Widow's Run

by TG Wolff

  Yeah, it was hidden…like a zit on the tip of a nose.

  The plywood front door was painted black and had a pull handle covered in God knew what. Inside was a cave for nocturnal humans, offering cover from the offensive light of day.

  My eyes were blinded by the darkness, but my nose picked up the scent of the dregs of humanity. Cheap booze was the drink of the day with a good portion of it spilled on the floor and left to season. My eyes adjusted quickly. The place was as pretty as it smelled. A long, narrow bar with salvaged stools making their final stand. Five square tables, all empty. The patrons eschewed them for the battle-weary bar. Seven pairs of eyes focused on me. The only pair looking at the daytime crap on the television belonged to Ian Black.

  Black turned his attention to me when I was two seats away. His gaze raked up and down, a clinical assessment of my wardrobe. My designer dress cost more than most of the cars in the parking lot. I wore it spray painted on, showing off a rack that didn’t need bodywork. The skirt ended a few inches south of Treasure Island, then a nice length of leg ran into knee-high boots.

  “You’re skinny.” Black turned back to the television, raising his beer to hide his mouth. “Not used to you without hair.”

  First, I’m fat, now I’m skinny. Men!

  When it came to my hair, he wasn’t the only one not used to it. My own reflection still surprised each morning. I traded long hair—wild, full, and highlighted blond—for short, sexy, and my natural dark chocolate. A color I hadn’t worn since virgin days. “You’re not going to be seeing me long enough to get used to it. Get on with this before I walk from this STD incubator.”

  He snorted derisively. “You’re not walking. We both know it. Sit down.”

  Pulling out the stool next to him, I leaned my weight against the battered wood frame. “Nice place. You come here often?”

  “Too often.” When the bartender drifted down to our slice of heaven, he ordered a beer for me, passing on the optional glass. “The guy to your right.”

  Since I no longer had hair to throw over my shoulder to steal a glance, I stood and turned to hang my purse from the seat back. The eyes I looked to were watching mine. I let a slow, steamy smile grow as though I liked what I saw. Black nudged my arm, and I shot a displeased glare at him before winking at my mark and sitting like a lady. “Story.”

  He drained his beer, pushing it away as the bartender placed cold ones in front of us. “Disability scam. You are flirting with Montgomery Rand. Employed by my client for eighty-eight days—two less than the probation period—when ‘an accident’ made him unfit for work.”

  I looked over my shoulder again at the man-child sitting six chairs away. In his mid-twenties, he hadn’t outgrown the baby fat. Dark wheat hair flopped on to his forehead. Light brown eyes showed intelligence, despite his current choice of venue. He probably shaved once a week. You don’t need a blade when you don’t have whiskers. “I’m guessing Mr. Rand wasn’t going to make the cut.”

  “Nope.”

  I turned back, looking at Black in the mirror behind the bar. “What’s the deal? Why do you need me?”

  “I’ve been on him for two weeks. He’s either good or the luckiest bastard alive.”

  “Any chance he’s actually hurt?”

  “No witnesses to the accident. The scene was a little too good, according to my client. He moans and groans, walks like the Tin Man but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You hurt like that, it shows in the eyes.”

  Yeah it does. I pulled a Tin Man a time or two. You get to a certain point and pain wasn’t put away in a drawer. It permeated your life until you were the asshole who made the deli girl cry because the extra lean corned beef wasn’t lean enough. I stole another look. Rand pecked at a tablet with his thick fingers. His brows were furrowed, his tongue repeatedly swept over his lower lip. Concentration. Determination. But no pain. “Painkillers?”

  “That shows, too, when you know what you’re looking for.”

  “Which we do. Okay. Classic play? You want me to get him into a compromising position, so you can snap your dirty pictures.”

  “It’s a classic for a reason.” Black turned to me then. Anybody watching would see his attention fully on me when it was really on his quarry. “How do you want to do this?”

  I leapt off the stool, sending it crashing to the floor behind me. “You son of a bitch! You’re cutting me off? Half of the shit is mine. I worked hard for it.”

