back in his swivel chair. My immediate supervisor is carefully outlining her lips with a delicate shade of pink while looking at herself in her compact. Quinn is mooning around giving me the puppy-dog eyes. Calgon, take me away, please! I want to be anywhere other than where I am.

I cut out fifteen minutes early. I know I’ll have to deal with the consequences on Monday, but I don’t care. It’s Friday, and I’m tired of playing by the rules. I am tempted to stop at the 500 for a drink or perhaps the Lex, but I hurry home instead. I am not in the mood to be in a crowd of drunk people or around people at all. I am in loner mode, which I learned at a young age to honor. There are times when I can be cajoled out of a mood like this, but this is not one of them. The best thing I can do for me and for the rest of humankind is to lock myself in the apartment and barricade the door. I do both accordingly and start cooking. It’s early to be thinking of dinner, but I feel like cooking for once. My feathers are ruffled, and I find cooking soothing. I start the rice cooker, then turn my attention to the chicken. For the next hour, I am absorbed in the land of kitchen utensils, creating a masterpiece. I don’t cook often. One reason is because I’m a perfectionist and hate to see anything done half-assed.

“Hi, honey, I’m home!” Paris slams the front door and tromps into the kitchen to buss me on the cheek. “Something smells good!” I am making Kung Pao Chicken which is one thing I make really well. It’s also one of Paris’s favorite Chinese dishes.

“It’ll be ready in ten minutes,” I say gaily, ignoring the fact that it’s not even five yet—much too early to eat.

“Sorry I can’t stay,” Paris says apologetically, snitching a piece of chicken from the skillet. I smack the back of his hand with the spatula—fortunately, not hot. “Lyle and I are going out to dinner tonight.” He smiles involuntarily, as he does whenever he mentions Lyle’s name.

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter twelve, part two

Posted on October 17, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

I focus on the conversation at hand. Lyle is a laidback kind of man with a knack for putting people at ease. After talking with him for half an hour, I feel as if I’ve known him for years. I can tell by the look on Paris’s face that he’s feeling the same way. I’ve never seen Paris so relaxed with a partner before. Usually, he’s ‘on’, performing to a one-person audience. It feeds his ego to have someone adoring him, though it doesn’t always bode well for the relationship. I am pleased to not see stardust in Lyle’s eyes when he looks at Paris. I have a feeling that Lyle can more than hold his own with Paris, that he can give as good as he gets. I certainly hope so, for his sake. Paris is a difficult person to date, but I think Lyle is up to the task.

I learn that Lyle grew up in a single-mother household with two older sisters. They lived in the Tenderloin, but Lyle never knew he was poor until some bratty kids in his fifth grade class hassled him for wearing one of three shirts to school day after day. His teachers looked at him with pity, which wasn’t what he wanted, either. He just wanted to learn. The kids also teased him about being a bastard and would ask where his father was. He quickly learned to use his fists to silence his critics as he was bigger than most of the boys, even then. While he was beating them up, however, a strange thing began happening. He’d get a boner every time he fought a boy, but not a girl. He started fantasizing about Sheldon, a brainy boy in school. Lyle would dream of scenarios where Sheldon was being picked on by the bullies and Lyle would save him. Even as a young boy, Lyle was the prince on the white steed. His mother was now dead, and his sisters live in Washington and Houston, respectively.

I tell him about growing up as Taiwanese American in Oakland with two hippie parents and one conservative sister. How my parents taught me and my sister Taiwanese and Chinese, but preferred that we speak English. They wanted us to have the language of our ancestors, but thought it best if English was our primary language. We were only allowed to speak Taiwanese in the house and Chinese with our relatives in Chinatown and in Taiwan. I tell Lyle how it was difficult growing up in Oakland because there were more black kids than Asian kids, and the black kids didn’t like us. They thought we were taking their small piece of the pie and were bitter that we were flooding their neighborhoods. I used to get harassed on a regular basis by a group of black girls that had a chip on their collective shoulders and something to prove. I became adept at avoiding them.

