This Is How It Happened (13 page)

I unfold the crinkled napkin from the International House of Pancakes. Flatten out the edges. I stare at it. Debating.

When my brother wasn’t watching, I wrote down the number. So I wouldn’t forget it.

The phone number he showed me in one split second before he set it on fire.

There is no name. Just the number. I don’t recognize the area code. I bet it’s difficult to trace.

I pick up the phone. Dial the number. It’s a beeper. Damn.

I hang up.

Ronnie told me I wouldn’t be able to use a pay phone and now I see why. So I’m calling the meathead-for-hire on my cell.

I redial the number, punch in my digits followed by the pound sign for the beeper, and wait.

A minute ticks by, or maybe an eternity, I can’t tell. But my phone rings, suddenly.

I stare at my phone. It rings and rings until I snatch it off my coffee table.

“Hello?” I say.

“You just paged me,” a voice replies. It’s a man’s voice, of course. A deep, sexy man’s voice.

My goodness.

“Uh…I was interested in discussing your ser vices,” I stutter.

Am I really doing this?
I wonder. I hear that voice in my head again, this time saying,
What are you doing, Maddy
? But I press on.

“How did you get this number?” the voice asks.

“Friend of a friend.”

“Not good enough, lady. Try again.”

“A friend of Snoop Santino’s.”

“Snoop’s got a lot of friends.”

I pause and consider hanging up the phone. I certainly don’t want to bring my brother into this.

“A former business associate of Snoop Santino’s gave me your number,” I say.

A moment passes. And I wait.

“I don’t discuss anything over the phone,” the voice says. “But we can arrange a meeting.”

“Uh…okey dokey,” I say. And then I cringe because I can’t believe I just said “okey dokey!”

“You pick the time and place, lady,” the voice says.

I have a sudden urge to hang up. I stare at the cell phone in my hand. And I’m about to click it shut when I hear the voice go, “Hullo? You still there?”

“Uh, how about the Starbucks on 3rd Street. You know where that is?”

“Yes.”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Let’s say four o’clock?” I’m apparently scheduling teatime with my very own hit man. Perhaps we’ll enjoy a plate of scones.

“I’ll be wearing a leather coat,” the voice says.

“I’ll be wearing—” my voice falters and drops off. What on earth am I going to wear? For my big meeting? A disguise would probably be best. But a disguise seems so cloak and dagger. Plus, I’ve always looked ridiculous in a wig.

“I’ll be wearing an Organics 4 Kids T-shirt,” I say quickly. And I don’t know why I say this. But it seems appropriate.

“Those are good-looking shirts,” the voice says. I hear a click and a dial tone as he hangs up the phone.

I put the phone down and I can’t help myself. I smile like a cat.

Carlton goes to a bachelor party on Saturday night. And while he’s hooting it up at some titty bar, our Chief Financial officer decides to quit.

I’m in my office working late when Steven Schultz taps on my door.

“Hey Steve,” I chirp, and I immediately know something’s wrong. His face is ash-gray.

Steve holds up a spreadsheet. “I’ve got something to tell you, Maddy. And it’s not easy to say,” he begins.

Usually, I’d try to multitask. Like sending out e-mails or something, but Steve’s eyes look dead-serious. He’s even sweating.

I turn and face him, my hands folded on my lap. “Shoot,” I say.

Steve takes his glasses off and wipes the lenses on his shirt. “Carlton is dicking around with the numbers,” he says. “It’s bordering on fraud. Actually, it’s not bordering on it—it is fraud.”

“What?”

He shoves the spreadsheets in my lap. “Look for yourself. I’ve highlighted all the relevant portions.”

I glance down and see Steve has prepared two sets of balance sheets. I recognize one set, but the numbers on the other set are unfamiliar.

“Look, Maddy. He didn’t tell me he was doing this. So I’m signing off on this stuff and he’s turning around and changing it behind my back. I’m not interested in having the federal prosecutor up my ass,” he says.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation—”

Steve shakes his head vigorously back and forth. “No, Madeline!” he nearly shouts.

I pause and sit back in my chair, with the paperwork in my lap.

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. Being his girlfriend and all…” Steve mutters.

“Carlton hasn’t said a word to me about this,” I say. “And let me assure you, we tell each other everything when it comes to this company.”

“The CFO always goes to jail, Madeline! Look at Enron!” Steve shouts. “Now, I’m not going to sit here and justify why these numbers don’t add up while you turn a blind eye!”