  Black came off his stool after me. “You call spreading your legs working hard? A washing machine works harder than you and it’s wetter, too.”

  I slapped him. I didn’t pull it. The crack cut through the heavy air like a chain saw. Some men stared, some snickered at the poor loser’s predicament. “You limp dick asshole. Don’t you dare—”

  “Bitch!” He came at me, grabbing my dress but the tight fabric had no give. I slid under his arm and pushed him away.

  “Entertaining as this all is,” the bartender said, a baseball bat in his hands, “it needs to end.”

  Black jabbed his index finger at me. “You haven’t heard the end of this.” He kicked the stool, sending it sliding across the grimy aisle, then stalked to the door and hit it with the flat of his hand. A blast of white light assaulted the bar. Arms hastily covered eyes as the vampires recoiled with a hiss, ending Act One.

  Act Two was all on me and completely improvised. With all the grace of a sophisticated slut, I turned back to the bar, ran my hands over my breasts down my stomach to smooth my dress, then finished my beer.

  “You dropped this.” Rand’s head appeared in the mirror over my shoulder.

  I turned around, tits first. My purse dangled from his hand. “Thank you. It’s nice to know there are still a few gentlemen in the world.” I accepted my purse, withdrew my lipstick, then repaired my undamaged mouth. I cocked my head, letting my gaze roam from the wide-eyed stare to the faded T-shirt, to the more faded jeans, to the sandals. “What’s your name?”

  “Monte. You?”

  “Diamond.” My gaze back on his, I pursed my lips as if considering, then smiled invitingly. “Are you in the mood for a little fun, Monte?”

  His eyes glistened with hope. “What did you have in mind?”

  Opening the wallet I snatched from Black’s pocket, I withdrew a credit card. “An early dinner, a little wine, and then who knows? Wine always makes me…a little crazy. My car’s outside.”

  He didn’t hesitate. I walked as quickly as the heels allowed. Thought I might get lucky and have him break into a run. Black would have his eyes on us along with some high-speed film. A little trot out of Monte and my part of the deal was done.

  “You have great legs,” Monte said. “I like the boots.”

  I looked over my shoulder to where he shuffled along. His gaze went from my ass to my eyes, and back to my ass. Appreciating the view, he lacked the motivation to run. I quickened my pace, but he kept his. I tripped, my heel sliding off one of the concrete islands. His hand shot out to mine, but his body did not. Something held him in reserve.

  Black was right. Either Monte was a platinum club con man or the luckiest bastard alive. I reassessed the vintage nerd vibe he gave off…nope. I wasn’t buying it. He wasn’t half as slick as he gave himself credit for.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To burn a little hole in this black credit card.”

  I drove to a part of town a sophisticated slut would frequent and a restaurant with a six-week waiting list for prime-time dining. At this time of day, Monte and I walked in. Well…almost.

  “Stop fussing. The jacket looks good on you.” My index finger danced suggestively around the lip of my wine glass. He ran his hand inside the collar of the borrowed suit coat, stopping at my direction. His gaze again and again swept around the well-appointed room. Each time, his tongue licked his lips as though savoring the taste of the good life.

  “I don’t like wearing other people’s clothes.�
�� He glared like a belligerent child but stopped tugging at the coat. “So…your boyfriend’s gonna be pissed you swiped his card.”

  “What’s his is mine, etcetera, etcetera.” I waved my hand like the king himself.

  We small talked through appetizers washed down with a hundred-dollar bottle of wine. Monte didn’t like the taste of the wine, but he liked the price, the class, so he drank without complaint. By the time the most expensive dishes on the menu were served, he’d relaxed, convinced himself he belonged in this place. He ran his hands down the borrowed wool, smoothing the fine material over his soft chest.

  “I noticed you walk with a limp.” I sipped my wine. “Is there a story behind it?”

  “Industrial accident,” Monte said without pause but didn’t expound.

  I linked my fingers and rested my chin on my hands. “Ooo, I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

  He shrugged, looking about the restaurant, measuring the worth of the few diners. My timing had been off. He wanted to see himself as a man with the coin and standing to be at this restaurant with a woman such as moi. He didn’t want to be a warehouse fork lift driver.

