Suckers Read online

  “I’m not trying to buy you!”

  “I’ll find my own way out.”

  I stormed out of the parlor, through the library, into the dining room, into another parlor, or maybe it was a den, and then I wound up in the kitchen somehow. I tried to back track, wandered into the dining room, and then found myself back in one of the parlors, but I couldn’t tell if it was the first parlor or the second parlor. I didn’t see that painting of the naked heifer, but Happy Roy may have taken it down just to confuse me.

  “Hello?” I called out. “I’m a little lost here.”

  No one answered.

  I went back into the dining room, then the kitchen, and took another door which led down a hallway which led to a bathroom, which was fine because I needed to go to the bathroom anyway.

  When the lizard had been adequately drained, I discovered some very interesting prescription drugs, just lying there, in the medicine cabinet.

  And then it all made sense.

  Forty minutes later I found the front door and headed back to my apartment.

  Time to drop the truth on Little Miss Marietta.

  * * *

  At first, I thought I had the wrong place. Everything was so... clean. Not only were all of my clothes picked up, but the apartment had been vacuumed—a real feat since I didn’t think I owned a vacuum cleaner.

  “Mrs. Garbonzo? You here?”

  I walked into the bedroom. The bed had been made, and the closet door was open, revealing over a dozen shirts on hangers.

  In the kitchen, the sink was empty of dishes for the first time since I rented the place fifteen years ago. There was even a fresh smell of lilacs and orange zest in the air.

  The door opened and I swung around, hand going to my gun. Mrs. Garbonzo entered, carrying a plastic laundry basket overflowing with my socks. She flinched when she saw me.

  “Mr. McGlade. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “Surprised, Marietta? I thought you might be.”

  “Did you take care of the guy?”

  “Sit down. We need to talk.”

  She set the basket down on my kitchen counter, and seductively perched herself on one of my breakfast bar stools. Her blouse had been untucked from her skirt, the shirt tales tied in a knot around her flat stomach.

  “You lied to me, Marietta.”

  “Lied?” She batted her eyelashes. “How?”

  There was a bottle of window cleaner next to the sink that I’d never seen before. I picked it up.

  “How about opening up that shirt and letting me squirt you with this?”

  “Is that what turns you on? Spraying women with glass cleaner?”

  I grabbed her blouse and pulled, tearing buttons.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of washing off those fake bruises. They’re so fake, the purple has even rubbed off on your collar. See?”

  I shot two quick streams at the marks, then used my sleeve to wipe them off.

  They didn’t wipe off.

  I tried again, to similar effect.

  Marietta sneered at me. “Are you finished?”

  “So what’s that purple stuff on your collar?”

  “Eye shadow.” She pointed at her eyes. “That’s why it matches my eye shadow.”

  “Big deal. So you gave yourself those bruises. Or paid someone to give them to you. I met your husband today, Mrs. Garbonzo. All ninety pounds of him. He couldn’t beat up a quadriplegic.”

  “My husband abuses me, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Yeah, I saw his swollen knuckles. At first, I thought they were swollen from hitting you.

  But he didn’t hit you, did he Marietta? Roy has rheumatoid arthritis. I saw his medication. His knuckles are swollen because of his disease, and they undoubtedly cause him great pain. So much pain, he’d never be able to hit you.”

  Marietta put her hands on her hips.

  “He beats me with a belt, Mr. McGlade.”

  “A belt?”

  “These bruises are from the buckle. It also causes welts. See?”

  She turned around, lifting her blouse. Angry, red scabs stretched across her back.

  I gave them a spritz of the window cleaner, just to be sure.

  “Ow!”

  “Sorry. Had to check.”

  Marietta faced me. “I’ve paid you, I’ve done your laundry, and I’ve cleaned your apartment.

  Did you take care of the assassin for me?”

  “Your husband didn’t hire an assassin.”

  “Is that what he told you?”

  “I know it for a fact. The guy you hired is a sixteen year old pimply-faced kid. He couldn’t whack anyone. He couldn’t even whack a mole.”

  I smiled at my pun.

