No Fury Like That

by Lisa de Nikolits

  Suddenly ravenous, I pull into a diner next to a gas station. I lock both bags in the trunk and I go inside. I order a full breakfast of bacon and eggs with pancakes and a bottomless cup of black coffee. Someone has left a copy of The Sun newspaper on the table and I pick it up while I wait for my breakfast to arrive. I flip through it, finding nothing of any particular interest until I see a small story at the bottom of page five.

  Plastic Surgeon Dies In Heroin Overdose.

  It is a small story, no more than a paragraph really. Doctor Richard Silino, 47, was found dead in a motel with a syringe still in his arm. He had accidently overdosed.

  I supposed he must have been partying before going to rehab and he went too far. I am not sorry he is dead. Were it not for Grace, I would have killed him too.

  My breakfast arrives and I eat it slowly, savouring every bite while I sip my coffee.

  Healey, Cockney, and Richard are taken care of. Dealing with Junior is not going to be nearly as easy.

  43. PLANNING THE NEXT MOVE

  BACK AT BEATRICE’S HOUSE, I hunt around for a good hiding place for the money, and I finally stash it under the mattress in the crib. I lay the money out flat and when I replace the mattress with the onesie and booties, you’d never know it was there.

  I pull on a pair of thick rubber gloves and I dig a deep hole in the backyard under one of the trees. I put the bag of drugs inside it and I slice the packets open. I’ve wrapped a bandana around my face, to make sure I don’t inhale anything by mistake. I pour gasoline on the drugs, making sure I ruin them. I had thought of weighing the bag down and dropping it into the lake but I didn’t want to cause any kind of toxic waste to the fish, in the event the drugs leaked. Nor did I want to take the risk of anybody getting their hands on the drugs ever again. Once I make sure they are well and truly destroyed, I cover up the hole and go inside for a cold water scrub down.

  It’s time to plan Junior’s demise.

  Junior has a wife and three kids. I cannot remember how old the kids are. I know he told me at one time but I had no interest in them then.

  Junior’s wife, Sharon, owns a small couture boutique and she considers herself to be quite the style maven. Meanwhile, I consider her to be parochial at best, with an embarrassing fondness for reviving antiquated eighties’ trends. She and Junior were high school sweethearts who married young. I saw pictures of their wedding, with Sharon emulating the late Princess Diana in a satin meringue dress with linebacker shoulder pads. The ten-foot train of seed pearl-encrusted fabric required an army of peach-clad bridesmaids to follow behind her as she arranged herself regally. She even wore a tiara.

  While Junior and I were conducting our glorious two-year affair, I had not given any thought to Sharon and the children except to regard them as an occasional annoyance when Sharon put a kibosh on our plans because she wanted to do things like have a family Christmas.

  Thinking about it now, I am baffled as to why Sharon put up with the whole thing, since we were far from discreet. But I guess at the time, she had no choice. Or, she only had two choices: put up with it or get a divorce. And then, once the great but tiny man was toppled from his perch, she was waiting with open and forgiving arms. But given that she was the one with the money, I didn’t understand why she didn’t dump him for a better model of husband and father.

  I am quickly bored at Beatrice’s house and I decide, on a whim, to drive past Junior’s home. I had been there several times before, for cocktail parties, or the odd occasion when I had to wait for him in the living room while he ran into his study to get something, avoiding his kids’ outstretched hands like a tourist avoiding beggars in India.

  “Daddy’s home!” they screamed with needy delight, following him, shrieking their commentaries at the same time while he fired off a few vague answers and we’d rush out as if we had narrowly escaped the gallows.

  Sharon always managed to disappear when I was there, apart from the cocktail parties where she behaved as I didn’t exist at all. In fact, I had admired her ability to block me out, while smiling graciously and playing the role of the perfect hostess.

  I wonder what she made of the whole cuff-linked genitalia affair. It seems that her capacity for forgiveness is endless. That, or her ability to bury her head in the sand.

