Road to Matchmaker

by Elise Sax

  I nodded, thrilled that Jordan was starting to catch on. “Yep. Free cocaine and a free orgy. And I put ORGY in all caps. Come on, it’s starting to get busy. See the crowd?”

  We looked the part. I adjusted my breasts in my red bra and added more of a swing in my hips. Every inch of Jordan’s torso was on display in my small shirt. We slid into the massive wave of orgy and cocaine seekers who were dressed in a similar level of skank. We were walking in a sea of leather, lace, and STDs. It was like a concert or an invasion. Dominguez’s security made the mistake of letting the gate open a little, and the wave of humanity opened it the rest of the way. Then, there was no stopping them.

  I noticed at least eight highly-armed security men, but since they couldn’t shoot three hundred people, they were powerless. My plan was working.

  “Get ready,” I told Jordan.

  “How? How do I get ready?”

  “Don’t open your mouth unless you’re forced to, and in that case, lie. And run. Run real fast. And when you run, run low so you don’t get shot.”

  Jordan wiped sweat off his forehead. “That’s how I get ready? That’s it? Oh my God. I don’t like any part of that plan.”

  “Everyone’s a critic.” We got up the driveway without incident and made it all the way to the front door, which had been opened by the force of the surge of people. “All right here we go.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “Holy shit,” Jordan said, as we were swept up into the house in the sea of orgy-seekers. It didn’t take long for them to match up into partners, take their clothes off, and hop onto all available furniture, where they rutted like animals in heat. Dominguez’s goons tried to break it up, but there was way too much sex happening to stop it. It was the perfect distraction for our mission.

  “We have to find Dominguez before his goons gets this chaos under control,” I told Jordan.

  “We’ll probably get herpes before we find him,” Jordan commented, cutting a wide swath around a couple doing it doggie-style. “If my fiancée ever finds out that I was here, she’ll kill me.”

  “Your fiancée. Yeah, right. You’re never going to marry that woman. That’s like taking poison, and you strike me as someone who wants to survive.”

  Jordan tripped over a naked man, but he caught himself before he fell on him. “What do you mean?”

  I didn’t have time to help Jordan out with his love life. In my experience, love sucked balls and warped good instincts. And generally made a person stupid. And crazy. Jordan would have to figure it out on his own. If it didn’t affect our mission, I wanted nothing to do with it.

  We walked past most of the orgy, and I stopped to get my bearings. The mansion was immense, and Dominguez could be anywhere. But evil was a funny thing. It acted like pretty much everyone in many ways. So, I would have bet my life—and I was always betting my life—that I would find him in the kitchen.

  Jordan disagreed. “A guy like this has a man cave. You know, filled with electronics and massage chairs. We have to find his man cave.”

  I grabbed Jordan’s hand and tugged him to the left, where I assumed the kitchen was. “A guy like this lives with his mother, and I bet right now she’s cooking up a storm, while he’s shielding her from seeing the tits and dongs in his living room.”

  I was right.

  Of course.

  We found the drug lord in a two story-high, cavernous kitchen of stainless steel and marble. His mother was at the stove, stirring several pots, and the smell was delicious, but since I rarely ate, I wasn’t distracted. Instead, I gave my attention to Bruno Dominguez with my laser-sharp focus, honed over years of experience in the field.

  “Get out, you freaks,” he shouted, as Jordan and I entered the kitchen. He pulled out a large gun and waved it at us menacingly. I laughed and took a seat at the counter near his mother.

  “Put it away, Bruno. You know that I could disarm you before you get a shot off.”

  “We’re not freaks,” said Jordan. “We’re…well…”

  “He knows who I am,” I explained to Jordan. “Everyone in the underworld knows Harriet Hard, spy catcher. I eat men like him for lunch. For lunch.”

  Dominguez waved his gun, again. His face was brutal, a representation of all of the evil deeds he had committed in his life. A jagged scar trailed from the right side of his mouth, making him look like he was scowling permanently. He was a monster in a five-thousand-dollar suit. A brutal criminal who thought he was above the law.

  I had news for him. He was about to meet justice. And her name was Hard. Harriet Hard.