  “You don’t want to tell me what really happened? I’m okay with that. Tell me your story.”

  His eyes widened in surprise, then his gaze drifted to the upper right. He wasn’t looking at something but rather concocting his story. I watched his face, his body, further acquainting myself with his mannerisms.

  He drained his glass and then refilled it.

  “I worked as a manager of a warehouse for a big tech firm. Like, BIG.” Monte sighed then, shaking his head. “You would be shocked at the type of people we get in the warehouse. Losers. Burnouts. Ex-cons. Everyone has a story to sell. What I could do with a handful of intelligent human beings.” He waved his hand, bringing himself back on topic. “We had been training this new guy on the forklift. It’s as simple as they come but the guy’s got two left feet. He’d already pierced a shipping container. He turned ten grand of inventory into trash in under two minutes. The guy was on his last chance. I had him moving a few pallets to make room for an expected delivery, as basic a job as I could give him. About ten minutes in, I go over to check on him and don’t I see crates stacked way past protocol and teetering like a Jenga tower. Without thinking about what I was doing, I ran to the guy, pulling him from the forklift seconds before…” He set his elbow on the table, hand in the air and let it fall to the table with a clumsy thud. “We got clear but…my back.” He winced, the first I’d seen any indication of discomfort.

  I plastered care and concern on my face. “Bad news?”

  “The worst. It may never be right. I can’t work like this. Look at me, I can’t move.” Monte rotated five degrees to one side, five degrees to the other. “I can’t move, I can’t work.”

  He was so full of shit his eyes were brown.

  “Well, that’s disappointing.” I pouted, full bottom lip out. “So, you can’t…” I wrinkled my nose as I held up my fork and let it fall until it dangled limply from my hand.

  His brows furrowed in a V. “No. No, it’s not…like that.”

  His depravity did have limits. Screw the company, no biggie. Imply he can’t screw, biggie.

  “Good,” I said, layering my voice with relief. “Because I thought we’d take dessert back to your place.”

  “My place?” For an instant, the smallest instant, he looked embarrassed. “Why not yours?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Obvious reasons. Look, if you want to end it here, just say so. I thought we could keep the good times rolling, but if you’re not up for a party…” I shrugged like it didn’t matter. I raised my hand for the check.

  “I didn’t say that.” He looked around to see if he could be heard. “You think I can keep the jacket? I kinda like it.”

  “On you…it’s one of a kind.” I handed the waiter Black’s credit card. With a swipe in a handheld device, we were free and clear.

  Well, almost.

  “Here’s the plan,” Monte said, leaning forward in conspiracy. “We get up, walk to the door, and then run like hell to your car.”

  It worked for me. “Run like hell” sounded like a photo op.

  “One problem.” I straightened my legs to show off three-inch heels. “I don’t run. How about this…I leave now and pull the car around. Then you run like hell and jump into the car.”

  He nodded like a bobble head. “Let’s do it.”

  I stood, picked up my purse, and walked out the door with haute sophistication. As promised, I retrieved the car and waited at the end of the valet canopy. I didn’t see Black, but the man could disappear in broad daylight.

  The doors were thrown open, and Monte burst out like a pudgy bull of Pamplona. He ran stiffly, arms circling, hair falling in his eyes, a braggart’s grin on his face. The doors flung open again and the elegant maître d’, in his black suit and fitted vest, leapt through the air, catching my guy in a flying tackle. Monte’s eyes were wide as he was felled.

  The maître d’ came up first, planting his foot on Monte’s neck while stripping the finely woven wool from his back. I laughed, enjoying the unfolding scene, knowing Black was getting every frame.

  In a minute, it was over. The maître d’ and the jacket were back inside the halls of the trés chic restaurant and Monte poured himself into my passenger seat.

  “He was stronger than he looked.” Monte examined his elbows and his knees. “Fast, too.”

  I pulled into traffic. “You win some, you lose some.” My phone rang. I dug blindly into my purse and came up with a screen with a black square. I accepted the call. “You got it?”