  It takes me about an hour to get to his mansion in the leafy suburbs and when I pull up, I see a party is in full swing. A children’s birthday party. I get out of the car and stroll up to take a closer look.

  I am wearing my black-wig, red-lipsticked disguise and I fit right in with my summer dress and strappy sandals, my hat pulled down low, and my sunglasses in place.

  I walk up the driveway as if I have been invited. It turns out to be the oldest boy’s birthday, a kid called J.J., which is short for Junior Junior, but everybody mercifully agreed it would be a crime to actually call the boy that. So J.J. he is and now the little tyke is turning twelve.

  “Welcome,” a caterer offers a tray with a selection of drinks and I take an orange juice. “Everyone’s out back.”

  “Great, thanks.” I give him a great big smile and walk down the hallway and out into the enormous backyard where kids are jumping in an out of the swimming pool. A row of barbeques is fired up and ready for the first round of hamburgers. A kids’ movie is showing in the gazebo for the younger lot who are sitting with their nannies while their parents laze on loungers or stand around chatting in civilized clusters. Two tables are loaded with snacks of both the kiddie and adult variety. I take a moment to hang out at the snacks table while I scout around. I can’t see Sharon or Junior but I spot J.J. on a trampoline, doing summersaults and backflips and he’s pretty good.

  None of it is very interesting and I can’t see anything that will be helpful to my cause. Sharon’s pair of little pom-pom Pekinese are yapping and darting around like tiny fluffy hens while Junior’s enormous Doberman, Snitch, is napping.

  I walk back through the hallway of the house and that’s when I spot Sharon and Junior. They are at the far end of the hall and they are chatting to someone, but I assume they will be heading my way soon. I duck into the kitchen that is a hive of frenzied activity, with the caterers opening containers, mixing things, and yelling at each other.

  A pastry chef is intent on putting the finishing touches to a Nascar-style birthday cake. The car has J.J. on the hood, doors, and roof. The bonnet even has an accurate picture of the kid.

  No one notices me and I sidle around the marble island in the centre and ease my way past the double-door, stainless steel fridge. The fridge is covered with photographs and colourful magnetic letters that spell out the children’s names. There are schedules and reminders, along with notes from the school and, in the centre, there is a large, old-fashioned paper calendar with names penciled onto the days. Soccer, ballet, gymnastics, book club for Sharon, and hey, wait a minute, there’s Las Vegas for Junior. He is going to be in Vegas for a week, three days from now. Junior, Vegas, Annual Poker, Venetian. All in Sharon’s neat writing.

  I know I should get the heck out of there, and I’m pushing my luck by staying but there’s something I can’t resist doing. I move the magnetic letters around and spell out: silly bunny was here.

  I whip out my phone and take a picture of my artwork then I saunter back out into the hallway. Sharon and Junior are now at the other end, closer to the swimming pool, about to go outside. I walk away, as casual as can be but I see Sharon looking in my direction, and her body language tells me to pick up the pace.

  I walk briskly down the driveway, hop into my car and drive off quickly, relieved that Sharon had not seen fit to chase after me and ask me who I was.

  I am filled with glee. Junior is going to Vegas. And so am I.

  44. MAKEOVER

  I LEAVE JUNIOR’S HOUSE and I find a small park in the area. I pull up under a tree and switch on my phone. I send Junior a text message with the picture on h
is fridge. I would just hate for him to miss it.

  The last time he had called me, it was from a private, unlisted number so I sent the message to the old number I had for him, and I didn’t have to wait long before I got confirmation that it was still in use. Think you’re clever, JuLula? You bitch. This time I will kill you dead no doubt.

  I turn off the phone and drive back to Beatrice’s house and on the way, something occurs to me.

  Junior had lied about his alibi to the police. He said that he had been in Vegas at his annual poker tournament the night I was nearly beaten to death. But it hadn’t been a year since it happened; it wasn’t even six months.

