This Is How It Happened (14 page)

I start interviewing other candidates to replace Steve Schultz. And I finally narrow it down to two people. Nathalie is a recent University of Houston graduate. She’s got an accounting degree, but no real business experience.

“There’s no one else who will work for such a low salary,” I tell Carlton.

Carlton glances at her resume. “Who else,” he asks, flippantly.

I pass him the resume of my star candidate. “Priscilla is forty-two years old. She’s worked in accounting at a large company for the last fifteen years.”

“What’s the catch?”

“She’s a single mom. So she can only work part-time.”

Carlton sighs. “Great. So my options are a college graduate with no experience and a single mom who can only be here thirty hours a week.”

“You’re the one who wanted to get rid of Steve,” I say, and I immediately regret it.

Carlton shoots me an eat-shit-and-die look.

“Bring them in for an interview,” he says, sharply. I suddenly feel as if I’m his secretary, instead of his partner, his fiancée, his right-hand man.

“You got it, babe,” I say. I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek.

“Remember our pact,” Carlton says.

I nod. Before we started working together, Carlton and I talked about our relationship in the office. We would be strict colleagues during office hours, nothing more. It was the only way it could work, we decided. Sometimes I broke our pact and sent him little e-mail messages.

“Let’s make love tonight after everyone leaves,” I’d write.

“Okay, but this doesn’t mean you’re getting a promotion,” he’d write back.

Sometimes we’d lock the office door and have sex under the desk. Or if we were really feeling frisky, right on top of it. Carlton usually liked to stand up and bend me over the office furniture—taking me from behind. I joke about him being in love with the back of my head. Carlton thinks this joke is hugely funny.

A few days later, we interview both candidates. Priscilla is professional, courteous, and a terrific candidate. She’s dressed in a conservative navy suit, panty hose, and flats. She wears small gold earrings and I notice a gold cross around her neck.

Nathalie is young, bright, and blonde. What she lacks in experience she makes up for in eagerness. She’s bouncy and sweet as a summer breeze. I notice Carlton smiling and nodding his head as she speaks. She’s got a 22-inch Pamela Anderson waist and breasts the size of cantaloupes.

“She’s great,” Carlton says, after Nathalie leaves. “Good job finding her.”

“Yes, but I think Priscilla is a better candidate.”

“Why? Because she’s black? Because she’s a single mom and she really needs the money?” Carlton shakes his head back and forth. Crosses his arms over his chest. “I knew it. I knew you were gonna say Priscilla. You’ve got that whole Save the Whales mentality,” he says.

I roll my eyes. “Since when was hiring a qualified black woman akin to saving a whale, Carlton?”

Carlton puts both his hands out, palms up. Like he’s pleading for his life. “We need someone full-time. Nathalie said it herself—she’s willing to work long hours.” He shakes his head. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “Priscilla is a liability. A single mom has too many responsibilities. I mean, what if her kid gets sick? We can’t afford to have someone miss work. We need a warm body!”

I suddenly imagine Nathalie’s warm body. Chipper and bouncy. Dressed in tight, dipping blouses. Sure, she was a bright girl, I give her that. She was no dummy. But still.

I chew the edge of my lip. Put my hands on my hips. Stand military style. Like an Army General. “I don’t know about Nathalie,” I say, firmly.

“C’mon, Maddy. Don’t let jealousy get in the way of clear thinking. I know you’re not the type of woman who’s threatened by the younger version—it’s beneath you,” Carlton says.

“Younger version!” I almost spit. “Jesus, Carlton!”

“Easy there, wildcat. You know what I mean.” He throws his arm around my waist and pulls me close to him.

“You’re breaking our pact,” I say. I try to struggle from his grip but he holds me tight.

“Fuck it,” he says, planting a long, wet kiss on my lips.

I’m at a loss for words. I can’t argue on Priscilla’s behalf without looking insecure. And I don’t want Carlton to think Nathalie got to me. Nathalie and her warm, bouncy body.

I wave my hand airily. Not a care in the world. “Look, if it’s Nathalie you want, it’s Nathalie you get,” I say. “But don’t come bitching to me when she makes a mistake.”

“That’s my girl,” Carlton says. He stares down into my eyes, and I feel my knees weaken.

After we have sex, I trudge back to my office. Call Priscilla with the bad news.

“I knew it probably wouldn’t work out,” she says, calmly.

I sigh. And then dial Nathalie. I have to cover the phone with my hand when she squeals. “Ohmygaaah, this is so incredibly awesome! Thank you so much, Miss Piatro. You’re awesome!”

“Please,” I say. “Call me Maddy.”

“Let’s cut to the chase, here. What do you want, lady? You want him in the hospital? Broken legs, what?” Dick leans over the table and stares at me.

