This Is How It Happened (not a love story)

by Jo Barrett

  I smell the scent of his cologne and it reminds me of the woods—as always. A log cabin with a fire. I nuzzle my head into his chest. He strokes my hair like he always used to. And for a moment, I feel like Juliet again.

  So I decide to drop it. Against my better judgment, I let Steve Schultz walk. Maybe Steve was too conservative for our small, start-up company.

  I take Carlton’s word for it.

  Chapter 33

  So, what to wear, what to wear. What to wear for my meeting with my very own hit man. Well, he’s not really a hit man. He’s more of a punch-and-kick man, I think. A bruiser. The type of guy who grunts when he moves. The type of guy whose biceps are so large, he can’t bring his arms to his sides. So he walks like a penguin. This is what I’m expecting. A Guido. A Goombah.

  I wear all black, of course. Black pants, black T-shirt, and then I don a baseball cap and sunglasses. Miss Incognito. Like I’m a famous movie star lunching with my famous movie star friend.

  I decide not to wear the Organics 4 Kids T-shirt because with my luck, I’d have a bunch of kids running up to me in Starbucks, asking me where they could buy one. Certainly Mr. Goombah will recognize a fellow partner in crime.

  I stroll to the coffee shop because it’s within walking distance from my apartment. I don’t want you-know-who to see my car. In fact, I don’t want him to know anything about me at all. And I think, though I can’t be sure, he feels the same way.

  It’s a beautiful day, but I skip the outdoor tables and take a table inside. A corner table—far from the coffee counter and any window.

  I wait. With a copy of Love in the Time of Cholera on the table. A book doesn’t seem suspicious, I think. So I brought a book.

  My middle name is Jane, my mother’s name. I decide to use it to meet my hit man. I don’t want him to know my first name. So, instead of Madeline Piatro, I’ll be Jane. Just Jane.

  I’m clever that way. Like a CIA agent. Dressed in black, using my middle name. Gosh, who would ever recognize me?

  I’m expecting a big, meaty, bald guy. Or maybe some greasy motorcycle guy in a leather jacket. With a tattoo of an eagle across the back of his neck.

  I’m certainly not expecting a young Richard Gere look-alike. A hottie in a tailored leather jacket.

  My, my. An officer and a gentleman.

  I stand up and wave. Richard Gere comes toward the table and I notice he moves lightning fast.

  I surge forward and offer my hand. He looks down, shakes it, and I see a glimmer of a smile shimmer across his lips.

  “Hi, I’m Jane,” I say.

  “Dick,” he says.

  Great, so we’re Dick and Jane. And we’ve got a little dog named Spot. See Spot Run. Run, Spot, Run.

  This is too much. It really is.

  “Do you ever go by Richard?” I ask.

  “Call me Dick,” he says, sitting across from me. He’s wearing sunglasses, too. He raises them breezily onto his head and I notice his eyes. Crisp, dark, beautiful eyes. Eyes the color of dark African coffee.

  My, my. My hit man is hot.

  Don’t mind if I do…

  “I usually don’t meet my clients face-to-face,” Dick says, “But Snoop is a good buddy of mine, and he said your brother was trustworthy.”

  “My brother?” I ask, and I instantly regret it.

  “You don’t got a brother named Ronnie?” Dick shifts in his seat, as if he’s about to stand up.

  “My brother keeps his friends close to his vest,” I say, quickly. And I realize now that Ronnie called Snoop Santino after all.

  Dick looks uncomfortable.

  “Can I get you anything? A cappuccino, maybe?” I ask my hit man.

  “Coffee. Black,” he says. “Oh, and a chocolate chip cookie.” O. Kay.

  “Sure, no problem,” I say. I stand and hustle to the counter. I don’t know whether to be a little scared or bemused. Here I am. Ordering my hit man a cookie. But I guess everyone likes a cookie, right? Even trained killers.

  I walk back to the table with a tray of snacks. Dick is staring at me.

  “You got a real nice way about ya, lady. You don’t seem the type,” he says, as I sit back down. I take a sip of my latte and break off a piece of cinnamon scone.

  “You mean, the type to want revenge in the form of bruised and bloody?”

