Great Exploitations (Trouble in Tampa)

by Williams, Nicole

  I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I clinked my glass against his. “I’m not sure if that was deserving of a Cheers, but why the hell not.”

  Right before we both took a drink, Henry said, “Against everything I’d always thought, here you are. Sitting across from me, sipping a beer instead of launching it in my face. I’d say that’s deserving of a Cheers.”

  That wasn’t what I’d been referring to, not by a long shot, but as was becoming a pattern with Henry and me, he seemed to be talking about one thing and I was talking about something else.

  YESTERDAY I WAS in California, sharing not one but two pints of Guinness with Henry Callahan as we finished my employment paperwork. Today I was in Tampa, exchanging the dry, hot air of California for wet, hotter air. I wasn’t a big Florida fan, but I spent plenty of time there. Lots of cheating, wealthy husbands in that state.

  Henry got a call toward the end of our lunch “meeting” that he was needed urgently at one of his sister companies in Korea. I knew Henry traveled a lot and I’d be working other Errands when he was gone. While I had been okay with juggling a busy schedule, it was only because G promised I wouldn’t jet-set across the country every other week. Yet there I was, flying a few thousand miles for a measly Seven.

  I’d been about to complain to G when she’d informed me of the new Errand . . . but then she said the magic words. The ones she knew would make me travel to the most remote part of the Arctic: wife beater.

  Very little surprised me. I’d seen it all, lived it all, and worked it all. There wasn’t a vice scratching the underbelly of humanity that hadn’t gotten my hands dirty, but that kind of vermin—the wife beaters—gave a whole new meaning to why I did what I did. Every wife we Eves dealt with was looking for freedom, some just needed it more than others. Their lives depended on it. I wouldn’t ascribe the word noble to my work, but it sure as shit wasn’t something to be ashamed of either. That kind of Errand, with that kind of Client, had a succinct way of reminding me.

  G hadn’t needed to ask twice if I’d take the Errand. Henry was out of the country for a week, and a wife beater needed a beating of his own.

  It was only late afternoon when I slipped into my rental car outside the Tampa airport, but I’d passed the fatigue point several hours earlier. I was used to a crazy schedule, where sleep was an afterthought, but even though my mind had adapted to exhaustion, my body hadn’t. With my thirtieth birthday looming a few short candles away, I was reminded how, with every Errand I worked, I was that much older, that much more susceptible to wear and tear, and that much more in need of my exit plan. Closing the Callahan Errand would make my exit plan a reality. I’d be out of the game before I blew out those thirty candles. Hopefully, long out.

  That was what was on my mind as I sped toward the Meet with Mrs. Tucker, my Client. The address I was heading for was a private residence . . . as in the Tucker’s home private residence. That was a first. I’d never met a Client at their home. It was too personal, for them and for me. They didn’t want me to see pictures of their smiling family any more than I did.

  Mrs. Tucker, however, had requested we meet at her home because she didn’t drive. No, Mrs. Tucker wasn’t crippled or temporarily incapacitated or had her license revoked. Mrs. Tucker didn’t drive for a far more tragic reason: she was a victim of domestic violence. At its origin, domestic violence was about asserting control. It might start out as him occasionally checking his girlfriend’s or wife’s call list on her cell phone. Then casually checking turns into routinely, turns into taking away the phone, so on and so forth.

  Domestic violence is about control, whether that manifests physically or mentally. That Mrs. Tucker didn’t drive any longer was a ginormous red flag that Mr. Tucker had some serious steel hooks deep into her.

  When I stopped in front of 415 Brambleberry Drive, one thing stood out: it was immaculate. The house was only a couple rooms shy of being a mansion. The windows sparkled in the late afternoon sun. The flowers lining the walkway were so perfect they could have been silk, and if there was a speck of dirt out of place in the rest of the landscape, I was about to be elected the president of the local P.T.A.

  The place gave off the vibe of being ideal in every way, which meant that was exactly what wasn’t happening on the other side of those glimmering windows. Plus, the eight-foot, wrought-iron fence around the perimeter didn’t exactly give off a friendly, welcoming vibe.

