by JB Lynn
Delveccio shook his head and Vinnie hurried away. “The boy’s learning.”
“Does that mean he’s growing on you?”
Throwing back his head, he laughed, the sound echoing off the cafeteria’s walls. “Not by a long shot, but it looks like I’m going to be stuck with him for a while longer. Can’t go firing my bodyguard now that somebody killed Gary the Gun and Jose Garcia died under mysterious circumstances.”
“About that,” I said slowly, choosing my words carefully.
“It was genius! Pure genius!” He gobbled a spoonful of pudding. “I’d worried you wouldn’t be able to pull off the job, but wow, you did it and you did it with style.”
I stared at him. He thought I’d killed Garcia?
“My guy in the forensics lab said that you stripped the hardware with amazing precision. How’d you do it?”
I opened my mouth to tell him I hadn’t, but he just kept on talking.
“The guy who ordered the hit,” Delveccio continued, interrupting my train of thought, “was very happy with the job you did. Very happy. And so am I.”
He snapped his fingers and Vinnie hustled over. “Get the book.”
The bodyguard hurried away. The mobster eyed my untouched pudding. “Are you going to eat that?”
I pushed it across the table to him, trying to figure out how to tell him I wasn’t responsible for Garcia’s death.
“Your payment is in the book.”
“What?”
“The cash is in the book. With a bonus.”
“A bonus?” I squeaked.
“You earned it.” Delveccio took a book, the size of a dictionary, from Vinnie and handed it to me.
“I think you’ll enjoy it,” he said with a wink.
“Thank you.” Clutching the book tightly, I practically ran out of the hospital, anxious to talk to God about what had really happened at the Garcia wedding.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“DID YOU KILL him?” I blurted out the moment I walked into the apartment.
“Gotta! Gotta! Gotta!” DeeDee panted.
“You forgot to leave the idiot tube on,” God drawled lazily. “All I had to amuse me all day was the beast.”
“Did you kill Garcia?”
“Did you bring me dinner?” He greedily eyed the bag of live crickets I’d stopped off to buy for him.
“Gotta!” DeeDee whined.
The lizard cocked his head. “Dinner theater could be munching on them while watching you clean up her mess.”
I put the chirping/jumping plastic bag down on the kitchen table beside the terrarium. Grabbing the dog’s leash, I rushed her outside.
“That’s cruel and unusual punishment,” God called after us.
“Better God feel,” the dog told me as soon as she’d relieved herself.
“That’s good. I know you were worried about him.” I rubbed the spot between her eyes.
She smiled at me.
Which always looked scary.
“Better Maggie too is?”
I thought about the news about Abilene and my book full of bucks. “Yes. I am better.”
We went back inside.
“The phone you keep hidden under the bed has been ringing all day,” God groused.
“Did they leave a message?
“Do I look like the type that would stoop to listening to someone else’s answering machine?”
I noticed that his color had returned with his snark. I was relieved by both.
“So are you going to feed me or let me starve to death?”
I picked up the bag o’ bugs. “Did you kill Jose Garcia?”
“In a strange twist of fate, the drug-dealing scum died saving the life of his innocent granddaughter.”
“And you had nothing to do with that twisting? Or should I say untwisting of a screw or a bolt or whatever it was?”
He shrugged eloquently.
“Thank you.”
“If you want to thank me, feed me.”
Lifting the lid of his terrarium, I dumped the bugs in, shivering uncontrollably as I imagined the creepy-crawlies on me.
“Katie smiled at me today,” I told him as he caught a hapless bug and started chowing down. “She played with me too.”
“Dat’s wunnerful.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I admonished.
“Meat!” DeeDee barked excitedly. “Meat! Meat!”
I hung my head guiltily, having forgotten to get her something special to eat. “All we have is dog food.”
Someone knocked twice on my front door. I jumped, startled.
DeeDee ran to the door. “Meat! Meat! Meat!”
“Grab a carving knife,” God urged. “It could be whoever left the rats.”
“I don’t own a carving knife.” I grabbed a paring knife instead.
“Meat!” DeeDee whined.
“Who is it?” I called.
“It’s me, Mags.”
I yanked open the door to find Patrick standing on my doorstep. “You’re back.”
“So it would appear,” God drawled.
“You knocked,” I said in amazement.
The corners of Patrick’s mouth twitched. “Are you going to invite me in?”
“Meat!” DeeDee whined.
“That depends. Did you bring dinner for just the dog, or for me too?”
He bent and picked up a paper grocery bag from the ground. “Plenty for everyone.”
“Then come in.”
He walked into the kitchen, the dog at his heels. Taking a rotisserie chicken from the bag, he tore off a piece and tossed it to the dog.
“Meat!” she panted happily.
“You spoil her,” I said.
“Somebody has to.” He handed me a plastic container of olives stuffed with feta cheese. “Straight from the barrel.”
I opened it, popped one in my mouth, and offered them to him. “How was the trip?”
“Plates? Better than I hoped. Daria stayed behind. Laila is getting married next week.”
“Wow, that was quick.” I handed him two plates.
“It’s not like we were ever legally married, so she doesn’t need to wait to get a divorce. Besides, it was no quicker than your friend Alice. How’d that go?”
