The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing (20 page)

“Yes.” This time Ryan’s brevity is shorthand for something I already know. Unless Carl is the indisputable initiator, we can’t touch a hair on his head. 

I’m almost afraid to ask, but I have to. “Have you mentioned this to Jack?”

“I thought I’d leave that to you.”

“Coward.”

“You got that right. Try to break it to him gently.”

We both know that’s easier said than done.

I hang up to find that Babette’s surprise luncheon has already broken up, and a crowd has gathered around the cloakroom door. I have to get out of there if we’re going to make it to the ballet in time, but that won’t happen anytime soon if these women don’t get their wraps first.

 In other words, I’m stuck in the Eighth Circle of Hell. Dante calls it Fraud, but I know it to be Procrastination. None of these women wants to get back to housework, carpool, or kids.

Someone yells above the din of gossip. “Hey, hand me the beige lamb’s wool cape, will you?” She tosses me a ticket with a number on it.

For real? Seriously, how many cloakroom attendees can afford Marc Jacobs.

Oh. My. God. There’s a five-dollar bill underneath the ticket. Score!

I find the right coat and hand it over. The tickets and bills keep coming.

Like I said, sometimes it pays to be in the Eighth Circle of Hell, especially if your credit card bills include pricey couture, like Marc Jacobs.

Chapter 16

When the Wrong Partners Fill Your Dance Card

Balls and cotillions are such fun—when you’re with the right one! 

True, a gorgeous gown and your adroitness at scintillating conversation will make you the belle of the ball, but frustrations can arise when an annoying waltz partner fills your dance card even before the first chord is struck. 

Solution: spike his punch with eye drops, then have him twirl you around the dance floor. In time, he’ll be running to the loo in order to spew his guts for the duration of the evening, and you’ll be free to dance with pithier swains.

“That’s bullshit! What’s the world coming to?”

Jack’s angry declaration has several of the ballet’s patrons turning around to shush him into silence. Granted, the prima ballerina’s pirouette dipped a bit, but it’s not the end of the world.

I waited until the closing scene of Swan Lake to break the news to Jack about Carl’s new gig. In hindsight, bad move. 

We’re sitting with Babette, Janie and Trisha, in a private box. Jack’s eyes, which had been following ballet’s prima ballerina in her death throes, narrowed and move toward Carl, across the orchestra loge. He’s sitting behind Breck and Asimov, in another box. The three of them have been ignoring the performance. Instead, they’ve been talking in low voices. 

“So, he gets full immunity from our government—and a trillion dollar company to run?” Jack’s whisper comes with a shake of his head. “This means the Quorum may be controlling the next president of the United States!”

I raise his hand to my lips, and brush it with a kiss. “Believe me, it will never happen.”

The final scene is over, and the audience is on their feet. The applause is deafening. The tears streaming down the prima ballerina’s face causes her make-up to run.

Trisha pulls my hand so that I can hear her exclaim through her own tears, “Mommy, she is so bee-you-ti-ful! I’m so happy to be a ballerina, too.” 

This is what every mother lives for: the wonderment she sees in her child’s eyes, a rarity in this jaded, mixed up world.

As promised, Asimov has arranged for Janie and Trisha’s ballet class to go backstage. I’ve arranged for the Panther to be there, too. Not to my surprise, the Panther is underwhelming: a little old man who’s claim to fame is that he’s so unobtrusive that no one even realizes he’s there. 

Not even Carl, who doesn’t see him as he sidles up next to him. I hold my breath as the Panther slides an envelope out from under his jacket. He reaches up to tap Carl on the shoulder.

But just then, the Kiev Ballet manager shouts something in Russian as he points to one of the ballerinas—the one who played the Black Swan, in fact—who is running up the aisle, to the back of the theater. She flings open the swinging double doors and, with a flying leap, bounds beyond them.

But no! Suddenly, she falls.

Carl has shot her.

Not that any of the little girls or their mothers know this. His gun has a silencer, and the ballet’s fawning fans are too busy ooohing and ahhing at the Corps de Ballet in their pretty tutus.

The next time the doors swing open, I spot two of Asimov’s men dragging the prima ballerina’s limp body down the hall.

Angrily, I run over to Carl. “What the heck did you just do?”

“She was sent here to kill Asimov. She failed, and I shot her before she could get away.”

“Oh! So she was from the Russian dissident cell?”

He shrugs. “Apparently so.”

“You’re lying.” Jack pushes Carl, as if daring my soon-to-be ex to prove him wrong. “Tell her the truth. The manager yelled out that she’s an asset who was attempting to defect.”

Carl shrugs. “I forgot that Lover Boy here speaks fluent Russian.”

I turn to Carl. “How dare you? She had a right to leave! And to shoot a gun in a theater filled with innocent bystanders, not to mention children. It’s reprehensible!”

“She picked the wrong time and place. Asimov doesn’t need another public relations debacle, despite what she thought to the contrary.”

“You mean, like the one Mary, our daughter, caused?” I’m glad he winces when I point that out. “Now you can pretend we’re three for three: that there are no more assassins on Asimov’s tail. Fine with me! The sooner you call it quits and move on, the better for all of us.”