  I was about to pull up to the gate and page Mrs. Tucker when a woman in the shadows of the ivy stepped out of her hiding spot. I didn’t need to have seen the photo in her file to know the woman was her. That vacantness in her eyes, paired with the way she moved like a feral cat, screamed that she was a woman who’d seen more fists than open arms in her marriage.

  My blood heated.

  My passenger-side window was rolled down before she took another step in my direction. “Mrs. Tucker, are we still on for the Meet?” I tried making eye contact with her, but her eyes went nowhere but the sidewalk.

  She nodded. “Yes, but just in case my husband shows up earlier than expected, I thought we could meet across the street at the park. You know . . . if that’s all right with you, of course.”

  I smiled sadly. Like her home, Mrs. Tucker was immaculate. There wasn’t a wrinkle in her linen pant suit, nor a hair out of place on her head. She was beautiful in an understated, unaware kind of way, and her few touches of makeup couldn’t hide the grapefruit-sized bruise mottling her cheek. “Of course it’s all right.” And probably a good idea.

  While I wasn’t worried about what would happen to me if Mr. Tucker arrived home early to find a strange woman in the house, I was concerned for what might happen to Mrs. Tucker. The job was a balance of every shade of discreet, for every kind of reason imaginable.

  “Do you want to hop in and I’ll drive you over?” I asked. The park was literally across the road, but it felt odd to just drive off and leave the woman alone.

  “No, I’ll walk. Just in case any of my neighbors are watching.” As if being reminded of them, she scanned the block. “I’ll meet you at the bench in front of the duck pond.” Without another word, Mrs. Tucker gave one more frantic scan of the block before hustling across the street and disappearing into the park.

  I sighed before easing the car into a parking spot. That Errand would be tough—not because of the Target, but because of the Client. Whether I saw a sliver of myself in Mrs. Tucker or she’d already found my heartstrings and started tugging, or whether I was just one woman standing up for another woman who’d forgotten how to hold her shoulders high long ago, let alone her head . . . the Errand was already too personal. And I had yet to make it through the Meet.

  Despite whatever I was feeling, I couldn’t lose sight of one thing: I had to wrap the Errand up within the week. It was either wrap it up in a week and get back to California or I’d have to abandon it. I didn’t need G screaming through the phone at me that we wouldn’t allow a Seven to get in the way of our coveted Ten.

  I wouldn’t abandon the Errand for my own pride, and I sure wouldn’t do that to Mrs. Tucker. It didn’t take an expert to assess that she was at the end of her rope.

  After parking, I grabbed my briefcase and followed the path that I hoped would lead to the duck pond. I hadn’t thought to ask just how far in the pond was—given Mrs. Tucker’s paranoia, it could have been a state away—but once I crested the first hill, I saw it. The park wasn’t large, and it was surprisingly quiet for a mild day. I suppose when every house surrounding the park had its own park-like landscape, it wasn’t anything special.

  I made sure to make plenty of noise as I approached Mrs. Tucker. She was clearly anxious, and I wasn’t sure if that was because of our clandestine task or if that was her steady state.

  “Mrs. Tucker?” I called when I was still a good ten feet back.

  She still jolted, but at least she didn’t bolt. “I’ve got all of the information you need.” Her voice wobbled and her hands shook as she pulled
a manila envelope from her oversized purse. “Everything you need should be in here.”

  I was faced with two options. I could grab the envelope, give her the do-this-or-else lecture, the phone, and take off and try to forget the bruised woman on a park bench in Florida. That was the easy road. The hard road was the one I went with because . . . why the hell not? Life wasn’t a cakewalk, so why start down easy street that late in the game?

  “How long’s he been hitting you?” I asked as I sat next to her. I could have gone with a smoother introduction, but talking about the weather seemed like a crime when Mrs. Tucker was clearly in need of help. If she’d called us, we were the last card in her Rolodex.

  Her hands twisted in her lap. “Such a lovely day, isn’t it? I might go for a walk later—”

  “Mrs. Tucker.” I covered her hands with one of mine. Hers were cold despite the warm weather. “I’m not your friends at the country club, or your family who wants to keep up the blind-eye act, or a meddling neighbor. I’m the person here to help you.”