Steve bursts out of his chair and storms out the door.

He returns a minute later and apologizes. “Sorry, I lost my head,” he says. “I just feel taken advantage of. Working all these weekend hours.”

I sift through the papers on my lap.

“What do you want to do, Steve?” I ask, because I already know what he wants.

“I’ve already taken a new job, Maddy. Sorry for the late notice but I know Carlton won’t cut me a severance check.”

“You’ll get three months’ salary,” I say, quietly. “And I wish you the best of luck. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. You’re an earnest guy, and a good employee, but I need time to crunch these numbers—so I’ll know what’s really going on.”

Steve looks at me and says, “Carlton is a real schmuck.”

I say, “You’re fired, Steve.”

He breaks out into a nervous smile. And we both laugh.

Later that night, I ask Carlton about the spreadsheets.

“Steve is too conservative,” Carlton shrugs. “He’s not a good fit for the company. We need someone more aggressive. More willing to take risks.”

“Steve went to Wharton and is a CPA!” I counter. “He treats expenses as expenses, not as assets.”

“That’s exactly his problem, Maddy. He has no understanding of our business.”

I frown and press my hand against my hips. “You’re just trying to impress your dad with inflated numbers,” I say.

Carlton raises his hand. “That’s unfair, Maddy. Steve has always felt underpaid and overworked. I’m glad he quit because he just wants a piece of the company. Plain and simple. But I’m not willing to give him any of my shares. Are you?”

“I don’t have any shares!” I say. And it’s official. I’m suddenly yelling.

“Please, Maddy. Not that subject again. You’ll have half my shares as soon as we get married,” Carlton says. “And let me tell you, my dad isn’t going to be happy about that. He’s had plenty of women taking half of everything.”

“Jesus, Carlton. What does he expect? He never picks a woman of intelligence. A woman of substance. Someone who’s going to stand on her own two feet. He’s the king of cocktail waitresses.”

Carlton raises his hand. “Hey! You’re out of line,” he says sharply. “My father is the guy who made this company happen. He didn’t need to invest millions of dollars in our little pipe dream.”

I stare into Carlton’s eyes. And his pupils look mean and piercing. Like small black needles. For a moment, he reminds me exactly of Forest Connors.

I catch my breath. Take two steps backward in the kitchen.

“Unlike your stepmother, HOLLY, I’m working for my shares in Organics 4 Kids,” I say, my voice rising. “And I’m working my TAIL off.”

Carlton takes a deep breath. “I know, sweetie. We both are,” he says, and his voice is suddenly soft. He steps toward me and encircles me in his arms. He’s back. My good ol’ Carlton.

I smell the scent of his cologne and it reminds me of the woods—as always. A log cabin with a fire. I nuzzle my head into his chest. He strokes my hair like he always used to. And for a moment, I feel like Juliet again.

So I decide to drop it. Against my better judgment, I let Steve Schultz walk. Maybe Steve was too conservative for our small, start-up company.

I take Carlton’s word for it.

So, what to wear, what to wear. What to wear for my meeting with my very own hit man. Well, he’s not really a hit man. He’s more of a punch-and-kick man, I think. A bruiser. The type of guy who grunts when he moves. The type of guy whose biceps are so large, he can’t bring his arms to his sides. So he walks like a penguin. This is what I’m expecting. A Guido. A Goombah.

I wear all black, of course. Black pants, black T-shirt, and then I don a baseball cap and sunglasses. Miss Incognito. Like I’m a famous movie star lunching with my famous movie star friend.

I decide not to wear the Organics 4 Kids T-shirt because with my luck, I’d have a bunch of kids running up to me in Starbucks, asking me where they could buy one. Certainly Mr. Goombah will recognize a fellow partner in crime.

I stroll to the coffee shop because it’s within walking distance from my apartment. I don’t want you-know-who to see my car. In fact, I don’t want him to know anything about me at all. And I think, though I can’t be sure, he feels the same way.

It’s a beautiful day, but I skip the outdoor tables and take a table inside. A corner table—far from the coffee counter and any window.

I wait. With a copy of
Love in the Time of Cholera
on the table. A book doesn’t seem suspicious, I think. So I brought a book.

My middle name is Jane, my mother’s name. I decide to use it to meet my hit man. I don’t want him to know my first name. So, instead of Madeline Piatro, I’ll be Jane. Just Jane.

I’m clever that way. Like a CIA agent. Dressed in black, using my middle name. Gosh, who would ever recognize me?

