Dying for Revenge (40 page)

She paused, waited to hear him say something about the boy on the beach at Sandals.

He frowned, his intense stare focused on her eyes.
“Sex and the City.”

He knew.

He said, “You want to tell me about it or should I tell you about it?”

She took a breath. Not much got past Matthew. Not much.

He said, “Cancel it or I will cancel it for you, and if I cancel it, it will not be pretty. You are planning to spend
twenty-four thousand
dollars
to go to a movie about four dumb and desperate women, a movie that you can get at Blockbuster for twenty dollars? You’ve fallen off the deep end and lost your mind.”

“They are not dumb.”

“You’re right. They’re smart enough to get you to pay twenty-four thousand to see them. How much do you think they would pay to see you? This bullshit ends here. This bullshit ends now.”

She nodded, not in agreement, but in compressed anger, in confirmation of what she had to do, acknowledging that her husband had pushed and pushed, and now she was cornered.

He said, “Crossroads. That empty bed has your name on it.”

Her jaw tightened.

“So you want to send me to a place filled with drug addicts and washed-up celebrities.”

“For your own good. For the good of this marriage.”

They were at a crossroads.

Her marriage was a sticky wicket, a difficult circumstance that had to be resolved.

She looked from the terminal to the restaurant, her eyes staying on the eatery.

Sweat trickling down her back, she fanned herself and said, “I’m hungry.”

Thirty

crime boss

She walked up the stairs and Matthew opened the door for her, the perfect gentleman, and he pulled on silver door handles shaped like cricket bats, both set at an inward angle. The hostess led them to the left, toward the sports lounge. Matthew walked behind her, unable to see her frown; the echoes from his stride didn’t hide his frustration and disappointment. Her stride didn’t hide her anger. Sweat dripped down her neck, her flesh being cooked, the Caribbean sun strong and unkind. Jeans and a linen top were too much to wear in this heat, heat made for beaches and bikinis and drinks with sexy names.

Flagstone columns. Classy sports bar. Posh lounge. Cricket memorabilia all over.

She ordered food. Conch fritters. Ribs. Beef brisket. Passion-fruit juice.

Matthew ordered. Mahimahi with a passion-fruit, mango, and lime salsa. Ginger ale.

Four televisions above the bar, one over her head, cricket match on, information about BOWLING SPEED, ALL DELIVERIES BOWLED, the game in progress, the world of cricket not interesting her.

He mumbled, “Twenty-four thousand dollars to see a fucking movie that will play the next day at the same movie theater for ten bucks. You really need some help. And you need it bad.”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t argue. Only a fool would argue with a fool.

She was eating barbecued ribs when the team showed up; jeans and T-shirts that made them look like walking billboards, all wearing shades, all wearing hats, shades and hats that Matthew asked them to remove, shades they all took off without hesitation, hats they did the same with, all deferring to Matthew, following the words of El Matador as if he was a god.

Matthew sat at the middle of the table, made sure all could hear his voice. They sat around him like he was their Jesus and ordered more barbecue, roasted half chickens, crab cakes, whole snapper, pretty much everything off the “Sticky Starters,” “Wicket Greens,” “Wicket Mains,” and “Cricket Sandwiches” sections of the menu, food that came not with the casualness of most Caribbean eateries, but with the quickness of an American restaurant, places that had substituted real cooks with frozen foods and microwave ovens. She preferred a skilled chef over a microwave technician.

But the food tasted fresh, as most island food did, tasted better, fresh, no preservatives.

The men, the bodyguards, the soldiers from Detroit, didn’t look at her the way they had done at Pigeon Point Beach, never let their eyes drift her way, no comments about her ass, no lingering looks, not a single glance at her, knowing that a glance at Matthew’s wife, at El Matador’s woman, would leave blood in the sand. And she didn’t make eye contact with any of the men, the drama that had happened at Abracadabra still on her mind. She listened as Matthew regurgitated her strategy as if it was his own. He was the quarterback and she was being treated like a cheerleader. Fuck that. She left the table, gave up staring out at landscaping more impressive than the grounds in Beverly Hills, went to another section of the restaurant, left the testosterone and steroids and ordered dessert from the “Sweet Tail Enders” part of the menu, took in the five-star sports bar and air-conditioning, tapping her fingers without pause, her resting place overlooking the cricket stadium, cricket on all of the monitors throughout the restaurant.