  “Yeah. Most broads I know. Most broads don’t have the balls for it. I got this one lady, though—she hired me to facilitate a little accident with her husband. He’d been cheating on her all these years and one day she just got tired of it. So she called me. Mostly I do threat jobs. You know, low-level shit. If a guy don’t pay his dealer or his bookie, he deserves me on his back, don’cha think? I mean, two men made a deal. And the way I see it. A deal’s a deal. You don’t go runnin’ out on a handshake. It ain’t right.”

  I nod. “What ’r ya gonna do,” I say, shrugging and raising my hands in the air, palms up. I’ve suddenly become really, really Italian. Like super Italian.

  Dick picks up his cookie. It’s the size of his hand, but he bites the entire thing in half. “I see myself as an equalizer,” he says, his mouth full of cookie goo. “Bringing a little justice to an unjust world.”

  “That’s poetic,” I say. I realize my American Gigolo is not so suave when it comes to table manners.

  “So, first things first,” Dick says, his lips covered in cookie crumbs.

  I pass him a napkin across the table. He takes it and mops his brow. Then uses the back of his hand to wipe crumbs off his mouth.

  “First, I gotta know where you live,” he says. “In case I get burned, or in case you’re some female detective, then I’m gonna send someone for you.”

  “Eek. Scary,” I say.

  “Insurance policy. That’s all,” Dick shrugs. “Nothin’ to worry about unless you got somethin’ to worry about, capiche?”

  “Well, what if you’re a cop?” I say.

  Dick laughs out loud and I can see his teeth are bone-white. As if he’s recently had them capped.

  “I ain’t no cop, lady,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I think you know that.”

  “Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” I say. I slide a picture of Carlton across the table. “This is my target.”

  I actually say these exact words—This is my target.

  Dick fingers the top of his coffee cup. “I’ll do what you want, Jane. But first,” he picks up the photo and taps at Carlton’s picture, “You gotta tell me what happened between you and the dude.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause I never do a job unless I know it’s the right thing. I mean, if he’s just some innocent prick who broke your heart, well, I’m sorry. I won’t do the job. I got principles.”

  “Okay, but I warn you. It may take a while.”

  Dick smiles at me, a wan smile. He sits back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head, elbows-out, like he’s a big-shot wheeler and dealer.

  “I got all afternoon,” he says.

  Chapter 34

  I start interviewing other candidates to replace Steve Schultz. And I finally narrow it down to two people. Nathalie is a recent University of Houston graduate. She’s got an accounting degree, but no real business experience.

  “There’s no one else who will work for such a low salary,” I tell Carlton.

  Carlton glances at her resume. “Who else,” he asks, flippantly.

  I pass him the resume of my star candidate. “Priscilla is forty-two years old. She’s worked in accounting at a large company for the last fifteen years.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “She’s a single mom. So she can only work part-time.”

  Carlton sighs. “Great. So my options are a college graduate with no experience and a single mom who can only be here thirty hours a week.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to get rid of Steve,” I say, and I immediately regret it.

  Carlton shoots me an eat-shit-and-die look.

  �
��Bring them in for an interview,” he says, sharply. I suddenly feel as if I’m his secretary, instead of his partner, his fiancée, his right-hand man.

  “You got it, babe,” I say. I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek.

  “Remember our pact,” Carlton says.

  I nod. Before we started working together, Carlton and I talked about our relationship in the office. We would be strict colleagues during office hours, nothing more. It was the only way it could work, we decided. Sometimes I broke our pact and sent him little e-mail messages.

  “Let’s make love tonight after everyone leaves,” I’d write.

  “Okay, but this doesn’t mean you’re getting a promotion,” he’d write back.

  Sometimes we’d lock the office door and have sex under the desk. Or if we were really feeling frisky, right on top of it. Carlton usually liked to stand up and bend me over the office furniture—taking me from behind. I joke about him being in love with the back of my head. Carlton thinks this joke is hugely funny.

  A few days later, we interview both candidates. Priscilla is professional, courteous, and a terrific candidate. She’s dressed in a conservative navy suit, panty hose, and flats. She wears small gold earrings and I notice a gold cross around her neck.