I press my hand against my chest, all prim and lady-like. “Oh no. Nothing violent.”

“Got it. So you want me to threaten his life. Scare the b’jesus out of him. Tell him I’ll cut his balls off if he bothers you?”

I cringe. But then, I imagine Carlton hearing a man with the darkest black eyes he’s ever seen threaten to cut off his crown jewels and as much as I hate to admit it, the thought kind of tickles me. I wouldn’t mind if this guy scared the crap out of Carlton. Got his blood pumping. It might be good to take Mr. Perfect down a notch.

But that’s not really my style.

“Actually, I was thinking of something a bit out of the ordinary,” I say.

Dick leans back in his chair and cracks his knuckles. “After what that asshole did to you, he ain’t gonna need a band-aid. He’s gonna need a priest,” he says.

I stare at Dick a moment and wonder if he’s jerking my chain. I mean, the guy is one gorgeous piece of ass, and he really looks like a softie. Except for those black, black eyes.

“You know, Dick. Maybe you should think about going into personal security. Instead of hurting people,” I say, because suddenly I’ve morphed into Dr. Phil.

Dick shakes his head, vigorously.

“Oh, c’mon. I bet Madonna could use another guy like you,” I say.

“Nah. She got it covered,” he says. “Plus, I already tried doin’ the personal security gig. Didn’t work out.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Did you ever see that movie with Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner?” he asks.

“
The Bodyguard
. Of course,” I nod. “It’s a classic.”

“Well, it ain’t like that, guardin’ people. I had this gig guardin’ some big-time drug traffickers in Columbia, Guatemala, Mexico—all over down there,” he says. “And it was terrible. Talk about a bunch of spoiled brats. It was like I was their servant, or somethin’. One guy made me wax his Ferrari.”

I throw my arms up in the air, dramatically. “Jeez, Dick! You can’t let a couple of rich South American drug dealers get you down,” I say, shaking my head. “They’re the worst kind of brats.
Everyone
knows that.”

“You think so?” he asks, raising a thick, dark eyebrow.

“I know so,” I say, confidently. “Those cartel guys make Elizabeth Taylor look low maintenance.”

Dick chuckles, leans back in his chair, tucks his hands behind his head like an executive. “You’re pretty funny for a broad,” he says.

“I try,” I say.

And I wonder what this is. Exactly. Witty repartee? Flirting? What? Am I actually trying to seduce my hired gun? I mean, sure. It’s been an Ice Age since I had sex, but still—

“Trust me,” Dick says. “Guardin’ ain’t for me. And plus the money’s no good. I’m much better doin’ what I do. That way, I get to work for myself. I’m like, my own boss, ya know?”

“Well, there’s certainly a lot of business out there,” I say.

“Yeah, trouble is, I’m havin’ problems gettin’ the word out about my ser vices. I mean, it’s like, I know there’re a lot of broads out there—broads like you—who had some guy dump on ’em, and they want a little revenge, you know. Sometimes not a lot. Just a little. And it’ll make ’em feel better. But they don’t know how to get in touch with me.”

“I see,” I say, stroking my chin. I sit in silence for a few minutes and think about Dick. I picture him as one of my clients. My juices start flowing, suddenly, and I go into “Maddy Marketing Mode.”

“The problem here is not clients, Dick. You’ve got plenty of potential clients, like you said. Your problem is marketing. It’s all about marketing.”

I lean forward in my chair and stare him in the eye, like I’ve done a hundred times before when I worked for Henry.

“You need a slogan,” I advise. “Something that really nails it home. Because your ser vices are up in the air. I wasn’t even sure what you did. In advertising and marketing, the key is—Specifics. Be specific. Nail it. Bring it home. I mean, you definitely need business cards. And maybe some fliers.”

I’m talking fast now, moving my hands in the air, like I’m juggling balls. “You can’t just sit back and wait for clients to come to you,” I say, pointing in the air. “Because that’s not steady business. You’ve got to reach out and touch someone,” I say. I lean forward across the table and grab Dick by his leather jacket lapels. “Get it?”

“If anyone other than you had just grabbed my jacket like that, I would’ve broken their fingers,” he says, winking at me.

“Yikes,” I shudder. I let go of the jacket. Give Dick his space.

He’s nodding as I grab a notepad from my messenger bag and scrawl out a brief marketing plan.

“What are we looking at here? You want to expand your customer base to women. Am I right? Well, there’s something you should know about women, Dick. We’re not big on blood and guts. You’ve probably got some male clients who get off on hearing about broken ribs and hacked-off limbs. And that can’t be helped. Boys will be boys. But women are different. We’re a little queasy when it comes to that stuff. I mean, for example. I bet Scarface is your favorite movie, right?”

