2 The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing Page 14

  “That’s bullshit! What’s the world coming to?”

  Jack’s angry declaration has several of the ballet’s patrons turning around to shush him into silence. Granted, the prima ballerina’s pirouette dipped a bit, but it’s not the end of the world…

  I waited until the closing scene of Swan Lake to break the news to Jack about Carl’s new gig. In hindsight, bad move.

  We’re sitting with Babette, Janie and Trisha, in a private box. Jack’s eyes, which had been following ballet’s prima ballerina in her death throes, narrowed and move toward Carl, across the orchestra loge. He sits behind Breck and Asimov, in another box. The three of them have been ignoring the performance. Instead, they’ve been talking in low voices.

  “So, he gets full immunity from our government—and a trillion dollar company to run?” Jack’s whisper comes with a shake of his head. “This means the Quorum may be controlling the next president of the United States!”

  I raise his hand to my lips, and brush it with a kiss. “Believe me, that will never happen.”

  The final scene is over, and the audience is on their feet. The applause is deafening. The tears streaming down the prima ballerina’s face causes her make-up to run.

  Trisha pulls my hand so that I can hear her exclaim through her own tears, “Mommy, she is so bee-you-ti-ful! I’m so happy to be a ballerina, too.”

  This is what every mother lives for, any bit of joy she sees in her child’s eyes at a moment of wonderment in this crazy, mixed up world.

  As promised, Asimov has arranged for Janie and Trisha’s ballet class to go backstage. I’ve arranged for the Panther to be there, too. Not to my surprise, the Panther is underwhelming: a little old man who’s claim to fame is that he’s so unobtrusive that no one even realizes he’s there.

  Not even Carl, who doesn’t feel him as he sidles up next to him. I hold my breath as the Panther slides an envelope out from under his jacket. He reaches up to tap Carl on the shoulder—

  But just then, the Kiev Ballet manager shouts something in Russian as he points to one of the ballerinas—the one who played the Black Swan, in fact—who is running up the aisle, to the back of the theater. She flings open the swinging double doors and, with a flying leap, bounds beyond them—

  But no! Suddenly, she falls.

  Carl has shot her.

  Not that any of the little girls or their mothers know this. His gun has a silencer, and the ballet’s fawning fans are too busy ooohing and ahhing at the Corps de Ballet in their pretty tutus.

  The next time the doors swing open, I spot two of Asimov’s men dragging the prima ballerina’s limp body down the hall.

  Angrily, I run over to Carl. “What the heck did you just do?”

  “She was sent here to kill Asimov. She failed, and I shot her before she could get away.”

  “Oh! So she was from the Russian dissident cell?”

  He shrugs. “Apparently so.”

  “You’re lying.” Jack pushes Carl, as if daring my soon-to-be ex to prove him wrong. “Tell her the truth. The manager yelled out that she’s an asset who was attempting to defect.”

  Carl shrugs. “I forgot that Lover Boy here speaks fluent Russian.”

  I turn to Carl. “How could you do that? She had a right to leave! And to shoot a gun in a theater filled with innocent bystanders, not to mention children. It’s reprehensible!”

  “She picked the wrong time and place. Asimov didn’t need another public relations debacle, despite what she thought to the contrary.”

  “You mean, like the one Mary, our daughter, caused?” I’m glad he winces when I point that out. “Now you can pretend we’re three for three: that there are no more assassins on Asimov’s tail. Fine with me! The sooner you call it quits and move on, the better for all of us.”

  “I told you, I’m here to stay, so get used to it.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s what you think.” I look around for the Panther. Where did the little bastard go?

  Then I notice him: passed out, at Carl’s feet.

  Nope, not passed out, but dead. His eyes are open, and the summons is still in his hand.

  I guess seeing Carl draw his gun scared him to death.

  He wasn’t a panther. He was a scaredy cat.

  I can’t wait to hear what Alan has to say about this. Probably that Carl will never be served. That I’m stuck with him, forever.

  We’ll see about that.