  Marietta made a face. “I thought he sounded young on the phone. He really won’t do it?”

  “He lives in his parent’s basement.”

  The tears came. “I gave him a lot of money. Everything I’ve been able to hide from Roy during six years of marriage.”

  I thought about mentioning I got the money back, but decided against it.

  “Look, Marietta, just divorce the guy.”

  “I can’t. He threatened to kill me if I divorced him.”

  “You can run away. Hire a lawyer.”

  She sniffled. “Pre-nup.”

  “Pre-nup?”

  “I signed a pre-nuptial agreement. If I divorce Roy, I don’t get a penny. And after six years of abuse, I deserve more than that.” She licked her lips. “But if he dies, I get it all.”

  “Don’t you think killing the guy is a little extreme?”

  She threw herself at me, teary-eyed and heaving. “Please, Harry. You have to help me. I’ll give you half—half of the entire chicken empire. Help me kill the son of a bitch.”

  “Marietta...”

  “I cleaned your place, you promised you’d help.” She added a little grinding action to her hug. “Please kill him for me.”

  I looked around the kitchen. She did do a pretty good job. I wondered, briefly, if I’d make a decent Chicken King.

  “I’ll tell you what, Marietta. I don’t do that kind of thing. But I know someone who can help. Do you want me to make a phone call?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  I pried myself out of her grasp and picked up the phone, dialing the number from memory.

  “Hi, partner. It’s me. Look, I’ve got a woman here who wants to kill her husband. I told her I’m not interested, but I thought maybe you’d be able to set something up. Say, tomorrow, around noon? You can meet her at the Hilton. Rent a room under the name Lipshultz. No, schultz, with a ul. Okay, she’ll be there.”

  I hung up. “Got it all set for you, sugar.”

  She squeezed me tight and kissed my neck. “Thanks, Harry. Thank you so much. Is there anything I can do to repay you?” Her breath was hot in my ear. “Anything at all?”

  “You can start by folding those socks. And maybe some dusting. Yeah, dusting would be good.”

  She smiled wickedly and caressed my cheek. “I was thinking of something a little more intimate.”

  “I was thinking about dinner.”

  “Dinner would be wonderful.”

  “I’m sure it will be. Have the place dusted by the time I get back.”

  * * *

  Marietta Garbonzo called me the next night, around eight in the evening.

  “You son of a bitch! You set me up! You didn’t call a hitman! You called a cop!”

  “You can’t go around murdering people, sweetheart. It’s wrong on so many levels.”

  “But what about all of the washing? The cleaning? The dusting? And what about after dinner? What we did? How could you betray me after that?”

  “You expect me to throw away all of my principles because we spent five minutes doing the worm? It was fun, but not worth twenty to life.”

  “You bastard. When I get out of here I’ll...”

  I hung up and went back to the Sharper Image catalog I’d been thumbing through
. I had my eye on one of those massaging easy chairs. That would set me back two grand. Earlier that day, I bought a sixty inch plasma TV. The money I took from William “Billy” Johansenn was being put to good use.

  I plopped down in front of the TV, found the wrestling channel, and settled in to watch two hours of pay-per-view sports entertainment. The Iron Commie had Captain Frankenbeef in a suplex when I felt the gun press against the back of my head.

  “Hello, Mr. McGlade.”

  “Happy Roy?”

  “Yes. Stand up, slowly. Then turn around.”

  I followed instructions. Happy Roy held a four barreled COP .357, a nasty weapon that could do a lot of damage at close range.

  “How’d you get in?” I asked.

  “You gave a key to my wife, you moron. I took it from her last night, when she got home.”

  His face got mean. “After you slept with her.”

  “Technically, we didn’t do any sleeping.”

  The gun trembled in Happy Roy’s hand.

  “She’s in jail now, Mr. McGlade. Because of you.”

  “She wanted to kill you, Happy Roy. You should thank me.”

  “You idiot!” Spittle flew from his lips. “I wanted to kill her myself. With my own two hands. Now I have to get her out of jail before I can do it. Do you have any idea what Johnny Cochrane charges an hour?”

