by Michelle Wan
I thought, Chico, you bastard.
He was a womanizer and a gambler. I knew that when I married him. But he was good-looking, with dark curly hair and coffee-colored eyes and a wild sense of humor. I even thought his taking out a joint life-insurance policy was a wacky joke. I never dreamed he’d try to kill me for it.
The sad thing is, for a while there on July 10, our seventh anniversary, I thought I was having one of the happiest days of my married life. Chico had put together a cooler of smoked salmon and potato salad, a shaker of shooters and a couple of bottles of champagne—the high-class stuff—with proper champagne glasses, not plastic. He’d hiked us up to a secluded spot high up above Winona Gorge. The view was great. He’d even thought to bring a blanket to lie on, cushions, a tape deck with romantic music.
“Here’s to you, Gina,” he said and kept refilling my glass.
Then he said, “Hey, babe, come look at this.” And he took me over to the edge of the cliff.
That’s when he tried to give me the push. I thought he was playing around, and I remember saying, “Hey, Chico, stop it, man. It’s dangerous.” It took me a second to realize he wasn’t joking. He should have known better. You don’t shove a mud wrestler. I told myself over and over it was a case of self-defense. And it was. Except for that split second, just as he was toppling backward, when maybe I could have saved him. I could have lunged forward and grabbed him. Maybe. But I didn’t. Let’s say I was in shock and fighting for my life. Or that in that moment I realized what a worthless shit I was married to. And it was Chico who took the quick way down.
Suddenly the Ladies room door swung open and Wild Woman Wanda burst in. She was dripping from her hose-down and her bottle-red hair was plastered to her face. A big gal whose trademark was a leopard-skin off-one-shoulder wrestling suit. It made her look like a chunky Tarzan.
“Bad luck, Lava,” she crowed as she strutted past me to the shower. She liked me about as much as I liked her. “You need to work on your technique, girl.” Wanda coming on top of Marcia Beekland was more than I could handle.
“Try me for a rematch, mud skipper,” I yelled. “I’ll murder you!” Then I realized what I had said.
CHAPTER THREE
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I closed my eyes, but those ten seconds on the cliff kept replaying in my mind. The video was damning. There was no way the cops would accept a claim of self-defense, no way North American Life would cut a check. But I needed the money. A loan shark named Bernie, a gorilla with a broken nose, was hounding me for thirty thousand bucks, Chico’s gambling debts. He was being patient while I waited for the insurance payout. But any day now I expected him to get nasty. I had to keep that date with Marcia.
I dragged myself up at daybreak Monday morning, grabbed my iPod and went for a run. I hoped it would clear my head. It didn’t. After I got back, I showered. I gulped a cup of coffee, strong and black. Normally I take it sweet with cream with a donut on the side. I ate some dry toast. I almost heaved it up. At 8:00 I called my boss at the post office to say I’d be late for work.
“What is it this time?” Roz said.
I’d already had quite a bit of time off because of Chico, and she was running out of sympathy and tired of having to find someone to cover for me. I could have said quite honestly, “I’m in a fix. I’m being blackmailed and I’m going to have to kill someone, so it’s not looking like a good day here.” Instead, I said, “Emergency dental appointment. I—ah—broke a tooth.”
“Which tooth?”
I wasn’t prepared for that. “Um, back incisor.”
“You mean front, don’t you? Incisors are at the front.”
“Oh, yeah,” I lied. “Sorry. It really hurts and I’m not thinking straight. I was lucky to get this appointment. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”
“Do that,” Roz snapped.
For once I chose my clothes with care. I needed to look like someone Marcia couldn’t haul around, even if she had me pinned. I decided on all black—black T-shirt, black slacks, black leather belt. No accessories.
At five minutes to nine I nudged my old blue Honda into the supermarket parking lot. It was almost empty so it was easy for me to pick out Marcia’s car. She was sitting in it, wearing sunglasses. I rolled into the spot next to her. But she didn’t want to talk there. She started up her motor and signaled for me to follow her.
