Peter Leonard - Quiver

“Whoever she is, she’s rich,” Celeste said. “Lives in a mansion like movie stars do.”

Teddy said, “Seen anyone around?”

“No,” Celeste said.

“Get a name, at least?”

Celeste handed Teddy a stack of envelopes. He took them in his lap, dripping ice cream on the top one.

Teddy said, “What the hell’s this?”

Celeste said, “What do you think it is?” She sat down next to him.

He looked confused.

Teddy said, “What’re you giving it to me for?”

“Take a look.”

He glanced at the envelope from Consumer’s Energy, read the name Owen McCall, 95 °Cranbrook Road, Bloomfield Hills, MI 48034. Owen McCall, the NASCAR guy? Had to be. Teddy was well acquainted with him. But Teddy’d swear the man had died. Remembered hearing it on the news, thinking that asshole got what he deserved. He looked up at Celeste who was standing next to him. “Who’s the girl?”

Celeste said, “I’d say she’s his wife.” She gave him her smart-ass, know-it-all look.

Teddy said, “What’s Jack doing with her?”

“That’s the big mystery,” Celeste said, “isn’t it?”

“Well, he’s on to something,” Teddy said.

“What’d he say about the money?”

“Doesn’t have it.”

“What I tell you?”

Teddy didn’t care for her tone but let it go. He slurped some ice cream, thinking,’ course Jack wasn’t interested in them. He’d got his own plan.

They were sitting in Shelly’s Jag in the church parking lot off Cranbrook near Lone Pine. Shelly turned sideways, leaning back against the door. She looked fine, DeJuan feeling a tingling in his manhood, thinking he’d like to get naughty with the bishop’s wife, show her some moves she ain’t seen before.

He imagined Shelly, cool, talking to the police, saying, “Marty had demons he couldn’t control.” Trying to explain why he’d taken his life. He bet she was a fine little actress.

It had been a couple weeks since Marty’s funeral, DeJuan giving her time to get her act together. But now he wanted his money.

“First, my condolences,” DeJuan said. “Sorry for your loss.”

“What’re you talking about?” Shelly said. Bitch in her tone.

“Your beloved life partner, Marty.”

“You said you were going to make it look like an accident.”

“No. You said that.” He remembered exactly what he said, could recite the whole conversation ver-fuckin-batim.

She crossed her legs, DeJuan staring at her thighs in tight jeans, the jeans tucked into black boots.

“Let me ask you something,” DeJuan said. “Did it work out or didn’t it?”

“Why’d you write that dumb letter? You could’ve blown the whole thing.”

Was she trying to get him to reduce 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 ride.” He reached over, put the key in and started the Benz. Marty, DeJuan figured, was halfway to the promised land, let carbon monoxide take him the rest of the way.

Back in the kitchen, DeJuan wondered about a suicide note. Man offs his self-he going to say why-tell his story. But why’s a dude worth all that money going to do it? DeJuan thinking, he could be depressed. Yeah? Depressed about what? — money being the ultimate depression buster.

He decided it had to have something to do with being a Mormon. Did something he couldn’t live with. Like what? He’d have to do some investigating. He sat at Marty’s laptop, went to the Church of the Latter-Day Saints Web site, got an idea.

You were a Mormon, worst thing you could do was murder. And right after that, running a close second, was fornication. DeJuan couldn’t believe that one. Dude gets his self some trim, that’s a sin? What was that about? DeJuan wondering how long he’d make it as a Mormon. Five, ten minutes before they excommunicate his black African-American ass.