Bejeweled Key to Paradise,short story,Gale Chester Whittington, gay pioneer humorist

SOUL-SOOTHING

PHOTOS

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After showering, Mandy spritzes her body with Elizabeth Taylor’s
Poison and dons a beige and turquoise Adolfo suit. She picks up
the letter opener and feels the edge of the blade with her fingers.
Hmm. Not very sharp. But then, as Anthony used to say, it’s all in
the method of delivery—passion makes anything possible. Holding
the opener so it catches the setting sun’s rays through her front
window, she watches the jewels sparkle. Maybe I’ll return the
gaudy thing to him. The least I can do! She maneuvers it into her
Gucci purse and exits the bungalow.

What a lovely afternoon! She strolls through the winding path
lined by gigantic royal palm trees until she reaches the main
building, an old pink Hilton hotel transformed into condos. After
taking the elevator to the penthouse, she rings the bell. A blond
man dressed in a pastel suit opens the door, smiling big.

Damn! He's more handsome than ever!

“Mandy!” His white teeth glisten obscenely.

Obviously fake, just like his personality. “Hello, Anthony.”

“Come in.” He beckons with a suntanned hand. An obvious ploy
to draw attention to his gold bracelet and diamond ring. The illusion
of success can be persuasive; he’d taught her that much. “Didn’t
expect to see you ’til later, downstairs.”

“Couldn’t wait.” She enters, closing the door behind her.
“Especially after I found an old memento of yours in the ocean
today.” Mandy reaches into her silver sequined purse and pulls
out the gaudy letter opener. “This is the key to my peace of mind.”
Wrapping her fist around the handle, she thrusts the pointed end
into his stomach with all her might.

“What the—” Screaming, he falls backward to the floor, extracting
his body from the blade, blood soaking his pink silk suit and beige
tie and slowly converging over the jewelry decorating his copper-
colored hand now clumsily clutching at the wound. A shame to
stain such a nice designer suit. She pokes the dripping letter
opener into the first buttonhole and folds the collar back,
exposing the label on the pocket. Valentino! Guess Armani doesn’
t do pink!

“I can see you are in shock, Anthony darling. Fact is I
misunderstood the terms. Thought the bungalow included a
permanent gigolo, not one that comes and goes like the tide!” The
little hustler will never beat me again.

Mandy holds the bloody tool in front of her, making sure to keep it
away from her outfit. “Besides, I have no use for this anymore!”
She kneels, pulls the weapon back to the far right, and plunges it
through his ribs directly into the cavity where she figures his heart
ought to be. “These phony jewels belong next to your own
worthless ones. Withdrawing the opener, she jabs it into his groin,
ignoring his moans, now fading. “Your days of condo hopping are
over! Don’t expect Lucifer to buy any time-shares! I doubt that
even you can charm the devil!” She wipes the weapon and door
handle clean before slipping from the room.

Sauntering into the meeting appearing as relaxed as possible, she
finds the owner of Marco Paradisiacal Time Shares, Inc. arranging
leaflets. He looks up and smiles. “Mandy, you look nice. Great tan!
Every year, you look more and more like a real Bahama mama.
I’m so glad you’ve chosen to return. You make a most appealing
satisfied customer. You may give Anthony a run for his money this
year.”

“Thank you, sir.” Mandy peruses the room. Gotta appear to be
looking for the jackass.

“Remember, though . . .” Marco raises one eyebrow and peers at
her sideways. “Five years in a row, he’s been number one.”

“Well, I have a feeling this year will mark the end of his successful
run wielding those famous powers of persuasion.” Mandy smiles.
“I’ve been watching and learning for five years. This time, I plan to
make the $100,000 bonus all mine. He’s not going to beat me this
year, trust me.”

“Oh, almost forgot.” Marco points to a cardboard box on the
display table, next to a pile of brochures. “This is why I needed
you to come early. I talked Anthony into letting all the salespeople
distribute his special souvenir, the one he always gives to clients
in private. Help yourself to a handful. They’ve worked wonders for
him.” Marco reaches into the carton and pulls out a small oblong
jewelry box. He opens it and holds up the contents.

Oh, my God! More letter openers!

“Don’t tell anybody,” Marco says. “But the topaz and aquamarine
aren’t real. Offer them as a classy way to open the special
discount envelopes. Rich clients love the drama. Anthony can tell
you himself. Oughta be here soon. Last time I talked to him, he
was already entertaining a reluctant client in his room.”

Her body stiffens. Oh, my God! There was another person in the
penthouse? As Mandy’s ears catch the faint sound of a siren in
the distance, her head drops toward the floor. Oh, no! Her eyes
land on her Fendi turquoise pumps, now splattered with a most
unappealing shade of dark red.

The warm ocean water of the Bahamas offers little relief as the hot
summer wind assaults Mandy’s neck and face—much like
Anthony’s breath when he and she were lovers. July 23rd! Fifth
anniversary of the day we met! Why do I always return to this false
paradise? I must be a masochist! At least this time, things will
change.

Mandy feels something hard under her foot. Reaching down, she
pulls it from the water, freezing, nearly dropping it, as she realizes
what she’s holding in her hands—a big, gaudy, topaz and
aquamarine encrusted letter opener, exactly like the one that
changed her life when she first came to Paradise Island. With a
laugh, she remembers thinking of it as the key to Anthony’s heart.
Could it be the same one? After all, she did toss it into the sea as
soon as she realized the smooth-talking man was a hustler! Of
course, by that time, she’d already bought his line about sharing
paradise together.

God, I hate how he made me drop my guard! Love is not only blind;
it’s deaf and dumb, as well.

Mandy retreats to her umbrella, falls back on her towel-draped
lounger, and closes her eyes, fingers stroking the amber and blue
handle of her “treasure.” Hmm, perhaps he gave one to every lover
. . . the ocean’s probably filled with them.

Anthony’s suntanned image flashes through her head. The gold-
streaked hair, the immaculate white teeth, the oh, so charming
personality. Should’ve realized nobody could be that perfect! What
a fool I was!

Gathering her things, Mandy stuffs them into her woven reed
Tommy Hilfiger beach bag and hikes through the sand to her
bungalow. With a sigh, she removes the letter opener, places it on
the kitchenette table, and shakes her head. Should’ve known he
was only after money.

The phone rings, causing her to jump. She catches her breath and
picks it up. “Yes? . . . Oh, of course, I’ll be there . . . No prob!”
Damn! Better get a move on. If they want me there a half-hour
early, something big must be coming down the pike.

Mandy jumps into the shower, being careful to keep her hair dry,
having had it styled earlier that morning in the condo association
salon. Scrubbing with a loofah sponge saturated with coconut
soap, she glances through her port-like window at the white
beach paradise. Jeesh! The ocean’s beautiful . . . such a
wonderful color . . . exactly the same shade as Anthony’s eyes.
She shakes her head and
and shudders. Why do I always think about that gigolo? What’s
wrong with me, anyway?