The Housewife Assassin's Killer App

  The Housewife Assassin’s

  Killer App

  A Novel

  Josie Brown

  © 2014 Josie Brown. All rights reserved.

  Published by Signal Press

  San Francisco, CA 94123

  info@SignalEditorial.com

  V110915L

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 Principle of Least Astonishment

  Chapter 2 Emoticons

  Chapter 3 Trojan Horse

  Chapter 4 Hardware

  Chapter 5 Backside Bus

  Chapter 6 User-Friendly

  Chapter 7 Cold Boot

  Chapter 8 Breadcrumbs

  Chapter 9 We’re Off to See the Wizard

  Chapter 10 Avatar

  Chapter 11 Wonder-Con!

  Chapter 12 Heartbleed

  Chapter 13 Virus

  Chapter 14 Technological Singularity

  Chapter 15 Solutionism

  Chapter 16 Halt and Catch Fire

  Chapter 17 Trolls

  Chapter 18 RAID

  Chapter 19 PostScript

  Next Up!

  HOW TO REACH JOSIE

  NOVELS IN THE HOUSEWIFE ASSASSIN SERIES

  OTHER BOOKS BY JOSIE BROWN

  PRAISE FOR JOSIE BROWN

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Chapter 1

  Principle of Least Astonishment

  Despite our claim to be great at multitasking, the fact of the matter is that, unlike computers and their offshoots of smart phones and electronic tablets, human beings can only pay attention to one thing at a time.

  This is where a well-designed app (short for “application”) comes in!

  The “principle of least astonishment,” or POLA, is the app designer’s mandate to ensure that these little software goodies think through the logistics of getting from Point A (for example, “I wonder if I can download a book…”) to Point B (“Wow! Yes, I can. In fact I can search for all sorts of books, and within different online bookstores…”) to Point C (“Gee, I can purchase and download the book into my account, and read it on any of my ever-growing number of devices!”)—

  So that all you have to do is push a button to get what you want!

  In fact, a well-designed app is like a great lover because it:

  A: Anticipates your every need, want, and desire.

  B: Listens to your instructions, and performs accordingly.

  C: Meets your greatest expectations.

  For some reason, no one has perfected a Husband app. Go figure.

  “Do you work for UPS? I could have sworn I saw you checking out my package.” The portly goombah whispering this pick-up line into my ear is Walt “the Wolf” Squarcialupi, a capo with the Carducci crime syndicate.

  Believe it or not, I’ve heard worse pick-up lines. Tonight, in fact. In other words, the wise guys who frequent Mama Giacomini’s Ristorante in New York’s Little Italy aren’t the silver-tongued devils they imagine.

  No wonder this infamous mob hangout has trouble holding onto its waitresses.

  If all goes well, I’ll be the next to turn in my uniform. Not that there’s much to it—just a too-tight, barely-there vest worn over short-shorts that would make a Hooters girl blush. To add to my image as a woman willing to do anything for a tip (hopefully a cash one, as opposed to best odds during the fifth race at Belmont), I’m also squeezed into fishnets and totter through the lounge on six-inch heels.

  Seriously, Walt the Wolf’s timing couldn’t be worse. Tonight, I’ll be serving Lawrence Raley, an NSA intelligence analyst who made too many losing college basketball bets and couldn’t pay the vig. When Phil “the Fixer” Rugassi, an underboss in the Moretti organization, showed up with a metal bat to collect what was owed, Lawrence convinced him that there’s a much better use for his brains than smearing them all over the sidewalk—

  Like assessing the telephone text and voice metadata files of Empire State Technologies, Limited—a phone company that just so happens to be one of the most successful (and supposedly legitimate) assets of the Moretti crime syndicate.

  Here’s a newsflash for you: when it comes to organized crime cash cows, the old standbys like drugs, prostitution, and gambling are so last century. A more lucrative new side business is cybercrime. For the Morettis, that means Empire State—which just may be your discount phone company. You see, once you’ve signed up, you’ve given the Morettis your charge card.

