Suckers. Part 8

She set the basket down on my kitchen counter, and seductively perched herself on one of my breakfast bar stools. Her blouse had been untucked from her skirt, the shirt tails tied in a knot around her flat stomach.

"You lied to me, Marietta."

"Lied?" She batted her eyelashes. "How?"

There was a bottle of window cleaner next to the sink that I'd never seen before. I picked it up.

"How about opening up that shirt and letting me squirt you with this?"

"Is that what turns you on? Spraying women with gla.s.s cleaner?"

I grabbed her blouse and pulled, tearing b.u.t.tons.

"I was thinking more along the lines of washing off those fake bruises. They're so fake, the purple has even rubbed off on your collar. See?"

I shot two quick streams at the marks, then used my sleeve to wipe them off.

They didn't wipe off.

I tried again, to similar effect.

Marietta sneered at me. "Are you finished?"

"So what's that purple stuff on your collar?"

"Eye shadow." She pointed at her eyes. "That's why it matches my eye shadow."

"Big deal. So you gave yourself those bruises. Or paid someone to give them to you. I met your husband today, Mrs. Garbonzo. All ninety pounds of him. He couldn't beat up a quadriplegic."

"My husband abuses me, Mr. McGlade."

"Yeah, I saw his swollen knuckles. At first, I thought they were swollen from hitting you. But he didn't hit you, did he Marietta? Roy has rheumatoid arthritis. I saw his medication. His knuckles are swollen because of his disease, and they undoubtedly cause him great pain. So much pain, he'd never be able to hit you."

Marietta put her hands on her hips.

"He beats me with a belt, Mr. McGlade."

"A belt?"

"These bruises are from the buckle. It also causes welts. See?"

She turned around, lifting her blouse. Angry, red scabs stretched across her back.

I gave them a spritz of the window cleaner, just to be sure.

"Ow!"

"Sorry. Had to check."

Marietta faced me. "I've paid you, I've done your laundry, and I've cleaned your apartment. Did you take care of the a.s.sa.s.sin for me?"

"Your husband didn't hire an a.s.sa.s.sin."

"Is that what he told you?"

"I know it for a fact. The guy you hired is a sixteen-year-old pimply-faced kid. He couldn't whack anyone. He couldn't even whack a mole."

I smiled at my pun.

Marietta made a face. "I thought he sounded young on the phone. He really won't do it?"

"He lives in his parent's bas.e.m.e.nt."

The tears came. "I gave him a lot of money. Everything I've been able to hide from Roy during six years of marriage."

I thought about mentioning I got the money back, but decided against it.

"Look, Marietta, just divorce the guy."

"I can't. He threatened to kill me if I divorced him."

"You can run away. Hire a lawyer."

She sniffled. "Pre-nup."

"Pre-nup?"

"I signed a pre-nuptial agreement. If I divorce Roy, I don't get a penny. And after six years of abuse, I deserve more than that." She licked her lips. "But if he dies, I get it all."

"Don't you think killing the guy is a little extreme?"

She threw herself at me, teary-eyed and heaving. "Please, Harry. You have to help me. I'll give you half-half of the entire chicken empire. Help me kill the son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Marietta..."

"I cleaned your place, you promised you'd help." She added a little grinding action to her hug. "Please kill him for me."

I looked around the kitchen. She did do a pretty good job. I wondered, briefly, if I'd make a decent Chicken King.

"I'll tell you what, Marietta. I don't do that kind of thing. But I know someone who can help. Do you want me to make a phone call?"

"Yes. Oh, yes."

I pried myself out of her grasp and picked up the phone, dialing the number from memory.

"Hi, partner. It's me. Look, I've got a woman here who wants to kill her husband. I told her I'm not interested, but I thought maybe you'd be able to set something up. Say, tomorrow, around noon? You can meet her at the Hilton. Rent a room under the name Lipshultz. No, schultz, with a U-L. Okay, she'll be there."

I hung up. "Got it all set for you, sugar."

She squeezed me tight and kissed my neck. "Thanks, Harry. Thank you so much. Is there anything I can do to repay you?" Her breath was hot in my ear. "Anything at all?"

"You can start by folding those socks. And maybe some dusting. Yeah, dusting would be good."

She smiled wickedly and caressed my cheek. "I was thinking of something a little more intimate."

"I was thinking about dinner."

"Dinner would be wonderful."

"I'm sure it will be. Have the place dusted by the time I get back."

Marietta Garbonzo called me the next night, around eight in the evening.

"You son of a b.i.t.c.h! You set me up! You didn't call a hitman! You called a cop!"

"You can't go around murdering people, sweetheart. It's wrong on so many levels."

"But what about all of the washing? The cleaning? The dusting? And what about after dinner? What we did? How could you betray me after that?"

