George edged closer. His features darkened. "Now," he said. "If they were gainfully employed, or at least willing to become productive members of society, that would be a different story."
Pete closed the knife with his thumb. "You got a job for me?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
George nodded. "Yeah, I do. How does two hundred dollars sound?"
After thinking about it, Pete told him it sounded fine. The fat, sloppy punk, Rat, offered a hand which Pete ignored. He stood up slowly, his stomach tight and sore from the kick he took. The two punks got alongside him, sandwiching him, hanging their arms loosely around his shoulders. Their body odor was stifling. It had been two months since Pete had outwitted himself and lost forty grand to his fiancée, Toni. Since then things had gone from bad to worse. The last three weeks he had been living off the streets of Miami, unable to raise the bus fare to get back to New York. He prayed he didn't smell like these two.
The two punks led him out of the park. As they walked, George explained how he knew Pete wasn't just a shiftless lazy bum, but a down-and-out soul who was looking for a chance to pull himself up from his bootstraps. Rat found something amusing in that and broke into a wheezing laugh, followed by a coughing fit.
They walked a quarter of a mile before stopping in front of a pink and white art deco ranch in an exclusive neighborhood near Coral Gables. Rat hustled over to the front door, jiggled with the lock, and then hurried back, his face a bright red. "All set. Door's unlocked," he grunted.
George took Pete aside. "Here's the story," he said in a soft monotone. He was standing very close to Pete. His breath felt unpleasantly hot and smelled a lot like rotting fish.
"My boss has a problem with the guy who lives here," he continued. "We want to teach him a lesson he won't forget. How's that sound?"
"Sounds okay."
George nodded, handed Pete a wad of bills. "That's two hundred," he said. "All you got to do is knock off the guy's wife. And you're going to do it with him in bed with her. It will be a lesson he won’t soon forget."
George explained more of the situation. Pete stood listening, his features marble hard, his eyes half closed. George took a gun from his waistband and handed it to Pete, holding it so Pete had to look down the barrel as he took it.
"We'll be waiting for you," George told him. "You better not screw up in there."
Pete looked at the gun. A thirty-two caliber revolver. He reversed his grip and then swung it hard, slashing George across the mouth with the barrel. The blond punk fell back a couple of steps and grabbed his mouth. Rat took a step forward, then stopped.
"That's for the beer bath and the kick," Pete explained softly. "And for not brushing your teeth."
"We'll be waiting for you," George said, slurring his words. He had both hands pressed against his mouth.
"As a friend I got to recommend you start flossing," Pete said with a wink. He turned and followed the slate path to the front door. Before going in, he looked behind him and saw both punks standing frozen, blood in their eyes.
Inside, he pushed aside the front curtains and watched as the two punks hightailed it out of there, scampering away like hyenas. Pete bit his tongue to keep from laughing. He took the money out and counted it. Two hundred as advertised. Enough to run a few scams with so he could get back to New York in style. He was about to start looking for a back window when a thought stopped him. On a hunch he cracked open the revolver. There was only a single bullet in the cylinder.
As Pete stared at the gun his lips pressed into a harsh, thin smile. A minute passed before he moved and pushed the cylinder back in place. After that he turned on the lights.
The kitchen was off to the right. He rummaged through the refrigerator and found beef tenderloin in the freezer. He used the microwave to defrost it, and cooked it up with some eggs, taking his time eating. A bottle of Dom Perignon accompanied his meal.
It was almost two hours after entering the house that Pete walked into the bedroom and turned on the lights. The wife was lying on her back, her mouth open as she snored uncomfortably. Pete guessed she was drugged. The husband was lying on his side, the blanket pulled over his head.
Pete stood and stared at the husband. The body under the blanket twitched once, but other than that was completely still. Pete walked over to it and pushed the gun barrel against an indentation in the blanket that outlined an ear.
"Take your hands out slowly," Pete ordered.
There was no movement. Pete cocked the revolver. "Have it your way then," he said softly.
Two hands came out. Pete pulled the blanket off and threw it on the floor. Laying next to the husband's stomach was a .357 magnum.
