She knew it was him the instant he walked in the door. He was shorter and fatter than she’d expected. But she knew it was him, despite the guitar he was carrying.
He stood at the service desk for a second, squinting into the gloom, scanning all the tables, until he came to hers. He gave her a brief nod, checked his surroundings, then came over. “Hey there, hope I didn’t keep you,” he said.
“Not at all,” she replied.
She was dressed just like she’d told him she’d be, blonde hair piled up on top of her head, designer sunglasses, even though they were inside and the restaurant lighting was rather dim, lips and nails painted blood red. Her eyes were on him now as she lifted her glass and sipped at the straw—vodka, her usual poison.
“You mind?” he asked, pulling out a chair.
“Go ahead.” She watched with mounting skepticism as he carefully leaned the guitar against the table then took his seat. She wasn’t entirely convinced she’d picked the right guy.
“So what’s with the guitar?” she asked.
“What? This? Oh, I play,” he said, sliding his chair up to the table. “Just down the corner there. I get a good crowd on a Thursday.”
“What? Where, what corner?”
“Just down there. Outside the deli. By the benches there. People sit there and eat while they’re listening,” he said and grinned. “It’s a good spot. You make a killing on a good day.”
“You’re a busker?” Her astonishment was obvious in her tone. “Like, in the street?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Well, you know. Jobs like this one don’t turn up every day. You gotta keep the wolf from the door. I’m pretty good, too. You wanna hear something?” Without waiting for a reply he picked the guitar up, sat it on his knee and strummed it a few times.
“Do you have to?” she asked, glancing around to find a few people at the other tables had turned their way, and were now watching in anticipation. He positioned his fingers on the fret board and started playing, then sang through the first few bars of Love Me Do.
“Excuse me,” she said, rapping her knuckles on the table to get his attention. She was almost sure that he was the wrong guy. She should have paid extra and got the other guy. The one her sister told her about. “Hey, excuse me?”
“Oh, sorry about that,” he said, leaning the guitar against the table again, then nodding around to acknowledge the smattering of applause coming from the other diners. “See? They love it.”
“Jesus Christ,” she groaned. “Listen, I’ve changed my mind.” She uncrossed her legs, tucked her phone back into her little Prada purse, and went to get up.
He reached across, put his hand over hers. “No, hey, wait a minute, will you. Aw, c’mon. I’m just showing you I’m versatile—you know, how I can blend.”
“You call that blending?”
“Tell you what, why don’t we eat first?” He leaned back, resting his ankle up on his knee.
She blew out a sigh and sat down again.
“I didn’t come here to eat.”
“We’ll order, then you can gimme the low-down.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “The low-down?”
“Yeah, you know. Where he goes, what he does, that kind of stuff. I’ll need times, places, all that stuff. Here, write it all down on here.” He took a pad and a pen out of his jacket pocket and slid them over to her. Then he leaned forward and quietly said, “By the way, it is customary. We eat, client picks up the tab.” He tipped his head briefly. “It’s kind of like … protocol.”
“Protocol? That I buy you lunch?”
He looked hurt.
“I don’t believe this,” she muttered as she picked up the pen. “So, how are you going to do it?” She looked up to gauge his reaction, make sure she did have the right guy. She didn’t want to go pushing two grand in folding across the table to the lead guitarist of the local Mariachi band by mistake. “You’re not gonna sing to him, are you?”
“Listen, I’m showing you I’m versatile, okay? How I can fit into different situations.” He blinked a couple of times. “Why, what’s wrong with the singing?”
She was writing down whatever she could think of, mentally going through her husband’s schedule so she didn’t miss anything out. “Nothing’s wrong with the singing. But if you come at him with Love Me Do, he’ll probably shoot you first.”
“Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, holding up one hand, suddenly serious now. “Wait just a minute there. Whaddya mean he’ll shoot me first? Are you saying he’s got a gun?”
She stopped writing and looked up. “Well, of course he’s got a gun. Why, haven’t you?”
“Well … no, actually.”
She laid the pen down. “So, what were you planning to do?” she asked. “Bore him to death? Hit him with your guitar?”
“Hey,” he said sharply, and looked hurt again. “I’ve got my methods. Doesn’t have to involve guns. And I’m a little offended by your comments, if you must know.”
She drew a deep breath and let her eyes slide around the room. Now what?
“Okay, I can see you’ve got some doubts,” he said reasonably. “I understand that. But, I’ve never had a problem before.”
“You’ve done this before?” she asked hopefully.
“Of course.” She was looking at him expectantly. “What? You weren’t thinking I’d bring a resume or something, were you?”
“No,” she said, a little unsure. “Of course I didn’t.” She picked up the pen. “So—can you tell me? Or is that, like, a professional confidence? Like a trade secret or something?”
“Is that the money?”
