Pete stood and stared at the husband. The body under the blanket twitched once, but other than that was completely still. Pete walked over to it and pushed the gun barrel against an indentation in the blanket that outlined an ear.
"Take your hands out slowly," Pete ordered.
There was no movement. Pete cocked the revolver. "Have it your way then," he said softly.
Two hands came out. Pete pulled the blanket off and threw it on the floor. Laying next to the husband's stomach was a .357 magnum.
The husband, a short stocky man in his mid thirties, tried to give Pete a big, wide used-car-salesman's smile. "Get out of bed," Pete said, and then he grabbed the man by the arm and pulled him onto the floor.
"What's going on? If it's money you want -"
"Shut up." Pete picked up the .357, checked to make it sure it was loaded, and then cracked open the thirty-two caliber revolver and dropped its single bullet to the floor. "Here's your gun back," he said, handing the empty gun to the husband.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about."
Pete glanced over at the wife. She was still oblivious to the world. Blond, nice shape, particularly stunning legs. Her body had for the most part slipped out of her negligee. He forced a smile as he addressed the husband. "If you want I'll call the police right now. You want me to?"
The husband stood staring at Pete, his large broad face turning a bright pink. After a long while he shook his head.
"I wouldn’t think so," Pete said. "I have to admit, I'm not very happy with what you tried to pull. But we can talk about that later. What did you drug her with?"
Without any hesitation: "Phenobarbital." The husband pushed a hand through his hair, showing off a hairline that had receded severely. He flashed an embarrassed smile. "I'll give you five thousand dollars right now to kill her and then beat me up."
Pete shook his head. "I'd do the second part for free, but the first part - no. Let's go to the kitchen."
Pete let the husband lead the way. When they got there, Pete found a pad of paper and pen in a drawer and tossed it to his host. As he explained what they were going to be used for the bright pink in the husband's face faded to a queer white. He obviously didn't like it, but he did exactly what Pete asked for, writing up a confession and signing it.
When he was done, Pete read it over. The confession outlined that the husband had Pete delivered to his house to kill his drugged wife and how he had planned to then kill Pete and pass him off to the cops as a burglar. The husband sat glaring at Pete. "Cheap blackmailing punk," he smirked under his breath.
Pete shrugged casually. "You're going to find I'm anything but cheap." He took out the husband's wallet that he had grabbed earlier when he was in the bedroom, and studied the driver's license. The husband turned a paler shade of white. Pete let his teeth show through a thin smile and crumpled the confession into a ball and tossed it into the garbage. "Let's try it again," he said. "And with your next trick, you lose some teeth."
The confession was rewritten. This time the signature and the name matched the license. The husband, Brian Hurley, looked sick. "So you're going to blackmail me," he remarked glumly.
"Not really," Pete answered as he folded the confession into an envelope. "I'm going to let you hire me. Two thousand a week plus room and board. We'll call it a Man Friday type position. What it will really be is figuring a way to keep you from pulling this stunt on the next poor sap. And making sure your wife stays alive." Pete's eyes narrowed as he studied Hurley. "As far as I'm concerned, after what you tried to do to me all bets are off. If you express any moral outrage or indignation I'm going to kick your face in and then have a nice, long talk with your wife. Right now, I’ve got an errand to run. I'll be back in about half an hour. Make sure you have a room ready for me. Also, I like bacon with my eggs, and my orange juice fresh squeezed."
Pete found a book of stamps in a drawer and affixed one to the envelope that he had folded the confession into. He smile congenially at the husband. "See you in a little bit, boss," he said.
# #
The next morning the shrill, unpleasant whine of a police siren woke Pete up. Or at least that's what he first thought it was. As he lay in bed and the haze around his brain lifted he realized the noise was actually human and coming from Mrs. Brian Hurley. She stood in the hallway with her hands on her hips as she yelled at both Pete and her husband, demanding to know who the hell Pete was and what he was doing in her house.