The husband, a short stocky man in his mid thirties, tried to give Pete a big, wide used-car-salesman's smile. "Get out of bed," Pete said, and then he grabbed the man by the arm and pulled him onto the floor.
"What's going on? If it's money you want -"
"Shut up." Pete picked up the .357, checked to make it sure it was loaded, and then cracked open the thirty-two caliber revolver and dropped its single bullet to the floor. "Here's your gun back," he said, handing the empty gun to the husband.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about."
Pete glanced over at the wife. She was still oblivious to the world. Blond, nice shape, particularly stunning legs. Her body had for the most part slipped out of her negligee. He forced a smile as he addressed the husband. "If you want I'll call the police right now. You want me to?"
The husband stood staring at Pete, his large broad face turning a bright pink. After a long while he shook his head.
"I wouldn’t think so," Pete said. "I have to admit, I'm not very happy with what you tried to pull. But we can talk about that later. What did you drug her with?"
Without any hesitation: "Phenobarbital." The husband pushed a hand through his hair, showing off a hairline that had receded severely. He flashed an embarrassed smile. "I'll give you five thousand dollars right now to kill her and then beat me up."
Pete shook his head. "I'd do the second part for free, but the first part - no. Let's go to the kitchen."
Pete let the husband lead the way. When they got there, Pete found a pad of paper and pen in a drawer and tossed it to his host. As he explained what they were going to be used for the bright pink in the husband's face faded to a queer white. He obviously didn't like it, but he did exactly what Pete asked for, writing up a confession and signing it.
When he was done, Pete read it over. The confession outlined that the husband had Pete delivered to his house to kill his drugged wife and how he had planned to then kill Pete and pass him off to the cops as a burglar. The husband sat glaring at Pete. "Cheap blackmailing punk," he smirked under his breath.
Pete shrugged casually. "You're going to find I'm anything but cheap." He took out the husband's wallet that he had grabbed earlier when he was in the bedroom, and studied the driver's license. The husband turned a paler shade of white. Pete let his teeth show through a thin smile and crumpled the confession into a ball and tossed it into the garbage. "Let's try it again," he said. "And with your next trick, you lose some teeth."
The confession was rewritten. This time the signature and the name matched the license. The husband, Brian Hurley, looked sick. "So you're going to blackmail me," he remarked glumly.
"Not really," Pete answered as he folded the confession into an envelope. "I'm going to let you hire me. Two thousand a week plus room and board. We'll call it a Man Friday type position. What it will really be is figuring a way to keep you from pulling this stunt on the next poor sap. And making sure your wife stays alive." Pete's eyes narrowed as he studied Hurley. "As far as I'm concerned, after what you tried to do to me all bets are off. If you express any moral outrage or indignation I'm going to kick your face in and then have a nice, long talk with your wife. Right now, I’ve got an errand to run. I'll be back in about half an hour. Make sure you have a room ready for me. Also, I like bacon with my eggs, and my orange juice fresh squeezed."
Pete found a book of stamps in a drawer and affixed one to the envelope that he had folded the confession into. He smile congenially at the husband. "See you in a little bit, boss," he said.
# #
The next morning the shrill, unpleasant whine of a police siren woke Pete up. Or at least that's what he first thought it was. As he lay in bed and the haze around his brain lifted he realized the noise was actually human and coming from Mrs. Brian Hurley. She stood in the hallway with her hands on her hips as she yelled at both Pete and her husband, demanding to know who the hell Pete was and what he was doing in her house.
Pete sat up and rubbed his eyes. She was wearing a yellow, translucent robe. Sunlight streaming in from behind her showed the only thing underneath it was the same flimsy negligee from the night before. Her body had nice curves, sagging only slightly from what had to have been a hell of a hangover. Even hung over Pete guessed she would make a better than decent living as a stripper. He smiled graciously and introduced himself as Pete Michaels. "Brian and I go way back," he said. He turned to Hurley who was standing off to the side, looking sick to his stomach. "Hey buddy, remember what I told you last night about the airline losing my bags? How about getting me one of your robes?"
Hurley left without a word. Mrs. Hurley stood staring at Pete, her face a hard white, like a cat's just before the kill. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded.