  “What the hell do you want?” he demanded.

  “Is this how you’re going to play this?” I asked. “Rockchenko. Hugo Rockchenko. Your boss. You’re going to tell me where he is.”

  “My boss?” he asked, continuing to wave the gun.

  “Or we could just go on our way,” Jordan suggested.

  “The chances of that are getting slimmer,” Dominguez growled.

  A couple goons ran into the kitchen. “Boss, it’s all going to hell. It’s like a giant porno movie, and now the cops are on their way.”

  Dominguez never lowered the gun. His aim was right for my head. Smart man. Nothing less than a bullet in my brain would stop me.

  “Get the boys. Forget the naked people. Focus on putting you-know-what under wraps. I’ll deal with the cops when they come,” Dominguez ordered. He was a man who was used to being obeyed, and this time was no different. The goons hopped to it. The sound of moaning and men reaching climax reached us in the kitchen.

  “I can’t focus on my sauce,” Dominguez’s mother complained touching her face.

  “I’ll help you,” Jordan said and shot a worried look at Dominguez and his gun. “Is that okay?”

  “Do you know sauce?” his mother asked Jordan.

  “He’s a chef,” I said.

  She handed him a wooden spoon. “Stir quickly before Junior shoots you.”

  “Mama,” Dominguez started.

  “Oh, please, son. You and I both know these two are going to join the others in the pantry.”

  “What does that mean?” Jordan, asked, stirring a pot and sweating, again. “That sounds bad. I mean normally I like pantries, but I’m getting a bad feeling.”

  “We’re getting off track,” I interrupted. “If you don’t cough up the GPS on your boss, Dominguez, I’m going to rearrange your face, and I’m going to start by moving your nose to your neck. You get me?”

  “No,” Dominguez answered. “But I get this. Nobody comes into my home and tells me what to do. So, I’m going to cut you into pieces and throw you outside to the animals protecting the border wall.”

  “That doesn’t sound good either, Harriet,” Jordan said, adding spices to the sauce. “None of that sounded good. Let’s leave now before any of that starts. Okay? Okay? Please.”

  “None of that’s going to happen,” I told him, never taking my eyes off Dominguez. I was planning my attack. I was going to use my karate training to take his gun away and subdue him, completely. Then, I was going to move him to a small room and harshly interrogate him until he would give up the 411 on Rockchenko. I hopped off the stool and got into position, ready to pounce.

  Then, four goons walked into the kitchen.

  “We ditched the Sig Sauer’s in the regular place, and the other stuff is taken care of,” one of the goons said and then looked at Dominguez’s gun. “The cops are here, boss. They’re coming in now.”

  “What did you do to the sauce?” Dominguez’s mother asked Jordan as she took a taste of it with a spoon. “It’s the best sauce I’ve ever tasted.”

  Dominguez gestured with the gun to Jordan. “Get in the pantry.”

  Jordan dropped his spoon into the sauce, and his eyes got big. “The pantry? Not the pantry. Anything but the pantry.”

  “Grab the pussy and the chick,” Dominguez ordered.

  The goons picked up Jordan and walked him to the back of the kitchen. Two other goons went for me, an
d I got my karate chop hand ready, but they rushed me too fast. Overtaking my lightning reflexes and martial arts prowess, one of them lifted me over his shoulder and a couple of seconds later dumped me into the pantry on top of an open crate.

  “Shut up while the cops are here,” the goon warned Jordan and me. “Otherwise, the boss will kill you, the cops, and all of the freaks doing the nasty in the living room. Are you understanding my English?”

  “I’m understanding your English,” Jordan said. “Harriet, are you understanding his English? Please tell me that you’re understanding his English.”

  “Fine. I’m understanding your English. For now. But after the cops leave, I’m going to kill you,” I said.

  They closed the door of the pantry. The room was filled with produce, cans, and dried meats. Luckily, the door was thin, because we could hear everything going on in the kitchen. A few seconds after we were locked in the pantry, the cops arrived.

  “Look through the keyhole,” I told Jordan from my seat, wedged in the crate. “Tell me what’s happening.”