By the time Lyle and I have finished swapping our life stories with Paris frequently chiming in, I am at ease with Lyle. Paris and I have always checked out each other’s potentials as we are best friends and that’s what best friends do for each other. When Paris glances at me, a questioning look on his face, I nod slightly, a smile spreading over my face. I normally do not warm up to people right away, but Lyle is different. There is something about him that invites friendship. I think my comfort level also has something to do with Paris’s comfort level. When he’s tense around a potential, he conveys that tenseness to me. When he’s at ease, I’m at ease. Plus, Lyle is certainly easy on the eyes. Briefly, I regret that he doesn’t play for my team, but then I scold myself for thinking that way. It’s infinitely better that he’s completely off-limits so I won’t even be tempted.

“Shall we get some dinner?” Lyle asks Paris as if they have been together for a long time. “I’m starved.”

“Sounds great.” Paris stands up and holds his hand to Lyle who accepts it.

“Wanna come?” Lyle asks me, a smile on his face.

“No, thanks,” I smile back. I know Paris doesn’t want me there, as much as he loves me, and I think Lyle asked me to be polite, anyway. Still, it was nice of him to ask—major bonus points. “I’ll catch you later.”

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter twelve, part one

Posted on October 15, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“That was incredible,” I sigh after we have thoroughly explored each other’s bodies. She is by far the best lover I’ve had in a long time. We are lying on my bed, both satiated, our sweaty bodies pressing lightly against each other. She has her arm casually draped under my neck, and it feels right to be lying by her side. We lie in compatible silence for a few minutes until Vashti reluctantly sits up.

“I should be going. Work and all.” She quickly dresses.

I am secretly relieved that she is leaving. I have difficulty sleeping next to someone I don’t know well, and despite the activities we just engaged in, I definitely don’t know her well enough yet. Vashti pecks me on the lips and pushes me back into bed when I make a move to get up. I elude her hands, grab my robe and get up. I note that Paris hasn’t come home yet, which means he most likely slept with Jenna. I walk to Vashti to the front door where we kiss deeply before she leaves. There is a smile on my face as I lean on the door. To my surprise, the door starts rattling.

“Hello?”

“Rayne? It’s me.” Paris’s voice is muffled, but recognizable. I let him in.

“How was your date?” I smile at him knowingly, hoping to get a rise out of him.

“It wasn’t a date,” Paris sighs, staggering into the living room. I follow, eager for the details. He plops down onto the couch, exhaling loudly as he does.

“Well?” I have a feeling this is going to be juicier than a soap opera.

It started nicely with dinner, though Paris was wary because Jenna had gotten all dolled up which is unlike her. She even curled her hair which was definitely a first. They ate at a Middle Eastern restaurant on Valencia, but things started to unravel after they returned to Jenna’s apartment. She put on an Ella Fitzgerald CD and started swaying to the music. Before Paris could react, she reached up and unzipped her dress. That’s when Paris knew he couldn’t put it off any longer and gently told her that he didn’t want to see her any more. Instantly, she flipped. Started bawling and begging him not to leave her. When that had no impression on him, she started throwing things at him and ended up threatening to throw herself out the window.

“It would have been more impressive if she didn’t live on the ground floor.” Paris says with a straight face. We look at each other then simultaneously burst into laughter.

“So what did you do tonight?” Paris asks once he can talk again, his eyelids fluttering.

“Vashti,” I say casually, watching his face closely for his response. I don’t have long to wait.

“What?” His eyes fly open, and he pops up from the couch. His whole body screams disbelief. “You didn’t!”

“I did!” I shoot out my hand, and he high-fives me.

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter eleven, part three

Posted on October 10, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“Hello?” Vashti’s voice is soothing to my ears.

“Vashti? This is Rayne. How would you like to go the Wild West with me tonight?” She agrees and says she’ll be over in a half hour. It gives me enough time to change. I wriggle into a slim black skirt that reaches my ankles. I pull on a low-cut, snug-fitting bright red shirt with long sleeves. I brush my hair until it shines and give myself a little wink. I wish I could do something about the cut on my neck, but I’m not sweating it. I’m wearing my best set of underwear—all lace and very little fabric. I don’t know if I’ll be spending the night at Vashti’s, but I want to be prepared. I slip in a pair of black twisty earrings, black nylons, and black heels. I look in the mirror with satisfaction. I clean up good when I want to. I grab my little black purse and hurry to the living room to wait for Vashti. She is precisely on time which makes me question her heritage. She is definitely not running on CP time.

“You look beautiful,” Vashti compliments me as I slide into her car.