“Better than I’d hoped.” I put two forks on the table.
“Check out the domestic bliss,” God remarked, chewing on a cricket leg.
I shot him a dirty look. He stuck his tongue out at me.
“And I heard you managed to pull off the Garcia job.” Patrick spooned mashed potatoes onto the plates.
“That seems to be the consensus,” I said carefully. “Do I strike you as the handy type who could rig a disco ball to kill a man?”
Patrick shrugged, giving us each a generous portion of peas and carrots. “You’re full of surprises. You’re not going to tell Delveccio you weren’t responsible, are you?”
“Can’t. I already handed over the advance he fronted me to the lawyer handling the custody case. Don’t worry, though, I’ve got your percentage for you.”
“Light or dark?”
“Excuse me?”
“Light meat or dark?”
“Meat!” DeeDee declared. He rewarded her with a toss of browned skin.
“White, please.” I put two bottles of water on the table for us.
“I’m more of a leg man myself.” Despite the fact he had his back to me, a flirtatious note threaded through his tone.
I gulped. “Katie’s making progress. Today she smiled at me and we even played a little game.”
“That’s great, Mags. I’m happy for you.”
“She wouldn’t be. If it wasn’t for you,” I said stiltedly. “If you hadn’t helped me earn the money to keep her there, none of this would be happening.”
Turning around, he put the two plates down on the table. “You did the hard work. I didn’t do much at all.”
He indicated we should sit, so I did.
We ate in companionable si
lence, taking turns feeding DeeDee scraps of food.
When we were done, he looked over at my fridge. “I see you got my postcard.”
I nodded, looking at the cactus.
“And?” he prompted.
“And what?”
“Did you get what came with it?”
“It was the only thing in the envelope. Was there supposed to be something else?”
“You didn’t get any . . . gifts?” He studied my face as I worked it out.
He smiled as the realization dawned.
“Abilene?” My heart pounded. “You made Abilene drop her case?”
“You did ask me to stop in Vegas.”
“To kill her.”
“My way was cleaner.”
Leaping out of my seat, I hugged his neck and pressed a kiss to the top of his red head. “Thank you! Thank you!”
With a quick twist, he pulled me into his lap. I rested one hand on his shoulder, the other on his chest to steady myself. I could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady beneath my fingers.
“I missed you, Mags.” He stared at me intensely.
I felt my own heartbeat speed up.
“DeeDee miss?” The dog interrupted the intimate moment by nudging her head between us.
I slid off his lap, remembering I had something else I needed to talk to him about.
He looked disappointed I’d jumped up.
“Did you tell Marlene about Katie being in the hospital?”
“No.”
“But she was there. Did you tell her about Theresa’s accident?”
“Jewel was at the hospital?”
“Her name isn’t Jewel. It’s Marlene.”
“Sorry. Marlene was at the hospital?”
I nodded.
“Did you talk to her?”
I shook my head and looked away.
“What happened?” he asked gently, getting to his feet.
“She ran away from me. Again.”
He flinched at the bitterness in my tone. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not. My life is complicated enough as it is. I don’t need her in it. I don’t want her in it.”
“You don’t mean that,” Patrick chided softly. “You’re understandably hurt, but you don’t mean that.”
I didn’t want to talk about Marlene anymore. “I’m moving back in with my aunts,” I blurted out. “I thought it was the only way to win the custody case and I’m going to need help caring for Katie. And I might quit my job and become a real estate agent because who knows what kinds of special needs Katie is going to have. And DeeDee’s getting a dog run.”
“Run!” DeeDee barked.
“That’s good, Mags. It’s all good.” He put the dishes in the sink.
“Leave them.”
“I’m tired from the trip and you look exhausted, so I’m going to go now.”
“Okay.”
“Dinner tomorrow?” he asked.
“I can’t. I have a date.”
His expression darkened. “With Kowalski?”
“With my mom.”
A smile creased his face and lit up his eyes. “That sounds great. Later in the week then?”
“I’d like that.”
He patted DeeDee on the head and walked out the door.
“I like him,” God opined.
“Too DeeDee!” the mutt panted.
“Me too,” I muttered. “Too bad it would never work.”
The phone in the bedroom rang.
“Answer it!” God shrieked. “It’s been ringing all day.”
“I’m going. I’m going.” Hurrying into the other room, I snatched up the phone on its fourth ring. “Hello?”
“We want the jewels,” a deep voice said.
I clutched the phone tightly, trying to remember where I’d hidden my gun.
“Tell the rat we want the jewels and if we don’t get ’em, his family is gonna pay.” A click told me the call was over.
But another nightmare was beginning.
Want to know how
Maggie Lee got her start?
Keep reading for an excerpt from
JB Lynn’s
Confessions of a Slightly Neurotic Hitwoman
Available now
Prologue
YOU JUST KNOW it’s going to be a bad day when you’re stuck at a red light and Death pulls up behind you in a station wagon.
I’d been using the rearview mirror to touch up my lip gloss when I spotted him. Okay, maybe he wasn’t really Death, but dressed in a black raincoat with the hood pulled up covering his face, he sure looked like he could pluck a scythe out of thin air.