  Then the real shakedown begins. Let’s say you download a gaming app or two or three. Or you subscribe to a sports gambling website or a porn site, let alone any other of the millions of promotional services pitched to you on your cell phone. Soon, strange charges start appearing on your credit card bills.

  But you don’t notice, because you’re having too much fun.

  Forget breaking a leg with a lead pipe. Now when the Cosa Nostra reaches out and touches someone, it does it via an auto-debit, to the collective tune of tens of millions of dollars a year.

  Lawrence has taken it to the next step. Over the past six months, his data mining on the Morettis’ behalf has pulled up the dirty little secrets on rival mobsters like the Carduccis, who enjoy generous “family plan” discounts with Empire State. He’s also given the Moretti Syndicate enough dirt to blackmail a few celebrities, not to mention a politician or two.

  It’s one of these politicians who asked my employer, Acme Industries, to pull the plug on the Morettis’ new venture.

  As you can imagine, this is an important operation for Acme. Not only will a successful racketeering sting endear us to the FBI, it should help us avoid losing our own very lucrative contract with the NSA.

  So, no, I can’t let Walt the Wolf get in my way. I pop my gum in his face, but he takes it as a sign that I’m being coy.

  His follow-up line is pretty blunt: “You know how I know we’re gonna have sex later? Because I’m stronger than you.”

  Wrong.

  “Promises, promises,” I coo. I let my gaze fall to his crotch. Seriously, if there’s a bulge there, I can’t see it. Maybe I need glasses. Still, I open my eyes wide to feign awe and wonder.

  I deserve an Academy Award for this performance.

  With a wink and a come-hither smile, I beckon him into the ladies’ room, then lock the door behind us. A moment later, my punch to his throat, followed by a knee to the gonads and a sharp elbow to the back of his head, leaves him face down in a toilet.

  So that he gets the point that I don’t take threats lightly, I flush it a few times.

  Everyone can use a facial now and then.

  “Mrs. Stone, try your best to stay on track,” my boss, Ryan Clancy, mutters into the wireless ear bud too tiny to be seen, even if my right ear wasn’t hidden beneath a long, blond feather-cut wig. To hold its pouf in place, I have a banana clip secured at the crown. It’s teased up so high that I have to duck to clear the doorsill.

  “With all due respect, Ryan”—I’m feeling like a Jersey girl, what can I say?—“I had to shake the guy somehow. Can I help it that I’m the only woman in this joint who isn’t making goo-goo eyes at the piano player?”

  I can’t see it, but I can imagine the smirk on Ryan’s face. “That’s only because he’ll be going home with you tonight.”

  He’s got that right. The man with his finger on the pulse of his audience’s rapidly beating hearts is none other than my main squeeze and mission partner, Jack Craig.

  He wears a custom Armani tuxedo that fits his man-candy physique like a glove. The way he’s crooning In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning, you’d swear Ol’ Blue Eyes himself coached him on which beats to hold the longest in order to tug at a woman’s heartstrings.

  In their minds
, he’s fabulicious.

  “Donna, you’ve got a customer.” That’s Ryan’s way of telling me Phil the Fixer has arrived.

  And off to work we go.

  But, by the looks of things, it isn’t going to be easy to get Phil’s attention. He’s brought a woman—some teased-out tart, barely twenty if that, with a Penthouse-worthy set of knockers and a ’do that’s high enough to stop radio transmissions in a six-block radius.

  “My God, is that his wife? She’s got to be thirty years younger than him,” I murmur to Ryan.

  “Hardly. Like Phil, Angelina Rugassi is in her fifties. She also happens to be the daughter of a capo with the Carducci family.”

  Noting my gaze, Phil gives me the once-over and a wink. I murmur, “Talk about playing with fire.”

  The mobster and his cupcake take the booth reserved for them—the one farthest from the piano. Even at that distance, it only takes Cupcake a minute to fall under Jack’s spell. Phil realizes this too and raises a brow at me, as if to say, Don’t be shy.

  He’s got nothing to worry about in that regard. My mission is to get close enough to him so that, when the time is right, I can switch Lawrence’s thumb drive with mine, which will release a worm into the Moretti syndicate’s database.

