Jill Landow moved herself to the edge of the bed. Simon was kneeling on the carpet, in front of her. Jill liked it when he went down on her. The windows of the penthouse were wide open. Jill didn’t care. Let all of Chicago see her being worshipped. Simon was a risk-taker, unlike her husband. Just the thought of her husband made her tense. She must get her husband out of her mind and relax. And Simon was perfect for getting her mind off of life, and just plain getting her off. She knew Simon was special from the moment she met in in the Oak Bar, and he bought her a martini, dry.
“Oh, yes,” said Jill, leaning back in the bed.
“You taste like the finest Merlot,” said Simon.
This turned her on tremendously.
Jill looked down at Simon, his head bowed. In another context, it would look as if he was praying. She laughed to herself. Jill had fond memories of when she prayed as a child, of the musty odor of the old St. Agnes Church and her dear ol’ grandmama. But that was so many years ago, before she learned about the pleasures of sin.
Downstairs, in the lobby, Carl Favela was daydreaming. He was lucky to have gotten such a cushy job as doorman at the Lakeshore Apartments. Opening the doors for Chicago’s movers and shakers meant one thing — good tips. Perry Landow approached the Lakeshore, wearing his usual tailored blue suit. Carl found it odd to see the busy executive home at lunchtime. He never came home before 9PM. Never.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Landow,” said Carl.
Perry Landow didn’t answer. His eyes were focused straight ahead, filled with an anger that made Carl shudder.
The police arrived at midnight. It was Carl who had called him, screaming like a mad man. “There’s blood. There’s blood!” was all he could say, over and over.
Carl led the police into the Landow penthouse. Perry Landow lay flat on his back in his large bed. He was naked, bloody from the multiple gun shots to his body and head. His wife was nowhere to be found.
Jill reached her second orgasm of the night in the backseat of Simon’s car. Simon zipped up his fly, whistling. Jill looked out at the waterfront. It was so calm. It was as if time had stopped. Jill looked down at her pubic hair and saw a gray hair. She plucked it out.
“I hate getting old.”
“You ain’t getting old, baby,” said Simon. “You f**k like a wildcat!”
Jill laughed. She was a wildcat. In fact, when she was in high school, she literally was a Wildcat, a Tucson High School Wildcat cheerleader. It was on graduation night at Tucson High where she first met Perry Landow. Her friends thought he was way too old for her, being that he was her father’s business partner, and 30 years her senior. But she knew if that she was going to lose her virginity, she might as well profit from it. And profit she did.
“I better get driving.” said Simon. “It’s a long way to Mexico. Maybe we’ll stop in an hour or two and we’ll f**k again. You’d like that sugar, right?”
Jill reached into her purse for some Kleenex, but instead her fingers starting fondling the cold metal of her 45 caliber gun.
Carl returned to his studio apartment that night. His neighbors were fighting again, cursing in Ukranian. When he turned the lights on, the roaches scattered, mocking Carl, as if saying to him, “You just try to stop us, loser.”
Carl opened a bottle of Bud and sat on the couch. The TV was on the fritz, again. Maybe next month, he’ll actually pay for the cable, rather than trying to steal it from the neighbors. Carl downed the beer, trying to drown out his pain. When are things ever going to go his way? When was he ever going to get a woman like Jill Landow to love him? He started to fantasize about her, the feel of her hard nipples between her fingers.
Captain Ed Johansson was counting the days until his retirement. He already put a down payment on a nice little place near San Diego, where he would live out his time drinking margaritas, and buying Mexican hookers with his pension money. The last thing on his mind was the Perry Landow case, no matter how high-profile it was to the asshole DA.
Carl was still imagining making love to Jill, the bulge rising in his pants, when there was a knock on the door.
“Who is it?” he asked nervously.
“Carl, it’s me. Jill. Jill Landow. From the Lakeshore.”
Jill Landow? Carl ran to the front door, looking through the keyhole. Jill Landow was standing there, holding a gun, fresh, brightly-red blood stains covering the designer dress. He loved that dress. He had seen her wear it so many times during the summer when she sauntered through the lobby like a runway model, her breasts visible through the thin fabric. Jill Landow was coming her? To him? Why? Of course… she’s in trouble! Should he let her in? Should he call the police?
He put his hand on the door knob, ready to open it, knowing that this action would change his life forever.
