The waiter brought the check and placed it by Hellman’s elbow. Hellman picked up the vinyl case and opened it.
“In New York, he who picks up the cheek pays it,” Chandler said.
“I never heard that.”
“When was the last time you were in New York?”
“Ten years ago.”
Chandler flashed a crafty smile. “A lot’s changed in the past ten years.”
As Hellman pulled out his credit card, Madison pointed to the check. “He’s just going to add it to my bill.”
“You know it,” Hellman said with a grin as he placed his American Express card atop the check.
“So,” Chandler said, “I’m beginning to understand why you think that this Harding chick was responsible for framing you.”
Hellman held up a hand. “You haven’t heard the best part yet.”
“It gets better?”
“Or worse, depending upon how you look at it,” Hellman said.
“Tell me more.”
Madison sighed. “Well, I thought that Stevens was nuts. I thought I’d really be able to put the episode behind me. Actually, I was able to, it’s just that she wasn’t.”
They paid the check, parted company with Hellman, and the story continued in the car on the way home.
Madison had been pruning back the rose bushes in his expansive front yard. He had a gardener who manicured the grounds, but the roses were the one thing he insisted on doing himself. It gave him a few minutes out in the fresh air every so often, alone with his thoughts. It was a beautiful day, 70 degrees and a quiet, clear blue sky. Leeza was in the house; the kids had slept at their cousin’s and had not as yet returned.
This morning, Murphy had taken care of placing the last nail in the coffin of one Brittany Harding, put out to pasture with all of her delusional visions and phantasmal rumors. Madison took a deep breath of fresh air. “Free,” he said to himself as he exhaled.
Fifty yards away, out on the street; he could see the twirling spirals of a football being hurled back and forth. His neighbor, Matt Prisco, was playing ball with his son Scott, the starting quarterback for Rio Americano High.
A car pulled up at the curb and the horn started honking, brutally piercing the solitude of the moment. Through the slits in the trees and the stone wall beyond, Madison could see Matt talking to someone. A woman.
Brittany Harding.
She drove her car up the circular drive and stopped hard in front of Madison. Slammed the door. “You goddamned fucking son of a bitch!”
“Brittany, what are you doing here-”
“You liar!” she shouted. “You’ll get yours!”
“Liar? What are you talking about?” he said, taking a step toward her, the pruning shears still in his right hand.
“You said that if I slept with you I wouldn’t lose my job! All I’d have to do is sleep with you!”
She flung her purse at Madison and knocked the shears from his hand. He ducked and dodged another roundhouse swing, threw up his hands, and leaned backward. As she swung again, he grabbed her from behind, strands of her strawberry-scented hair flying into his mouth as she squirmed and struggled to wrestle free of his grasp.
“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, Brittany,” he said, forcing air into his lungs as he kept her torso pressed tightly against his body. You need psychiatric help. Serious help…”
She swung free, out of his grasp. “You pig! I’m going to the police-tell them what you did to me. You’re gonna pay for this!”
She jumped back into her car and screeched off along the circular, driveway, leaving displaced gravel and a pile of dust behind her. Madison stood there, the trimming shears lying on the grass ten feet away, his mouth open, watching the car drive off. Matt Prisco and his son were standing at the entrance to the driveway, staring at Madison.
And Leeza was up at the third story window, crying.