It was one of those days when I kept catching the specter of Death everywhere. I’d catch a glimpse of him in the condensation on the bathroom mirror as I stepped out of the shower, or burnt into my morning toast, or in the pile of dog shit I narrowly missed stepping in . . . or didn’t.
Death was idling behind me, and I was kinda freaked out. Which was why, completely forgetting about the damn April showers that had been falling for three days straight, I floored my crappy, beat-up, not-gently-used Honda the second that light turned green.
Hydroplaning, the car spun out into the intersection, with me pumping the brakes while wondering if I should have been steering into the skid or out of it, and berating myself for not having paid more attention during my high school Driver’s Ed course.
I knew I was gonna die. I could already hear the angels singing.
Three months before, I’d had the same feeling as another car slid out of control. I hadn’t been driving then; my sister’s idiot husband had been behind the wheel. I’d been in the backseat, singing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” to my three-year-old niece Katie, trying to distract her from the argument her parents were having in the front seat. Suddenly the car swerved and squealed, and as we rolled over onto the driver’s side, I distinctly remember thinking, Dear God, please don’t let us die.
I didn’t think that three months later. In this moment I was resigned to my fate.
But then, miraculously, my little Honda gained traction, and I achieved a semblance of control over the vehicle. I wasn’t in the clear, though. Squinting at the rearview mirror, I could see that Death had followed me through the rain-soaked intersection.
And I could still hear the singing of the angels, but it wasn’t a heavenly sound.
It was loud. It was annoying.
From the floor of the passenger seat, I snatched up the bag of crickets that I’d bought for Godzilla. They were making an unholy racket. I shook it hard. That shut the little fuckers up.
When I first became responsible for Godzilla’s care, I tried giving him freeze-dried crickets. But that damn lizard, he’s got a discerning palate and insists on the live version, which is a pain in the ass because I hate bugs. Really hate ’em. Just looking at them gives me that awful creepy-crawly feeling, but I’d pledged to Katie that I’d take good care of the only pet she’d ever been allowed.
There was no way of knowing whether she even knew I’d made her that promise. She’d been in a coma, a “persistent vegetative state,” as the doctors liked to call it, ever since the car accident. Her parents had died on impact, according to police. I’d walked away unharmed . . . except for the fact that I can now talk to a lizard.
“Call me God,” he’d insisted the first time I’d thought to feed him.
He’d never spoken to me before. I mean animals, or reptiles or amphibians, or whatever the hell he is, don’t talk. I know that. I haven’t gone totally around the bend.
But the thing is, ever since the car accident, we can converse. And we do. A lot.
Maybe I’ve got brain damage, or maybe it’s the emotional trauma of having my sister die and almost losing Katie, but I swear that I’ve turned into Doctor-freakin-Dolittle.
Of course, I haven’t told anyone about my newfound ability. They’d lock me up in a funny farm like my mom. Or run a bunch of tests. Or run a bunch of tests and then lock me up. And if they d
id that, I wouldn’t be able to visit Katie. And she’d be left all alone there, lying in a hospital bed, with only the witches to look after her.
My three aunts aren’t really witches. I’m not so delusional as to think they’ve got magical powers. They’re just extraordinarily evil in their own “helpfully” meddlesome way.
So I keep the secret conversations with God to myself. To the rest of the world, it probably appears that I’m coping pretty well. I wash my clothes, bring the newspaper in, and have even gone back to work in hell (also known as an insurance company call center).
My piddly paycheck isn’t going to make much of a dent in the pile of hospital bills that are piling up faster than a Colorado snowfall, but it’s a decent cover. It’s not like I can go around putting HITWOMAN on my tax return.
Death, or at least the driver in the station wagon, coasted past as I turned my blinker on to signal my turn into Apple Blossom Estates. There’s no such thing as apple blossoms. Three months before, God, licking his lizard lips after chowing down on a cricket, had pointed out that even he knew that. But it sounds fancy right? Or at least like the over-promising prose of a condo developer’s advertising. It’s not. It’s just a fancy name for a brain injury rehab, or as they like to call it, a “premium care facility.”
Parking in the visitors’ lot, I left the bag o’ bugs to their chirping (which sounded suspiciously like Madonna’s “Like a Prayer”) and headed inside. It was time to tell my boss that I was ready to kill a man.
But you’re probably wondering how a nice girl like me got a job like this . . .
Chapter One
SOMETIMES I THINK my first memory is the sound of the three witches cackling. Sometimes I think it’s tumbling—no, wait, tumbling might insinuate that I had some sort of grace or plan. I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong impression of me. I am—have been for my whole life and always will be—without an iota of grace. And planning has never been my strong suit. Okay, so sometimes I think my first memory is falling/crashing/plummeting down an entire flight of stairs and breaking my left arm when I was two.
Both those memories rushed back at me. I’m guessing it was because my entire body hurt, and I could hear the three witches. I am, if you choose to believe the traitorous date imprinted on my driver’s license, thirty-two. Lying there with my body aching and my head throbbing, all I wanted was to have a good cry and take a nap. But the witches wouldn’t shut up.