Hard As Stone (Beautiful Betrayal Book 1)

by Alex Elliott

  I stand, tucking my portfolio under my arm, and follow a tall, willowy assistant down a brightly lit corridor. I’m on my way to the editor of the arts and entertainment section for ICE. It’s a cutting edge publication and the twelfth interview I’ve scheduled and attended. The other eleven were not good. In casting my net as wide as possible, I found an opening for a desk spot at ICE, covering muse news. A weekly column about the local artists and their inspiration. The view of Seattle isn’t exactly my cup of tea; but given everyone up and down the East Coast informed me that yes I had the skills, the experience, the eye and voice, but unfortunately they weren’t willing to take a chance. Not when PanCorp had the power to shut their doors.

  Being on the West Coast, I pray that ICE isn’t beholden to anyone I might be related to. I researched Cynthia Van Allen and couldn’t find link number one between her, ICE, the chief editor, anyone of relative importance here… and the Silvers. Even though this is so far from my friends, my immediate world, it has a certain appeal. Modern and sleek, and I cross my fingers that I’ll be given a chance. Everything is done in white or a greyish variation of white. Floors, walls, furniture, and of course the tech hardware. They’re Mac and Apple to the max. Apparently they ignored Boone’s advice to boycott and I’m glad.

  “Phoenix, welcome. I’m Cynthia. Won’t you come in?”

  “Nice to meet you,” I reply, extending my hand. We shake and I don’t miss the glittery mini-stare she trains on me for what seems like a second too long. A zing goes through my stomach, but I mentally stomp it as if were a nasty bug named Spencer.

  “You’re here for the columnist’s spot?” She reads from a sheet that I presume must be an abridged version of my résumé.

  “That’s correct,” I say and decide to spruce up my two-word reply with, “I’m very excited to hear more about the position. Last’s week your feature on Santana was captivating. Hard to believe a guitarist and guitar can produce those sounds. Not to mention the backup by an organ. He should have gotten a longer spot during halftime.” I halt in my ramble as the image of Spence and his Super Bowl festivities decides to visit.

  “Ah, yes. Santana is a card. But about your interview…” She pauses and purses her lips, appearing confused as well as flustered.

  “Did I get the time wrong? I flew in and was sure I set my watch correctly.” I look around, searching to confirm the time.

  “No, no that isn’t it. And there isn’t any point to beating around the bush.” She shakes her head, and our eyes meet.

  God, not the bush analogy. “I agree,” I murmur thickly. Under the onslaught of a wave of disappointment, I sink into the chair as if I might disappear, my thighs pressing against the smooth white leather.

  Removing her glasses, Cynthia toys with the frame as if in thought, then tosses them on her desk. “Phoenix, I’m so sorry. We’ve condensed junior positions due to financial cuts. Third quarter projections and investor speculations. It threw me and I can’t tell you how untimely this is. My boss announced it during our staff meeting this morning.”

  The drone of her voice is white noise that I wish I could mute if not stop. I’m not interested in hearing her excuses. Good or not. I’ve got to figure out a solution. Not waste more time in a fruitless search to prove I’m not a flake. Not the same rebellious girl I was in high school. Staring out her window, I feel as though the fog from outside creeps inside my head until I’m dizzy and gripping the armrests of the chair.

  “Oh my God! Phoenix,” Ms. Van Allen is standing in front of me, holding out a fist full of tissues. “What can I do to help?”

  “Excuse me?” My lips are wet and I taste bitter metal.

  “Your nose. My dear, you’re bleeding.”

  I touch my face and find it isn’t a drip. My whole chin is covered. Inhaling sharply, I glance down and see blood has splattered my jacket and coats my fingers.

  Chapter 6

  …if you’re not in the right place where you need to be, then you’re going to have voices keeping you up at night because you have to work through those issues. —Dr. Oz

  Santo Aldebrando~ The Golden Rule

  FROM THE BACKSEAT, I tap Gina’s hand tucked under her chin as she sleeps. She isn’t one who transforms into a beauty when dreaming. Whether awake or asleep, a thin purple scar runs the length of her oval face, from her hairline to her jaw only intersected by her winged brow and the patch she wears over her eye socket. A lesson I’d delivered and one she can’t help but recall; although a flare here and there isn’t anything we can’t manage.