I’m expecting a big, meaty, bald guy. Or maybe some greasy motorcycle guy in a leather jacket. With a tattoo of an eagle across the back of his neck.

I’m certainly not expecting a young Richard Gere look-alike. A hottie in a tailored leather jacket.

My, my. An officer and a gentleman.

I stand up and wave. Richard Gere comes toward the table and I notice he moves lightning fast.

I surge forward and offer my hand. He looks down, shakes it, and I see a glimmer of a smile shimmer across his lips.

“Hi, I’m Jane,” I say.

“Dick,” he says.

Great, so we’re Dick and Jane. And we’ve got a little dog named Spot. See Spot Run. Run, Spot, Run.

This is too much. It really is.

“Do you ever go by Richard?” I ask.

“Call me Dick,” he says, sitting across from me. He’s wearing sunglasses, too. He raises them breezily onto his head and I notice his eyes. Crisp, dark, beautiful eyes. Eyes the color of dark African coffee.

My, my. My hit man is hot.

Don’t mind if I do…

“I usually don’t meet my clients face-to-face,” Dick says, “But Snoop is a good buddy of mine, and he said your brother was trustworthy.”

“My brother?” I ask, and I instantly regret it.

“You don’t got a brother named Ronnie?” Dick shifts in his seat, as if he’s about to stand up.

“My brother keeps his friends close to his vest,” I say, quickly. And I realize now that Ronnie called Snoop Santino after all.

Dick looks uncomfortable.

“Can I get you anything? A cappuccino, maybe?” I ask my hit man.

“Coffee. Black,” he says. “Oh, and a chocolate chip cookie.”
O. Kay.

“Sure, no problem,” I say. I stand and hustle to the counter. I don’t know whether to be a little scared or bemused. Here I am. Ordering my hit man a cookie. But I guess everyone likes a cookie, right? Even trained killers.

I walk back to the table with a tray of snacks. Dick is staring at me.

“You got a real nice way about ya, lady. You don’t seem the type,” he says, as I sit back down. I take a sip of my latte and break off a piece of cinnamon scone.

“You mean, the type to want revenge in the form of bruised and bloody?”

“Yeah. Most broads I know. Most broads don’t have the balls for it. I got this one lady, though—she hired me to facilitate a little accident with her husband. He’d been cheating on her all these years and one day she just got tired of it. So she called me. Mostly I do threat jobs. You know, low-level shit. If a guy don’t pay his dealer or his bookie, he deserves me on his back, don’cha think? I mean, two men made a deal. And the way I see it. A deal’s a deal. You don’t go runnin’ out on a handshake. It ain’t right.”

I nod. “What ’r ya gonna do,” I say, shrugging and raising my hands in the air, palms up. I’ve suddenly become really, really Italian. Like super Italian.

Dick picks up his cookie. It’s the size of his hand, but he bites the entire thing in half. “I see myself as an equalizer,” he says, his mouth full of cookie goo. “Bringing a little justice to an unjust world.”

“That’s poetic,” I say. I realize my American Gigolo is not so suave when it comes to table manners.

“So, first things first,” Dick says, his lips covered in cookie crumbs.

I pass him a napkin across the table. He takes it and mops his brow. Then uses the back of his hand to wipe crumbs off his mouth.

“First, I gotta know where you live,” he says. “In case I get burned, or in case you’re some female detective, then I’m gonna send someone for you.”

“Eek. Scary,” I say.

“Insurance policy. That’s all,” Dick shrugs. “Nothin’ to worry about unless you got somethin’ to worry about, capiche?”

“Well, what if
you’re
a cop?” I say.

Dick laughs out loud and I can see his teeth are bone-white. As if he’s recently had them capped.

“I ain’t no cop, lady,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I think you know that.”

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” I say. I slide a picture of Carlton across the table. “This is my target.”

I actually say these exact words—
This is my target
.

Dick fingers the top of his coffee cup. “I’ll do what you want, Jane. But first,” he picks up the photo and taps at Carlton’s picture, “You gotta tell me what happened between you and the dude.”

“Why?”

“Cause I never do a job unless I know it’s the right thing. I mean, if he’s just some innocent prick who broke your heart, well, I’m sorry. I won’t do the job. I got principles.”

“Okay, but I warn you. It may take a while.”

Dick smiles at me, a wan smile. He sits back in his chair and puts his hands behind his head, elbows-out, like he’s a big-shot wheeler and dealer.

“I got all afternoon,” he says.