Cricket. The only sport more boring than baseball. Badminton was more exciting.

She ate cheesecake, glowered at her husband.

Then something went wrong.

 

Nausea.

Sickness hit her, her insides hot, guilt bubbling in acid. She moved past the bar, found the bathroom to the left in an alcove, went inside a stall, the wave hitting her hard, regurgitating all she had eaten. Sweat came as cramps followed. The side effects from taking the MAP had come with quickness.

She didn’t know how it would work with her, if it would work.

Didn’t know if she would bleed for a week, like a normal period, slight cramping, then her world would go back to normal. Or if she would bleed like a hemophiliac. She threw up like crazy, retched and felt severe cramps for a moment, couldn’t walk, couldn’t stand, cried and wished she had painkillers, heating pads, hot tea. She cleaned herself up, pulled it together, leaned against the counter.

It felt like it was more than the MAP.

It felt like she had been attacked by demons of the dead and the dying.

The ecstasy. The marijuana. The alcohol. Inside her body like a cocktail.

She needed fresh air. She felt dizzy, had difficulty breathing, sharp pains in her joints, sharp pains in her abdomen. Five minutes passed. Then ten. She left the bathroom trying not to panic.

What she saw, who she saw, paused her.

The Lady from Detroit was there, legs crossed, Christian Louboutin pumps on her feet, now clothed in a colorful dress in blues, reds, and oranges, very chic and expensive, her exotic jewelry just as colorful, her expensive perfume, her presence, her posture, everything about her looking like springtime in Paris, everything about her dominating the sports bar, dominating the building, dominating the island. The dress wasn’t tight, but the way it flowed made it appear more form-fitting than what she had worn before at Pigeon Point Beach, more casual, more sexy; it was sleeveless, with a V that showed off her jewelry and cleavage, her breasts round and looking brand-new. She was sitting next to Matthew, chairs touching, sitting next to him like they were the team leaders.

The politician’s colorful dress was pulled up to her thighs, as if she was trying to cool off, escape the heat.

Or pulled up as if she were showing flesh up to the middle of her thigh, trying to create some heat. Matthew and his ex-lover, the woman he had fucked, were side by side; he and the woman he had probably fucked in pussy, mouth, and ass were practically shoulder to shoulder, brainstorming.

She went to Matthew, her eyes locking with the Lady from Detroit’s. There was no greeting between her and the politician. She reached beyond the politician and tapped on Matthew’s shoulder, smiling a rugged, painful smile as she called her husband to the side, fought with the nausea inside her body as she took a few steps and waited for him to get up, now everyone turning to look at her as if she had a problem, as if she were a problem, as if it were her fault this wasn’t taken care of across the pond, her eyes saying fuck all of you, the ills and the poison inside her as Matthew came her way, taking deep breaths as she led him away from the group, as she took another breath and paused between the sports bar and the hostess stand, stopped where she could see the Lady from Detroit and her imported thugs.

“I’m bowing out, Matthew.”

“Bowing out?”

“You have a solid plan. You have guns. You have a crew.”

“Those are
her
men. You are the other half of
my
team.”

“Doesn’t take that many people to get one man.”

“Well, apparently Detroit thinks it will take that many people. Plus some. In her mind Gideon is some kind of a beast. She talks about him like he’s a creature from Greek mythology.”

“It’s one fucking man, Matthew. He will be unarmed. You have a dozen people. That’s overkill.”

“How are you going to bow out of a commitment? Half the money has been given, and that half has been spent. We have bills to pay, your debt, mind you. You have to see this thing to the end.”

“Don’t feel like it.”