  When Carl turns back toward Asimov, I take the summons from the Panther’s cold, stiff hand, and slip it into my purse. Then I force my lips into a smile and tap Carl’s shoulder. “I hear congratulations are in order, that you’re going legit. Gee, I guess you really impressed Breck.”

  I’d like to slap Carl’s knowing smirk off his face. “Yeah, well, he recognizes talent when he sees it. I’ll be bringing home a lot of bacon, so I hope you have your pan ready.”

  It’s ready, all right. In fact, it’s All-Clad: a twelve-inch five-ply stainless steel and aluminum skillet with a copper core. If I smack his head in just the right spot, he’ll be joining the Panther on that big firing range in the sky.

  Ah, well. A girl can dream, can’t she?

  Truth is, I take just as much fun in plotting Carl’s legal exit from my life as I do when fantasizing about his own fare-thee-well. “So, what say we celebrate your promotion? Dinner is on me. Do you remember the Sand Dollar? It was once a favorite of yours.”

  We celebrated many a special occasion there. Well, he’ll remember this very last time, too.

  “You’re on. But won’t lover boy over there get jealous?”

  He nods toward Jack, who grins back, but shoots him a bird nonetheless.

  Carl’s smirk is aimed at me. “Oh yeah, I forgot! Your fella has other plans. While Asimov preps for POTUS, Jack is joining Breck and some of the delegates on another night out on the town… What Jack didn’t tell you? Where do you think he was last night, after he left you? Not to mention the night before that. Breck knows some hot strip clubs…”

  Carl can read it on my face: the hurt. And yes, maybe just a wee bit of jealousy.

  Jack sees it, too. His nod is so subtle that I barely catch it.

  Yeah, I get it. All in the line of duty.

  Sorry, no. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

  I gulp in order to keep my voice from shaking. “I know the score. And, by the way, so does Jack. If you’re set on hanging around for a while, we’re all going to have to learn to get along, right? So, what do you say? Will I see you at Sand Dollar, down at the beach, say sevenish?”

  “Sure, okay. Works for me.”

  He leans down and pats Trisha’s head. “See you around, little one. A lot, I hope.”

  Um… NO.

  Trisha must be thinking the same thing. As he walks off, she sticks her tongue out at him.

  Wish I could do that too, but it would set a bad precedent, as would cutting the jerk’s jugular, so I also resist the urge to pull out my stiletto and go Ginsu on his ass. Monkey see, monkey do.

  Being a good mom takes a modicum of restraint.

  Jack and I drive back to Lion’s Lair in silence. I wait until we’re alone in our room to ask the obvious.

  “So, why didn’t you tell me where you were going?”

  Jack winces at the question. But I think his nervous tick is his fear of what I’ll do with the nail file in my hand. Thus far, I’ve just been sawing away at my half-ass home manicure.

  “What with this whole issue with Carl resurfacing, and you wanting to divorce him so that we can marry, I didn’t feel the timing was right to mention that being in Jonah Breck’s good graces means hitting every titty bar and whorehouse in the county—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa…. you’ve been hitting whorehouses, too?”

  Jack is quite aware that now I’m holding the nail file
in my fist, like a knife. It’s not exactly an SOG, but it’ll do the trick, which is why he backs away, slowly. “You know what they say. ‘In for a dime, in for a dollar.’”

  His feeble attempt at a laugh dies when he sees me stab the file into my gel eye mask. Oops! The gel squirts onto Jack’s tuxedo.

  I click my tongue. “My bad.”

  “Donna, cut me some slack! As soon as Asimov leaves, we’re out of here, too, and good riddance. I never thought I’d admit this, but I’ve seen enough tits and ass to last me a lifetime—”

  “Oh, now I get it! Now you want me to walk around in a burka, is that it?” I look down at my breasts. To make my point, I cup them, then turn in his direction. “Are you implying that Pixie and Dixie aren’t ‘perky’ enough for you?” I turn, so that he can look at my backside. “You know, just last week you told me this thang was Gaga-licious.”