They both looked down at the fat envelope peeking out of her purse. “No, it’s the tip,” she said. “Of course it’s the money.” She slipped it out of her purse, placed it on the table between them, and pulled in another deep breath, trying to control her rising irritation. “Two grand up front, then the other three—y’know—afterwards.”
He slid his hand across the table and tentatively touched the wad of notes with his fingertip. As if he was somehow mesmerised by it. “Two grand, eh? Right there. Whoooh.”
A waiter approached with a notepad and pencil and looked from him to her. “Sorry about the delay. You ready to order now?”
She snatched up the envelope and stuffed it in her purse, then turned the notepad over. “I’m, ah …” she said, adjusting her sunglasses on her face. “I won’t be eating.”
On the other side of the table, he was already going through the menu. “Oh, no, come on! You gotta try the mussels. You can’t leave this place without trying the mussels. They’re good, aren’t they?” he asked the waiter.
“They are good,” the waiter agreed. “And the lobster. The lobster’s good, too. But the mussels, well, they’re—” He kissed his fingertips, then looked at him. “So, what’ll it be?”
“I’ll have the mussels.”
“Good choice,” the waiter said, and then looked at her.
“Nothing for me. I’m seafood intolerant,” she said bluntly. “I’ll have another vodka, though.”
“Why not try the steak?” he said. “Ah jeez, I hate eating alone. Go on, pick something else. G’won.”
“I told you,” she said pointedly, and flicked a glance up at the waiter. “I don’t want anything.”
“I guess that’s just another vodka, then,” he told the waiter, and made a face.
She took the straws out, drained the glass, and handed it to the waiter.
“Same as before?” he asked her.
“Make it a double,” she said.
“A double it is,” he said, and made a note on his order pad. “Same as before.”
“I dunno what the attitude’s about,” he said to her when the waiter had gone. “It’s not like you can’t afford it or anything. And it doesn’t cost to be civil, either.” He picked up the dessert menu and studied it. “Oh, man. They’ve got chocolate cheesecake—and Maraschino soufflé. What do you do?”
“Excuse me,” she hissed at him. “Will you cut it out? Here I am arranging to have my husband knocked off, and you’re agonizing over dessert.”
“Sorry,” he said and put the menu down. “But that maraschino soufflé; it is pretty damn good. So, anyway, what were you saying?”
“I was asking, like, you know … how?”
“Oh, right. No, it’s not a professional secret or anything. It all depends on what you write down, see. Like, for example,” he turned the pad, read the first entry, and tapped the page with his finger. “See here, where you say he goes to the gym at five every morning?”
She nodded.
“Well, I sure as hell ain’t doing it then. You never get me out of bed before eleven.” He shrugged. “I work nights. It’s hell on the metabolism.”
She blinked at him. “You don’t want to tell me? That’s fine.”
“It’s best that I don’t. Don’t you think?”
The mussels arrived. He tucked the napkin into his collar and sat back while the waiter put the plate down in front of him. Another waiter stopped at the table, selected a glass from his tray, and placed it in front of her.
“Thanks,” she said sourly. “Dammit, I wish I could smoke in here.” She opened her bag, took out a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes, and flicked it open. It was empty. “Pfft, I’m all out, anyway,” she muttered. “Wouldn’t that just toast your coals?”
“Aw, here, let me get you some,” he said and got up, almost dragging the plate off the table with the napkin.
“No, no, it doesn’t matter.”
“Nah, come on. Pall Mall, is it? There’s a machine just over there. I’ll get you some. It’s the least I can do. Specially since you’re not even eating.”
Before she could reply, he was gone. The lunchtime crowd was thinning out, people pushing past her on their way back to work. She sipped the drink. It was stronger than the last one. It would probably put her right over the limit—probably have her on her ass in five minutes flat. She removed the straws and knocked the whole thing back in one.
When she looked over, he was still at the machine. Probably couldn’t work out how to use the damned thing. She leaned her chin on her hand and rolled her eyes.
What a moron, she thought. He was bound to screw it up. And now he knew her, knew what she looked like, knew what she wanted. A guy like this couldn’t be relied on to keep his mouth shut. Somehow, somewhere, he’d eventually blabber to someone about who she was and how she’d paid him to off her husband. A town like this, word gets around. Before long, that word would find its way to the wrong ear. If her husband found out, she wouldn’t last two minutes. Even if this moron managed to kill her husband, he’d botch the job somehow, leave evidence. Next thing, the police would be involved and she could kiss the insurance money goodbye.
No, if she was going to get rid of her other half and survive long enough to pick up the insurance money, she’d have to come up with another plan.
But what to do about this idiot? She glanced over at him again. He was feeding coins, one by one, into the slot of the cigarette machine. She reached into her bag and pulled out a vial. It’d been sitting in her bag for the best part of three months. She’d originally bought it to poison her husband. But poisoning him was way too obvious. Especially after the last time he’d put her in the hospital. No. If it was going to be done, she needed a cast iron alibi. Someone else had to do it. She’d never found anyone stupid enough, and she’d never gotten around to disposing of the poison. As a result, the crystals in the vial had remained there, tucked down the bottom of her purse.