“So do you.” She is wearing black jeans and a white t-shirt with a black leather jacket. Her hair is cut short and slicked back. “You cut your hair!” I reach over to touch it, then pull back. “It looks good.”

“I thought it was time for a change,” Vashti shrugs. “It was getting too heavy.” She roars off into the night. We chitchat as she drives, not wanting to get too serious just yet. I tell her about the email I sent to Libby, and she heartily approves. She tells me that she hates doing administrative work and wants to get back to her kids, but her supervisor won’t budge until the murders are solved. I repeat that she should retain a lawyer, but I don’t push it. It’s her life, and I don’t know what the answer is. I just know what I would do if I were in her shoes. I tell her about Paris breaking up with his newest paramour. She tells me about Dylan’s newest girlfriend. We reach the Wild Side West in record time.

At first glance, it doesn’t appear that Billie is there. She is not working. There’s some cheerful BBW handling the bartending duties. I look over to the pool table, but no Billie. I wonder if it’s worth waiting then decide we might as well drink while we’re there. We snag a table near the pool table, and Vashti gets the drinks. Rum and coke for me, Rolling Rock for her. She is definitely in butch mode tonight as she doesn’t even ask me what I want to drink. I don’t mind once in awhile as long as she doesn’t make a habit of it. We sit and drink in silence as we watch the pool game going on. A cute blond is hustling a dour-looking brunette. Every time the brunette makes like she’s going to walk away, the blond kisses her on the cheek until she repents.

I want to talk to Vashti about Paris’s adoption, but I know it’s not my place. Besides the fact that they don’t like each other, it’s really Paris’s decision who should know and who shouldn’t. I don’t want to talk about the murders, not tonight, but I also want to solve them. I wish this was just a date and that the biggest thing on my mind was wondering if I’d be getting laid by the end of the night. Instead, here I am waiting for surly butch dyke who is bitter towards the world and delusional about Moira Kelley. However, said dyke might also have more information that she’s willing to share if I find the right way to ask her. I have a hunch wearing a tight shirt and leaning over a lot will help my cause. She already respects my pool-playing abilities. Now, if she would just show up. I can take care of business, then go home with Vashti. Or not.

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter eleven, part two

Posted on October 8, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

I shut my eyes and try to think about what I know so far. However, my mind keeps returning to this information about Paris. Adopted. I try to put myself in my shoes and imagine how I’d feel if I realized that the people I thought were my parents weren’t, and that they’d been lying to me all my life. That would mean Libby isn’t my sister—a thought guaranteed to bring a smile to my face. It probably also would mean that Rayne isn’t my real name—another cheerful thought. Maybe this adoption thing wouldn’t be as bad as I imagined. Then I think about my father and something hits me in the gut. Not being his real daughter? Hell, no. That would kill me to find out. Even though Paris is not close to his mother and fairly hated his father before his father died, he must still be shocked by the news—especially finding out in this manner.

I stare at the blank television for some time. My mind is racing with no real thoughts, just more glimmers of this and that. I am tempted to call Paris’s mother back and cuss her out for not telling him the truth sooner. I don’t know what she was thinking, despite my attempt at defending her. She must have known that she couldn’t keep it from him forever, and yet, she never told him. I wonder what her motivation was for keeping it a secret. I pick up the phone, ready to hit the redial button. I hang up without doing so. Another call by me to her will be counterproductive. There is nothing more that she’ll be willing to tell me at this point. Better to wait and let it stew in her mind for a bit.

The phone rings, but I’m in no mood to answer it. If I try to make chitchat right now, I’ll go out of my mind. I can only focus on the stunning revelation that Paris just laid on me. I don’t know how to react. No matter how supportive I am of Paris and what he’s going through, a part of me is repulsed by the idea of Max being his mother. Not just because I don’t like the woman and think she’s a blight to humankind. If it’s true, she knowingly had sex with Paris—no, she seduced him!—knowing that he’s her son. What kind of fucked-up, twisted mind would think of doing such a thing? Then throwing it in his face. It’s almost as if she is punishing him for something that only she understands. If it’s true, I will never forgive her for pulling that kind of cruel trick on Paris. If it’s not true, then I curse her for making him sweat and for forcing him to discover his adoptive roots in such a manner. I don’t know what her game was, but I don’t like it any more than I like her.

