Death by Sarcasm

Thirty-eight

“This is downright painful,” Mary said, taking a long pull of her beer.

“Brutal,” Alice said.

They were seated at a table inside the Funny Factory, a small and sparsely attended comedy club in Santa Monica. Uncle Kurt Cooper was on stage, in the middle of his act. Inspired by his return to L.A. and the comedy scene, Uncle Kurt had decided to stick around and start doing standup again.

“I think he’s funny,” Jake said.

Mary and Alice both looked at Jake.

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard tonight,” Alice said.

Jake quickly changed the subject. “So they shipped Marie Stevens back to the mental institution today. Unfit for trial. She could’ve gotten the death penalty.”

Mary idly wondered if letting Marie Stevens live had been the right thing to do. She could have taken her out at the house in Malibu. Instead, she had called Jake while she was en route, shot and bleeding.

“Those guys didn’t just take her material,” Mary said. “They took her soul and her sanity.”

“Lots of people got ripped off back then,” Alice said. “If people got shot out here for stealing material, Hollywood would have a population of maybe ten or twenty people.”

Mary nodded and looked at the stage. “Speaking of material,” Mary said.

They all looked at Kurt Cooper on stage, holding a microphone to his lips. “And why do they call the tank top the ‘wife beater’?” he said. “Hell, every shirt I own is a wife beater. It’s not like when I’m about to knock my wife around I say, hey, let me go put my tank top on!” He beamed at the crowd.

Some of the people in the club laughed. Some didn’t.

“I think his stuff is safe,” Mary said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mary watched Jake take a drink from his beer. God, he looked so handsome. And he’d been so good helping her recover from the gunshot to her leg. Luckily, there’d been no nerve damage. But Jake had jumped right in to help, buying her groceries, cooking for her, visiting Alice, too.

Now, Jake turned and saw her looking at him.

“What?” he said.

She reached across and held his hand. Squeezed it gently.

“Jake. I…”

He waited. “You what?”

“I…” she said.

He leaned toward her, as if she were going to whisper.

Finally, she spoke.

“I think you’re the best Wal-Mart underwear model I know.”