The Housewife Assassin's Hostage Hosting Tips

by Josie Brown

  “All’s well that ends well. And considering Acme’s success with Mr. Fleming, I presume Ms. Tedeschi is a shoo-in.”

  “Certainly,” Bellows assures me, beaming.

  Speaking of Dominic, he insists on following Pucci and me to her next test in Acme’s shooting range, if only to “make sure our comely guest is shown how to hold something as long and hard as Benelli M4.” He holds his large hands apart and gives her a saucy wink, just in case she’s too naïve to get the double entendre.

  Um, hardly. Her eyes drop below his belt buckle. They grow exponentially at the bulge she sees there.

  “I refuse to take no for an answer,” Dominic proclaims airily.

  “I’ll say,” she purrs.

  I sigh. “O…kay! What do you say we get this show on the road?”

  “Sure, but can I freshen up first? Which way to the little girl’s room?” she asks in her kewpie doll voice.

  I point her in the right direction. “That way, and around the corner.”

  By the time she’s halfway down the hall, Dominic’s tongue is on the floor.

  Before he can follow her in there too, I slap his arm. “You better behave yourself! If she becomes my replacement, she’s on your mission team. How do you think your hanky-panky shenanigans will go over with Ryan?”

  Dominic responds with a smirk. “I presume he’ll react the same way he did when he found out about you and Jack–he’ll put his revolver in his mouth for a quick game of Russian roulette.”

  I blush. “Ha, ha, very funny! At the very least, you can wait until she actually gets the position before you pounce.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll call her either way. ‘Commiseration sex’ is the best kind. Albeit ‘survived death’ sex is high on the list as well. Then again, ‘you saved my life’ sex usually leads to a jolly good time, not to mention ‘angry at my husband’ sex. Talk about boisterous!”

  “Let’s not.”

  “You act as if you’re strapped into some sort of chastity belt, my dear. But we both know better, now don’t we?” He laughs heartily. “That one, on the other hand, is quite a saucy minx, and makes no bones about it.” He winks. “She told me I remind her of her husband. Can’t do better than that, eh?”

  I’m just about to tell him that Pucci thought so “well” of Knuckles Tedeschi that she shot him through the heart when the lady in question waltzes out of the ladies’ room.

  She and I head for the elevator with Dominic right on our heels.

  He had better tread lightly. We’ll be around guns, and accidents do happen.

  “Wow, another bullseye! ...I guess.” I stare down at the bullet-riddled crotch of Pucci’s paper target. This time around, her weapon was a Sig Sauer P226R. So far, she’s moved through a Colt 45 and a Glock 42 with similar ease. “I mean, as long as you weren’t aiming at his heart, or his head. You weren’t…were you?”

  “Get outta here!” Pucci smacks her gum hard and loud. “If we shoot ’em in the gonads, they stay alive, and we can torture them to squeal on their rat bastard pals. Besides, the world needs more eunuchs. Dontcha agree, Dom?” She looks over at Dominic for validation.

  Despite his bacon-crisp tan, his complexion is now a light shade of green. “In–Indubitably!” he stutters. He nods his head so hard I’m afraid he’ll snap something.

  I hand her the last test weapon–an AR-15. “Have you used one of these?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “My old man kept one under the bed. I shot that pedo-bastard scumbag with it. Made a hell of a hole in his chest! The exit wound was even better. You could have driven a Mac Truck through it.”

  Hearing that, Dominic’s skin tone goes from puce to ghost. His hand is shaking so much that his next shot misses the target completely.

  Seeing it, Pucci’s bubble pops, causing Dominic to jump out of his skin. “Yo, Duke of Earl! You can do better than that, can’t you?”

  He smiles weakly and points to his ear protectors, as if he can’t hear her.

  Bullshit. He’s just running scared.

  “Obviously, you’re proficient with the AR-15. Here, try this.” I hand her a Bellini M4.

  Dominic’s eyes narrow. A sly smile rises on his lips. “Here, let me help with that.” He positions himself behind her–very close.

  Make that too close. Either she’s ticklish or just not that into him. In any event, when her finger touches the trigger, she loses her grip on the gun. A shower of bullets spray into the concrete target wall, only to ricochet in every direction.

  Everyone ducks for cover.

  By the time the gunfire is over, Dominic’s infatuation is quelled. He mumbles some excuse to get the hell out of there.

  Pucci smirks. She knows the score. But like a cat with a mouse between its claws, she doesn’t mind having a little fun before the final act. As she waves to Dominic, she simpers, “Tah tah, Lord Byron! Remember, we’re hooking up for cocktails after work.”

  Dominic freezes in his tracks. His head turns slowly. “But…I’m sure Donna has a whole evening planned for you lovely ladies,” he stutters.

  “Nope,” I assure him. “In fact, we’ll be kicking off in time for happy hour. Of course, you’re welcome to join us.”

  “I’m sure you two have a lot of ground still to cover,” he insists.

  “You’re right, we do.” I shrug at his bad luck–but then brighten as I add, “Tell you what–I’ll drop Pucci by your place on my way home.”

  His eyes grow big with worry. “But…I was planning an early evening. I’m going straight to bed.”

  “I can put away three lemontinis in under an hour! I’ll be there before dark,” Pucci promises him. “If you’re already tucked in, don’t wait up. I can pick any lock. My cousin, Moochi, was the best B&E guy in Trenton.”