  He kneeled down and looked through the small hole. “There’s a tall man in an Armani suit,” he whispered to me. “He’s surrounded by cops. Maybe we could escape now.”

  “Only if you want a bloodbath,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of here no problem. When you’re with me, you’re bullet proof.”

  Jordan whimpered. “The Armani guy is up in Dominguez’s face.”

  “Hello, detective,” I heard Dominguez say.

  “Are you kidding me?” another man said, his voice deep and annoyed. It was the detective. I recognized his voice of authority. “Have you moved on from drugs and contract killing to wild sex parties?”

  “I think it was a practical joke,” I heard Dominguez say.

  “An ad was placed in Craigslist,” the detective said and then started to laugh. “Sorry. Sorry,” he said after a while. “An ad in Craigslist for an orgy at Bruno Dominguez’s house!” He starting laughing again, hysterically. It was ballsy to laugh in Dominguez’s face, but whoever it was laughing wasn’t scared at all.

  “The metrosexual detective is laughing in Dominguez’s face,” Jordan whispered. “He’s going to get killed. Everyone’s crazy today.”

  “I got to see this guy,” I whispered, struggling to get out of the crate. Normally, I would have been able to hop out with no problem, but I was wedged in.

  “He’s got good hair,” Jordan explained. “Tall. Armani suit with biker boots.”

  “What a time to choose to leave town,” I heard the detective say. “I’m moving to the mountains, but I wouldn’t mind taking down a drug lord before I go.”

  “What does that mean? Move to the mountains?” I asked myself, out loud. I finally rolled out of the crate and looked down at what I had been sitting on. “This is interesting,” I muttered.

  “The Armani detective’s leaving the room. There’s a lot of movement with the cops,” Jordan told me.

  I could hear the sound of the orgy participants being ushered out of the mansion. I didn’t have a lot of time to finalize my plan.

  “They’re leaving,” Jordan whispered. “Oh, dear God, the police are leaving. We’re so going to die.”

  “We’re not going to die,” I said, picking up the crate.

  “I’m not stupid. Nobody’s really bullet proof, Harriet.”

  “I am,” I told him, heaving the crate up.

  Jordan stood up. “The detective’s gone. I feel like my life is ticking away. Like this is Times Square, and it’s New Year’s and Anderson Cooper is counting down to me being shot full of holes.” He stopped talking and looked at what I was holding. “What the hell is that?”

  “A crate full of heads. Why? What does it look like?”

  “Like a crate full of heads,” he said and projectile vomited over the shelves of produce. The small room now smelled of half-digested pasta. Jordan wiped his mouth on his arm and took in deep breaths. “What are you doing with heads? Don’t they freak you out?”

  “Believe me, I’ve seen a lot worse than a crate full of heads. And there’s no more than fifteen heads here. I’ve seen a lot more than that.”

  “Wow, you’ve got a terrible job,” Jordan said.

  “That’s a laugh,” I said. “You’re going to be an accountant. I’d rather deal with severed heads twenty-four seven than earned income credits. And the worst thing is that you don’t like earned income credits any more than I do, but you’re going to do that because your pointy girlfriend’s making you. I know that you’d rather be stirring sauce for the rest of your life. Do you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “Exactly. It’s quiet. Get behind me. The plan still goes. We get Dominguez alone and find out where Rockchenko is. Remember that the future security of our country depends on it.”

  The door opened. A goon waved a gun at us. “Everyone out,” he ordered.

  I shook the crate of heads at him, and two of them flew out. Jordan wasn’t the only one who was squeamish about severed heads. The goon shrieked like a little girl and jumped back, waving his hands wildly in order to fend off the heads. Thank God for squeamish men, because he was so scared that he dropped his gun.

  “Pick it up, Jordan!” I yelled. I didn’t turn around to see if he did what I told him. I ran at the other goons, tossing heads at them. Obviously, having severed body parts thrown at them wasn’t part of their training because they ducked away. By the time I got near Dominguez, I had depleted the crate of heads.

  And I had been wrong. There were actually twenty heads. It was quite a collection.

  They did the trick. The goons parted like the Red Sea, and Jordan and I had a clear path to Dominguez. I ran at him like a bull charging a matador. With my lightning-fast reflexes and Olympic-quality judo techniques, I had no doubt I could take him.

