Authors: Tara McTiernan
Bianca drove John's Mercedes to Cos Cob and then through town and down narrow back roads to the Pinetum. Well, at least now she could release some of her frustration while she practiced. She drove through the nature preserve's entrance and parked in a shaded corner in the emptiest end of the parking lot. Opening the car's glove compartment, she pulled out a .45 pistol and then a silencer, which extended the gun too much to fit it in the glove compartment when assembled.
Screwing the silencer onto the gun lovingly, she remembered the conversation she'd had with Marco all those years ago. When was that? She was just out of college, so she had to be twenty-two. She'd thought at the time that she might like to be a mobster's wife. That was until she realized how boring that would be, hanging around with the other wives and being tacky together. No thanks.
But Marco was before she knew that and he was a big burly Italian who liked to flash his money around, money earned through dealing cocaine, she found out later. Which wasn't bad news; she didn't mind the freebies, that was for sure. She always had a baggie in her purse those days, as well as a little mirrored Chanel compact and a ready-rolled and lightly taped fifty dollar bill. Yes, Marco was free with the coke, but not with the gun. She had to fight for that.
She waited until right before they had sex, when he was horny and ready to go, to ask. He was begging for a threesome lately, and she didn't mind doing it. Luckily, he didn't know that.
"Oh, baby, just think of you and me and some babe? Wouldn't that be fuckin' hot?" he asked, running his hands down her body and then grabbing her buttocks and thrusting his pelvis against hers. They were still standing, half-dressed, almost there, the bed inches away.
"Oh, Marco. I don't know. It's just-"
"Aw, come on, baby? You know I love you. I won't leave you for her. I just want to have it, just once. Two women at the same time," he said, panting in her ear.
"Well...on one condition."
"What? You name it, you got it."
"A gun."
"What?" he said, pulling away and looking at her.
"A gun. I need one. For protection."
"But you got me, sweetie. You don't need no gun. Come on, what do you really want? Clothes? Jewelry?"
"A gun. That's all I want. You give it to me, one that's clean, unregistered, and I'll give you your greatest dream come true," she said, reaching down and stroking the steel-like hardness in his jeans.
"Uhhhh, stop. No. You don't need no gun!"
Bianca took her hand away. "Fine. You don't need a threesome. We're even."
"No! Come on! There's gotta be something else."
"I think we've reached stalemate here. I'm not playing if you're not."
He shook his head, staring at her. "Really? It matters that much to you?"
"Yes. It does."
"Well, I'll think about it."
"Good. I'll think about it, too."
He tried to wheedle some more but it went nowhere. Bianca stayed strong. In the end, it was Marco who caved, got her the gun and collected his reward using a red-headed tramp they met at a nightclub one night. Bianca, as she suspected, was fine with it. She didn't enjoy it that much, she preferred men, but it was worth it to get her gun. The silencer was another battle that she won, this time more easily, saying that the gun's noise bothered her ears and didn't he say she should practice what she'd learned from him by shooting in the woods, that a gun was no good unless you knew how to use it?
Thinking about Marco made Bianca chuckle as she climbed out of the car, taking the pale green gift bag containing the gun and the Polaroids with her. Time for a little target shooting. She was out of practice and she needed to get the hang of it again now that she knew about Chelsea and John.
She walked into the woods, carrying the gift bag and hoping she wouldn't meet anyone on the trails. One trail was less traveled than the others, overgrown with saplings and weeds, and that was the one she took. At one point, she had to clamber over a fallen tree, and tore the knee of her black pants, swearing a little. But the tree was good. Who wanted to do what she just did? Most of the entitled elite in the area were used to things being mowed and cleared for them. A dirty old fallen tree would make them turn back.
Then she was in the small clearing, the same one she recognized from the last time she'd practiced all those years ago, knowing someday she might need a gun. As usual, she was right. She pulled out the gun from the gift bag, dropping the bag on the grass, clasped it in both hands and straightened her arms, making sure not to lock her elbows. The silencer helped a little with the recoil, but didn't completely eliminate it, just the way it didn't completely make the gun silent. But it was quieter and that helped.
She took a practice shot at a branch and hit it dead on. So she hadn't lost it. Well, motionless things were easy to hit, big whoop. She lowered the gun and waited, looking around the quiet clearing.
There, a squirrel. She raised the gun, aimed at its little round eye, and fired. Its head exploded, and its limp long-tailed form fell from the tree where it had been clinging into the tall grass. Bianca smiled and lowered the gun. She definitely still had it. But she'd hit a few more just to be sure. Besides, she was having fun.
Ten minutes later, a brown rabbit appeared, hopping haltingly out from under a bush. Bianca raised the gun and said, "Hey Chelsea! You dumb bunny."
Then she pulled the trigger. The rabbit's neck ripped open, blood squirting, and its soft furry body tumbled. Bianca lowered the gun again. She would invite that dumb bunny over for drinks the week after the dinner party. She would insist, tempting Chelsea with a promise of a luxurious present and saying it was a belated birthday gift. She would also claim to be convinced everything was fine with John after all, that she was just a silly girl imagining things. She would even say that John was being particularly amorous lately and that's how she knew their marriage was secure. That would drive Chelsea crazy.