  Nathalie is young, bright, and blonde. What she lacks in experience she makes up for in eagerness. She’s bouncy and sweet as a summer breeze. I notice Carlton smiling and nodding his head as she speaks. She’s got a 22-inch Pamela Anderson waist and breasts the size of cantaloupes.

  “She’s great,” Carlton says, after Nathalie leaves. “Good job finding her.”

  “Yes, but I think Priscilla is a better candidate.”

  “Why? Because she’s black? Because she’s a single mom and she really needs the money?” Carlton shakes his head back and forth. Crosses his arms over his chest. “I knew it. I knew you were gonna say Priscilla. You’ve got that whole Save the Whales mentality,” he says.

  I roll my eyes. “Since when was hiring a qualified black woman akin to saving a whale, Carlton?”

  Carlton puts both his hands out, palms up. Like he’s pleading for his life. “We need someone full-time. Nathalie said it herself—she’s willing to work long hours.” He shakes his head. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “Priscilla is a liability. A single mom has too many responsibilities. I mean, what if her kid gets sick? We can’t afford to have someone miss work. We need a warm body!”

  I suddenly imagine Nathalie’s warm body. Chipper and bouncy. Dressed in tight, dipping blouses. Sure, she was a bright girl, I give her that. She was no dummy. But still.

  I chew the edge of my lip. Put my hands on my hips. Stand military style. Like an Army General. “I don’t know about Nathalie,” I say, firmly.

  “C’mon, Maddy. Don’t let jealousy get in the way of clear thinking. I know you’re not the type of woman who’s threatened by the younger version—it’s beneath you,” Carlton says.

  “Younger version!” I almost spit. “Jesus, Carlton!”

  “Easy there, wildcat. You know what I mean.” He throws his arm around my waist and pulls me close to him.

  “You’re breaking our pact,” I say. I try to struggle from his grip but he holds me tight.

  “Fuck it,” he says, planting a long, wet kiss on my lips.

  I’m at a loss for words. I can’t argue on Priscilla’s behalf without looking insecure. And I don’t want Carlton to think Nathalie got to me. Nathalie and her warm, bouncy body.

  I wave my hand airily. Not a care in the world. “Look, if it’s Nathalie you want, it’s Nathalie you get,” I say. “But don’t come bitching to me when she makes a mistake.”

  “That’s my girl,” Carlton says. He stares down into my eyes, and I feel my knees weaken.

  After we have sex, I trudge back to my office. Call Priscilla with the bad news.

  “I knew it probably wouldn’t work out,” she says, calmly.

  I sigh. And then dial Nathalie. I have to cover the phone with my hand when she squeals. “Ohmygaaah, this is so incredibly awesome! Thank you so much, Miss Piatro. You’re awesome!”

  “Please,” I say. “Call me Maddy.”

  Chapter 35

  “Let’s cut to the chase, here. What do you want, lady? You want him in the hospital? Broken legs, what?” Dick leans over the table and stares at me.

  I press my hand against my chest, all prim and lady-like. “Oh no. Nothing violent.”

  “Got it. So you want me to threaten his life. Scare the b’jesus out of him. Tell him I’ll cut his balls off if he bothers you?”

  I cringe. But then, I imagine Carlton hearing a man with the darkest black eyes he’s ever seen threaten to cut off his crown jewels and as much as I hate to admit it, the thought kind of tickles me. I wouldn’t mind if this guy scared the crap out of Carlton. Got his blood pumping. It might be good to take Mr. Perfect down a notch.

  But that’s not really my style.

  “Actually, I was thinking of something a bit out of the ordinary,” I say.

  Dick leans back in his chair and cracks his knuckles. “After what that asshole did to you, he ain’t gonna need a band-aid. He’s gonna need a priest,” he says.

  I stare at Dick a moment and wonder if he’s jerking my chain. I mean, the guy is one gorgeous piece of ass, and he really looks like a softie. Except for those black, black eyes.

  “You know, Dick. Maybe you should think about going into personal security. Instead of hurting people,” I say, because suddenly I’ve morphed into Dr. Phil.

  Dick shakes his head, vigorously.