I wait. I don’t bother turning on the television as there isn’t anything I want to watch. I glance at my watch periodically to make sure that I don’t fall asleep. I want to check in on Paris exactly an hour after he went into his room. I don’t think he’ll do anything stupid, but I’m not positive. I slump down on the couch, unable to sit still. I want to be a good friend to Paris, but I don’t know what he needs at this time. I mean, what would I want if I just found out I was adopted? It’s so far out of my realm of possibilities that I can’t even think what would be my reaction. My mind races to the emails that Libby sent me earlier. I have to make a decision by tomorrow what I’m going to tell her. Truthfully, I’d like to skip the whole sordid event, but I’m afraid that we will never talk to each other again if I don’t agree to go. There is no way I’m giving in on every point, however. If I don’t make a stand now, she’ll just keep chipping away until I’m a carbon copy of her. I resolve to email her stating my case gently, but firmly.

The next time I check my watch, I notice that over an hour has gone by. I stand up and stretch, feeling as if I’ve aged ten years in the last hour. I walk to Paris’s room, curiously reluctant to interfere with his emotions. There are some things that even a best friend shouldn’t be privy to, and this is one of them. This kind of news is best left revealed by the one to whom the news most affects, in this case, Paris. Unfortunately, given the circumstances, we don’t have time to play by the conventional rules. We need the information fast, and we need it unvarnished. That means that Paris doesn’t have the luxury of sulking over it or hoarding it to himself. Like it or not, he has to share what he knows with the good inspector as soon as possible. It falls upon my shoulders to convince him of this. Squaring my shoulders, I knock on Paris’s door. Without waiting for a reply, I go on in. Paris is curled up on his bed, staring at the wall. I know he’s not looking at his drawings or anything else. He is simply staring blankly at the wall.

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter nine, part two

Posted on September 24, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“Mrs. Curtis, you’ve been very helpful. Can you tell me if you saw anything else suspicious next door the last week or so?” I frown at how I worded that, but it can’t be helped. I don’t think Mrs. Curtis will notice, anyway. Besides being batty, she’s draining her glass of lemonade until there’s nothing left. She looks at it wistfully before setting it down on the tray. I can tell she wants to pour another glass, but she won’t in front of me.

“I’ve seen girls go in and out at all hours of the day,” Mrs. Curtis says, primming up her mouth; I don’t think it’s from the lemonade. “Sluts, all of them.”

“Do you remember a week ago Friday? The day before Moira and Max’s party? Did you see anything unusual then?” I don’t know why I’m even asking. If this woman talks to fairies, how is she supposed to remember mundane events like a party next door? She surprises me, however, with a factual answer.

“During the day, a girl came to the house. She looked very upset. She was crying when she left.” Mrs. Curtis looks at me triumphantly, proud that she is able to remember this tidbit.

“What did she look like, Mrs. Curtis?” I am patient, digging for information I’m not even sure will be of any use.

“White, young, raggedy,” Mrs. Curtis shrugs. “Thin and really upset.” It could be any of Moira’s students, but I would bet it was Annie. That put her at the scene of the crime a day before it happened. I am liking her more and more.

“Thank you, Mrs. Curtis.” I shut my notebook and beam at Mrs. Curtis. She may be talking to the fairies, but she also knows what’s going on. I start standing up in preparation of leaving.

“Wait, don’t you want to know about the other girl?” Mrs. Curtis reaches out and grabs my wrist. She has a surprisingly strong grip for someone her age and size. “The dark one who was angry when she went over that very same day?” Mrs. Curtis smiles like a cat, pleased to hold back this bit of information until I am about to leave.

“What, when, huh?” I ask inelegantly. Finding out about Annie was more than I had hoped for. I am lost as to what she is trying to say.

“A dark girl, Arabian or something like that with long black hair and flashing brown eyes. She had a pierced nose. She slammed her car door so hard, it shook.” Mrs. Curtis tells these details with relish. I slowly sink back into the couch as what she says hits me.

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter nine, part one

Posted on September 19, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“Rise and shine, Rayne!” I hear a voice from a distance and desperately try to block it out. I lie very still, rationalizing if I act dead, it may leave me alone. “Come on.” The tone turns from cheerful to cajoling. “It’s after twelve, Rayne! Time to get your lazy ass out of bed.” It’s Paris, of course, and he’s standing over me. When I do not respond, he reaches down and rips the covers off me. I let out a shriek as a) I’m naked and b) it’s freezing.

