Suckers - Jack Kilborn [17]
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 your 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 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