She pulled out, turning right on Ebert. She led me straight through town. Soon we were out in the country with nothing but farmland all around us. As we drove, I tried to think of a way of convincing her to give it up. Or at least to find someone else to do her dirty work. I drew blanks. She turned off onto a county road and parked. I parked behind her. She powered down her window, leaned out and yelled, “Get in.”
I got out of my car and slid onto the passenger seat of hers. “All right. I’m here.”
She studied me for a moment. “Are you wearing any kind of recording device?” she asked.
That was when I realized I was dealing with a very careful lady. First, driving out of town where there was no one to witness our meeting. Next, checking me for a tape recorder. I shook my head no, but she frisked me anyway. She handed me a pen and notepad.
“You’ll need to take this down,” she said.
I said, “Whoa. What makes you think I’m going along with this?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?” She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. Her steely, pale blue eyes didn’t match her dumpy body. “You know I’m serious. You know that video will get you life. Let’s not waste time.”
I nodded weakly. The morning was still cool, but I was sweating. Dark stains were forming half circles under my arms. Black wasn’t such a good choice of color after all.
“His name is Stanley Beekland.” She pushed a color photo at me. “Take a good look. I can’t let you keep it.”
It was a head shot of a man in his fifties, balding, glasses, round face, prissy, small, mean mouth. The kind of face that doesn’t see a lot of humor in life. A lot like hers, in fact.
“Your husband?”
She paused a moment, then said, “Yes.”
“Why do you want him dead?” When she didn’t answer, I said, “What? He beats you? Cheats on you?” Chico had tried to slap me once and never tried it again. But he had cheated on me regularly from the get-go. And he stole from me to feed his gambling habit. I guess I was looking for some way to connect with this cold bitch.
“He’s a beast,” she said in a low voice.
“Can’t you divorce him?”
She gave me a look that told me not to go there. Money, I figured. It always boiled down to money.
She went on, as if she were reeling off a grocery list. “He’s a man of routine. Leaves the house at eight thirty, gets to work by nine. He’s in charge of accounts at Sutherland’s Appliances. They’re on Carlingwood. He drives a purple Chevy Aveo, license BCEW 882. Are you getting all this down?”
Reluctantly I started making notes.
“He’s home again by five thirty, except when he works late. He’s usually alone in the building at such times, but the store’s always locked up after hours. The doors work on a code, so if that’s when you want to do it, you’ll have to find a way of getting in. I can’t help you. On Fridays he always stops off at Benny’s Tavern for a few beers before coming home.”
I raised my eyebrows. Benny’s was a serious watering hole. Judging from Stanley’s photo, I wouldn’t have pegged him as the type who’d hang out there.
“On Saturdays and Sundays,” Marcia went on, “he cuts the grass and washes his car. In the evenings he takes a walk before bedtime because he suffers from insomnia. Have you got all that? We sleep in different bedrooms, by the way.”
I interrupted the flow. “If I do this—IF— how do I know you’ll keep your end of the deal? What’s to prevent you from continuing to blackmail me?”
She shrugged. “Once Stanley’s dead, why would I want to turn you over to the police?
You’d drag me in to protect yourself. So you see, we have a common interest.”
It made more sense than her asking me to trust her. Mutual survival I could believe in. All the same, it wasn’t much to go on. “You’ll have to give me something more,” I said.
“Like what?” Her pale eyes grew narrow.
“Oh, like a signed confession. In case I’m caught.”
“It’s your job to make sure you’re not.” She glared at me.
“Something that shows this was your idea would be good.” I tore off a sheet of paper from the notepad and gave it to her with the pen.
She thought about it for a minute. “All right.” She scribbled something. “That good enough for you?”
She had written I asked Gina Lopez to kill my husband.
I shook my head, gave her another sheet of paper and dictated, “Make it ‘I confess I had my husband, Stanley Beekland, murdered.’ Leave my name out and date and sign it.”