  “I didn’t get it.” A litany of curses followed.

  “How did you not get it?”

  “Equipment malfunction.” Background sound moved to the foreground. Heavy breathing. A door slamming. A motor starting. “Take him to his place and keep him on the ground floor. Use the bedroom. I can get a clear shot if the shade is up. You gotta buy me fifteen minutes to get into place.”

  “I’ll give you one more chance. You blow it and you’re on your own.” I disconnected before he could negotiate.

  “Was that your boyfriend? You sound tough.” Monte winced as he picked sidewalk sand out of his knees and elbows.

  “I am tough. No other way to survive in this world. He needs to learn to appreciate a woman like me.” I didn’t listen to the crap I spewed, but Monte did, nodding because he wanted to lose his virginity. I glanced at the clock. Nearly four. I needed to create Black’s fifteen minutes. “I need gas.” Taking the side roads, we wandered a mile out of the way to a station.

  “Nice neighborhood,” he said.

  The hundred-year-old homes with their four bedrooms and three baths, their two-car garages and three-point-two kids with optional dog were just part of the landscape. “Nice enough. If you like that sort of thing.”

  Another turn and we were back on a commercial strip opting for function over form. Two traffic lights and we pulled into the gasoline oasis. Twelve pumps, no waiting.

  Monte opened his door, wrapped his hands around the frame, then pulled himself out. “I’m going to run inside. You want anything.”

  And to think I thought he was going to be a gentleman and pump the gas. Did I want anything? Time. “A bottle of water and mints.”

  “Cool.” Pregnant pause. “You got any cash on you? Hate to use a card for a few bucks.”

  I flipped a twenty across the trunk, knowing I wasn’t seeing any change. I should have given him Black’s credit card. Ten-to-one he’d have bought a c-note’s worth of Ding Dongs and Ho Hos.

  The pump finished in no time, which is what it took to dispense five gallons. I leaned against the car waiting patiently for the loser. Of all the gigs Black had to pull, seducing a post-acne twenty-something with a hormone-to-sense ratio of one-hundred-to-one sucked. Real work waited. I didn’t have time to dick around playing Catholic school teacher.
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br />   Monte came out sucking down a Red Bull. I got my water and mints. No change. Business done, we headed across town, passing the restaurant twelve minutes after we left it. I stayed within the posted speed limits, which was akin to pulling my fingernails out one at a time but bought Black the rest of the time he wanted.

  Montgomery Rand resided in a twelve-hundred-square-foot colonial with paint curling from the wood and packed dirt where grass should have been. I leaned down, scoping out the structure. It wasn’t hard to pick out the spots likely hiding Ian Black.

  Monte mimicked my pose. “My uncle owns it. He lets me stay here in exchange for taking care of the place.”

  “Looks like you’ve been doing a stellar job of it.” Once begun is half done. I opened my door and moved the game forward.

  Monte pried himself out of the car and lurched ahead of me. He moved stiffly again, as though something prevented him from moving freely. He pitched his body sideways to the stairs and stepped up one at a time. A practiced move. “If I’d known I was going to have a guest, I would have cleaned.”

  Great. Black owed me.

  The house was decorated in old lady, except for the media system. A fifty-five-inch flat screen sat in front of a couch patterned in red and purple flowers. A coffee table a cat used as a scratching post was cluttered with gaming controllers. The house was as neat and clean as any apartment occupied by five twenty-year-old guys and their pet goat.

  Disinfection was on tap for the third half of the day.

  “Cozy.” I made myself at home, memorizing the layout of the living room…dining room…kitchen…condemnable half bath…and—bingo—bedroom. “Come here, Monte.”

  “We can go upstairs. With just me, I don’t go up there much. Just to shower but, you know, I don’t use those rooms, so they are—”

  My mouth on his stopped his running babble. My hands on his torso, I felt the brace making him move like the Tin Man.

  I pulled my head back but kept my fingers running seductively along the edges of the Velcro bindings. “You need this? Wouldn’t you rather feel me? My skin on yours?”