Pete sat up and rubbed his eyes. She was wearing a yellow, translucent robe. Sunlight streaming in from behind her showed the only thing underneath it was the same flimsy negligee from the night before. Her body had nice curves, sagging only slightly from what had to have been a hell of a hangover. Even hung over Pete guessed she would make a better than decent living as a stripper. He smiled graciously and introduced himself as Pete Michaels. "Brian and I go way back," he said. He turned to Hurley who was standing off to the side, looking sick to his stomach. "Hey buddy, remember what I told you last night about the airline losing my bags? How about getting me one of your robes?"
Hurley left without a word. Mrs. Hurley stood staring at Pete, her face a hard white, like a cat's just before the kill. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded.
Pete ignored the question. "Brian's told me a lot about you. Real great guy, your husband, inviting me to spend the next few weeks here. Of course, after all we've been through together, what choice did he have?"
Hurley arrived with a bathrobe. Pete slipped it on. Mrs. Hurley stood glaring at her husband, her mouth moving as if she were chewing food.
"All right," Pete announced, clapping his hands and swinging himself out of bed. "What's for breakfast?"
Mrs. Hurley got in his way. "I want you out of my house," she insisted, her voice trembling slightly.
Pete glanced over at Hurley who was standing quietly with his hands in his pockets. "Okay," Pete shrugged. "But first let me -"
Hurley rushed forward and pulled his wife away. "He's staying," he said. "Understand, Gloria?"
She shot him a withering look, was about to say something, but swallowed it back. Pete led the way to the kitchen. Hurley prepared breakfast, bacon and eggs and fresh squeezed orange juice. Pete did most of the eating for the three of them, Hurley mostly just played with his food while his wife sat opposite Pete, studying him, her eyes having a tough time with the light. Finally she smiled. Only with her lips, nothing in her eyes.
"You and my dear husband go way back, huh?” she said with a laugh. “Forgive me then for getting so upset before. Let's start over. Hello Pete, call me Gloria." She held out her hand to him, and when Pete took it she held onto him longer than she should've.
"It will be nice having a good-looking man around the house for a change," she said. Hurley muttered that she better shut up. There was a slight sparkle to her eyes as her smile finally reached them. "As you can tell," she continued. "Brian has basically gone to pot. He now looks more like an ape than a man. I think he's got more hair on his back than his head."
For a moment it looked like Hurley was going to strike her. Slowly he got his control back, stood up and mumbled under his breath that he was heading off to work. Pete stopped him.
"I think I'll accept the offer you made last night," Pete said. "You know the one you made after accidentally spilling beer over my suit - about buying me new clothes to replace my lost bags. Just leave a credit card and your car keys."
Hurley stood frozen. Gloria let out a short laugh. It brought him back to life. He took a credit card out of his wallet and dropped it and his car keys on the table. "Give me your keys," he demanded from Gloria. "Screw you. Walk to work," she said, then broke out laughing. A shrill, high-pitched laugh. It followed Hurley out of the house.
Pete took the last bite of his eggs. "It's good to see someone who finds pleasure in the little things," he noted.
Gloria got up, walked over to Pete, and sat in his lap. Her arm went around his shoulders, and her body twis
ted so her front pressed against him. It felt firm. "When I first saw you I was furious," she told him. "I thought dear Brian was up to something. But after watching you handle him, it's obvious he doesn't want you here. Which means I do. What do you have on him?"
Pete grinned. "If I told you I'd have nothing."
She ran a hand along Pete's cheek. It felt as cool as ice. "I think I know what it is, but why don't you tell mama anyway?" She had stuck out her bottom lip and pouted while asking Pete the last question, over exaggerating the baby talk mannerisms. Her hand had left his cheek and was caressing his chest and moving downwards. He grabbed it. "Sorry," he said. "I don't have time for this now."
"What's the matter - scared?"
"Always when handling dynamite." Pete pushed his chair back and stood up, dumping Gloria onto the floor.
She sat stunned, eyes wide open. "You dirty bastard!" she spat out.
"At least there's no misunderstanding what we both are," Pete agreed.