"You expect me to throw away all of my principles because we spent five minutes doing the worm? It was fun, but not worth twenty to life."

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d. When I get out of here I'll..."

I hung up and went back to the Sharper Image catalog I'd been thumbing through. I had my eye on one of those ma.s.saging easy chairs. That would set me back two grand. Earlier that day, I bought a sixty inch plasma TV. The money I took from William "Billy" Johansenn was being put to good use.

I plopped down in front of the TV, found the wrestling channel, and settled in to watch two hours of pay-per-view sports entertainment. The Iron Commie had Captain Frankenbeef in a suplex when I felt the gun press against the back of my head.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. McGlade."

"Happy Roy?"

"Yes. Stand up, slowly. Then turn around."

I followed instructions. Happy Roy held a four barreled COP .357, a nasty weapon that could do a lot of damage at close range.

"How'd you get in?" I asked.

"You gave a key to my wife, you moron. I took it from her last night, when she got home." His face got mean. "After you slept with her."

"Technically, we didn't do any sleeping."

The gun trembled in Happy Roy's hand.

"She's in jail now, Mr. McGlade. Because of you."

"She wanted to kill you, Happy Roy. You should thank me."

"You idiot!" Spittle flew from his lips. "I wanted to kill her myself. With my own two hands. Now I have to get her out of jail before I can do it. Do you have any idea what Johnny Cochrane charges an hour?"

"Whatever it is, you can afford it."

Happy Roy's voice cracked. "I'm practically broke. Those d.a.m.n claymation commercials are costing me a fortune, and no one is buying the tie-in products. I've got ten thousand Happy Roy t-shirts, moldering away in a warehouse. Plus the burger chains with their processed chicken strips are forcing me into bankruptcy."

"Those new Wendy's strips are pretty good."

"Shut up! Put your hands over your head. No quick moves."

"What about your mansion? Can't you sell that?"

"It's a rental."

"Really? Do you mind if I ask what you pay a month?"

"Enough! We're going for a ride, Mr. McGlade. I'm going to introduce you to one of our extra large deep fryers, up close and personal."

"You told me I could keep working with your wife."

"I said you could work with her, not set her up!"

"Six of one, half a dozen of..."

"I'm the Chicken King, G.o.ddammit! I'm an American icon! n.o.body crosses me and gets away with it!

I'd had enough of the Chicken King's crazy ranting, so I reached for the gun. Happy Roy tried to squeeze the trigger, but I easily yanked it away before he had the chance.

"Let me give you a little lesson in firearms, Happy Roy. A COP .357 has a twenty pound trigger pull. Much too hard to fire for a guy with arthritis."

Happy Roy reached for his belt, fighting with the buckle. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I'll beat the fear of Happy Roy into you, you son of a b.i.t.c.h! No one crosses..."

I tapped him on the head with his gun, and the Chicken King collapsed. After checking for a pulse, I went for the phone and dialed my Lieutenant friend.

"Hi, Jack. Me again. Marietta Garbonzo's husband just broke into my place, tried to kill me. Yeah, Happy Roy himself. No, he doesn't look so happy right now. Can you send someone by? And can you make it quick? He's bleeding all over my carpet, and I just had it cleaned. Thanks."

I hung up and stared down at the Chicken King, who was mumbling something into the carpet.

"You say something, Happy Roy?"

"I should have stayed single."

"No kidding," I said. "Relationships can be murder."

An Andrew Mayhem Thriller by Jeff Strand The most bizarre Halloween of my life began with me chaperoning a party at my house...one that consisted of a dozen second-grade girls. Obviously, that alone was enough to push it way over the top on the shriek-o-meter, but to my astonishment there was something even worse in store.

My daughter Theresa was seven and she'd been allowed to invite her friends over for a party, as a "safe alternative to trick-or-treating," which was the current catch phrase in our little town of Chamber, Florida. This was not my idea. I was, quite honestly, appalled that my kids would be robbed of one of the greatest joys of childhood.

When I was a kid, my friends and I took trick-or-treating with deadly seriousness. We'd start planning our route in late August, drawing an incredibly detailed scale map of the neighborhood and plotting the best course to attain the maximum candy in the minimum time. But this wasn't simple geometry...oh no, far from it. We also had to factor in the homes that were stingy with their candy, which had to be hit early, and the homes that regularly overbought, which were saved for last so we'd get them when they were desperately trying to get rid of their stash to avoid having stale Milk Duds until February.

After our parents had checked the candy for razor blades and small explosive devices, we'd each take a section of whomever's bedroom was acting as our home base that year, spread our treasures out onto the floor, and bask in the glorious wealth. Evil "muahahahahaha!" laughs were essential. And then the trading would begin, which we took far more seriously than Major League Baseball ever has. After the negotiations, which could go on for hours, we would commence with the Feast...and lo, what a feast it was!