  “What can I get you?” My question is innocent enough, but the way I say it, so slow and husky, leaves nothing to the imagination—Phil’s, anyway.

  He nods in Cupcake’s direction. “Get the little lady anything her heart desires.”

  “Martini,” Cupcake purrs without turning her head. “Dry as toast.”

  “I’ll have one too. And two orders of the calamad, and two of the linguini and clams, and a side of mozzarel.” Even as Phil slides closer to her, he sticks a fifty-dollar bill between my breasts and winks. “Keep me happy, and there’s more where this came from.”

  I have half a mind to tell him that he’ll need it to buy cigs in prison, but then I remember Ryan told me I could hold onto my tips, so hell yeah, I’m keeping it.

  Besides, the others in the crowd are lousy drinkers, and even worse tippers. You’d think that, with all the salivating they’re doing over Jack, they’d be thirstier.

  Noting Phil’s generosity, Cupcake snaps her fingers at her sugar daddy. “Gimme sumthin’ for the pee-an-is.” Because she said it with a silent T, it sounds as if she’s said, “penis.”

  Over her dead body.

  The bill he hands her is a Benjamin.

  Jack’s tip will be bigger than mine?

  She smirks over at me as she shimmies out of the booth and toward Jack.

  Phil murmurs, “I like my women like my meatballs—soft, round, and extra spicy.” He winks knowingly as he runs his eyes over my posterior.

  Oh boy. Another lousy pick-up line. These guys need new material. The next time the lounge manager wants to do his patrons a favor, he should hire a dating coach for the floorshow.

  Frankly, Phil deserves the same treatment as the last guy. But, ironically, I’m not here to put a hit on him, but to hit on him. I bat my lashes and murmur, “Sure. Look me up if she runs off with the pee-an-is.”

  He’s still roaring with laughter when Lawrence stumbles into the lounge. Seeing Phil, Lawrence straightens his collar and heads over to the table.

  I wait until he plops down beside Phil before asking, “And what can I get for you, sir?”

  “A…a Manhattan, please.” The kid’s voice is shaking.

  The men don’t shake hands. In fact, Phil’s smile has totally disappeared.

  I can tell there won’t be a lot of small talk between these two guys, so I’ve got to move fast. I give their orders to the bartender and tell him there’s a twenty if he can turn the drinks around as fast as possible, along with their pasta.

  The bartender is on it, like lightning. The night is slow, what with most of the ladies ordering the lounge’s ready-made mix of Snooki Snacks.

  Cupcake has lingered as long as she can by the piano without looking like a crazed stalker. So that Jack notices her, she practically drapes herself over the top of the baby grand. He gives her a wink and a nod, and sings the next stanza of the song staring into her eyes.

  To show her appreciation, she tucks the Benjamin into his shirt between the buttons that are nipple high.

  As far as his bill collecting goes, I don’t think Jack could have done better if he were the headliner in the Las Vegas Chippendale’s review. His tip jar is overflowing.

  I wonder how much he would have taken in if he were wearing just a banana hammock. If times get tough for us again, maybe I’ll suggest it to him.

  As I drop off Phil’s drinks, I pretend I’m not listening to the interchange between the men. Not that I have to strain too hard. There’s an audio bug in the lamp on their table, allowing Ryan and me to hear them loud and clear.

  That’s how I know Cupcake is pissed that Phil can’t keep his eyes off me.

  When the food arrives, I slide the plates on my stainless steel tray and time my return to Phil’s table so that I’m front and center when Lawrence slides the thumb drive toward the wise guy.

  At that point, I pull an oopsy that pushes Cupcake’s linguini onto her lap.

  She screams, “Oh, my GAWD!” Her faux leopard whore couture now looks like a cat crawling out of a muddy sewer. “It’s leather—and you’ve ruined it!”

  With one hand, I grab a napkin and wipe her down. The other hand is palming the duplicate thumb drive.

  I’m just about to exchange them when I see Phil reach for the real one.

  To stop him, I flip the second bowl of linguini into his lap.

  Cursing, he leaps up so fast that he upturns the table. The drinks land on the floor, as does the silverware, the table lamp, the breadbasket—

  And both thumb drives.