“Paris Frantz! You give me back my covers!” I curl into a ball as I wait for him to comply. Instead, he hands me a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt while waiting for me to get up. When I realize that he’s a) not going away and b) eyeing my naked body, I quickly slip into the sweats. Once I am covered, I fall back into bed and ignore Paris.

“Vashti called. She wants to see you tonight.” Paris frowns as I make no movement to get up. “I’ll make you pancakes if you get up this very minute.”

“Chocolate chip pancakes?” I ask, my voice muffled from the pillow I have placed over my head.

“Yes, Ms. Sweet Tooth,” Paris sighs loudly. “Now get your ass out of bed.”

“Why are you so mean to me?” I emerge from under my pillow to gaze dolefully at Paris. “Why do you never show me any love?”

“I tried the other night,” Paris quips. “You rebuffed me, remember?” He waits until I sit up before slipping out of the room. I yawn as I contemplate going back to bed. I don’t understand why Paris has such a thing about me sleeping past noon. He considers it a great failing of mine that I like to sleep in. At least he didn’t shake his head sadly this time. I would have had to clock him one, pancakes or no pancakes. I shuffle out of bed and head to the bathroom. I take a shower, brush my teeth, the usual things. I wash my wound and put more gauze on it, best I can. It isn’t red or weeping, so I assume it’ll heal. I slip the sweats back on and go to the kitchen. It’s only Paris, so there’s no need to look my best. Besides, he’s wearing sweats, too, only his are gray and mine are black.

“Smells good.” The fragrance of the chocolate chip pancakes perks me up. There are few odors I like better than baked goods. Especially ones with chocolate in them.

“Pancakes a la Paris, coming right up. How’s the neck?”

“Come take a bite and find out,” I reply with a wink. Paris laughs, but stays focused on his cooking. I decide to call Vashti while he’s doing his thing and hunt down my cell phone.

“Hello?” As usual, her voice makes me think of molasses and honey, with blindfolds and gags thrown in for good measures.

“Vashti? It’s Rayne. Glad that you called me back. Sorry we’ve been playing phone tag. Can you believe it about Max?”

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter eight, part two

Posted on September 17, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“I’m not really sure.” He still won’t look at me. “She wouldn’t talk to me after that. I assume Moira told Annie I confronted her.” The truth, but not all of it. He is sweating again, so I push the issue.

“What did you talk to Moira about the night before the party?” I have definitely caught him off-guard. There is a look of panic on his face, and I haven’t even asked him about the supposed attempted rape.

“Who told you I talked to her then?” The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. “The bitch! I wouldn’t have thought she’d have the nerve to tell anyone.” So it is true. I look at him expectantly, hoping he’ll fill in the blanks. It’s a well-known trick of the cop trade to stay silent, forcing the perp to talk. It works. “It wasn’t enough that she seduced my daughter, oh no. She couldn’t be satisfied with just that, could she? No, she had to do more. Moira did cocaine once in a while. Crack. I bet you didn’t know that.” I didn’t, but I keep quiet. Now that he’s finally talking, I don’t want to do anything to stop the flow. “She only did it recreationally. I think she thought it made her cool or something.” I see where this is going, but I want to hear him say it. “She gave some to my Annie. Imagine that! The girl is only twenty-three, and this barracuda gets her hooked on crack. ‘Just try it,’ she says. ‘It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.’ So my Annie, my innocent daughter who is so in love with Moira, does what she is told. Before she knows it, she’s shooting up daily.”

“How did she get that kind of money?” I ask. Crack, while cheaper than its glamorous cousin, cocaine, is still not cheap if being done every day.

“My ex gave it to her before she realized what Annie was doing with it. Once it became clear that Annie was using, Ginny—my ex—refused to give her any more money.” A font of information up to this point, Emil stops. He doesn’t want to tell me anything else, but I wait him out. There’s no contest, and he breaks. “Annie started hooking to make the money to feed her crack habit.” It is what I’m expecting to hear, but saddens me, nonetheless. Any residual good feelings I had for Moira drain away; I’m glad I never went on that date with her.

