Authors: Barry Ergang

Tags: #mysterythriller, #mystery, #revenge murder, #suspense fiction, #revenge, #suspense murder, #thriller, #suspense

Stuffed Shirt (2 page)

Glowering at me as if I had betrayed an unspoken pact, he extracted a five-dollar bill from his pocket and smacked it into her hand. “Like I said,” he growled, “women have already castrated half the male population. This little wimp”— he jerked his chin in my direction— “is a prime example.”

***

In mid-summer, rumors began to circulate that Haskell would be promoted to a creative directorship in September. Management at Danforth believed in promotion from within; therefore, based on seniority, I was the logical candidate for the position of art director. An exciting prospect, it was something I had worked a long time to achieve, risking decisions with regard to my “life choices,” as psychologists call them, that no one knew anything about. I said nothing, nor was the rumor confirmed. The mere fact of its existence galvanized me, making even Claymore’s unwanted attentions bearable. I indulged a fantasy of firing him in front of the entire art department when I became the new director.

But then he went beyond verbal abuse, altering my fantasy and his own end.

After several months of work, I went to Haskell’s office to turn in the latest series of layouts for Ardis Cosmetics. Haskell examined them, nodded approvingly, and then cleared his throat. His expression was uncharacteristically sheepish.

“Very nice, Eric. Up to your usual standard. But…uh…I’ve got something I think they’ll like better.”

I gaped incredulously at him.

“Theron did some…extracurricular work. He had some ideas of his own and tried them out—on his own time,” he added hastily. “He saw what you were doing and took it from there.” He cleared his throat again. “His work is very good.”

“But Ardis has always been
my
account.”

“I know, Eric, but…Well, take the long view. We’re all team players here. You of all people ought to know that.”

“Yes, yes I do. But…why didn’t you tell me before?”

He looked at his desktop a moment, then back at me. “Honestly? Because you’ve always done excellent work for Ardis, and I wanted to see the finished product before I decided.” He shrugged. “My gut hunch says Theron’s work will go over better.”

“Why not show them
both
of our concepts and let
them
decide?”

He brushed at his mustache with a fingertip. “I know this is upsetting, but there’ll be plenty of other work for you—for Ardis and other clients. Besides, all Theron did was make a few improvements on your basic ideas. Would you like to see them?”

What I answered, or whether I answered at all, I do not remember. I did not return to my cubicle. I left the building and walked, I cannot recall where or for how long, in a feckless rage. It was suddenly clear that Claymore’s subtle dominion over the art department was part of a ploy to undermine my seniority and advance his own objectives. My grasp on the art directorship, I sensed, had been weakened by Claymore’s inveigling schemes. I could imagine him inverting my own fantasy and firing me. Or—worse, perhaps—keeping me on as the constant target for his verbal sallies. If I resigned and went elsewhere, I would have to start all over again, perhaps spend another five years establishing myself at another agency without the assurance of attaining a senior position.

When I returned to Danforth, I said nothing more to Haskell and he said nothing to me. Once, however, I thought I spied Claymore smirking at me.

By that evening I had calmed down, red fury turned to white decisiveness. Claymore was a steadily debilitating malignancy. Pragmatism dictated his removal. I had two weeks’ vacation coming up, and during that time I would kill him.

***

The Monday morning I returned from my vacation, the agency thrummed with shock and horror over the murder of Theron Claymore, by person or persons unknown, the Thursday before. My coworkers either moped mournfully or eagerly heaped on me the details they had gleaned from newspaper reports and from the police interrogators who had visited the agency. “You sure picked the right time to go away,” someone said. “This place has been somewhere between a morgue and a circus.”

By the time I arrived home that evening, I was simultaneously elated and enervated. After running the bathwater, I went directly to my bedroom and undressed. I hung my suit neatly, then removed my shirt and threw it into a hamper. I am small-breasted, and the bandeau I wear beneath my shirt to flatten my bosom does an admirable job of disguising my curves. I took off the bandeau and, wearing only panties, regarded my suntanned reflection in a full-length mirror. Slipping off the dark male toupee, I finger-fluffed my own short-cropped, almost mannishly cut brown hair. Finally, I stepped out of the panties and settled into the soothing bath.

Killing him had been an absurdly simple task. As planned, I flew to the Bahamas for my vacation. I immediately sent a postcard to the agency to establish that I had indeed been away. I spent my days on the beach, tanning and imagining how I would approach Claymore without putting him on guard. After eight days, three fewer than the original reservation called for, I flew back.

Locating Claymore might present some difficulty, but I suspected that Gerrity’s was the logical place to find him. I went there in the middle of the evening on the day of my return, but he didn’t appear. The next day I arrived during “happy hour,” when the city’s businesses release their employees to their own diversions.

Gerrity’s was dim, noisy, and congested with people, strutting men and preening women, their faces hectic and brittle. There was a pathetic quality in the way some of them approached others in a travesty of the mating ritual.

Within half an hour of my arrival Claymore appeared, grinning his assurance, waving hellos to people he recognized, occasionally pecking the cheek or squeezing the shoulder of a woman he knew, “high-fiving” some of the men. I had dressed to enhance rather than to conceal my attributes in a reasonably snug blue dress and a longish red wig. The only demure touch was a pair of cream-colored gloves.

Catching his eye was easy, after which I engaged in the immemorial gestures of a woman desirous of a particular man’s attentions. Claymore took the cues without hesitation. After drinks and conversation laced with innuendoes, I suggested he take me to his apartment. There we had another drink, and I submitted to his kisses and touch, suppressed my loathing in the knowledge that intimacy would be his nemesis.

At length I urged him to take me into the bedroom. Mistaking my eagerness for lust—the impression I hoped to convey to gain the advantage I needed—he complied. Having brought no weapon, I would have to improvise, catch him at a vulnerable moment. The heavy glass ashtray on his nightstand declared retributive providence was my companion.

He kissed and fondled me as we stood alongside his bed. He unzipped my dress and I let it fall around my ankles. Stepping out of it, I unclasped my brassiere, let it slip slowly away from my body, and posed for him until he reached for me again. I suffered another embrace, then bade him huskily to undress. “We got plenty of time, baby,” he said, but obediently sank onto the edge of the bed to remove his boots. His vulpine grin flooded me with reminiscent fury—memories of months of supercilious smiles and caustic remarks.

I grabbed the ashtray off the nightstand and smashed it against his temple. Howling, he toppled off the bed to his knees.

“You bitch,” he moaned.

“Don’t you mean
son
-of-a-bitch?” I said in the lower register I affect at Danforth.

Whether realization of my identity penetrated his pain and disorientation, I could not determine. I did not take time to gloat. He was much taller and stronger than I; if I had to struggle with him I would surely lose the fight. I struck again with the ashtray, this time at the back of his skull, and he fell forward to the floor, still moaning.

I strangled him, appropriately, with my brassiere.

I dressed calmly, wiped surfaces and items I had touched after removing my gloves, ascertained I had left nothing behind to incriminate myself, and departed.

Mother would not have understood her pragmatic daughter Erica. But perhaps Claymore, of all people, would have. It was he, after all, who had said, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

Sometimes, so does a woman.

####

About the Author

Former Managing Editor of
Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine
and First Senior Editor at
Mysterical-E
, Barry Ergang’s fiction, poetry and non-fiction have appeared in numerous publications, print and electronic. He was the recipient of a Derringer Award from the
Short Mystery Fiction Society
for the best short mystery story of 2006 in the Flash Fiction category. His website address is
http://writetrack.yolasite.com/