  Lawrence looks from one thumb drive to the other, confused. “What the hell…”

  Phil’s eyes follow his gaze. The next thing I know, he’s staring at me.

  I scoop them up and start for the door—

  Only to be tripped by one of Lawrence’s size-fourteen flat feet.

  I land face down. The breath is knocked out of me.

  Through my earpiece, I hear Ryan murmur to Jack, May Day. Even after stopping abruptly in the middle of Come Fly with Me, the women in the lounge crowd around him adoringly. Seriously, he could have been humming the phone book off-key and they wouldn’t have known the difference. The mob is so thick that he can’t wade through in time to stop Phil from lifting me up and shoving me toward the lounge’s entrance.

  I have just enough time to grab one of the fallen forks off the floor before he hauls me up by my waist. I stab him hard, in the thigh.

  His roar fills the bar. Angrily, he pulls out the fork and tosses it away, then slams me up against the wall. He’s got one hand around my throat. The other is mauling my shorts and vest for my pockets. Angered that he can’t find the hidden thumb drives, he hisses, “Where did you hide them?”

  It’s not that I won’t answer the idiot. It’s that I can’t even croak, let alone breathe, what with his fingers on my throat. Now that I’m running on fumes, my eyes roll downward.

  For some stupid reason, Phil takes this as a broad hint and puts his hand in my vest and rummages between my breasts.

  Suddenly, a woman screams, “Why, you two-timing son of a bitch! So, this is the scrawny whore who’s keeping you company these days?”

  All eyes turn toward the doorway. I’ve never seen her before, but apparently Phil knows her, and from the loss of color in his face, he wishes he didn’t.

  “That’s Angelina Carducci Rugassi,” Ryan mutters into my ear.

  No wonder Cupcake is trembling—and sliding under the table.

  Then again, it could have something to do with Angelina’s gun, which seems to be aimed at Phil one moment, and me the next.

  “H-Hand to God, Angelina, th-this isn’t what you th-think!” Phil stutters.

  “The two-timing son-of-a-bitch is right,”
I assure her. “In fact, he’s roughing me up because I wouldn’t sit in his lap, and I had the nerve to question his taste in bimbos.”

  I point to Cupcake, who’s peeking out over the top of the upturned table.

  “Her? You’re two-timing me with our babysitter?” Her first shot hits him in the groin, putting him on the floor. As he bleeds like a stuck pig, he groans in pain.

  Angelina stalks her next victim, Cupcake. “That ring on your finger better be a fugazi,” she shouts as she shoots. A bullet singes her rival’s bouffant, who barely ducks in time.

  Just at that moment, Walt the Wolf stumbles out of the ladies’ room. Apparently the women who came in after our little altercation weren’t kind to him either. I presume that they, too, were victims of his threatening pick-up attempts, which is why such commentary as LIMP PRICK and JERK and LOSER is now scrawled all over his white button-down shirt in a rainbow of lipstick shades.

  Walt is out for blood—mine. Finally spotting me, Little Italy’s Raging Bore charges my way. Suddenly, Walt is aware of the melee around Angelina.

  By now, Jack’s fans are screaming at the top of their lungs and hightailing it out the back door. This gives him just enough time to jerk Angelina’s arm straight up before she gets off another shot. The bullet slams into the ceiling instead of Cupcake, who crawls away on her hands and knees.

  Like the rest of us, Walt watches as Jack wrenches her arm straight up, assuring that Angelina’s jilted-wife defense doesn’t turn into an indefensible homicide rap.

  Angelina stares at the tall, handsome stranger who has just knocked the gun from her hand with his fist. Burying her head into his broad chest, she sobs, “He promised to love me forever!”

  Lawrence sees this as the perfect time to leave the scene. He’s making a run for the door—

  But he doesn’t get far, because I trip him.

  He falls face down. One good turn deserves another.

  I turn to find Phil staring at us. He reaches for his gun.

  I grab the closest thing I can find for cover—my stainless steel serving tray. Holding it like a shield, I leap in front of Jack. Phil’s bullet bounces off the tray and ricochets into his own shoulder.