  I wonder if I should forget my own vendetta and take this fact to Joe, but Joe would want to know how I knew and besides, Junior would simply have his friends come up with another lie or say that they have two annual tournaments a year, or something like that.

  No, I need to continue as planned.

  I stop at a library and research flying with firearms. Apparently, I can take my pistol if I put it in my check-in luggage, and I need to declare it at customs. And I have to check it’s okay with the airline I am flying with.

  I go to the mall, and change back to my blonde self and I clean off the glaring red lipstick.

  I go into the bank and withdraw five thousand dollars from the teller who counts out the cash with careful concentration. This trip is going to be expensive but it will be so worth it. I have the tote with the drug money, but I am wary of using it so soon after Healey and Cockney have been killed.

  I find the Flight Centre, get the gun situation clarified, and I book myself a flight for the following day, paying in cash.

  Then I get a haircut and some colour done. The blonde got blonder and we added some thick stripy highlights.

  “You’re sure this style is what you want?” the hairdresser studies the picture I show her. “It’s a bit old-fashioned, if you don’t mind my saying so. What you’ve got is much nicer.”

  “I’m sure,” I tell her. “And if I hate it, we can change it. One thing about hair is that it grows back.”

  “Thank god it does,” the hairdresser agrees, sanitizing her comb, “or I’d be out of a job.”

  After my hair makeover, I shop for clothes to match my new hairstyle and I find exactly what I am looking for, the exact cut, colour, and style, and I even find a purse to match.

  Then I stop by an optician to see if they can fit me with a disposable contact lens so I won’t have to wear my glasses and they find a match for my poor damaged eye.

  The list is checked off.

  And now, all I can do is wait. I consider buying a book to read or a magazine, but I can’t concentrate on anything except my plan.

  45. VEGAS

  WHEN I LEAVE BEATRICE’S place the next day, I duct-tape the blackout curtain to the outside wall. I can’t replace the heavy wooden boards but I do what I can to seal up the place. I thank Beatrice again for her hospitality and I drive to the airport and check the rental into the short-term parking.

  My luggage passes through customs without any issues. Clearly it is not unusual for people to travel with firearms in their checked-in suitcases.

  Once again there is nothing for me to do except wait, which is one of my least favourite non-activities. And once again I run through the plan I have in mind. One thing is for sure, I’ll need Lady Luck on my side and I hope the gods and goddesses of good dice are with me.

  As soon as I arrive in Las Vegas, I pick up a rental car and drive to The Best Western Plus Casino Royale. The hotel is on the Strip and close to the Venetian. I check myself in and then I go shopping for the supplies I’ll need to carry out my plan.

  Once I have everything, I set out to find myself the perfect escort. I pick up a bunch of cards and escort catalogues, or whatever they are called, and start my search. I need the right escort—a real leggy beauty, a class act—and as it happens, I don’t only need one, I need four.

  I start calling, using a new burner phone I picked up.

  I have a list of questions and if there is a weird pause or silence, I thank the woman for her time and I hang up. I need someone with savvy, a woman who has her wits about her. I also need women with great glamour shots that Junior and Teddy, Junior’s best buddy and partner in crime, will find irresistible.

  Finally, after nearly four hours of fruitless calling, I realize this is much tougher than I had thought it would be. I hadn’t been concerned with this aspect, figuring that escorts would be easy to find, but it’s proving to be a worrying challenge.

  I leave my hotel and walk to the Bellagio where I have a discreet conversation with the concierge who helps me out. At least I hope it was a productive discussion. I will wait to see the escorts in person before I start doing any celebratory dances.

  46. THE PLAN IN MOTION

  THE NEXT DAY I PUT ON my alter-ego black wig outfit and I sit in the lobby of the Venetian, waiting for Junior and the boys to arrive. They’re impossible to miss. They rock in, loaded and rowdy, and I can only imagine what the plane ride must have been like with this noisy crowd of overgrown frat boys.