She wrote I confess I had my husband murdered. She dated it August 11, 2010, and signed it M. Beekland.
“You forgot his name,” I pointed out.
“It’s good enough as it is,” she snapped. “How many husbands do I have?”
I shrugged. It wasn’t much of a guarantee, but at least it gave me something to hit her back with. I took the paper, folded it and put it carefully away. Then I focused on the photograph, working myself up to disliking the face enough to kill the man.
I asked, “So how do you want this done?”
She looked shocked, like I’d told her a dirty joke. “That’s up to you. You’re the hit woman. But there are four conditions. First, I want to know in advance when and where you plan to do it because I’ll need to make sure I have an alibi. I don’t need to know how it’s done. In fact, I don’t want to know. I don’t have to tell you it’s very important that you cooperate with me on this. Remember, if anything backfires on me, you’ll go down too. Second, I want as little contact as possible between us. Don’t call me. I’ll call you. You have a mobile?”
I nodded.
“Give me your number and keep it on at all times.”
I wrote it down for her.
“Third,” she said, “I pay you nothing. As long as I keep quiet, you’ll collect on the insurance and you’ll stay out of prison. That should be enough.”
She really was a mean bitch. But organized. I had to give her that. “What’s the fourth condition?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.
That was when she dropped the bomb. “You have seven days, including today, to do it.”
I stared at her, thinking I couldn’t have heard right.
“Seven days?”
“Until next Sunday, to be exact. So you’d better get moving.”
“Forget it,” I said, opening the car door.
“And the video?” she said. “You don’t expect me to forget that, do you?”
I was so whapped by her seven days I’d almost forgotten the damned video. Slowly I shut the door again, thinking if I had to knock anyone off, it should be her.
She must have read my mind. “There’s something else,” she said. “If anything should happen to me, I want you to know I’ve set things up so a cd of the video goes straight to the police.” She smiled a nasty smile. “I’ll give you until tomorrow morning to think of something. I’ll call you in the morning. You’d better have a plan. Because by then you’ll have only six days.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I didn’t make it in to work at all that day. I didn’t even bother calling Roz. My life was going down the toilet; why did I need a job? I wound up at Al’s, leaning on my elbows at the bar while Jimmy set up for the afternoon trade. The place was empty except for us. Al was out somewhere, probably sizing up lady mud wrestlers.
By now I’d already got my head around the fact that I’d have to take Stanley out. It was a matter of survival. I had Marcia and the cops coming at me from one side, Bernie the loan shark from the other. My problem was I was new to murder. Oh, I read the papers and watched the news on tv, and I knew people killed other people every day. Trouble was I had no experience. I slid off the stool to help Jimmy shift a couple of kegs. Then I went back to leaning on my elbows.
“You okay, kid?” Jimmy asked. His deeply creased face, partly covered by a fall of bleached-out hair, was worried. Like I said, he was a good friend.
“Yeah,” I said.
“I talked to Al about a rematch,” Jimmy said, thinking this was what was bothering me. “I’m afraid he wants to run a chick named Janey Jumps from New Liskeard against Wanda on Sunday. You heard of her?”
“No,” I said dully.
“He thinks a new face will bring in more business.”
“So what am I? Last night’s takeout?”
“Don’t be that way, Lava. He’ll have you up again next month for sure.”
“But I heard Wanda’s moving on to Detroit after next week.” I’d have given a lot to be wrestling in Detroit.
“Well, maybe you need the break. Maybe this thing you got with her is messing up your head.”
“I told you—”
“Yeah, I know. She butted you. She’s also got fifteen pounds on you. She’s a heavy contender, Lava.”
“She’s fat,” I said.
“It’s her diet,” Jimmy said. “Her standard intake’s a double bacon burger with a side of super fries. You see where fast food gets you.” He was a health nut, big on organics and green vitamins and always on me about the junk I ate. He punched my arm. “Hey, cheer up. I’ve never seen you this down before.”
