Angel Colón - No Happy Endings

“Fucking A, and I got tired of waiting for you to do it. Everything you need’s in the car.”

“My car?”

“No, dumbass, in my car. How the fuck would I get it into your car?”

Tom really wanted that gin; the tonic had become optional. He’d had fun the past few months, basking in young pussy while he and Marty talked about killing each other’s wives, a couple of lap dances for the road. He figured his divorce was almost as close as Marty’s, and Marian would get half of what was already only half as much as it had been, the market’s death by a thousand cuts bleeding him every day. The sun would shine brighter in a world without Marian.

Now Marty was good to go. Carol had a lawyer and Tom didn’t know for a fact that Marian didn’t. Marty was right: once papers were filed, neither wife could catch cold without her husband falling under suspicion. Of course, wife killing was much more entertaining as an abstraction, and Tom had never killed anything more evolved than an insect in his life. Buried the whole cage when the kids’ pet hamster died so he wouldn’t have to touch Fluffy. Still, it was now or never. Kill her or face the idea of living like an intern again, running the copier for guys whose cufflinks cost more than his car.

Marty was talking. Probably had been, now that Tom thought about it. “You gotta be there at ten o’clock. Earlier and she’ll still be up. Later and it’s too close to when I come home.”

“Huh? Wait. Run that first part by me again.”

Marty squeezed Tom’s wrist until he grimaced. “Pay attention, dickhead. You fuck this up and I’ll come after you myself. There’s no way you’re doing this half-assed and taking me down with you. You listening to me?”

Tom nodded, tried to make eye contact with the waitress without moving his head. She wanted fifty bucks, he’d give her fifty bucks. A hundred. Just someone bring him a drink , for Christ’s sake.

Marty didn’t need a drink. “One more time. The stuff’s in the car. Black pullover, black jeans, black shoes and socks. One of those head things like Hines Ward wears when it’s cold.”

“What? You mean like a helmet?”

“No, not a helmet. Jesus Christ. Are all stockbrokers this dumb? No wonder the economy’s in the shitter. It’s like a skull cap, tight, pulls over your head, covers everything except your face. Race car drivers wear them.”

“Balaclavas?”

“If you say so. At least you’re listening. Put everything on, darken your face up some—”

“How should I do that?”

“Do what?”

“Darken my face.”

“I don’t know. Use some charcoal from the grill.”

“We have a gas grill.”

“Then buy some charcoal. Jesus Christ. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars here. Spend three bucks on a lousy bag of Kingsford.”

“It’s not the money. How am I going to explain the charcoal when I have a gas grill? It won’t look right.”

Marty rubbed his forehead with a thumb and index finger, closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. “What are you, autistic? Throw the rest of the bag away. It’s just charcoal. It ain’t like they got serial numbers on them. Use dirt if you want to. Just darken up your face.”

Tom had a thing about being dirty, showered before and after work every day. Sanitized his hands after he blew his nose, snot on them or not. Right now he’d swim naked through a pig trough if someone would just bring him a beer. Lite beer, even.

“Look at me, you son of a bitch.” Marty grabbed Tom’s cheeks between a thumb and forefinger. “I’m desperate here. This has to happen, and it has to happen tomorrow . You don’t do this and I’ll ruin you. I’ll tell your wife what I know and she’ll get half of what you got left plus child support. And you’ll probably lose your license. Then what are you gonna do?”

“How you figure to get my license?” Marty could tell stories about Tom lawyers would line up for like politicians at a microphone. Being a randy drunk couldn’t cost him his stockbroker’s license.

“Remember that time you told me about that old broad—what’s her name?—Finnegan? How you used money in her account for what you called ‘leverage’ to float that hedge fund thing a few years ago? You made a bundle off that, didn’t you?”

“She didn’t lose a dime.”

“She didn’t make any, either. You told me how you got her to sign shit she wasn’t sure what it was? Got to be records of that, right? You move money around, something she has to sign for, I can’t believe they just throw the paperwork away when the money gets moved back. I’m no stockbroker, but they must be pretty fussy about their bookkeeping. I mean, it’s money, right? No other reason for a stockbroker to be in business.”

Fuck. Fuck. Marty told anyone about that and it was over for Tom. He’d be lucky if his old man could get him a job delivering uniforms. If he didn’t go to jail. He opened his mouth to talk. Marty beat him to it.

“Wait. Don’t say it. How do you know I won’t tell anyway? Right? That’s what you’re thinking. Well, think again. You already have me dead to rights for solicitation of murder. That’s a capital offense. If we quit dicking around and go through with it, both of us have enough on the other guy that neither one can afford to talk.” Marty cocked his head, raised his eyebrows. Showed the palms of his hands like he’d just said something so self-explanatory a retard would understand.

Tom was drunk, not retarded. He understood perfectly that he was well and truly fucked. Didn’t matter anymore whether he killed her or not. Don’t kill her and Marty would ruin him, maybe even send him to jail. Much as Tom disliked getting dirty, he liked the idea of taking one up the ass even less. Kill this woman he’d never met, never ever seen, who’d never done him any harm, and he knew Marty would hold up his end of the deal. Just watching him, the way he acted when he talked about it, Tom knew Marty wanted to do Marian. Hell, he was looking forward to it. Then Tom would be out from under forever.

Maybe he should pretend she was Marian.

Tom took twenty minutes to decide where to park the car. Right in front of the Cropcho house was too obvious. Up the street either direction meant leaving it where someone might notice it in front of his house. Nothing but trees around the corner where Argonne made the bend to go down the hill, but then he’d have to walk. No telling who’d see him, and the car could get clipped by someone taking the blind turn too fast. He settled for across the street, more or less between two houses so each could think the car was visiting the other. Made him feel good, thinking of that. Like he knew what he was doing.

Last week of September, steam from his breath reflected the streetlights. Made him feel practically luminescent, like people watching television in their homes would run to the window to see what the hell was glowing out there? His footfalls loud as someone striking an oil drum with a ball peen hammer. How could anyone not see or hear him?

Relax. Take a breath. He had the key and knew the security code. Might not even need the code; Marty said Carol hardly ever turned on the alarm. She’d be in bed watching 20/20 or a doctor show or some queers designing clothes or cooking. Even if the alarm did go off, she’d assume Marty came home early and wouldn’t get up. Bedroom to the right at the top of the stairs. Walk up, surprise her—she might even be asleep, that would be nice—put a pillow over her face and press. Take a few things to make it look good, break a window on the way out. Easy.

He paused on the front porch to steady his breathing, try to get a handle on his heart rate. Looked for signs of trouble, not that he’d recognize any. Most houses had a tree or two in the front yard; at least some shrubs. Leaves already falling, more every time the breeze picked up. Made rustling sounds so he couldn’t hear if anyone was coming. Moving shadows in odd patterns, someone could be in any of them. A kid sneaking in late. Sneaking out. Someone walking a dog. Too exposed out here. Time to get inside.