  “Whatever it is, you can afford it.”

  Happy Roy’s voice cracked. “I’m practically broke. Those damn claymation commercials are costing me a fortune, and no one is buying the tie-in products. I’ve got ten thousand Happy Roy t-shirts, moldering away in a warehouse. Plus the burger chains with their processed chicken strips are forcing me into bankruptcy.”

  “Those new Wendy’s strips are pretty good.”

  “Shut up! Put your hands over your head. No quick moves.”

  “What about you mansion? Can’t you sell that?”

  “It’s a rental.”

  “Really? Do you mind if I ask what you pay a month?”

  “Enough! We’re going for a ride, Mr. McGlade. I’m going to take you introduce you to one of our extra large deep fryers, up close and personal.”

  “You told me I could keep working with your wife.”

  “I said you could work with her, not set her up!”

  “Six of one, half a dozen of...”

  “I’m the Chicken King, goddammit! I’m an American icon! Nobody crosses me and gets away with it!

  I’d had enough of the Chicken King’s crazy ranting, so I reached for the gun. Happy Roy tried to squeeze the trigger, but I easily yanked it away before he had the chance.

  “Let me give you a little lesson in firearms, Happy Roy. A COP .357 has a twenty pound trigger pull. Much too hard to fire for a guy with arthritis.”

  Happy Roy reached for his belt, fighting with the buckle. “You bastard! I’ll beat the fear of Happy Roy into you, you son of a bitch! No one crosses...”

  I tapped him on the head with his gun, and the Chicken King collapsed. After checking for a pulse, I went for the phone and dialed my Lieutenant friend.

  “Hi, Jack. Me again. Marietta Garbonzo’s husband just broke into my place, tried to kill me.

  Yeah, Happy Roy himself. No, he doesn’t look so happy right now. Can you send someone by?

  And can you make it quick? He’s bleeding all over my carpet, and I just had it cleaned. Thanks.”

  I hung up and stared down at the Chicken King, who was mumbling something into the carpet.

  “You say something, Happy Roy?”

  “I should have stayed single.”

  “No kidding,” I said. “Relationships can be murder.”

  A BIT OF HALLOWEEN MAYHEM

  An Andrew Mayhem Thriller by Jeff Strand

  The most bizarre Halloween of my life began with me chaperoning a party at my house...one that consisted of a dozen second-grade girls. Obviously, that alone was enough to push it way over the top on the shriek-o-meter, but to my astonishment there was something even worse in store.

  My daughter Theresa was seven and she'd been allowed to invite her friends over for a party, as a "safe alternative to trick-or-treating," which was the current catch phrase in our little town of Chamber, Florida. This was not my idea. I was, quite honestly, appalled that my kids would be robbed of one of the greatest joys of childhood.

  When I was a kid, my friends and I took trick-or-treating with deadly seriousness. We'd start planning our route in late August, drawing an incredibly detailed scale map of the neighborhood and plotting the best course to attain the maximum candy in the minimum time. But this wasn't simple geometry...oh no, far from it. We also had to factor in the homes that were stingy with their candy, which had to be hit early, and the homes that regularly overbought, which were saved for last so we'd get them when they were desperately trying to get rid of their stash to avoid having stale Milk Duds until February.

  After our parents had checked the candy for razor blades and small explosive devices, we'd each take a section of whomever's bedroom was acting as our home base that year, spread our treasures out onto the floor, and bask in the glorious wealth. Evil "muahahahahaha!" laughs were essential. And then the trading would begin, which we took far more seriously than Major League Baseball ever has. After the negotiations, which could go on for hours, we would commence with the Feast...and lo, what a feast it was!

  But this year there would be no trick-or-treating for Theresa and Kyle, which meant I lost my ten percent cut for checking the candy. I'd tried desperately to convince Helen that they'd be safe under my "adult" supervision, but the neighborhood mothers had made up their mind, and it was stupid safe alternatives for everyone. So Theresa and her friends sat in the living room accusing each other of liking certain boys, while Kyle and I hid upstairs watching Blood, Blood, Blood! on television.

