Ted Bell - Tsar

“Only my mom. Oh, Mom, that’s it, her old-timer’s kicking in again. She’s starting to get dates mixed up lately. And next week is our anniversary, so I bet-come on in. Sorry to keep you standing out there in freezing cold. Put it in the kitchen, if you don’t mind. Right through there.”

“Sure thing, lady,” the fat man said, moving past her toward the kitchen.

“Through the swinging door,” Monie called out, turning on a couple of living-room lights and following him toward the kitchen. She paused at the foot of the stairs and called up to George.

“It’s okay, honey. I’ve got it. It’s a surprise from Mom. One week early.”

“Okay,” came the muffled reply from upstairs, and then she was through the dining room and pushing open the swinging door into the kitchen.

He’d put the box down on the butcher-block center island and was leaning back against the counter by the sink. He had a big smile on his face and, what the hell, a gun? It was black and stubby in his chubby white hand.

It was pointed straight at her heart.

“Oh, my God.”

“My name’s Happy. I’ll be your worst nightmare this evening.”

“Sweet Jesus, what is this all about?” Her heart was suddenly pounding against her ribs, threatening to splinter them. She flashed on Debbie and Carrie upstairs in their beds and knew she had to stay calm somehow, suppress the sudden terror and panic threatening to overwhelm her sanity, and somehow get through this alive, get this maniac out of her home.

He smiled.

“Not good, is it? Ruin your day, something like this.”

“Omigod, omigod, omigod. Who-who are you? What do you w-want?”

“Well, that depends. I only came here to make a delivery. But sometimes life throws you a bone. Bone. Get it?”

“What the hell do you want? Huh? Tell me! It’s yours! Money? Jewels? Just take what you want and leave, okay? Please. Just, just leave.”

“First I want to see exactly what you got on under that robe. Then we’ll get to the other stuff I want.”

“Oh, Jesus, oh, sweet Jesus. My God, a stalker. You’re a stalker? You’ve been following me? That it?”

“Just a week.”

“A week? Why? Why me?”

“The robe, honey. Now.”

“My husband’s upstairs. If I scream, he’ll-”

“He’ll what? Come running down here to find a guy with a gun more than happy to put his brains on the wall? C’mon, mayor. Take the robe off, and we’ll see how this plays out. Maybe everybody gets out of this alive, you play nice. Otherwise, maybe not.”

Her entire body was suddenly shaking uncontrollably. Terror. Anger. The freezing cold. All of the above.

“Look, if it’s money you want, we’ve got plenty. There’s a safe. I’ll show you. Hidden behind a mirror in the linen closet. There’s twenty thousand in there. Cash. And all my jewelry. Take it all, and get the hell out of here. I’ll even give you an hour headstart before I call the cops.”

He pulled back his sleeve and showed her the chunky gold Rolex with the diamonds encrusting the dial. He’d bought it at the Blue Diamond King on West Forty-seventh with his first paycheck since the new job. “I’m up to my ass in jewelry right now. What I want is for you to lose that robe. Do it. I got a gun in my hand and a rap sheet two miles long, cupcake. One more dead broad in my life just ain’t all that significant, believe me.”

“Oh, God…can’t we-”

“Do it, lady!”

With trembling hands, she loosened the terry sash. Then she shrugged out of the robe and let it fall to the floor, puddling around her bare feet. She’d turned the heat off downstairs. It was already freezing in the kitchen. She could feel goose bumps all over. She saw the wooden knife block sitting on the counter. Eight brand-new German knives from Kitchenworks.com. Knife against gun? Paper against scissors, but better than nothing.

“Nice,” he said, staring at the nipples hard against her sheer black nightgown, her breasts like cantaloupes encased in silk. “You know how much I could get for you in Saudi? Dubai? Whoa!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not really a baker, as you may have guessed. I’m an old-fashioned iceman. Professional-grade button man, born and bred on the streets of Brooklyn, New York. But I do a little flesh peddling now, sell women on the side. Damn good business, too, Ukrainian girls, mostly. Beautiful. But not as pretty as you. Some sheik of Araby would pay top dollar for those tits.”

“Look. Whatever you want from me, just do it, okay? Do it. Then leave. I won’t scream. I won’t make a sound.” She was trying to picture getting him preoccupied, then grabbing one of the big butcher knives out of the block.

“I don’t mind a little screaming now and then, tell you the truth, mayor.”

“Mayor? Why’d you call me that?”

“I like to bone up on my targets, you know, do my research. Part of the fun.”

She looked behind her at the swinging door. It had a small porthole window she’d had installed back in the day when they could afford a cook. She knew she’d never get through that door alive.

“Please. Hurry up and get this over with. My husband could come down any second.”

“Come over here, bitch. And lose the nightie, okay?”

“Okay. Okay. You win.”

She walked around the center island, pulling the flimsy nightgown up over her head. There is only one way out of this nightmare, her brain was screaming. Give this asshole what he wants, and pray to God she could get hold of that butcher knife on the counter. If that didn’t work, what? Anything to get him away from the house. Far away from her children. Anything. She would do-she dropped the nightgown on the floor-anything, she realized, to save them, save her family.

“There,” she said, positioning herself in front of him, where she could maybe lean forward and grab the knife. “Is this what you wanted? Go ahead. It’s all yours, Happy. Have at it. Then get the hell out of my house.”

He stayed put. He kept the gun on her, then reached out with his free hand and squeezed her left breast, testing it like fruit at the market, gently kneading the flesh but pinching her nipple hard, harder. And still harder, waiting for some reaction in her eyes that she would never, ever give him.

She could feel his hot breath on her, the scent of testosterone suddenly filling a family kitchen so recently smelling of macaroni and cheese. He was hurting her now. She suddenly took his free wrist, guided his hand down between her legs, let his fingers pry apart the soft flesh, while she backed against the counter, put her hands behind her, spread her legs wide. Her right hand was now maybe three feet from salvation.

He looked at her and smiled.

“Looks like I came to the right house.”

“Do it,” she said, calculating how and when she might lunge to grab a weapon. She knew she’d only get one chance. Happy was smiling at her.

“Do what, honey? Ask for it.”

“You want me to suck it? Is that it? Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll do it right goddamn now.”

She reached out, found the zipper under the protruding belly and yanked it down. Hooked her index fingers inside his stretch waistband and pulled his white baker’s pants down to his knees. His penis was standing straight up, just like George’s upstairs. Then she bent her head to him, took him in her mouth, and gave him what he wanted.

Somehow, she’d have to get him when he used both hands to pull his pants up. That would be her only chance, catch him when-

“What the hell?” a new voice somewhere said.

George. He was at the kitchen door. She stood up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her husband was standing there in the doorway in his striped woolen robe, a look of total incomprehension on his face. He looked at his naked wife, then at the fat baker, then back to her.