# #
After taking a long, hot shower and shaving, Pete found some of Hurley's clothes that were wearable. They fit poorly on him, too short and too wide in the wrong places, but the material was rich and expensive. Can't have everything, Pete sighed to himself sadly. Gloria sat on the sofa and watched as Pete called friends in New York trying to find his fiancée, Toni. Charlie, Toni's boss, didn't know where she was. "She took off two months ago. Business ain't been the same since," Charlie sighed mournfully. Pete offered his sympathies. Toni worked as a hostess at Charlie’s strip joint and was the club's biggest draw. Customers would come back night after night hoping to convince her to take her clothes off and join the dancers on stage. She never did, but that didn't stop them from trying. And they had good reason to try. Toni was a knockout.
Pete got a hold of Bernie Madress who had heard that Toni lost a bundle at Aqueduct six weeks earlier. That was all he knew, though. Pete had better luck with Dmitry Horowitz. He had run into Toni at the Meadowlands and thought she'd had a good day, up a few thousand. He reported that she seemed less than enthralled with Pete, repeating a few of the disparaging comments that were made about what Pete could do with parts of his anatomy. Dmitry thought it had been about a month since he had seen her. He asked if Pete could be a pal and ship him a couple of cases of Florida grapefruit. They helped with his constipation.
Pete struck out with Sal Pinini, Angie Slotnick, and "Whiplash" Joey Binder. Frankie Marzone, though, had seen Toni two weeks earlier at Pimlico. Word was she was throwing money around like crazy. Frankie didn't know whether she was winning or losing. While Pete waited to speak to a bookie he knew in Baltimore, Gloria jumped off the sofa and grabbed the phone away from him. She demanded to know who this Tony guy was. Her eyes had turned small and angry, her face livid.
Pete tried kidding with her, but it was useless. She had been stewing inside while Pete had made his phone calls, and the low simmering anger had boiled over. She was out of control, screaming at him, demanding to know what he had on her husband. Pete made the mistake of ignoring her, and as he turned a deaf ear he saw the agate book end out of the corner of his eye and narrowly dodged it, feeling it scrape past his ear, and then took a Hummel figurine off his forehead. He stepped out of the way of a flung Erte sculpture and slipped out a side door with Hurley's car keys. As he drove off in a green Mercedes convertible, Gloria ran after him, screaming bloody murder, her robe flapping open. Pete noticed she was no longer wearing a negligee under it.
A block away he looked out the rear view mirror expecting Gloria to still be legging it after him. He was a little disappointed to see that she had quit. Before turning back, his eyes focused on a rusted out Monte Carlo creeping along behind him. With a hard grin he recognized the two punks, George and Rat. George was behind the wheel, his face bright red, a thick bandage covering his upper lip.
Pete drove towards the airport, got onto Flagler and pulled up to one of the seedier bars lining the road. He was sipping a beer when George came in. Beads of sweat lined the blond punk's forehead. His face appeared grossly puffed out under the bandage. He got very close to Pete, his breath oppressive.
"You think you're a funny guy?" George asked out of the corner of his mouth that was showing.
"Funny's not the word," Pete said, nodding casually. "As you found out I usually leave them in stitches."
George spat on the floor. "Real funny guy." Then, low and mean, "I paid you to do a job and you're going to do it."
Rat was coming around from the other side. Pete smiled at the two punks and took a long swallow of his beer.
George spat again on the floor. His face had turned a bright red. "You cost me ten grand," he forced out. "You lousy piece of crap. Ten grand. Now Hurley ain't going to give me shit. But he will after you finish the job!"
Pete looked at the blond punk and then broke out laughing. He couldn't help it. When he was done, he wiped a few tears from his eyes and took another long swallow of his beer, draining it. A big grin had broken over his face.
"Let me see if I got this straight," he said. "You're mad at me because I didn't end up dead last night like you planned. Hey man, my heart bleeds for you. On your way out why don't you drop dead."
Rat took a step closer. Pete swung around and broke the beer bottle against the bar and showed the jagged edge. George moved back a foot, his face mottled pink and white. The bartender reached down beneath the bar.