  “The gift of maturity,” I whisper.

  “Santo, are we there?” She yawns loudly and I silently sigh. Spoke too soon.

  My driver continues to the rear of the rambling house and parks in a concealed porte chochere next to a motorcycle. “Watch the street,” I instruct him.

  “Are we still going to dinner and the movies,” Gina asks, heaving the bag filled with the necessities of this job. Her voice has a hopeful quality, a rise in her inflection that I do so enjoy, and I smile.

  “If things go smoothly, I don’t see why not.” Climbing out of the car, I admire the perfectly manicured lawns and swimming pool. Oh the pretentiousness is evident and why Bloomberg was an easy mark. I’ll miss the times we sat by this rectangular blue box in the ground, framed by rock and the rhythmic splash of water. It has a lulling fluidity reminiscent of music.

  It’s been a good eight years since I’ve personally ‘dealt’ with situations. With a click of my tongue, I lead the way past the ribbons of yellow rose bushes and up the steps to a porch recently redone in new wicker furniture. Last month, the judge had invited a few guests to celebrate his new venture. After being retired for a year, he’d found it tedious and had taken a post overseeing civil disputes.

  Numerous were the times I had tried to dissuade Bloomberg. Being longtime associates, I didn’t mince my words but came right out by saying, “Old boy, it’s a bad idea. What about the Florida Keys? It’s a hop, skip, and a jump to the Caribbean.”

  Bored by books, golf, fishing, he’d refused my suggestion to relocate and well… Here we are.

  “Knock twice,” I instruct Gina.

  Knooock…knock. She raps against the glass panes on the door, forgoing the brass knocker, and leaves prints. Getting out my handkerchief, I wipe the glass clean with a roll of my eyes, which she misses.

  Gina is focused on the person coming to answer the door and I tap her shoulder. “Put on your gloves,” I remind her sternly.

  “Come in,” says the energetic young man I’ve contracted for this specific job. “You’re early.” He isn’t the usual sort used by those in my line of work.

  “Is that a problem?” I ask, keeping my tone airy. I’m learning, by way of American cable TV, that stagnation is a sign of old age and dull fear, so I’m branching out to stay crisp.

  “Not in my book,” the young man replies, tying the ends of a white garbage bag that he drops on the white marble counter. It looks out of place…

  “Did you follow my directions about the type of knots?” I inquire as we… Dear Lord. Solo, I walk alongside the young man from the rear foyer to Bloomberg’s kitchen. Gina is dawdling, more than likely ogling what prizes she won’t be confiscating. But I’ll cross that bridge after we deal with the judge.

  “Every last detail. Take a look.” The young man holds out his cell phone. “I’m interested in another assignment, so I checked and rechecked each knot. The judge is hooded and gagged as you requested.”

  I refrain from taking his cell and Gina snickers—having finally caught up to us. She informs the young man, “The Saint doesn’t do cell phone geek.”

  That’s true. After years of maintaining a low profile, cell phones and social media are all new to me. Nevertheless, Dr. Oz is all about stepping outside of one’s comfort zone, and by God, the man looks good for fifty-five or six. Stumbling upon him by mistake has been a life-changing event. I feel the same abou
t Ellen. She’s quite the jokester in her antics and interviews.

  “Excuse me,” the young man replies and presses a button, moves his latex-gloved fingers, and I observe the image of Bloomberg, it grows larger, blurry, then it sharpens. “See the intricacy.”

  Remarkable precision. “Hmmm. Your work goes beyond satisfactory.” To that end, I snap my fingers and Gina produces an envelope from the bag.

  “I’m in training,” he supplies and then proceeds to talk about some exclusive club.

  It’s ridiculous to pretend I’m the least bit interested in his escapades. Clearing my throat, I halt his exodus into a retelling, curtailing having to hear more on the subject. “And the paperwork?” I inquire about a non-negotiable detail of this endeavor.

  Not put off in the least, the young man gives me a thumbs up. “Got it all. Judge B wanted to read the order, but I told him I only had the last page.”