“Love Pacino,” Dick says.

“Exactly. Well, women hate that movie. Especially the part with the chainsaw. We cover our eyes and turn our heads. But it’s not because we’re weak. We simply prefer our revenge to be more subtle. More clever, if you will. We’re more like spiders.”

Dick sits up in his chair and smacks the table with both his palms. “Black widduhs, right?”

I point at him. “Exactly.” I look Dick straight in the eye. “You’re going to market yourself as the Black Widow’s Best Friend—you, my dear Sir, are
The Web
.”

“I’m the web?” Dick says.

“That’s right. You’re the web.”

“So let’s practice,” I say. “You’re going to market yourself to me. Really sell me on your ser vices. Pretend that I’m a female client.”

“But you are a female client.”

I take a deep, patient breath. “Let’s pretend I’m
another
female client. Someone brand new. I’ve seen your brochure.”

“I’m doin’ a brochure?” Dick asks, incredulously.

I raise an eyebrow. “How’re you planning to get clients if you don’t advertise?”

“Word of mouth?”

“Guess again,” I say.

Dick looks stumped.

“We want to tell people about your skills,” I say. “I’m imagining something along the lines of”—at this point, I put my palms up in the air to emphasize my banner headline—“Safe, discreet, street-savvy. Man-for-hire. To do your dirty work.”

I pause for a moment. And then I nail it. “They say Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But Heaven is in the Sweet Revenge.”

Dick sits back in his chair, awestruck.

“Awesome,” he whispers. His eyes are distant. As if he’s envisioning himself as the CEO of Revenge, Incorporated.

“So pretend I’m a new female customer, Dick. I’ve seen your brochure and my interests are piqued. I’ve taken a small bite of the hors d’oeuvre that you’ve dangled in front of me.”

Dick’s face gets serious. He bites his lip and rocks back and forth in his chair. I can tell he’s really concentrating.

“Okay. For example,” I say. “I come here and tell you some guy has left me at the altar. He says the reason he can’t marry me is because I’m fat. I tell you I want revenge.” I snap my fingers. “Quick. What do you recommend?”

“I’ll take a crowbar and jam it up his ass!” Dick offers.

“Wrong! Your goal here, Dick, is to tailor the punishment to fit the crime. And remember the heeby-jeeby factor.”

“I offer to break in the guy’s house, and steal his TV.” Dick smiles broadly. Obviously pleased with his answer.

I shake my head. “This asshole will just buy another TV. Doesn’t solve anything. And besides, he left me at the altar and called me fat. I think he deserves much worse.”

Dick peers at me. “What if the lady is a real porker? Then the guy was just tellin’ the troof, right?”

I wag my finger back and forth. “A man who leaves a woman at an altar needs a better excuse than her weight. That’s sleazy and abusive.”

“Good point,” Dick says.

“First, ask the woman if there’s something this guy loves. Something he truly cherishes. Like, let’s say he loves his job. And his boss thinks he’s terrific. So, you can offer to embarrass the guy in front of his boss. Or you send a fax to the guy’s boss saying that the guy is laundering money—clever, you see.”

Dick grins.

“Or you could always call the IRS,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because there’s nothing more excruciating than an audit, Dick.”

“I’ve heard this.”

“So, you can call the IRS and tell them the guy’s been hiding bundles of cash in his attic.”

“Can’t the broad do that herself?”

“When you call the IRS, they make you wait on hold,” I explain.

Dick nods. “It’s a good ser vice and it won’t get me busted,” he says. “I need to get away from the violent stuff.”

“Exactly!” I smack the table with my palm and Dick reacts to the noise. I see him reach quickly inside his leather jacket. As if he’s about to pull a gun. And my heart almost stops.

Dick relaxes a bit and then grins at me. “Sorry. Creature of habit.”

“Are you…carrying?” I ask.

He pats his jacket on the bulge where the gun is located. “I never leave home without my Marlon Brando.”

“You’ve nicknamed your gun “Marlon Brando?” I ask.

“What? Too obvious?” Dick is looking at me in a way that makes me think he really wants my opinion.

“Are you a Godfather fanatic?” I ask.

“I loved the Don,” Dick says. And then, to my huge surprise, he puffs out his cheeks and does a Marlon Brando impression. Right there in Starbucks.

“If I do you a favor, you do me a favor,” he says, in that hoarse, throaty, half unintelligible Godfather voice. He’s not bad, really. He’s even got the accent down.

“Pretty darn good,” I say, and I nod my head approvingly. Like a schoolteacher trying to boost the confidence of the slow kid.

Dick beams at me. He taps his finger at Carlton’s photograph. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve got up your sleeve for this bozo,” he says.

“I need a week to come up with a plan,” I say.