of a woman’s high-pitched shriek.
ChAPteR seven
The Focks cameraman lay on the porch moaning and clutching his chest, and the woman with him was prone behind the porch railing, yelling into her cell phone, “Send the police! Send the police!” The 911 operator must have asked her where she was, because she said, “It’s on my gPs! It’s in the car on my gPs!”
I asked Hunny to remind us of what his house number on Moth Street was, and he said 126, and the woman yelled into her phone, “One twenty-six Moth Street, in Albany!”
We had all heard a car screech away, but there was no sign of the vehicle by now.
Hunny switched on the porch light, and I looked down at the whimpering young man on the floor. I got on my cell and told 911 that in addition to the police we would need an ambulance.
I said, “Hunny, is anybody in the house a doctor or nurse?”
The remaining partygoers were crowded just inside the front door, chattering and peering out.
“No.”
The woman with the cell phone came over and said, “Bert!
Bert! Don’t die on us. Bill needs you. We all need you.” She had a hard time bending down because the jeans she was wearing were so tight.
As I got down on my knees to examine the cameraman’s soaked T-shirt, I saw with relief that the shooting was not what it first appeared to be. The mess on the man’s chest smelled not like blood but like paint. I touched it, and I said, “You’ve been hit with a paintball pellet. It exploded but it didn’t penetrate your body.”
“But, hey, this fucking hurts,” the cameraman groaned. “I hurt my back. It hurts.”
“They tried to kill us!” the woman said. “My God.”
50 Richard Stevenson
“Who fired the paintball? What did you see?”
“I think it was a car. We were just coming up the steps.”
Then I remembered that the man dressed as Marylou Whitney had been ushering the newsies into the house, but where was the Saratoga and Palm Beach socialite?
Art had come out now with a flashlight, and he was shining the beam around the porch and the wooden front steps. More red paintballs had struck the porch railing and some of the shingles on the front of the house. A border of marigolds ran along the concrete walkway from the steps down to the sidewalk, also paint-splattered, and it was when Art shone the light down there that we saw the bottom of Marylou’s pink gown. Her legs were sticking out from under the forsythia bush below the porch.
Hunny raced down the steps, shouting, “Marylou! Marylou!”
A muffled voice came out from under the bush. “Hunny, I’m stuck. I fell off the steps, and my necklace is caught on something.”
“Oh, girl, you look like the Wicked Witch of the West and the house fell on you.”
“Somebody shot a gun.”
“But it was just paint, Donald says. Were you hit? Are you wounded?”
“I don’t know, darling.”
Now the woman in the tight jeans was on her cell phone again, and I heard her say something about “they tried to kill us”
and “a transvestite may have set us up.”
I asked Art for his flashlight and then crawled under the bush to find out what was holding onto Marylou. Her diamond necklace had become entangled on a forsythia branch, and while she aimed the flashlight I broke off bits of the branch and tried to free the Whitney jewels without damaging them further.
Marylou said, “I know we have known each other for such a short, short time, but I have to tell you, whoever you are, that I think I am falling in love.”
CoCkeyed 51
“Okey-dokes.”
She had scratches on her neck and jaw and her wig was seriously askew, but Marylou did not seem to have been hit with a paint pellet.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“I am feeling a bit moist, but that may be from the excitement.”
I yelled, “She seems to be uninjured. We’ll be with you in a second.”
Hunny said, “Maybe the attackers will be back. Oh, where are the Albany police when you need them!”
There
ChAPteR seven
The Focks cameraman lay on the porch moaning and clutching his chest, and the woman with him was prone behind the porch railing, yelling into her cell phone, “Send the police! Send the police!” The 911 operator must have asked her where she was, because she said, “It’s on my gPs! It’s in the car on my gPs!”
I asked Hunny to remind us of what his house number on Moth Street was, and he said 126, and the woman yelled into her phone, “One twenty-six Moth Street, in Albany!”
We had all heard a car screech away, but there was no sign of the vehicle by now.
Hunny switched on the porch light, and I looked down at the whimpering young man on the floor. I got on my cell and told 911 that in addition to the police we would need an ambulance.
I said, “Hunny, is anybody in the house a doctor or nurse?”
The remaining partygoers were crowded just inside the front door, chattering and peering out.
“No.”
The woman with the cell phone came over and said, “Bert!
Bert! Don’t die on us. Bill needs you. We all need you.” She had a hard time bending down because the jeans she was wearing were so tight.
As I got down on my knees to examine the cameraman’s soaked T-shirt, I saw with relief that the shooting was not what it first appeared to be. The mess on the man’s chest smelled not like blood but like paint. I touched it, and I said, “You’ve been hit with a paintball pellet. It exploded but it didn’t penetrate your body.”
“But, hey, this fucking hurts,” the cameraman groaned. “I hurt my back. It hurts.”
“They tried to kill us!” the woman said. “My God.”
50 Richard Stevenson
“Who fired the paintball? What did you see?”
“I think it was a car. We were just coming up the steps.”
Then I remembered that the man dressed as Marylou Whitney had been ushering the newsies into the house, but where was the Saratoga and Palm Beach socialite?
Art had come out now with a flashlight, and he was shining the beam around the porch and the wooden front steps. More red paintballs had struck the porch railing and some of the shingles on the front of the house. A border of marigolds ran along the concrete walkway from the steps down to the sidewalk, also paint-splattered, and it was when Art shone the light down there that we saw the bottom of Marylou’s pink gown. Her legs were sticking out from under the forsythia bush below the porch.
Hunny raced down the steps, shouting, “Marylou! Marylou!”
A muffled voice came out from under the bush. “Hunny, I’m stuck. I fell off the steps, and my necklace is caught on something.”
“Oh, girl, you look like the Wicked Witch of the West and the house fell on you.”
“Somebody shot a gun.”
“But it was just paint, Donald says. Were you hit? Are you wounded?”
“I don’t know, darling.”
Now the woman in the tight jeans was on her cell phone again, and I heard her say something about “they tried to kill us”
and “a transvestite may have set us up.”
I asked Art for his flashlight and then crawled under the bush to find out what was holding onto Marylou. Her diamond necklace had become entangled on a forsythia branch, and while she aimed the flashlight I broke off bits of the branch and tried to free the Whitney jewels without damaging them further.
Marylou said, “I know we have known each other for such a short, short time, but I have to tell you, whoever you are, that I think I am falling in love.”
CoCkeyed 51
“Okey-dokes.”
She had scratches on her neck and jaw and her wig was seriously askew, but Marylou did not seem to have been hit with a paint pellet.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” I asked.
“I am feeling a bit moist, but that may be from the excitement.”
I yelled, “She seems to be uninjured. We’ll be with you in a second.”
Hunny said, “Maybe the attackers will be back. Oh, where are the Albany police when you need them!”
There
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