Kathleen O'Reilly - It Should Happen To You

She stared down at him over her glasses. “Go choke on a quark, Monihan.”

“I love it when you get feisty.” He pitched his voice an octave higher, “Oh, baby, yeah, right there…”

Had she really said that? Thank God she’d been too drunk to remember. She kept her eyes on her computer screen and whispered. “I got friends, Monihan. Friends that can really hurt you. I wouldn’t be so quick to make jokes.”

He leaned forward, the laughing blue eyes deadly serious. “You think this a joke? Not at all. Your career’s been shot into a black hole unless you cooperate. You know the presentation for Heidelman? I’ll bring the video.”

“I could go to Heidelman and just report you for sexual harassment.”

He looked intrigued. “Are you going to? A tough character-defining choice. Which is more important to you? Justice or your academic image? That’s how you know what you’re really made of. Which path are you going to take?”

Mickey looked up, close enough where she could see the true ugliness of his nature. “What has happened to you? You used to be nice, now you’re just a bastard. Have you ever seen what a positron beam can do to human flesh? I’d say that’s one directional splatter we’ve yet to map. What do you say, John? Want to go down in history?”

He took a sip of cola, looking completely unfazed by threats of evaporation. “Does that mean we’re on for tonight? I’ve got to work late in the lab this evening, but for you? I’ll wait up.”

Wait up? He’d have to wait for hell to freeze, for time travel to be possible and for the discovery of Higgs Boson. “I have a hot date with my boyfriend,” she said.

“You don’t have a boyfriend, Mickey. Remember?”

She raised an eyebrow. Very Queen Elizabeth. “Maybe I do.”

“Yeah, right. Look, I’ll let you have your fun. Tonight you’re off the hook. And I’ll be nice and leave you the weekend free, but come Monday…” His voice trailed off, and he flicked a finger under her chin.

At his touch, she flinched, saddened that she’d actually had a pleasant carnal-knowledge experience with this creep. “You’re watching too many bad movies, Monihan.”

He walked over to his computer and clicked on his mouse a few times. Instantly the air was filled with moans and heavy breathing.

She slapped her hand down on her desk, welcoming the pain. “Shut it off.”

“Monday night?”

When the seventh quark was discovered, and not a moment before. Mickey shot him a dire look. “Whatever.”

IT WAS DARK OUT; the apartment complex was in a seedy part of the South Side. Thankfully, security lights were nonexistent. Mickey brought out her flashlight as they made their way to the side of the building.

“Ready?” she asked, whispering behind her.

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” was Beth’s sole vote of confidence.

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Yeah, you do. Hire Dominic.”

“He’s too expensive. And besides that, he’s dangerous.”

“Well, yes. But expensive means that he’s good, and you live for danger.”

Mickey shone her flashlight in Beth’s face to see if she was serious. Not a trace of a smile. Sometimes Beth scared her.

“I can do this,” Mickey answered, just as she found the old fire escape. Bingo.

“And why do you think that?”

Mickey pulled at the ladder, and the whole world resounded with the painful creak. “I researched breaking and entering on the Internet.”

Behind her, she heard the sound of Beth rolling her eyeballs.

Now wasn’t the time for naysayers, though. She searched through her bag until she found the can of WD-40. There’s always another use. Little did the advertisers realize, it could also be used for B and E. One spritz and the ladder was as quiet as the lab on Sunday.

“Okay, Shifty, what do we do next?” asked Beth.

Mickey climbed onto the fire escape and got to the second floor. Quickly Beth scampered up behind her. Then Mickey shone her light on the wooden window frame. It looked just like the diagram on the Net. “We can lift up on this and slide it off its tracks.”

“I’ll take this side,” said Beth, positioning herself at one end.

Mickey put down the flashlight and grabbed the other side. “One, two, three. Lift.”

They heaved.

Nothing.

Mickey took a long breath. “Okay, we’re just not putting enough into this.”

“Excuse me. I was. I put everything into that lift. Aren’t you supposed to know how to do this? Can we just teleport it, or something?”

“Transport. And that only works in Star Trek.”

“I’m losing faith in you, Mickey. I didn’t think this was going to work, but I told myself, ‘No, if anybody can hypothesize her way out of this, it’s you.’ I was wrong.” Beth, when tired, got mouthy.

Mickey, who had no patience for tired, mouthy women, shot her a warning look. “Shh. One more time.”

They got in place again.

“One, two, three. Lift.”

Somewhere in the dark they heard a noise.

“What was that?” Mickey asked, her heart pounding wildly.

Beth looked down below. “A cat.”

“One more time.”

“Maybe we could just break it?”

Mickey cased the joint, considering the idea. Everything was too quiet. “Nah. Somebody might hear us.”

“Can we try the front door? Maybe it’s unlocked.”

“You have no imagination.”

“Logic, Mick. It’s called logic.”

Beth had a point. Mickey abandoned her short life of crime. “Okay.”

They climbed back down and entered the building’s lobby. John’s apartment was on the second floor, right at the top of the stairs. Mickey handed the flashlight to Beth and tried the doorknob.

Locked.

Beth stared at Mickey’s hand, her mouth open. “You’re wearing gloves?”

“I didn’t want to leave any prints.”

“And what about me?”

Mickey had researched that, too. “Your prints aren’t on file. No worries.”

“What? You’ve been arrested before?”

“No. Anybody that handles plutonium gets printed and filed in the national database. Procedure.”

Beth got a little wide-eyed. “You really work with plutonium?”

“Nah. Just a little prison humor.”

Beth wasn’t amused. “Can we go now?”

A long beam of headlights lit up the window off the stairwell.

“Somebody’s coming,” Mickey said, and then took off up the stairs to the third floor. “Up here. If it’s John, he won’t see us.”

Beth followed right behind, a streak in black spandex and sweater. Very stylish. Silently they waited for the door to open below.

The door eased open and an old man creaked his way into the foyer. Mickey began to breathe again. “False alarm.”

“Look, this isn’t working. You need to hire Dominic.”

Oh, hell.

Mickey leaned against the rickety stair rail and faced the whole truth. Sadly, her life as she knew it was pretty much screwed unless she got that tape back, and Dominic Corlucci, mob guy extraordinaire, seemed the best answer.

Somewhere upstairs, a stereo cranked up. Loud, discordant and really, really bad music.

Mickey sighed. “Oh, all right.”

“Want to get a beer?”

“Soft drink for me,” she answered. She was still paying for the aftereffects of her last binge.

“I’ll buy.”

Mickey stuffed her gloves in her pocket and studied her own attire. Black sweatshirt and matching knit pants. Passable, but barely. “You think we should change?”

Beth shook her head. “Nah. Black is very in.”

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