“Oh,” I lied, “I guess I’m still getting over Chico. But I’m also sick of wrestling smalltime mud. The Vegas Championships, Jimmy. That’s what I’m aiming for. I know I’ve got what it takes to win big.”
“Sure, kid,” he nodded. “I believe you.” And he meant it.
Jimmy was not only my main cheering section and best friend, he was my source of good advice. His rough past was carved on his face. He’d been in and out of jail and had a history with drugs. He’d been clean for years now, but was battling diabetes, which gave him problems with his feet. Maybe because he’d seen so much of life, he was a good listener. And great at problem solving. Well, I had a problem.
So, trying to make it sound casual, I said, “Suppose you wanted to kill someone, Jimbo. How would you do it?”
He stopped wiping down the bar to frown at me. Then he grinned. “You thinking of Wanda?”
“You got it.” I went along with the joke. No way could I tell him I was serious.
He shook his head. “Oh boy, this is going way beyond personal.”
“Indulge me.” I laughed. “Let’s say I want to bump her off. How would I do it? And get away with it, of course.”
He shrugged. “Bash her on the head.”
I made a face. “Messy.”
“Well, drive-by shootings are very popular.”
“Don’t own a gun.”
“Drown her in Lake Ontario?”
“With all that blubber? She’d float.”
He guffawed. “What about a knife? ’Cept with her it’d probably be a flesh wound.” He didn’t like Wanda any more than me.
“Look,” I said, “give me something fast, easy and untraceable. And before you go there, I know zilch about poisons.”
He picked up a bottle of Johnny Walker, squinted at the float line, put it down and rubbed the side of his nose. “Well, there’s always an empty hypodermic.”
“What good would that do if it’s empty?”
“It’s because it’s empty. You stick it in a vein and shove the plunger. That pushes an air bubble in. It creates an air lock that stops everything dead. Lights out. It’s called an air embolism and it looks like a heart attack.”
Now he had my attention. “Would it be traceable?”
“Can you trace air?” He snapped the towel.
“I like it,” I said.
“Although it wouldn’t be easy,” he warned. “Because
you’d need to inject a lot of air. You’d need a frickin’ horse syringe.” Jimmy, an ex-junkie, knew a lot about needles. He also had to inject insulin every day for his diabetes. He grinned. “Don’t worry. I got a vet pal who could maybe help you out. But you’d also need to find a vein. You can’t just jab anywhere. Look.” He extended his arm, made a fist and showed me a blue, ropy bulge in the crook of his elbow. “That’s a vein. I don’t think Wanda’s gonna hold still long enough for you to find the sweet spot.”
I could see the approach had its drawbacks.
Jimmy went back to wiping down the bar. After a moment, he said, “Shit, why not just run her down?”
“Don’t you always leave evidence? Paint, broken glass, stuff like that?”
“No problem if they don’t have a car to match it up with. Do it so no one sees you.”
“Ha! With my luck, there’d be a cop cruiser right behind me.”
He sighed. “Okay. If you don’t mind a spell in jail, hit her in broad daylight, at a busy intersection. Just make sure you breathalize over the limit. Drunk driving causing death is never good for more than a few years.”
“No thanks. I value my freedom.” I wasn’t joking.
“You’re hard to please, Lava.” He was getting tired of the game. “Look, why not just hire a hit man? Now that’s the really smart thing to do. Course, you’d need to pay him.”
Marcia was plenty smart, I thought gloomily. And she didn’t need to pay me.
CHAPTER FIVE
Marcia’s call dragged me awake too early Tuesday morning. In the background at her end I could hear the faint beeping of a garbage truck, then the groaning of its engine as it rolled off. She was outside somewhere, using a pay phone. What did I say? Careful and smart. No way was the call going to be traced to her.
I was still groggy, and I wasn’t prepared for what she tossed at me.
“Do it tonight. He’s working late.”
“What?” I was still trying to clear my head.
“Tonight. He’ll be in the building alone. Do it then.”