“I told you, I’m here to stay, so get used to it.”

“Oh yeah? That’s what you think.” I look around for the Panther. Where did the little bastard go?

Then I notice him: passed out, at Carl’s feet.

Nope, not passed out, but dead. His eyes are open, and the summons is still in his hand. 

I guess seeing Carl draw his gun scared him to death. 

He wasn’t a panther. He was a scaredy cat.

I can’t wait to hear what Alan has to say about this. Probably that Carl will never be served. That I’m stuck with him, forever.

We’ll see about that.

When Carl turns back toward Asimov, I take the summons from the Panther’s cold, stiff hand, and slip it into my purse. Then I force my lips into a smile and tap Carl’s shoulder. “I hear congratulations are in order, that you’re going legit. Gee, I guess you really impressed Breck.”

I’d like to slap Carl’s knowing grin off his face. “Yeah, well, he recognizes talent when he sees it. I’ll be bringing home a lot of bacon, so I hope you have your pan ready.”

It’s ready, all right. In fact, it’s All-Clad: a twelve-inch five-ply stainless steel and aluminum skillet with a copper core. If I smack his head in just the right spot, he’ll be joining the Panther on that big firing range in the sky.

Ah, well. A girl can dream, can’t she? 

Truth is, I take just as much fun in plotting Carl’s legal exit from my life as I do when fantasizing about his fare-thee-well. “So, what say we celebrate your promotion? Dinner is on me. Do you remember the Sand Dollar? It was once a favorite of yours.”

We celebrated many a special occasion there. Well, he’ll remember this very last time, too.

“You’re on. But won’t lover boy over there be jealous?” 

He nods toward Jack, who grins back, but shoots him a bird nonetheless. 

Carl’s smirk is aimed at me. “Oh yeah, I forgot! Your fella has other plans. While Asimov preps for POTUS, Jack is joining Breck and some of the delegates on another night out on the town… What Jack didn’t tell you? Where do you think he was last night, after he left you? Not to mention the night before that. Breck knows some hot strip clubs.”

Carl can read it on my face: the hurt. And yes, maybe just a wee bit of jealousy.

Jack sees it, too. His nod is so subtle that I barely catch it. 

Yeah, I get it.  All in the line of duty.

Sorry, no. It doesn’t make me feel any better.

I gulp in order to keep my voice from shaking. “I know the score. And, by the way, so does Jack. If you’re set on hanging around for a while, we’re all going to have to learn to get along, right? So, what do you say? Will I see you at Sand Dollar, down at the beach, say sevenish?”

“Sure, okay. Works for me.” 

He leans down and pats Trisha’s head. “See you around, little one. A lot, I hope.”

Um… NO.

Trisha must be thinking the same thing. As he walks off, she sticks her tongue out at him. 

Wish I could do that too, but it would set a bad precedent, as would cutting the jerk's jugular, so I also resist the urge to pull out my stiletto and go Ginsu on his ass. Monkey see, monkey do.

Being a good mom takes a modicum of restraint.

Jack and I drive back to Lion’s Lair in silence. I wait until we’re alone in our room to ask the obvious.

“So, why didn’t you tell me where you were going?” 

Jack winces at the question. But I think his nervous tic is his fear of what I’ll do with the nail file in my hand. Thus far, I’ve just been sawing away at my half-ass home manicure.

“What with this whole issue with Carl resurfacing, and you wanting to divorce him so that we can marry, I didn’t feel the timing was right to mention that being in Jonah Breck’s good graces means hitting every titty bar and whorehouse in the county.”

“You’ve been hitting whorehouses, too?”

Jack is quite aware that now I’m holding the nail file in my fist, like a knife. It’s not exactly an SOG, but it’ll do the trick, which is why he backs away, slowly. “You know what they say. ‘In for a dime, in for a dollar.’” 

His feeble attempt at a laugh dies when he sees me stab the file into my gel eye mask. Oops! The gel squirts onto Jack’s tuxedo. 

I click my tongue. “My bad.”

“Donna, cut me some slack! As soon as Asimov leaves, we’re out of here, too, and good riddance. I never thought I’d admit this, but I’ve seen enough tits and ass to last me a lifetime.”

“Oh, now I get it! Now you want me to walk around in a burka, is that it?” I look down at my breasts. To make my point, I cup them, then turn in his direction. “Are you implying that Pixie and Dixie aren’t ‘perky’ enough for you?” I turn, so that he can look at my backside. “You know, just last week you told me this thang was Gaga-licious.”

“I don’t think those were my exact words.”

At my stage of life, furrowing a brow is the last thing a woman should do. Still, his counter merits due consideration. “Perhaps your exact words were that you could ‘eat off my posterior.’”

“Exactly. Seriously, you took that as a compliment?”

He ducks just in time. A flurry of feathers takes flight when the nail file stabs the pillow where his head once was.

“Donna, no surprise here, but you’re taking what I’ve said out of context. Breck is a creep. He chooses them young, and he treats them rough. Twice, the house madam had to go into his room with a bouncer. The dude is a sadistic whoremonger. Although I have to tell you, Carl comes in a close second.” He shakes his head in disgust.