  “I don’t think those were my exact words.”

  At my stage of life, furrowing a brow is the last thing a woman should do. Still, his counter merits due consideration. “Perhaps your exact words were that you could ‘eat off my posterior.’”

  “Exactly. Seriously, you took that as a compliment?”

  He ducks just in time. A flurry of feathers takes flight when the nail file stabs the pillow where his head once was.

  “Donna, no surprise here, but you’re taking what I’ve said out of context. Breck is a creep. He chooses them young, and he treats them rough. Twice, the house madam had to go into his room with a bouncer. The dude is a sadistic whoremonger. Although I have to tell you, Carl comes in a close second. ” He shakes his head in disgust.

  “I could care less about Carl! My question was about you. Really, us. I guess what you’re telling me is that you haven’t… that you haven’t…”

  “Exactly. I haven’t. I pay the ladies what they’re owed, then listen to them bitch about their boyfriends. From what I gather, it’s hard out there for a ’ho.” He rewards me with a naughty leer. “That said, if you want to walk around the house in a G-string, pasties, and high heels, I’m all for it, although, I don’t know how the kids would take to it. There’s an ‘ew yuck’ factor when it’s your mom who’s parading around like a—”

  “I would never walk around the house like that! Our bedroom… maybe. If you wanted me to…”

  To prove that he does, slowly, gently, and with practiced hands, he strips me of everything…

  Except for my heels.

  His gaze takes me in, top to toe. Admiration, lust, anticipation, it’s all there.

  As he pulls me down onto him, I murmur in his ear, “Maybe we can buy the house next door, and give it to the kids as a gift. Then I could walk around naked all day… and so could you.”

  “I’ll call the bank on Monday, to arrange for a loan.”

  “Ha! As if we’d qualify!”

  Even as I say it, I wish I’d bitten my tongue instead. Man, talk about a cock-blocking mood killer!

  But not for long.

  And yes, the heels have a lot to do with that…

  Chapter 17

  Cocktails before Dinner

  Yes, cocktails before your evening meal are a must! Not only does appointing one of your guests as a bartender make for useful busywork while you put the finishing touches on your meal, it loosens tongues for vibrant conversation around the table.

  A word of caution: resist the urge to serve sweet, frothy or frozen drinks, which may ruin the appetite. Stick to martinis—preferably dirty, most certainly gin—which allows for a complimentary flavor to your appetizers, and ensures a healthy appetite.

  Here’s a great little tip: If a guest gets sloppy and crass, the taste of a poison such as succinylcholine won’t be noticed if the right olives (Spanish Queen green, pitted and stuffed with nothing; I repeat, nothing) are part of the drink. Cheers!

  I get to the Sand Dollar a few minutes early. I’ve already reserved what used to be our favorite table: out on the deck, next to the rail, where the waves from the Pacific crash up against the rocks below.

  I also make sure we’ll be served by my favorite waitress, Anna, who is fast, discreet, and knows what Jack and I like to order. No doubt she’ll raise a brow at seeing me with Carl, since he was before her time. She need not worry. Her excellent service will be duly rewarded.

  And one way or another, tonight Carl will be served with his summons.

  I’ll be left with the tab, but it will be worth it.

  I’m already seated. The martini in front of me is gin, dirty, and shaken.

  My hands are shaking, too. I blame it on Carl, who has suddenly appeared on the deck. The first place his eyes go are to this table.

  Ah! So he hasn’t forgotten it, or us as we were so long ago.

  He can’t hide the look of longing he has for me. As for me, I have to blink back my tears for our loss. My smile is hardened by the resolve that it is time to move on. I’ve worn a soft cashmere boatneck sweater, better to show off the heart-shaped pendant necklace he gave me so long ago. I’m hoping he remembers it, and that it softens his resistance to my request that we go our separate ways.

  But then it is wiped completely off my face when he takes my outstretched welcoming hand to pull me out of my chair and into his arms.