  “Oh, c’mon. I bet Madonna could use another guy like you,” I say.

  “Nah. She got it covered,” he says. “Plus, I already tried doin’ the personal security gig. Didn’t work out.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Did you ever see that movie with Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner?” he asks.

  “The Bodyguard. Of course,” I nod. “It’s a classic.”

  “Well, it ain’t like that, guardin’ people. I had this gig guardin’ some big-time drug traffickers in Columbia, Guatemala, Mexico—all over down there,” he says. “And it was terrible. Talk about a bunch of spoiled brats. It was like I was their servant, or somethin’. One guy made me wax his Ferrari.”

  I throw my arms up in the air, dramatically. “Jeez, Dick! You can’t let a couple of rich South American drug dealers get you down,” I say, shaking my head. “They’re the worst kind of brats. Everyone knows that.”

  “You think so?” he asks, raising a thick, dark eyebrow.

  “I know so,” I say, confidently. “Those cartel guys make Elizabeth Taylor look low maintenance.”

  Dick chuckles, leans back in his chair, tucks his hands behind his head like an executive. “You’re pretty funny for a broad,” he says.

  “I try,” I say.

  And I wonder what this is. Exactly. Witty repartee? Flirting? What? Am I actually trying to seduce my hired gun? I mean, sure. It’s been an Ice Age since I had sex, but still—

  “Trust me,” Dick says. “Guardin’ ain’t for me. And plus the money’s no good. I’m much better doin’ what I do. That way, I get to work for myself. I’m like, my own boss, ya know?”

  “Well, there’s certainly a lot of business out there,” I say.

  “Yeah, trouble is, I’m havin’ problems gettin’ the word out about my ser vices. I mean, it’s like, I know there’re a lot of broads out there—broads like you—who had some guy dump on ’em, and they want a little revenge, you know. Sometimes not a lot. Just a little. And it’ll make ’em feel better. But they don’t know how to get in touch with me.”

  “I see,” I say, stroking my chin. I sit in silence for a few minutes and think about Dick. I picture him as one of my clients. My juices start flowing, suddenly, and I go into “Maddy Marketing Mode.”

  “The problem here is not clients, Dick. You’ve got plenty of potential clients, like you said. Your problem is marketing. It’s all about marke
ting.”

  I lean forward in my chair and stare him in the eye, like I’ve done a hundred times before when I worked for Henry.

  “You need a slogan,” I advise. “Something that really nails it home. Because your ser vices are up in the air. I wasn’t even sure what you did. In advertising and marketing, the key is—Specifics. Be specific. Nail it. Bring it home. I mean, you definitely need business cards. And maybe some fliers.”

  I’m talking fast now, moving my hands in the air, like I’m juggling balls. “You can’t just sit back and wait for clients to come to you,” I say, pointing in the air. “Because that’s not steady business. You’ve got to reach out and touch someone,” I say. I lean forward across the table and grab Dick by his leather jacket lapels. “Get it?”

  “If anyone other than you had just grabbed my jacket like that, I would’ve broken their fingers,” he says, winking at me.

  “Yikes,” I shudder. I let go of the jacket. Give Dick his space.

  He’s nodding as I grab a notepad from my messenger bag and scrawl out a brief marketing plan.

  “What are we looking at here? You want to expand your customer base to women. Am I right? Well, there’s something you should know about women, Dick. We’re not big on blood and guts. You’ve probably got some male clients who get off on hearing about broken ribs and hacked-off limbs. And that can’t be helped. Boys will be boys. But women are different. We’re a little queasy when it comes to that stuff. I mean, for example. I bet Scarface is your favorite movie, right?”

  “Love Pacino,” Dick says.

  “Exactly. Well, women hate that movie. Especially the part with the chainsaw. We cover our eyes and turn our heads. But it’s not because we’re weak. We simply prefer our revenge to be more subtle. More clever, if you will. We’re more like spiders.”

  Dick sits up in his chair and smacks the table with both his palms. “Black widduhs, right?”

  I point at him. “Exactly.” I look Dick straight in the eye. “You’re going to market yourself as the Black Widow’s Best Friend—you, my dear Sir, are The Web.”