  Kyle was five and probably too young to be watching the movie, but I felt an exception could be made because a) it was Halloween, and b) Helen wasn't home. She was working at the hospital, leaving me alone to deal with the second-grade girls, who were behaving themselves surprisingly well.

  "UMMMMMMMMMM!!!" they shouted as one. "Theresa likes Eric! Theresa likes Eric!"

  "Do you know this Eric guy?" I asked Kyle.

  "Uh-huh."

  "Does he work hard? Will he provide for your sister in the manner to which she's become accustomed?"

  "He can burp songs," Kyle explained.

  "Good songs?"

  "I heard him do 'My Country Tis of Thee.'"

  "Cool, your sister's dating a patriot," I exclaimed, nodding my approval.

  "He got in trouble and the bus driver said not to do it anymore and he said if he did it again he was gonna get a misconduct slip."

  "Yes, well, Abraham Lincoln's bus driver tried to give him misconduct slips, too."

  The doorbell rang, and a dozen seven year-old girls shrieked in unrestrained terror. "I'd better go get that in case it's Mr. Boogedy-Bones," I told Kyle. "Do you want another Coke?"

  Kyle nodded.

  "And what do we tell your mother you drank tonight?"

  "Milk."

  "What kind of milk?"

  "Skim milk."

  "Good boy." I ruffled his hair just to annoy him, then hurried down the stairs and answered the door as Theresa and her friends scrambled around like electrified whackos trying to find hiding spots.

  "RRRRrrraaaahhhhHHHHH!!!" said the Wolf Man.

  "AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!" replied the second grade girls.

  "Hi, Roger," I said.

  My best friend Roger took off his mask, grinning. "Hiya, Andrew. I thought I'd see if you needed some moral support in your darkest hour."

  "Actually, it's going pretty well. Kyle and I were upstairs watching a movie, c'mon and join us."

  "Hi, Uncle Roger!" said Theresa, waving from behind her Britney Spears costume, sans breasts.

  "Hi, Theresa. Have you started bobbing for apples yet?"

  "We can't do that an
ymore. Daddy chipped his tooth last year and Kyle almost drowned."

  "I told him not to inhale," I said in my own defense.

  "Bunch of lightweights in this place," Roger remarked. "I hope you've at least got some decent apple cider."

  "We've got pumpkin pie punch!" Theresa announced.

  Roger looked at me. "Pumpkin pie punch?"

  "Helen accidentally invented it last night. Don't drink any."

  "I shan't."

  I went to the kitchen and got three Cokes out of the refrigerator. After telling the girls to continue behaving themselves, thus fulfilling my duty as a responsible adult, Roger and I went back upstairs into my bedroom.

  "Daddy, you missed a person melting," Kyle informed me.

  "Did you hear that?" I asked Roger. "A human being melts and I miss it, all because of you."

  "Happy Halloween, Kyle!" said Roger, putting his Wolf Man mask back on.

  "RRRRRrrrrrrraaaaaarrrrrrRRRRRRR!!!"

  "If you're good I'll let you take Uncle Roger for a walk later," I said. "Maybe we can find him some dog biscuits."

  Roger went "RrraaarrRRRR" again and lumbered toward my innocent child, arms outstretched. Since the eyeholes in the mask weren't all they could be, he smacked into the bed, earning himself an explosion of laughter from Kyle.

  "Not exactly Lon Chaney, Jr., are you?" I asked.

  Roger pulled off his mask and rubbed his shin. "That really hurt."

  "Do you need to go to the vet?"

  "Ha-ha. Hey, Kyle, why don't you ask your dad where babies come from?"

  "Daddy, where do—?"

  "All right, all right, let's just watch the movie," I said. "There may be more meltings in store!"

  After the bittersweet conclusion, where a few people died, we went back downstairs. The girls were seated in a circle, all the lights out except for a pair of flashlights, and screamed as one when we entered the living room. It took a few minutes to translate the shrieks and giggles, but we figured out that they were telling ghost stories.