  “You weren’t lying,” I reply. “Well, until I need you again.”

  Gina hands over the envelope without a reminder and I smile at her, admiring the coral blush cascading over her cheeks.

  “Thanks. I look forward to working with you again.” The young man bows in deference. I’ve paid him to bind the judge and fulfill the first part of my scheme to extract a favor from two people not known for doing much except stepping on toes. He lifts a motorcycle helmet off the counter and exits the rear door with a, “Ciao.”

  I lock the door and set the alarm.

  “I like his attitude,” I say exuberantly because it feels spectacular to do something out-of-character that’s turning out to be an excellent decision. It leaves me a little giddy and I grin wider than I have in months.

  “He’s a ‘yes’ man,” Gina mocks, sounding peeved, and goes over to the refrigerator. She opens the door and peers inside.

  “That isn’t a sin.”

  “No?” She shrugs.

  “A lesson you’d do well to remember,” I inform her. “Proverbs 16:18. Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” It’s paying homage. Something we all must do—in the beginning—or die.

  “Meh,” she scoffs.

  Meh? I glare at her. “You don’t agree?”

  She squints her eye, surveying the kitchen. “Not particularly.”

  I ponder that. If either of us would be aware of the destructive nature of pride, it would be her. I should take my own medicine. That might not be her point, but I appreciate the opportunity of self-reflection.

  Whistling to Gina to gather her attention, I head to our next destination. She picks up the nylon bag as I open the door leading to the basement. We descend the creaking stairs and step through the damp threshold. This subterranean spot is not as well-kept as the space above and symbolically, it’s perfect. In the middle of the open space, we encounter the judge seated on a stool.

  “Santo,” she whispers, scrutinizing the floor joists. “The pipes will break.”

  “We won’t use them. I want this to be a message.” I whip off the hood and am not surprised by Bloomberg’s shock. He jerks, trying to rise but the method of bondage chokes him if he moves.

  “Old friend, it’s time to settle our account.” I shake my head, reminding myself not to be sentimental. Bloomberg isn’t a child and I will miss him. As much if not more than I’ve missed Campione. What a faithful mutt.

  My mother made me drown him when he barked and barked one winter night. I tied rocks to the dog’s neck. As the wind howled, I tossed Campione into the sea, but oh how my mother regretted that order. Not that she said, I assume. I had returned to find our home under siege by men who wore expensive suits and spoke sharply in English, carrying out a hit.

  My parents and elder brother were face down in the dirt, their blood pooling on the Earth. Upstairs, my sisters were sobbing, crying, dishonored. It was the last time I wore a collar as the second son. I’ve developed patience and a taste for blood money. Along with a plan.

  “It’s thin.” Gina has unwound the synthetic cord, and snaps it between her hands.

  “For a reason,” I answer, picking up a roll of tape, and pointing at the wooden beam. “The meat hook can be screwed in right there.”

  She walks over to a stool and brings it back. The judge is rocking and starts to make a high pitched wail, muted of course, but it’s unnecessary. In English, I haltingly read the words on the packaging and tear off another piece of thin tape that claims it holds yet doesn’t stick to the skin. Two completely incompatible ideas, and I deliberate on how those types of thoughts can stall a man from action. Muddle and delay a man like that thief who begged, “I gots to know.”

  The diner scene from Dirty Harry pops into my thoughts as I bind Bloomberg’s sweaty wrists and remove the cuffs. As if in a loop with no exit, I drop the handcuffs in indecision about the truth.

  Testing the judge’s wrists, I notice that his skin is clammy and his complexion is waxen.

  Aw, how thoughtless of me not to inquire, and I wonder if Bloomberg’s caught a cold. I press my palm to his forehead. “You’re feeling a little warm.”

  Gina climbs down from the stool and replies, “Would you like me to get him some aspirin and a cup of tea?”

  “Don’t be rude. Put your mind to work on things that matter. Speaking of, come over here.” Standing next to the judge, Gina and I discuss the type of angled cut to his neck so that the cord burn hides the incision. Tears run down his cheeks making it difficult to concentrate.