  Her eyes closed. “How can knowing how long my husband has beaten me help you help me?” Her tone matched her expression—hopeless.

  I waited for her to open her eyes. When she finally did, I waited until she looked me in the eye. “Motivation,” I stated, lifting a brow. “The more motivation I have to close an Errand, the faster I get it closed.”

  She nodded a few times but stayed quiet.

  “So?”

  Her eyes closed again, but her mouth finally opened. “Three months, one week, and four days after our wedding.” She paused, took a shaky breath, and continued. “My husband has been beating me for twenty years, one month and eighteen days.”

  My stomach coiled. Not that I needed more motivation, but twenty years gave me a special surge of it. “You’ve been keeping track. Why?” God, if I found myself in that kind of a situation, one thing I wouldn’t do was mark the days off on a calendar. I’d try to forget them.

  Lifting her gaze slowly, her head followed. For the first time, I saw something blaze to life in Mrs. Tucker’s eyes that gave me hope she was still alive somewhere deep inside that shell. “Motivation.”

  Damn. Somewhere deep inside that shaky, seemingly scared shitless shell was a brave and motivated woman ready to break free.

  “Why have you stayed with him this long?” I asked.

  She lifted a shoulder and followed it with a sigh. “The first ten years I hung around because I kept hoping that I’d wake up and whatever demon had taken him over would be gone and he’d be the man I fell in love with. When I finally stopped being naive, I stayed with him because of our kids.” She twirled her wedding ring around her finger, practically glaring at it. “Of course I realize staying in an unhealthy relationship for the kids isn’t the best reason—”

  “But it isn’t the worst either.”

  Mrs. Tucker wiped her eyes, although I didn’t notice any tears. Maybe they were only phantom ones. Maybe she’d stopped crying the real kind long ago, when she realized nothing would change no matter how many she shed. Until today. Today, everything was about to change.

  “I managed to explain the bruises and bandages for a long time, at least until the kids were in high school. But when I was covering a different body part every other week and picking up a new box of Band-Aids every time we visited the grocery store, they each figured it out eventually.”

  “What did they do?”

  Mrs. Tucker almost smiled. It was so close, it almost counted. “They got out. They escaped. One’s in college on the East Coast, and the other’s playing semi-pro soccer in Washington. They spread their wings and flew away. They did what I should have done long ago.”

  “But that’s what you’re going to do now.” I twisted toward her and slid the envelope from her hands. “It might have taken you a while, but you’re leaving him now and that’s what matters. Not that you maybe hung around for too long, or that you may have stayed for the wrong reasons, or that you’re scared witless to do what you’re about to. What matters is that you’re doing it.”

  Mrs. Tucker’s eyes met mine again. “What matters is that I’m taking him down in the process. What matters is that he’s going to feel what’s it’s like to feel his whole life slipping away from him. What matters is that he won’t be able to control it. I’m taking that from him. I’m going to be the one hovering over him when this is over. That is what matters.”

  “You’re doing this to get even,” I stated. I was fine with that. Even was good enough reason for me. Hell, at the end of the day, I didn’t need a reason. When the term domestic abuse came up, that was all the reason I needed.

  Mrs. Tucker shook her head. “Revenge,” she stated, her eyes narrowing. “I’m doing this for revenge.”

  So Mrs. Tucker had a bit more fight inside of her than I’d thought. Good for her. “You’re divorcing the bastard and taking him for half of everything.” I gave her a nod. “That’s a solid case of revenge if I’ve ever heard one.”

  “I’ve got twenty years’ worth of revenge to dole out. If there was a way to take him for more, I would.”

  I dropped the envelope into my briefcase. I needed to wrap things up. Time was a luxury I never had. Especially time with the Client. “You realize that when this is done and you’ve got the damning evidence you need, you’re going to have to get out of that house and stay away from him while you file for divorce, right? He can’t be anywhere close to you or know where to find you when he receives those papers. You know that, right?”

