"Art's wife, huh?" he repeated staring down at the floor, scraping the toe of his boot in circles around a crumpled butt.
"You pick her up and take her for a ride, that's all. That's all you have to do for five pounds of dope – free." Jim snickered and shrugged his shoulders. "From there you take her to a place that's safe and then Robert will be there to take care of her."
Still no positive response came from Mark.
"Look, man, if you don't want to do it, I can find a lot of other guys who'd pick up that offer in a second." Jim snapped his fingers, the sound cutting through the smoke-filled room like the sound of thunder.
Both heads raised and the words hung in the air as the sound of heavy boots clomping down the steps stung through both of them. Had someone been listening? Jim had heard their paid informers floating around town, but, of course he didn't tell Mark that.
A slow, long exhalation of relief cooled the room when Chuck, the owner of the bar overhead, stooped through the doorway.
There was no changing his mind now, realized Mark, almost with a sigh of relief. At least now the decision was not his; he'd been forced into it, he told himself.
At eight-fifteen the next morning, Art was alert and sitting at his desk at the police department in the county seat fifteen miles from Elston, across the street from Juvenile Hall. He took a bitter sip of the acrid black coffee, swearing to the Gods above that he'd never buy coffee out of a vending machine again, and leaned back on the legs of the chair. With a grunt and a wince, he pushed the coffee to the side of his desk, its sloshing liquid polluting the desk mat. An acidulous belch, and he was back on all four legs of the chair. Grunting, he pulled open the top drawer of his marred wooden desk and rummaged amongst the unsharpened pencils and paper clips for his Rolaids. All he could find was a dirty, crumpled up empty wrapper.
Damn, nothing was going right. He shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest, in defeat. Jesus H. Christ, he thought, when is the last time things went smoothly. Rubbing his forehead with his massaging fingertips, he thought it might have been a couple weeks back… what was wrong? He always felt jumpy, nervous, twitchy. Like he had too much energy. But why was he tired and tense all the time?
A fleeting image of Kathy lying in bed dressed in the black nightie she'd blushed so shyly over when he first gave it to her… and the movie… she'd wanted to go home. What was it she'd said? "Let's go home and have our own gang-bang!" Sex… that was it. He hadn't had enough lately. Well, damnit, it was his own fault, he realized. Probably was the cause of the heartburn that had been eating away at him lately, too.
It struck him like a bolt of lightning against a rotting tree trunk. Kathy… he'd been neglecting her lately. Christ, she never complained, never said anything. What a wife! Art shook his head in self-deprecation. And what a lousy husband he'd been lately!
Self-recriminatingly, he remembered how when they'd moved into their rented house he'd promised to till the postage-stamp sized garden. Kathy loved roses and had always wanted a rose garden. That was it! He'd hire somebody to go out there and plant her a garden. Hot damn, Voltaire's Penteguel couldn't have done any better!
He grabbed at the telephone directory, flipping through the yellow pages. "Gardeners, gardeners," he chanted to himself trying to remember the name of the horticulturist who lived across the street from them called his business. Tracing his fingernail down the listings, he found it, called it, and made arrangements for a young man to come out that afternoon to start tilling the garden.
Fifteen miles away, Kathy awoke to see the sun filtering through the lace of the curtains to form a bright pattern on the pale blue walls of the bedroom. She yawned, realizing she'd over slept again, sat up and stretched. It was good to be alive, she thought. It was good to have slept well, to awake refreshed, despite the tormenting feelings she'd fallen asleep with; but her dreams had cleansed her, she thought thankfully. Now, in the warmth of the sun and the cheerful light of day they seemed ridiculous, those guilty feelings last night. In fact, she realized with a grin, she felt much better for having satisfied herself.
She got up and slipped on a sundress that was discreet yet managed to set off the delicious curving slope of her firm round buttocks, her firm thighs and slim, tapering legs. The lipstick she painted on with such care matched the pink dress, making her pink cheeks shine with vibrancy. She ran a comb through her hair and dusted her nose with powder before she went to the kitchen to turn on the heat under the tea kettle. Today, instant coffee would do just fine. It was one of those rosey days when she expected little and wanted nothing. Life was rich.
Hearing a slap against the side of the house, she went to the kitchen door to retrieve the morning's newspaper. With unerring accuracy, the newspaper boy, as usual, had managed to heave it too far to left and it had landed in the hedge. One day, she thought stooping down and leaning over the hedge to retrieve it from the prickly brambles, I'm going to catch that little brat…
The phone rang as her fingertips were scraping at the folded edge of the paper, like a cat scratching in a litter box. With a feminine grunt, she leaned over further and, in her careless haste, caught and tore a fingernail. "Ohhh," she spat, deciding there was nothing but local gossip in the newspaper anyway. She pivoted and ran up the cement steps, letting the door slam shut behind her. Kathy caught the phone on the fifth ring.
"H-hello!" she breathed, examining the damage on her index fingernail.
"Kathy… your lover boy here," Art paused, waiting for her giggle of recognition. None came.
"Oh, hello Art." Her voice was calm and smooth as butter.
"Got a surprise coming for you today, baby. Oh, boy, you're gonna love your little Artie when you find out what it is… But don't ask," he cautioned hastily. "It's gonna be a surprise, a downright shock to your system, you sexy little thing you. I can only tell you one thing. There's gonna be a young man coming to your door. Give him whatever he wants…"
"Art!" giggled Kathy with renewed interest. "What is this?"
"Just do as I say, honey. Just remember, give him anything he needs."
"Art, what are you talking about…"
He cut her off short. "Gotta go now, doll. Got some work to do. Buddy just came in and we gotta do some scouting. Oh, and I might be late tonight. That rock concert starts tomorrow, you know."
She blew a kiss over the phone, the same as she'd done for the past eight years. Gingerly, she set the receiver back on its cradle, chewing on her lower lip with expectancy. Now just what did he mean? She put her finger on her lip and stared out the window, watching as a boy on a motorcycle pulled up in front of her house.
Today was full of surprises!
The tea kettle sang a high pitched tune, drawing her out of her reverie. Standing on her tiptoes, cursing Art for always putting everything up on the top shelf of the cupboard where it was convenient for him, but injurious to her arches, she grabbed at the jar of instant coffee.
Outside, Mark pulled up on a rented Honda 350, struggled with the kick stand, and wiped his forehead beaded with sweat as he slipped the key in his pocket. Clumsily, he faltered a moment, unable to remember if Chuck had instructed him to turn it off or leave it running. Oh Christ, but did it matter? When you were abducting, kidnapping a woman did it matter if you turned off a motorcycle? None of it made sense, but he guessed it had something to do with raising suspicion. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and headed for the front door of the one story clapboard building, studying the overgrown lawn and brambly hedge, thinking it was strange that someone as particular as a cop would let his house look so sloppy. But then, reasoned the lad, no one was supposed to know he was a cop.