  “The weight of this porker will more than likely snap the cord,” she concludes, then a sly glint fills her eye. “Do you remember that hog we butchered in Palermo?”

  “The one that almost got away?”

  “It almost killed us.” She laughs, pounding one of her hands on Bloomberg’s chest as we avidly recall the bungled butchering of a hog that had both of us climbing a tree to escape him.

  Holding out the knife to her by the handle, I murmur, “We were biding our time.”

  “That greedy pig drank a liter of rum,” she says, narrowing her eye as she peers at Bloomberg. She snarls, “Everyone said it was the best pork they’d ever had. Except for one cocksucker.”

  Gina waves the knife rapidly, so fast the blade is a slice of silver, and I’m aware she’s reliving a moment from her past. We all do.

  After what she’s suffered, I permit it. The judge jerks to one side not once but several times even after her hands are motionless. I’m mistaken. Her hands are far from still. She’s fisting his crotch, and I order her harshly, “Abbastanza!”

  “No! He’s a pig,” she sneers, unhanding the judge, yet elbows him in the ribs.

  Snot flies from Bloomberg’s nostrils as he contorts his face in pain. Shrill sounds leak from behind the gag. For the love of the Almighty. These two misbehave worse than children.

  “Apologize, Gina,” I sigh, squeezing the judge’s shoulder to ask for his patience.

  “Why?” she spits out.

  I take a deep breath, using the cleansing method that Dr. Oz prescribes to inhale nitric oxide, expelling stale air. I count to ten then glance over to my friend. “Bloomberg, give me a moment.” He shakes his head but I insist with a wink. I remove my handkerchief from my pocket, wiping his nose and press it to the wound on his cheek. “You cut him, Gina.”

  She rolls her one eye but I remind her of the Golden Rule. “How would you feel if I arbitrarily sliced you?” I ply her, seeking to develop her benevolence.

  “He made me—”

  “That isn’t true.” I shake my head. “You offered.”

  “Not that. Not what he did,” she stubbornly says. “Again, and again. And ag—”

  “Silence! This is not the time!” I demand, irked that I’m raising my voice. Smoothing my fingers across my mustache, I take a second to compose myself. This has been ongoing for years. It’s almost as if I’m planting seeds of altruism in barren Earth. “We have all sacrificed. Haven’t we? Or would you like to finish this c
onversation tonight. At home.”

  Recognition flashes in her expression. “Okay, okay,” she mutters.

  “It is not okay.” Further, I direct her to apologize. “In English.”

  She’s forty-three and was so young and wild when I rescued her from a rundown farm.

  “Sorry, signor.” Gina bows her head, clasping her hands, appearing contrite.

  Year after year, little-by-little she has picked up bits of refinement. A mere shadow of the subtleties of delicacy. Finesse. But it has not been easy. “Old-world charm,” I muse aloud, “It is what I miss.”

  “To some degree, that’s what all men say,” she snorts, recapturing the cord and tossing it up and over the meat hook. She tests it and nods in appreciation, then curses.

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t separate the coarse from the savage in this woman. She’s loyal and shares my vision, but ah… The image of my first wife floats into my awareness and I cross myself. Melania. She was so young and innocent when I’d plucked her from that notorious abbey. Saved her from a life of bowing, prayer, and penance. She was much too lovely to be hidden away. Her father had howled, until I gave him an offer and he hadn’t refused. No one does. If Melania were alive, she’d be sixty-two and our son… I tick decades off my fingers. “Forty-seven.”

  “Inches?” Gina asks, holding up the cord.

  I remove my cap and remember, I don’t have a spare handkerchief. Fanning my face with my cap, I murmur, “No, years. My son.”

  “Again?” She drapes the cord on the judge’s shoulder. “Strange that you think of him now.”

  “Not on purpose,” I admit, frowning on how that sounds callous. Am I heartless?

  Gina begins to sharpen her knife and after a few seconds, pauses. “What is it about an execution that makes you sentimental?”

  “An end.” I suppose, lifting the judge’s chin to inspect his neck. His eyes are wide, bulging as he cries behind the gag. He should’ve considered moving to Florida when I offered him the spot. “Ah, but everyone makes their own choice which road to follow.”