Pete ignored the question. "Brian's told me a lot about you. Real great guy, your husband, inviting me to spend the next few weeks here. Of course, after all we've been through together, what choice did he have?"
Hurley arrived with a bathrobe. Pete slipped it on. Mrs. Hurley stood glaring at her husband, her mouth moving as if she were chewing food.
"All right," Pete announced, clapping his hands and swinging himself out of bed. "What's for breakfast?"
Mrs. Hurley got in his way. "I want you out of my house," she insisted, her voice trembling slightly.
Pete glanced over at Hurley who was standing quietly with his hands in his pockets. "Okay," Pete shrugged. "But first let me -"
Hurley rushed forward and pulled his wife away. "He's staying," he said. "Understand, Gloria?"
She shot him a withering look, was about to say something, but swallowed it back. Pete led the way to the kitchen. Hurley prepared breakfast, bacon and eggs and fresh squeezed orange juice. Pete did most of the eating for the three of them, Hurley mostly just played with his food while his wife sat opposite Pete, studying him, her eyes having a tough time with the light. Finally she smiled. Only with her lips, nothing in her eyes.
"You and my dear husband go way back, huh?” she said with a laugh. “Forgive me then for getting so upset before. Let's start over. Hello Pete, call me Gloria." She held out her hand to him, and when Pete took it she held onto him longer than she should've.
"It will be nice having a good-looking man around the house for a change," she said. Hurley muttered that she better shut up. There was a slight sparkle to her eyes as her smile finally reached them. "As you can tell," she continued. "Brian has basically gone to pot. He now looks more like an ape than a man. I think he's got more hair on his back than his head."
For a moment it looked like Hurley was going to strike her. Slowly he got his control back, stood up and mumbled under his breath that he was heading off to work. Pete stopped him.
"I think I'll accept the offer you made last night," Pete said. "You know the one you made after accidentally spilling beer over my suit - about buying me new clothes to replace my lost bags. Just leave a credit card and your car keys."
Hurley stood frozen. Gloria let out a short laugh. It brought him back to life. He took a credit card out of his wallet and dropped it and his car keys on the table. "Give me your keys," he demanded from Gloria. "Screw you. Walk to work," she said, then broke out laughing. A shrill, high-pitched laugh. It followed Hurley out of the house.
Pete took the last bite of his eggs. "It's good to see someone who finds pleasure in the little things," he noted.
Gloria got up, walked over to Pete, and sat in his lap. Her arm went around his shoulders, and her body twisted so her front pressed against him. It felt firm. "When I first saw you I was furious," she told him. "I thought dear Brian was up to something. But after watching you handle him, it's obvious he doesn't want you here. Which means I do. What do you have on him?"
Pete grinned. "If I told you I'd have nothing."
She ran a hand along Pete's cheek. It felt as cool as ice. "I think I know what it is, but why don't you tell mama anyway?" She had stuck out her bottom lip and pouted while asking Pete the last question, over exaggerating the baby talk mannerisms. Her hand had left his cheek and was caressing his chest and moving downwards. He grabbed it. "Sorry," he said. "I don't have time for this now."
"What's the matter - scared?"
"Always when handling dynamite." Pete pushed his chair back and stood up, dumping Gloria onto the floor.
She sat stunned, eyes wide open. "You dirty bastard!" she spat out.
"At least there's no misunderstanding what we both are," Pete agreed.
# #
After taking a long, hot shower and shaving, Pete found some of Hurley's clothes that were wearable. They fit poorly on him, too short and too wide in the wrong places, but the material was rich and expensive. Can't have everything, Pete sighed to himself sadly. Gloria sat on the sofa and watched as Pete called friends in New York trying to find his fiancée, Toni. Charlie, Toni's boss, didn't know where she was. "She took off two months ago. Business ain't been the same since," Charlie sighed mournfully. Pete offered his sympathies. Toni worked as a hostess at Charlie’s strip joint and was the club's biggest draw. Customers would come back night after night hoping to convince her to take her clothes off and join the dancers on stage. She never did, but that didn't stop them from trying. And they had good reason to try. Toni was a knockout.