  Is it the heart, the soul, or the mind that remembers the feel of every kiss? Perhaps all three play a role in my memory. I can just imagine the heart pumping out the desire that makes me ache for it, while the mind reminds me of all the reasons why it is so wrong to want to feel his lips on mine again.

  But it is the soul that is scarred with the footprints of our mutual journey. It starts with a cautious dance of shared attraction. Then the race to passion. The waltz of true love and commitment. The sure and steady walk down the aisle of matrimony, where we promised to love and cherish, until death do us part…

  Until Carl’s death.

  For five and a half years beyond that hideous, glorious day when he was presumed dead and Trisha came into the world, I believed he’d been an honorable man.

  Then I found my dead neighbor in her freezer, where Carl left her to die. That’s when I learned of his miraculous return to life and his supposed mission to save the world.

  When, finally, he admitted the truth–that he’d resurfaced in order set off a nanobomb at the same nationally televised Little League event where the Democrat’s nominated candidate for president was tossing out the first ball, and oh, by the way where our son was to pitch, the blinders came off fast.

  My soul now knows our paths need not cross any longer.

  I’m divorcing him.

  Later, if push comes to shove, I’ll kill him, too.

  As for this bittersweet kiss, let him think what he will. I get to ruin his appetite later for me and for the bloody steak he’ll order.

  Call it just desserts.

  “Thanks for inviting me,” he says, as he pulls back from the kiss. “Ah! You wearing the necklace I gave you.”

  “In memory of all the good times.” Does he hear the regret in my voice? I can’t help it. The truth may hurt but it sets us free. “Shall we order?”

  I’ve kept the conversation light through our appetizer of oysters on the half shell and our main courses of surf (mine) and turf (his). We’ve also moved from martinis to white wine. This way, I’ve got a fifty-fifty chance he’ll be too drunk to shoot me, should he decide the easiest way to get the kids is to knock me off first.

  Don’t think I haven’t thought of doing the same to him.

  To keep thinks civil, I’ve been dropping tidbits I know he truly hungers for: any news about our children. “Trisha loves ballet. I’m so glad Babette was able to secure the tickets to Swan Lake.”

  “In truth, you should thank Asimov for that,” he says with a smirk. “It pays to have friends in very high places.”

  Asimov, a f
riend? Try an enemy—of the state. I know this hasn’t been proven yet, but there’s still time, so I let that slide. For now, anyway. “Jeff has turned out to be a serious athlete. But he’s frustrated that every other guy on his basketball team is taller. I keep reminding him that there’s a good reason his coach chose him to be the team’s center. He’s the highest scorer on the team.”

  “That kid! He’s amazing.” Carl’s smile is wistful. “Is there a fall baseball league here?”

  I nod. “Yep. And he plays in it, too.”

  “Is he strengthening his pitching arm?” Carl lettered on his high school baseball team and got a college athletic scholarship because he was such a great pitcher.

  “Fabulous. He’s always first on the mound.” I hesitate, then add as nonchalantly as possible, “Jack has worked with him on his two-seam fastball, and his curve ball. He’s better with the former than the latter.”

  Carl shrugs. “Well, Jack can step aside, now that I’m back in town. Oh, and he can move out of my house, too.”

  I drop my fork gently on my plate. Has he noticed my knife has disappeared from the table? I hope not, because I may have a better use for it than cutting my scampi. Right now, it’s hiding in the right sleeve of my cashmere dress. In the meantime, I have to bide my time. “Have you noticed how tall Mary has gotten since—?”

  How do I put this delicately? I can’t just come out and say since that time you tried to blow all of Los Angeles, including your family, off the map…

  I finish the sentence with a smile. “I mean, since the last time you saw her?”

  “Yes, she’s grown into quite a beautiful young lady. Not to mention how outspoken she is.” Even as he smiles, his eyes narrow. “I’m guessing she gets that from my side of the family. We all know her demure sensibility comes from you.”

  I click my wine glass with his. Good of him to play nice.

  “Is Mary dating anyone?”

  I chuckle at this absurdity. “Oh, no! She’s too young to date. She’s not even thirteen yet!”