“Don’t feel like it.”

“Might go to Touch Therapies, get a massage and a facial.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like a stand-up comedian?”

“
Me me me me me.
That is what you always sound like.
Me me me me me.
This is about teamwork, not about what you feel like. Not
you,
not
me,
about the
team.
She hired us to do a job.”

“Are you still sleeping with her?”

“Is that what this unnecessary and unprofessional attitude is about?”

“Are you?”

“If I didn’t know any better I’d swear you were projecting your own guilt on me.”

“Just answer the question and I’ll turn my projector off.”

He said, “You worry about where you were the night I got here; you worry about that.”

“You pop up unexpectedly, God knows when you got here, she happens to pop up at the same time you get here, now you keep leaving the room, gone for hours, coming back, being an asshole, chastising everything I do. She shows up and sits all up under you like you’re at a damn drive-in movie.”

“Everybody is sitting close.”

“Not with their breasts damn near in your mouth.”

“Take it down, take it down.”

“Are you fucking her?”

“Don’t be so repetitious. Can you at least find a fresh accusation to amplify your insecurities?”

She smiled. “I’ll leave a present between her eyes if you are.”

He stared at her. “You’re flushed and sweating.”

“I’m hot. This heat is getting to me.”

“The heat or the lies?”

“Don’t be repetitious. Find a fresh accusation to amplify your insecurities.”

He nodded at her. “It’s cold in here.”

“Your bitch’s nipples told me that.”

“No one in the room is hot.”

“Well, she’s hot for you. She looks at you like she’s on the verge of spontaneous combustion.”

Behind her, from the sports bar, as cricket matches played on at least a half dozen mounted televisions, the Lady from Detroit and the crew from Motown were watching; she felt the stares on her neck.

In front of her Matthew had drawn a line in the sand, was daring her to cross it in front of them.

In front of his former lover, in front of Detroit, in front of the woman he had her working for.

She felt it; this confrontation wasn’t a husband facing his wife.

She was facing El Matador, a man who had forgotten what she did for a living.

He said, “Humor me.”

“What?”

“I take it you’re pissed about this
Sex and the City
thing.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Which one do you think you’re like? Humor me. Which one do you think you are?”

“Carrie.”

“That’s funny.”

“What’s so funny about that?”

“From what I’ve seen, I think you’re more like that one called Charlotte.”

“I’m nothing like Charlotte.”

“She thinks she’s sophisticated, intelligent, and classy, always dressed up . . .”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“And she’s nothing more than a naïve
idiot.
”

“Charlotte was not an idiot.”

“A five-star idiot in expensive clothing.”

“She never thought of herself as an idiot.”

“Idiots never think they are idiots. The Three Stooges didn’t think they were idiots. At least three of them are anyway. I’ve seen a few episodes, forced to watch that idiotic bullshit night after night because you had the remote control in your goddamn hand, damn near every episode TiVo’d so you could watch it on demand. Charlotte is so damn annoying, naïve, and a prude. Carrie’s slut-with-a-heart-of-gold act is nothing to look up to. And Samantha’s just an old-ass worn-out slut without a heart at all. Miranda is as bland as tofu out of the bag. Why would any woman look up to those women? I watched the damn show and couldn’t figure out for the life of me why those four women would be friends. They don’t like each other and it shows. Then I understood why they were friends. Because they are all idiots. Those lost women on that pointless show make the old hags on
The Golden Girls
seem like Einstein, Ben Franklin, Madame Curie, and Oppenheimer. The men on the show are not men. Not
real
men. Those pitiful, pussy-whipped, low-self-esteem bastards have been injected with estrogen and castrated. Pussies. I have yet to see a real man on that show. Not one has any balls. Pussies and idiots.”

He had become an angry atheist ridiculing what she believed, ridiculing the core of her being.

She was about to lose it, his every word making her want to snap.

But she gave him a hard stare and silence.

She pushed her lips up into an angry smile and asked, “You done playing Siskel and Ebert?”