Until now.
Could she get away with it? Did she have enough time?
He turned and smiled at her while he waited for the machine to chew up the money and spit out the cigarettes.
She smiled back at him and waited until his back was turned again. Hands trembling, she popped the top off the vial and upended it over his mussels.
Bon appetite, bean brain, she thought as she poked them with the fork, pushing them round to stir the poison in. She quickly stuck the vial back in her purse and looked up just in time to find him walking back to the table. She leaned back, trying to look composed, but her heart was thrashing so hard in her chest she was sure he could hear it.
He sat down, almost dragging the plate into his lap again, and held out the open packet to her, one cigarette extended.
She flashed him a smile. “Thanks, but you can’t smoke in here.” She took the pack, carefully pushed the cigarette back down, then closed the lid. “Listen,” she said, stuffing everything back into her bag and snapping it shut, “I really have to go.” And she got up.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked, and looked up at her.
The payment! Dammit!
Doesn’t matter, she thought. The poison would begin to take effect within the hour. All she had to do was wait outside until he left, then follow him. The minute he went down, she’d swoop, relieve him of the money, and run. If there was a crowd around, she’d tell them she was calling for help. If he was alone, so much the better.
She opened her bag again, still a little peeved, and took the envelope out. “It’s the first two,” she snapped, and tossed it on the table.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
“What? You think it might slip my notice?” she said.
“Oh, yeah. Of course.”
“See you later, then,” she said and left.
He watched her all the way to the door.
What a waste, he thought. But, man, what a bitch. This whole fiasco was totally understandable, as far as he was concerned.
The waiter walked over to the door, opened it and peered out after her. Then he turned and gave him the nod, as if to say, “All clear, she’s gone.”
Almost at once he was joined by another man who stepped from the kitchen and crossed to him. “How are the mussels?” the man asked as he sat down and pulled up his chair.
“Really good,” he replied and popped another in his mouth.
“So, what’s the story?”
“It’s like you said. She wants you to be in the past tense, if you know what I mean. Kept asking me how I was gonna do it.”
His eyebrows went up. “Oh, very tasteful, I must say,” he said. “Still, no surprises there, I suppose.” He leaned forward. “And, no offence or anything, but she could have got someone with a bit more … you know, credibility.”
“Credibility? Based on what?”
“Price,” he replied bluntly.
“What? Are you saying I’m cheap? Thanks a bunch,” he said, but kept eating.
“So, how are you planning to do it?” the man asked. He picked up the dessert fork and speared a mussel with it. “Have you given it any thought?” He placed the mussel on his tongue and chewed thoughtfully.
“Already done,” he replied as he squeezed a slice of lemon over the last couple of mussels on the plate. “Actually,” he added with a smug grin. “It was Lisa’s idea. Y’know, her sister.”
“I do know who Lisa is,” the man said. “Intimately, as a matter of fact,” he added with a smirk. Suddenly, he frowned down at the mussels. “Do these taste okay to you?”
He looked up mid-chew. “Yeah, why?”
“I don’t know. They just taste … different, that’s all. Maybe it’s me. So go on.”
“Okay, so get this—it’s her cigarettes.” He waggled his eyebrows at the irony. “You always said they’d kill her one day. Well, today’s the day.”
“Her cigarettes? How?” The man reached over and speared another mussel, then stuck it in his mouth. Frowned again at the taste. “These do taste weird. Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m coming down with something,” he muttered.
“I tipped the filters in poison. More poison than they’ve already got in them, that is.”
“Impressive. So, by the time she smokes them, she could be miles from here. She could be up at the beach house, even.” He smiled, leaned back and thoughtfully stroked his chin. “Actually, I like that. I’ll give her a call later and suggest she takes a little time out—get some sun. I think that should fit nicely with her plans, too, don’t you think?”
“Exactly. Plus, I already sent a letter off to the local paper. You know, same old, same old. Crank letter saying someone’s poisoned some cigarettes because of how the writer’s dear old mum died of cancer from puffing up large her whole life, that kind’a thing. They’ll spend months doing a total recall on those cigarettes before they even start suspecting anyone else. I mean, look at what happened that time someone did the Foot and Mouth hoax a few years back. They never got anyone for that. They reckon they can trace letters through the mail, but man, I’m telling you, they wouldn’t have a clue. Seriously, if they could trace back to where the damn letters came from, you think that guy would still be running around out there now? I don’t think so.”
“And, did she die like that? Your mother, I mean.”
“Nah, course not. She’s probably in better shape than me,” he added and laughed. He used the last piece of bread to mop up the remains of the sauce and stuck it in his mouth. Then he frowned down at the plate and belched. “You know something,” he said. “I don’t feel so good.”
THE END