  Then, he pulled out a gun.

  “Gun! Gun! Gun!” Jordan yelled, but it was unclear if he was talking about Dominguez’s gun or the one Jordan had picked up because that’s when the shooting began. Luckily, Dominguez was a terrible shot, so the bullets flew everywhere except right at me. Meanwhile, Jordan let rip with a volley of bullets himself. They went everywhere, too. The ceiling, the floor, the Keurig machine. Pretty much every appliance was shot full of holes. But I was fine. Not a scratch anywhere on me. I wasn’t surprised. I kept running for Dominguez. I was almost on him. My plan was almost done.

  Unfortunately, however, the pot of sauce had been a victim of the shooting, and sauce had spilled all over the floor. As I ran at Dominguez, my foot stepped in a puddle of oily sauce, and I slipped. I sailed through the air, waving my arms in an effort to catch my balance. But no matter how incredibly coordinated I was, I was no match for an olive oil-doused red sauce.

  I slammed into the marble counter, head first. The last thing I remembered before I lost consciousness was the sound of the marble cracking.

  Or maybe that was my head.

  My head hurt. It was probably a caffeine headache, and I just needed a cup of coffee. That happened occasionally when I slept too long. Oh, crap. The alarm must not have gone off, and I was going to be late for work at the bookstore.

  The bookstore.

  The bookstore.

  Holy crap.

  Memories flooded back to me. The bookstore. The Harriet Hard book. The accident. My head. And then believing I was Harriet Hard.

  And the heads.

  “Harriet, are you okay?”

  I opened an eye. “Where am I?”

  “Thank goodness you’re alive.” It was Jordan, and he was sitting on the floor, facing me. I was slumped on my side.

  “I can’t move my arms,” I said.

  “They zip-tied our wrists,” he said, showing me his wrists.

  “Who did?” I asked and then it all came back to me. “I touched a crate of heads, Jordan. I threatened a drug lord. I placed a Craigslist ad for an orgy.”

  “I know. I was there. Can you karate chop your way ou
t of the zip ties? Do you have a plan for us to escape, Harriet?”

  “I’m not Harriet. I’m Gladie,” I said, breaking down into sobs.

  “Are you going undercover again? Is that part of the escape plan? ‘Cause we don’t have a lot of time. They were just waiting for you to regain consciousness before they killed us. They said something about wanting to hear you scream. I guess unconscious people don’t scream. But I’m pretty sure I would scream no matter what. So, what are you going to do? Blow something up? Judo? Call in the Navy Seals?”

  All of that sounded real good. If only we could get someone to do any of that.

  “Jordan, I’m not Harriet the spy catcher. I’m Gladie the temp. Some books fell on my head, and that’s why I thought I was Harriet Hard. I guess I got my memory back when I knocked into the kitchen counter. I can’t do judo or escape or anything. I pass out at the sight of blood.”

  “Are you making a joke?” Jordan asked, the sweat popping out on his forehead again. “I’m not good with humor. I never understood the joke about the chicken crossing the road. Why is that funny? Why do people laugh? It’s just a chicken, and he’s crossing the road. I don’t get it.”

  He had a point. “What does that have to do with anything? We’re about to die. I don’t want to die.”

  Jordan studied me. “So, you’re not Harriet Hard?”

  “Harriet Hard is a character in a book. I’m just Gladie.”

  Jordan pounded the floor with his zip-tied fists. “Who does this happen to? How is this possible? It’s like I’m in the Twilight Zone of LSD bad-trip nightmares. You dressed me for an orgy. I stirred a drug lord’s sauce. I’m tied up on the floor of a man cave in a criminal compound, waiting to be murdered by a bunch of guys with fifty-inch-around necks.”

  “When you put it that way, it sounds bad,” I said.

  Jordan scooted on the floor toward me. He raised his fists up.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m going to hit you in the head so that you turn into Harriet Hard, again.”

  I struggled to sit up and scooted away from him as fast as I could, but he scooted after me, waving his tied wrists. “But what if you kill me, or I think I’m someone even wimpier than me afterward?”