  I’m familiar with Junior’s boys because back in the day they had thought I was the hottest thing since sliced bread, but after what I did, sending out that photo, I understandably never heard from any of them again.

  I think back to the night I was given that horrendous beating, how the second man just stood there watching. I try to match him to one of Junior’s buddies but none of them fit, they are too tall and skinny or too short and fat. I wonder who Junior got to do his dirty work with him, and perhaps it says something about these guys that they weren’t willing to be a part of it.

  I watch them check in. They wheel their suitcases across the expanse of gold and cream marble and wait for the elevator. Junior’s like a five-year-old kid at his birthday party, grinning and chirping like a hamster on speed. The boys are all eager to get their game on, party hard, get wasted, have fun. They are all about fun; meanwhile I nearly died. I lost not only my face, but the life I had built for myself. It may not have been the best life, the most well-lived life, that’s for sure, but it was mine. I don’t feel an ounce of remorse for the revenge I am going to exact.

  I stay where I am until I see them come back down and leave the hotel. I go to the washroom and change my look to blonde and pretty, and I approach the front desk to work some magic.

  Once I get what I need from the concierge, I return to the washroom and switch my look back the red-lipsticked brunette and I wait for a shift change, to make sure I won’t be recognized. I hand the envelopes to the new concierge. “For Junior Loach and Teddy Whyte, can you make sure they get them? I’m not sure which rooms they’re in?”

  The concierge taps the keyboard and nods. “Yeah, they’re here. No problem, I’ll get someone to slip them under the doors. That’s more reliable than waiting for guests to respond to a message and come to reception. Most people get so caught up in having a good time that they don’t even notice phone messages.”

  I thank him and leave. And once again, all I can do is wait.

  47. THE ESCORTS ARE PREPPED

  “YOU NEED TO LET ME KNOW if you hear from them,” I had told the escorts I had managed to hire. “You’ll phone me, right, as soon as you hear? If they call, sound hot and eager, keep them interested. And if you don’t hear from them, you need to let me know that too. I’ll still pay you, but I need to know either way.”

  Much to my relief, I had found four perfect escorts and the puzzle pieces of my plan were all slotting neatly into place. The women told me they got it, no problem. I had met with each of them separately, so none of them had any knowledge of the others, and I was my blonde self the whole time, dressed in my spiffy new getup.

  The day after Junior arrives in Las Vegas, two of the escorts call me, within twenty minutes of each other. “He’s in,” one
of them reports, referring to Teddy.

  “Good. Did he give you a room number and a time?”

  “Yeah, Room 1209. He said six p.m.”

  Teddy is right next door to Junior.

  “He’s super keen,” the next escort says about Junior.

  Why am I not surprised? “Room 1211?” I double-check.

  “Yeah, for six p.m.”

  “Great.” I meet them and pay them, and they both tell me it is the easiest money they have ever made.

  I meet the next two escorts separately. “You’re on,” I tell them and give them a room number and a time, and I pay Teddy’s escort in advance. “You’ll call me once he’s sorted?” I ask the one who is meeting Junior’s.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ll get him good and ready.”

  I thank her and tell her I will pay her when I see her.

  48. REUNITED WITH JUNIOR

  THE FOLLOWING EVENING, shortly after sunset, I wait in my rental car in the parking lot. I have checked out of my hotel and I am waiting to hear from Junior’s escort.

  I’ve never been a nail-biter but I am chain-smoking cigarettes one after the other, and I am snapping gum so hard my teeth hurt. I am going crazy waiting for the call. As it gets closer to the time, I haul the suitcase out of the trunk and I lock the car. I approach the hotel, wheeling the large suitcase, with my phone in hand and finally, the call comes. Game on.

  I wave off the bellboy who offers to help me with my luggage and I make my way up to Junior’s room. The escort I’ve hired opens the door. “He’s out cold,” she says. “He drank the champagne like it was a soda, didn’t notice there was anything in it, and then he fell asleep.”