Emil hadn’t been able to put Moira’s treachery out of his mind which is why he met with Moira the night before the party. He had been brooding about his daughter almost nonstop for three months, and he couldn’t take it any more. His work was suffering from his lack of concentration; he was having difficulties sleeping at night; he’d lost ten pounds because he couldn’t eat. It was one reason he was taking a sabbatical next year. He had to talk to Moira again, if only to give him peace of mind that he’d done everything he possibly could to help his daughter. He said Moira wasn’t so high-and-mighty when Emil threatened to tell the department about her conquests. In fact, she looked absolutely panicked until she realized that she had something to threaten him with, too. She told him she’d turn Annie in to the cops if Emil ratted on her. Emil’s nostrils flare as he starts breathing harder. His skin is ashen, and he is panting slightly. I worry that he will have a heart attack in front of my eyes. I won’t be able to handle the guilt if I send this man into cardiac arrest.

Don’t Rayne On My Parade; chapter eight, part one

Posted on September 12, 2019 by Minna Hong • 0 Comments

“Let’s go,” he says when he appears, forty-five minutes later. He is looking straight ahead, his lips set in a thin line. I buckle myself in as he takes off with a screech. Paris is a good driver, but when he’s angry, he becomes more aggressive. I wisely keep my mouth shut as I do not want to aggravate him further. Most of the time, I can jolly him out of a mood, but even I know my limits. Neither of us speak the entire way home.

When we reach our place, he shuts his door with a slam and marches up the steps to our apartment in silence. I follow him meekly, not wanting to set him off. Inside, I head for the fridge and grab two Molson Ices. I pop the tops and hand one to him. He strides into the living room and sits on the couch, flicking on the television and rummaging through the channels. He presses angrily on the remote at the rate of three clicks per second. I sit next to him, but abandon any hope of actually watching anything. We sit in silence, drinking our beers. I sneak glances at him, wondering if I should say something. I want to be supportive, but I also don’t want to get into his business if he would rather I butt out. We have been friends long enough for me to know that talking things out is not always the best thing to do with him. Sometimes he needs to brood before he feels able to discuss the problem. I let him ruminate all he wants, giving him a wide berth.

“You know what pisses me off?” Paris finally says, settling on MTV where there is some asinine reality show on. “The assumption that I took advantage of a lonely older woman, that I’m nothing more than a gigolo. That damn inspector actually thinks I tried to swindle Max out of her money!” Paris’s eyes reflect the hurt he’s feeling. An easygoing guy, he really gets steamed when his niceness is called into question. Because he is so impossibly good-looking, people have a hard time believing that he could be interested in someone less than gorgeous-looking her/himself. It’s a stereotype Paris has had to fight all his life, and it ticks him off every time. The fact that it’s true for the most part doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Did she say that?” I ask cautiously. I don’t want Paris to think I’m questioning his interpretation of events.

“Over and over. She asked if I was in Max’s will, if I thought I should be, if I was angling to get put into Max’s will, if I knew the contents of Max’s will. The way she was harping on the will, you’d have thought I wrote the damn thing.”

“It’s her job,” I counsel, wanting to calm Paris down. I glance at the VCR clock and see that it’s seven-thirty. “Shit! I promised Emil I’d go over to his place at eight.” I jump up from the couch and hurry into the kitchen. I’m starving, and I want to eat something before I skedaddle. I grab a Tupperware and open it. Paris made fajitas for lunch, and there are two left over. I heat them up, then scarf them down.

“You have one hour,” Paris says sternly as I pass by the living room. “If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’m coming after you. Understand?”

“Are you ok, Paris?” I ask, pausing. I hate to leave him while he’s in such a state, but I need to talk to Emil.

“Go,” Paris orders me. “Now.”

“Let me give you Emil’s address,” I sigh. I scribble it down along with Emil’s number in case Paris threw away the number and hand the scrap of paper to Paris.

“One hour,” he reminds me, shaking a finger in my face. I give him a look that tells him what he can do with that finger. It’s a fifteen-minute walk to Emil’s place, and I savor the night. Some people refuse to walk in the Mission District by themselves at night, but I relish it. I like seeing the diverse population that roams the streets—so different from the increasingly homogeneous crowd that litters the Mission during the day. The tourists still haven’t infiltrated the Mission, but unfortunately, the yuppies have. However, the Mexicans are loud and proud as well. I hope they keep the upper hand, but I am doubtful that they will be able to live in peace. I make it to Emil’s place with five minutes to spare.

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