Interview by Tom Robinson of Author and Book Media (www.authorandbookmedia.com)

Deleted Scenes

These eight scenes or partial scenes were cut from Red Hot Lies for different reasons-maybe the story changed or maybe the writing was just lovely (at least to my mind) but it wasn’t advancing the story a whit.

1. I pulled the Vespa onto the sidewalk near Sam’s building and parked it at a bike stand. Technically, mopeds like mine were supposed to be parked on the street in a regular car spot, but I’d found that at night, no one really cared where I stashed the thing.

Lately, in these late October days, it was delicious getting into bed at night; not like in the summer when the sheets felt too hot and I had to use a box fan to aid my weak central air; and not like winter when my teeth chattered and the covers were a mere guard against the Chicago chill that would occupy every space in my body. No, lately it had been a dream to get into my bed, which felt like a warm, cushioned cloud.

Except that now, without Sam, and with a fear that was no longer creeping, but now starting to grip me hard, the bed was no solace.

I tried not to think about Forester, now lifeless in the hospital morgue. But that only made my thoughts swing to Sam and me. I thought about how, as a rational woman, I knew that Sam and I hadn’t invented love. Love and sex had been building people up and then tearing them apart, stripping people to their essence and giving them new starts, making them miserable and then shooting them high, high, high for as long as anyone had been able to keep track.

But what I believed was this-I believed that Sam and I had invented our own brand of love. Our world wasn’t always sunshine and roses-Sam had a tendency to be dismissive when he was stressed, and often I tired of all the friends that he collected, all of whom adored him and wanted a little piece of him. Yet I understood their desire, because I didn’t just want a piece of him, I wanted the whole of Sam. I wanted to inhabit him. And when I got him to myself, I looked at him and felt a combustion of primordial longing, pride, tenderness, protectiveness and always, always awe.

But where was he now? And if he was okay, and if he hadn’t just made a small mistake, what did his absence say about our brand?

Still sitting on my Vespa, I called Maggie and told her everything.

“Are you joking?” she said. “Is this one of your April Fool’s things?”

I was the queen of April Fool’s. I was merciless. One time I’d made Maggie show up at the Belmont Police Station, a place she’d been many times, since she was a criminal defense lawyer. But that time Maggie threw a tantrum and tossed her little weight around, demanding the release of her friend Izzy, who’d apparently been arrested on charges of solicitation after wearing a cleavage-bearing dress to a steak house, which was a well-known hangout for high-class call girls. In reality, I was in the bathtub at my place, sipping a beer and waiting with a grin for her irate phone call.

“It’s October,” I said. “Not April. I wish I was kidding.”

2. Sam’s apartment was next to a bar called the Village Tap. He’d been there for over five years. Every time his mother visited, she told him that he made enough money now and he should move downtown, into an apartment that was more grown-up. But Sam loved Roscoe Village; he loved “the Tap,” as everyone in the neighborhood called it. I often used the Tap to lure him home with me.

I remembered a day that past summer at a street fair. The sun was relentless. We both held beers in cups made of milky plastic. The humidity and the crowd made the beer go down smoother, faster. When I kissed Sam, his skin was hot, his breath tasted like warm bread, and the combination made me growl. “Let’s go to the Tap now.”

Sam downed his beer and slipped his hand around my back, nuzzling my neck. “Let’s skip the Tap.”

After a steamy cab ride, we were upstairs in Sam’s apartment. Desire made us leave the bedroom curtains open and with the sun blazing, Sam slipped my dress from my shoulders and lifted me onto the bed. I remember looking up at him at that moment. I remember taking that image of him into my mind-the sunlit halo around his blond head, the mouth parted, his lips overly pink and full from kissing, his breath heavy, his eyes ravenous.

3. I told Mayburn how I’d gone to the University of Iowa, a college very few seem to appreciate except those who have attended. To the rest of the world, who will probably never visit the little burg of Iowa City, the place sounds Hicksville, but the truth is its medical center is top-notch, its writing program famous, its sports and academic programs exceptional and its people just downright nice.

A friend of mine had pledged a sorority and the next year I did the same. As part of a hazing ritual, the pledges had to steal something from a hip clothing store in the pedestrian mall. The item you lifted didn’t have to be something large or expensive, but you had to complete the assignment and show up with the evidence. I felt anxious and awful about it. I’d never stolen anything in my life and never planned to do so.

But I made myself do it. It was easy enough to lift a beaded necklace and drop it into my bag. And yet, back in my dorm room, I was ill with what I’d done. I put the necklace in an envelope and addressed it to the store. I went to the sorority and quit.

4. I used one hand to call Mayburn, stuffing the phone under my helmet, which I hadn’t bothered to fasten. With the other hand, I pointed the scooter in the direction of Lake Shore Drive. Driving with one hand was stupid, illegal even, and getting on Lake Shore with a scooter was equally dumb, but the neighborhood was freaking me out as much as my run-in with Dr. Li.

Mayburn didn’t answer. I was relieved when I hit Lake Shore. I kept gunning the Vespa. Northbound Lake Shore Drive was a stunning ride. It curved around the dips in the lake, almost like a country road, but then one particular twist-bam-the Loop, the skyline, the city, hit my eyes and took over my view.

I let myself get lost in the sight of it until I got off at North Avenue, and my phone rang. I fished it out of my pocket with my left hand. Mayburn. I began to pull over, throwing a glance over my shoulders to see if anyone seemed to be on my tail. But then one car slowed. I could see it in my rearview mirror. I got in the right lane. It did the same. I couldn’t tell the color of it. Was it gray? Blue? The Feds? Someone else?

I slowed some more. It did the same. The phone stopped ringing. Inside my helmet, my pulse pounded loud in my temples.

I veered the scooter to the right when the road curved into Lincoln Park. The car behind me slammed on its brakes, seeming about to stop with me, then as if thinking better of it, sped past me. It was black, but the car was moving too fast to get the license plate.

I sat atop the Vespa, my heart thundering, under a bevy of bright lights. Safe enough for now, I figured.

I called Mayburn and told him what I knew.

“Good job,” he said. “Now get some sleep, Izzy.”

I tried to take his advice. I drove home. I went to bed. I lay there all night. And I didn’t sleep a bit.

5. John Mayburn pulled his baseball cap low over his face and ambled past the Lincoln Park mansion of Michael and Lucy DeSanto.

The first time Mayburn had cased the DeSanto place, looking for a way to conduct surveillance, was a few weeks ago. He’d dressed in a suit and acted like a neighbor on his way back from Starbucks. He liked pretending that he was home early from his job, that he was heading to see his wife and kids. It helped to employ acting techniques when he was using a cover, and so he envisioned his imaginary oldest son-Mick, named after his high school buddy-waiting for him at the top step of their house. He imagined his wife waiting just inside the door. If he looked closely, he saw that his wife was Madeline, a woman he used to date. That day, as he strolled the neighborhood, he enjoyed his little daydream but was always searching the walls of the DeSanto house. He was glad he’d worn sunglasses, because at the top of the stone wall were not only tiny iron spikes but five not-so-tiny observation cameras. He’d turned the corner at the end of the block and left immediately.