“No.”
“…pull its head off,” Mrs. Amberson went on, not missing a beat. “It comes off, don’t worry. I’m not asking you to break marble with your brute strength. But you have to pull hard. Inside, you’ll find a roll of cash. Take it, get in a cab, and go to the courthouse downtown. It’s the one from Crime and Punishment, the one where your brother shot Sonny.”
As soon as she heard the word courthouse, Scarlett felt herself waking up. She sat up halfway, balancing her elbow on her pillow.
“Go in and speak to the lovely desk clerk. Just tell her you’re there for me. She will be able to provide instructions. Oh, and Murray will need a walk and some food. I know it’s a school day, but hopefully this won’t take more than an hour or so. Have to go! I know I can count on you, O’Hara. Have to dash! I’ve made a wonderful new friend who needs to talk to me!”
Click.
Scarlett blinked and grabbed a handful of purple curtain, pulling it aside to look at the anemic overcast sky that had spilled over the still-sleepy city.
She got out of bed, even though this seemed like a bad move.
The midnight-to-morning doorman at Mrs. Amberson’s building was more apathetic than Murray. He waved Scarlett right up without even looking away from his newspaper. He was the guy who greeted cleaners and workmen and staff in general…people who had to wake early and get things done. He could probably sense that Scarlett was an employee.
Murray the dog was curled up on the big white sofa when she entered the apartment, enjoying the quiet and the privacy. Her intrusion caused him such a shock that he rose vertically into the air. He didn’t look reassured when Scarlett took the heavy Foo dog bookend from the shelf, squeezed it between her legs to get a grip on it, and pulled its head off. He tried to run away, but slipped into the space between two of the fat cushions, and the more he struggled, the more he sank.
Scarlett pried out the tight roll of cash wedged inside the bookend. Once she got the bills free, she gave them a quick count, just so she would know what she was carrying. It was seven thousand, one hundred dollars in all, mostly in hundreds. This was Mrs. Amberson’s little emergency fund.
A half hour later, Scarlett’s cab pulled up to the long set of steps that Spencer had thrown himself down, where he had pulled the gun. She walked over the spot where Sonny had fallen and up the steps, to where Mrs. Amberson was sitting. Her spiky hair was slightly flattened, and her black evening dress was a sharp contrast against the white of the steps and the building. She was a blot on the face of justice. She had obtained a cigarette from somewhere and was puffing away on it like she was afraid someone would snatch it from her grasp.
“I know, I know,” she said as Scarlett approached. “I quit. I just needed the one.”
She took one final drag of the cigarette, looked at it in disgust, and tossed it away.
“What happened?” Scarlett asked.
“Oh, the judge was quite reasonable. They released me on my own recognizance. Sorry to make you come down here for nothing.”
“No…what happened? Why were you in jail?”
“There was a bit of a public altercation,” she said. “Altercation?”
“I suppose you heard what happened to your brother’s character?”
“Oh,” Scarlett said. “Oh…Oh no.”
“I requested a little sit-down to discuss what was going on. So one of the producers and I had cocktails last night. Apparently, they liked him quite a bit, as an actor and as a character. But apparently the audience wants justice. Plus, there were issues with the writers, with scripts that were already completed…the usual back office nonsense…and the only solution they could come up with to move the entire story forward was to beat him to death.”
“So,” Scarlett said, desperately trying to piece this all together in the thin early morning air, “you met with the producer and…”
“Well, I threw a drink at him, which was not considered appropriate behavior in the establishment we were in. And I may have slapped him just a tiny bit. Hence, the law. It’s all part of the strategy, O’Hara. I wanted them to know that you do not play with the AAA. What a good slogan that is! Oh, I’m exhausted. But the night wasn’t so bad. It’s not the first night I’ve ever spent in a holding cell. Granted, the last time was after a night out sometime in the late seventies and I was arrested with seven other people who were dressed primarily in gold body paint. Half of them just thought we were in a different club called Jail. They kept dancing against the bars and trying to buy drinks from the cops. Anyway…you need to get to school.”