his fee, or just fucking with him? He looked right at her and said, “Man like Marty take his life, he better have a reason, or the police going to get curious, start asking questions. They come over, interrogate you?”
“No,” Shelly said.
“That’s ’cause I took the time, wrote the dumb letter. It’s all in the details.”
She reached in her purse, took out an envelope, number ten–style, filled with money and handed it to him.
DeJuan said, “I don’t have to count it, do I?”
“That’s up to you,” Shelly said. “It’s the balance of the job, what we agreed to. Ten grand.”
“The fuck you talking about?”
She broke into a grin now. “I got you.”
“Yes, you did.” He liked that. Bishop’s widow fucking with him, showing a wicked sense of humor.
“You should’ve seen your face,” Shelly said.
DeJuan looked at the money.
“It’s all there,” she said. “Fifteen thousand.”
“Satisfaction guaranteed,” DeJuan said, “or your money back. That’s my motto.”
“More people should adopt that attitude,” Shelly said. “Stand behind their work like you do.”
He slid the envelope in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “Got any other odd jobs you need done?” He reached over and squeezed her leg, felt her ankle through the butter-soft leather boot.
“I’ll keep you in mind,” Shelly said.
DeJuan was feeling good the way things had worked out, wanted to go downtown to the MGM, play some roulette. Only problem, Teddy was coming over with news about Jack. Jack, who was supposed to be in Arizona doing time. Jack, who had their money—$257,000 they were going to split three ways. Now maybe hoping it was all his and thinking he deserved it after doing three years and change, his sentence cut short for some unknown reason.
He thought about Marty on the way back to his crib. Pictured him, man walking in the house shit-faced that night. Plan was to have Marty’s favorite dish, spaghetti Bolognese, ready to heat up. Like Shelly, the loving wife, bought it for him before she left town. DeJuan picked up a carryout at Andiamo’s.
He heard the refrigerator open and close, heard Marty put something in the microwave, and heard the ding when it was finished. Marty at the kitchen table eating spaghetti, washing it down with Grey Goose on the rocks—new Eye-talian combo.
DeJuan walked in the kitchen, Marty look at him, eyes little slits, said, “Wha you doing?”
Man was rocked, swaying in his chair.
DeJuan said, “Been a change in plans.”
“Wha you mean?”
His head bobbed forward, chin on his chest. Ten sleeping pills crushed up in the spaghetti, mixing with the booze and the dude was starting to nod off.
What gave DeJuan the suicide idea was seeing the prescription container of sleeping pills in Marty’s medicine cabinet. Man was already taking them. There was a precedent.
Marty was fading fast.
“Shelly outbid you for my services.”
“Wha …”
“Shelly want to get rid of you more than you want to get rid of her.”
Marty was moaning now. DeJuan got him up out of the chair, wrapped his arms around the dude’s chest, slid around and tried to get under him, Marty collapsing on him now. DeJuan tried to lift with his legs, but this motherfucker was a load. He heaved, got him off the ground over his shoulder, took a couple of steps, crashed into the Sub-Zero, but didn’t drop him. DeJuan, 175 pounds, toting this five-foot-seven Mormon butterball, had to be two hundred if he was a pound, carried him out to the garage.
He put Marty down on the hood of the Benz, breathing hard, heart pumping. He opened the driver’s door, went back, got under Marty, picked him up, dropped him in behind the wheel, straightened him up, and slid the seat belt around his waist and buckled it. Marty’s eyes popped open for an instant like he coming around and it freaked DeJuan, unexpected as it was.
“Going on a trip, my man,” DeJuan said. “Relax, enjoy the
“No,” Shelly said.
“That’s ’cause I took the time, wrote the dumb letter. It’s all in the details.”
She reached in her purse, took out an envelope, number ten–style, filled with money and handed it to him.
DeJuan said, “I don’t have to count it, do I?”
“That’s up to you,” Shelly said. “It’s the balance of the job, what we agreed to. Ten grand.”
“The fuck you talking about?”
She broke into a grin now. “I got you.”
“Yes, you did.” He liked that. Bishop’s widow fucking with him, showing a wicked sense of humor.
“You should’ve seen your face,” Shelly said.
DeJuan looked at the money.
“It’s all there,” she said. “Fifteen thousand.”
“Satisfaction guaranteed,” DeJuan said, “or your money back. That’s my motto.”
“More people should adopt that attitude,” Shelly said. “Stand behind their work like you do.”
He slid the envelope in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. “Got any other odd jobs you need done?” He reached over and squeezed her leg, felt her ankle through the butter-soft leather boot.
“I’ll keep you in mind,” Shelly said.
DeJuan was feeling good the way things had worked out, wanted to go downtown to the MGM, play some roulette. Only problem, Teddy was coming over with news about Jack. Jack, who was supposed to be in Arizona doing time. Jack, who had their money—$257,000 they were going to split three ways. Now maybe hoping it was all his and thinking he deserved it after doing three years and change, his sentence cut short for some unknown reason.
He thought about Marty on the way back to his crib. Pictured him, man walking in the house shit-faced that night. Plan was to have Marty’s favorite dish, spaghetti Bolognese, ready to heat up. Like Shelly, the loving wife, bought it for him before she left town. DeJuan picked up a carryout at Andiamo’s.
He heard the refrigerator open and close, heard Marty put something in the microwave, and heard the ding when it was finished. Marty at the kitchen table eating spaghetti, washing it down with Grey Goose on the rocks—new Eye-talian combo.
DeJuan walked in the kitchen, Marty look at him, eyes little slits, said, “Wha you doing?”
Man was rocked, swaying in his chair.
DeJuan said, “Been a change in plans.”
“Wha you mean?”
His head bobbed forward, chin on his chest. Ten sleeping pills crushed up in the spaghetti, mixing with the booze and the dude was starting to nod off.
What gave DeJuan the suicide idea was seeing the prescription container of sleeping pills in Marty’s medicine cabinet. Man was already taking them. There was a precedent.
Marty was fading fast.
“Shelly outbid you for my services.”
“Wha …”
“Shelly want to get rid of you more than you want to get rid of her.”
Marty was moaning now. DeJuan got him up out of the chair, wrapped his arms around the dude’s chest, slid around and tried to get under him, Marty collapsing on him now. DeJuan tried to lift with his legs, but this motherfucker was a load. He heaved, got him off the ground over his shoulder, took a couple of steps, crashed into the Sub-Zero, but didn’t drop him. DeJuan, 175 pounds, toting this five-foot-seven Mormon butterball, had to be two hundred if he was a pound, carried him out to the garage.
He put Marty down on the hood of the Benz, breathing hard, heart pumping. He opened the driver’s door, went back, got under Marty, picked him up, dropped him in behind the wheel, straightened him up, and slid the seat belt around his waist and buckled it. Marty’s eyes popped open for an instant like he coming around and it freaked DeJuan, unexpected as it was.
“Going on a trip, my man,” DeJuan said. “Relax, enjoy the
Similar Books