When Bianca spotted a robin land fifteen feet away, she picked it off, leaving a clump of dripping feathers on the ground and thinking about how equally easy it would be to shoot either of them. John wouldn't know it was coming, she'd catch him unaware, and Chelsea would be so overwhelmed when she saw that John was dead, she'd be stunned still, just like the quivering bunny rabbit that she was. Then Bianca would wipe the gun, get Chelsea's fingerprints on it and drop it near Chelsea, whom she had shot in the face at the correct angle so that it would look self-inflicted, and scream.
The police would do the rest, kindly take care of the bodies, and she'd be the pitied wife whose husband had cheated on her with her best friend. Worse, she'd had the horrible misfortune of finding the two lovers' bodies after Chelsea, in a fit of jealousy, shot John dead and then turned the gun on herself. Bianca would also be very rich as John had no other heirs and had listed her as his primary beneficiary in his will, a will that hadn't been updated since Sebastian's birth.
Grinning, Bianca lowered the gun again and waited for another woodland creature to venture into the clearing, knowing she had plenty of ammunition, also obtained illegally through Marco, and hours to practice.
Vodka Martini
"Hey, you!" Jimmy said, smiling with delight and throwing his arms open when he saw Sharon walk in. O'Malley's regulars were already occupying most of the bar stools and some turned to look with curiosity at the latest arrival. As she was average-looking and they didn't know her, they turned back to their beers.
"Hey, yourself. How are you doing?" Sharon said, stepping over to an empty spot at the bar and taking a deep whiff of the tantalizing smell of freshly fried onions coming from the kitchen. She could see why Alan loved this place. It never changed. Even Van Morrison was playing on the jukebox as usual, "Moondance" this time.
"Eh, the usual. Well, better. Last time I saw you, my wife was teed off about Alan staying over all the time. No more, thanks to you. How's he doin'?"
"Okay. I'd like him to quit completely but he says he doesn't have a drinking problem," Sharon said, shrugging. This last comment earned her a contemptuous look from the regular sitting on the next barstool, a man with a nose that was practically purple with broken blood vessels. Sharon knew the look too well and ignored it.
"Well, I thank you, kind lady. Grab a stool and I'll fix you up with the driest martini you ever had."
"Actually, I'm getting a table. I've got some friends joining me and I was hoping we could get one of the quietest tables, the booth over there in the corner? Can I just take it?"
"No maître d' here. Just plant yourself. I'll send over a waitress and that drink, assuming you want it?"
"You bet I do, with just a whiff of vermouth, like a half-remembered dream."
Jimmy's face crumpled and he begged, "Don't get all poetic on me. I just know how to pour them."
"You do, Jimmy, you really do." Sharon raised her hand in a salute, and walked over to the quietest table in the bar and the first place she thought of when Lucie and she made their plans for the big showdown with Molly. It was nice and private, with walls on either side and tucked in the farthest corner of the room. It was also in O'Malley's, where loud arguments were a daily occurrence and taken as par for the course in a place that catered to functioning alcoholics. If Molly got feisty and made a scene, it would either be ignored or ridiculed.
Sharon slid into the banquette and, thinking of Alan, she decided to take advantage of the wait for the other girls and call him. It was nearly six and according to their agreement, he would've had his one "reasonable" gin and tonic by now and would be cooking dinner, which he usually ate in front of the television while watching the news. For awhile she stopped by each day to check on him and bring him groceries, but lately she'd been so busy with helping Lucie and work, she had fallen out of the habit, resorting to daily phone calls and weekend visits. He seemed better and he had promised he would stay that way this time.
The phone rang and Sharon waited for the click of the receiver and Alan's warm rough voice to say, "Hi mommy. Yes, I did have a good day at school today. I even played nice with all the other children," the way he started to every day lately when he saw it was her on his caller id. She would reiterate that she just wanted to make sure he was okay, and he would reiterate that he was and that it wasn't necessary to keep calling him, that everything was
fine
now.
But the phone continued to ring and then his voicemail picked up. After pressing one to skip the greeting, she said, "Alan? It's me, Sharon. I just wanted to check in. I guess you're making dinner? I know this annoys you, but... I worry about you. Can you call me back when you get this? You can yell at me all you want, but just call me anyway. Okay?" Sharon paused and sighed before saying, "Please. Do it for me. Indulge me, your favorite crazy worry-wart. Please." Then she hit the end button and put the phone down in front of her so she wouldn't miss his return call. Her drink came and menus for everyone, even though she told the waitress most of the girls probably wouldn't eat, that it was just a cocktail hour.
Then Lucie appeared, limping across the room to Sharon and smiling.
Sharon stood up to hug Lucie hello. "Look at you! Walking! Next thing I know you'll be running a marathon."
"Look at
you
, back to your jeans for our cocktail hours," Lucie said, looking crisp and practically nautical in white capris and a trim navy top.
"O'Malley's is super casual. You're overdressed. But you look great, as usual. It must be the French in you," Sharon said, gesturing at the booth and sitting back down.
"I never wear jeans. And you know, you're right, I am like Mere. She never wore jeans either."
"Are you nervous?"
"Terrified," Lucie said, bugging her eyes out.