  That speech wasn’t in my job description. I didn’t council or advise or offer post-marital counseling. My job was one thing and one thing only—to seduce the husband and open up that pre-nup loophole. Something about Mrs. Tucker, however, left me conflicted. She wasn’t just married to a cheater—she was married to a man who beat her. I didn’t know what he’d do when he found out she was leaving him, but I knew enough to guess it wouldn’t turn out well for Mrs. Tucker. Whether it meant a few more bruises, or some mental blows that would leave permanent scars, or if he was one of the crazy ones who came at her with a loaded gun, I wouldn’t be able to sleep well if I didn’t say my piece.

  “I’ve already got that figured out. I have a couple of suitcases packed and hidden and an emergency fund I’ve been stowing away for years. I know exactly what I need to do. I’m ready. All I need is for you to do your part, and I’ll be free.” She exhaled as a shadow of a peaceful expression came over her face. “I’ll finally be free.”

  I gave Mrs. Tucker’s hands a squeeze before rising. The sooner I got the file studied, the sooner I could arrange the Greet with the Target and the sooner I could stick it to that asshole. Mrs. Tucker focused while I gave her the standard Meet lecture and when I gave her the phone, her eyes went a little glassy. “You know what the ironic thing about this whole thing is? If I could do it all again, knowing what kind of a man Rob would become, that wouldn’t stop me from marrying him. I’d do it all over again.”

  My forehead creased. “Why’s that?”

  She stopped twirling the ring on her left hand and lifted her right. She wore another ring on her right ring finger. One with two different gemstones. Mrs. Tucker smiled at it. “Because I got my two angels from that devil of a man. Because I might have had to endure twenty years with him, but I get to spend the rest of my life with them.” She polished her thumb over the ring before setting her hand back in her lap. “They were worth it.”

  I smiled conventionally and waved as I left Mrs. Tucker. The thing that stuck with me most about our conversation was that I didn’t doubt what she’d said. She would go through another twenty years at the mercy of a pair of fists in exchange for her children. When I slid into the car, I was hit with a wave of depression that my whole life, I’d only loved one person like Mrs. Tucker loved her children. There’d been a single soul I’d walk through hell for.

  He was the same person who was responsible for dropping me in hell and leaving me there. The person I was se
eking my own revenge on.

  Love is positively fucked up.

  MR. TUCKER’S FILE WAS probably the least surprising one I’d ever gone through. Since I already knew he beat his wife, the rest was easy to fill in. I know that stereotypes were generally frowned upon, but in my business, stereotypes were less about labeling and more about math. To an Eve, stereotypes were a rudimentary form of probability and statistics.

  I could study a Target’s file until my fingers were numb, but no amount of paperwork could prepare me for every situation that might arise with the Target. So I read the file, took what I learned, and applied the stereotypes I’d picked up along the way to improvise my way through an Errand. Yes, I planned. Sure, I manipulated. But I improvised just as much, if not more.

  Rob Tucker owned a string of car dealerships throughout Florida. His commercial and billboard advertising included him in every shot, with his blinding white smile, too-bronze tan, and bloated ego. Looks-wise, he was attractive for a man in his fifties, but he was aware of it . . . although he was probably inflating his looks by double. Mr. Tucker probably couldn’t pass a mirror without stopping and smiling at himself before making a douchy pistol shot.

  He wore tight polos to show off the biceps he worked out five days a week. That explained why Mrs. Tucker’s bruises went deep and hung around longer than most. He drove a Corvette—yes, a red one—played poker on Friday night with his “buds,” and played eighteen holes of golf on Saturday. On Sunday, he religiously rose early and went to church with his wife, and sometime after, he religiously struck her across the face for drying out the pork roast, or undercooking the haricot vert, or making the custard too soupy. Mrs. Tucker’s notes were detailed in a way I’d never seen. She was taking it seriously, at least five steps more serious than any of my other Clients. If she could do that, I’d step my serious scale up five steps, too.

  From the amount of time Mr. Tucker spent at gentlemen’s clubs, he could have a regular customer punch card. Though she couldn’t prove it, he’d had a handful, if not a small army, of affairs with employees, friends’ wives, prostitutes, and quite possibly a couple of neighbors.