"If you want," Pete said, a grin frozen on his face. "We can go out back and I'll finish the job I started on your face. But just the two of us. You send ratboy home."
George stood staring, and then jerked his head quickly, nodding. "Sure, sure. Just the two of us." He signaled to Rat to leave, winking and telling him they'd meet up later. He turned back to Pete. "Sure, just the two of us. Why not? We'll go out back behind this dump."
"I ordered a ham sandwich," Pete muttered indignantly. "After I finish my lunch I'll meet you."
"Sure thing," George agreed. "No rush. Take your time. I'll be out back, punk."
George left through the side door. Pete ordered another beer. The bartender asked if he wanted a ham sandwich.
"No thanks." Pete said. "You got a phone I could use?"
The bartender pointed out a pay phone in the back. Pete got up and called the police. He gave the officer the address of the bar, and told him there were a couple of punks in the alley behind the bar dealing heroin. He described George and Rat. "They got guns," Pete warned. "And the greasy red-headed one is hiding behind the dumpster."
Pete took his beer back to the bar and sipped it slowly, waiting. Three minutes later he heard the sound of car tires screeching. Then from out back shouting, followed by garbage cans being knocked over. Things quieted down after that and through the front window he saw a police cruiser roll by with George and Rat sitting in the back seat. Rat was slumped down, but George could be seen plainly. A long gash ran down his forehead and his left eye looked pretty bad.
The bartender shook his head slightly and cackled. Pete shrugged. "My mom always told me the policeman's our best friend," he remarked and finished his beer.
# #
When Pete got back he found Gloria dressed in a pair of pink hot pants and a blouse, at least sort of. She had only bothered with two of the middle buttons of the blouse.
"I'm so sorry about before," she said, pouting slightly. "Can't we be friends?"
Pete swallowed hard as he glanced at her legs. He had to admit they were gorgeous legs. "Sure," he said, struggling to keep from staring at her waist.
She led him into the living room and sat next to him on the sofa. "Let's level with each other," she said. She held his right hand with both of hers. They had warmed up. "My dear hubby's trying to kill me, isn't he?"
Pete stared into her light blue eyes. "You're way off base," he said.
"Sure I am." Her eyes hardened, becoming more like ice crystals. "That’s why I woke up this morning with my head feeling like it was going to split open. That sonofabitch
drugged me. Guess what? I know about the three million dollar policy he took out on me, but what my dear ape-husband doesn't know is I added the same coverage for him."
She licked her lips. "You're going to help me kill him."
Pete shook him head. “You two consider marriage counseling?” That just caused her to laugh as she tightened her grip on his hand. "You will help me," she insisted. "Then you can have a hundred grand from the insurance. And me also." She lifted a leg and ran it over his lap. "You want me, or don't you like girls?"
Pete swallowed hard. He was beginning to feel light-headed. "I like them fine," he said, forcing a grin. "It's snakes I'm not too fond of. Cold-blooded, deadly ones. They give me the willies."
"Good," she laughed. Her head tilted backwards, showing the soft curvature of her throat, and then came forward again and her eyes met his. "For a minute I had my doubts." She pushed herself closer to him. "As you can feel I'm warm-blooded. Maybe hot enough to burn." Her lips found his. The smell of her made him dizzy. He heard the front door and he pushed her off him. Hurley walked in, looking like a whipped dog.
"Hello, Darling," she greeted him. "Just getting to know your good friend, Pete."
The next five days were tough ones. One minute Gloria would be trying to seduce him, the next she'd be enraged, demanding that he help her kill her husband. She wouldn't let up. Hurley, meanwhile, walked around like a zombie, his large broad face forlorn and haggard. He reminded Pete of someone who's time on death row was quickly running out.
Then it all changed. At least with Gloria. She inexplicably cooled to Pete, barely uttering a word to him the whole day.
The next day, Friday, Pete tried calling Charlie again, who hesitated and then gave him a tip for HialeahPark. "Little Sweetheart in the first." Charlie croaked. "Can't miss. At least if you're half as smart as you like to think you are." Pete thanked him.
21 Tales Page 13