  “Fancy that,” Dominic mutters under his breath.

  I’ve never seen him run so fast, even when under fire.

  Pucci giggles. “Whattaya bet he’ll spend the night in his panic room?”

  “You’re not offended that he’s trying to weasel out of your date?”

  “It wasn’t a ‘date.’ It was a booty call.” She rolls her eyes. “He may have the right equipment–and plenty of it–but he’s too soft for my taste, at least where it counts most–his head.” Up until now, if her lips turned up at all, it was with a forced brittleness. But at this very moment, her smile is sad.

  I hand the M4 to Acme’s shooting range manager. “I’ve got a few more questions, but they can be answered anywhere. “Let’s get that drink.”

  The bartender at Ago Restaurant on Melrose Avenue is flirting with Pucci, and she doesn’t mind it at all.

  Not that I blame her. He’s dark with curly hair, has a chiseled jawline with a dimple in his chin, and lets her know up front that his name is Bruiser.

  “Should I ask you why?” she says coyly.

  “Stick around after my shift, and you’ll find out firsthand.”

  She shrugs. “I’ll think about it.”

  In case she doesn’t, he writes down something on a napkin and slips it to her–if I were to guess what it is, I’d say it’s his phone number.

  She smiles slyly as she tucks it into her cleavage. Something tells me her life is now filled with a series of one-night stands. According to her dossier, she was a virgin when she married Knuckles. I guess she figures she’s got to make up for lost time.

  And let’s face it: sex is another way to forget whatever ails us, if only for a few minutes.

  Ago was Pucci’s suggestion. It’s an Italian eatery in West Hollywood. Robert De Niro is one of the owners. Or as she puts it, “Now that I’m out on this coast, I’ve always wanted to say I went.”

  The rest of the crowd at the bar is older males–that is to say, not the young hipsters who cruise Sunset Strip, but the over-forties with money for great grub and a little celebrity caché. We get more than a few admiring glances. Pucci isn’t afraid to stare back, or to murmur, “Hey! Isn’t that What’s-His-Name from that movie?”
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  I chuckle as I sip my wine. “That is indeed. I hope this restaurant wasn’t too far out of your way. Do you live on the west side of town, or the east side?”

  She shrugs. “Neither. I’m deep in the Valley. The Feds planted me in the middle of nowhere, and I hate it. Let me put it this way, I’m not the ‘suburban mommy’ type–oh! No offense!”

  “None taken. We choose what we lose, don’t we?”

  She winces. “Sure. And we make our own mistakes, too. Mine was a doozy. I married a pedophile. You’ve seen my dossier. How about you?”

  I shrug. “I married a terrorist.”

  “Jeez, we’re quite a pair, ain’t we?” Pucci murmurs. “Well, on the plus side, things can only go up from here, right?”

  “For me, it already has.”

  “I saw your honey–that guy, Jack.” She gives me a wink. “He’s soooo smitten with you, kitten. I should be so lucky!” She sighs deeply.

  “Then let’s drink to that.” I clink my glass with hers. “Word of caution: Acme’s line of work has a way of putting a serious crimp on your relationships.”

  Hearing this, the light goes out of Pucci’s eyes–if only for a moment. She shrugs, “Nothing lasts forever, right?” She gulps down her lemontini, and motions to the bartender for another. “So, what are the odds I’ll get the gig?”

  “One out of three. Two more candidates have also made it to the next round.”

  “Are they better qualified?”

  “You’ve each got your plusses and minuses.”

  She turns to look me in the eye. “Let me guess mine. No military experience or covert ops skills, and I’m a felon.”

  “I had neither, and look where I am today.”

  “But you’re leaving,” she points out. “How come?”

  “I’ve accomplished what I set out to do–avenge the wrongs done to me. And my family needs me.”

  “Good reasons–none of which apply to me. I have no family, and nothing to avenge.”

  “Then why did you apply to Acme, Pucci?”

  “To get a life.” She stabs a lemon peel with her swizzle stick. “The first nineteen years of my life, I was my father’s girl. When I married Knuckles, I married the mob, too. I had to put up with his wise guy pals and their idiot wives, who pretended they didn’t know what the hell was happening. As long as they went to church on Sunday, it was okay to look the other way.” She shudders. “Hey, I’m no saint. I did the same thing–at first. Then, one day, Knuckles and I are running some errand–picking up a birthday cake for his mother. But he gets a call and the next thing I know he’s got to make a detour. Do you know why?”

  I shake my head.

  “He had to put a bullet through the head of some guy who stiffed his bookie in order to pay his eight-year-old son’s tuition to parochial school.” Her voice trembles. “Knuckles drove right up to the front yard. The poor sap was playing catch with the kid. I’ll never forget the look on the kid’s face when his daddy’s brains splattered onto the sidewalk.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Do? I sat there like a zombie. When my heart started pumping again, I jumped out of the car and started running. Of course, he caught me–but only because I was wearing Jimmy Choos.” She points down at her peep-toe pumps.

  The shoes are hot blue, to match her body-hugging frock. They are locked onto her ankle with a T-strap. The five-inch heels make her almost as tall as me.

  “Beautiful–but in the future, buy shoes with lower heels, and ones you can easily kick off. In other words, slingbacks,” I caution her.

  She frowns. “Wish I had that advice that night. Because of these shoes, Knuckles cornered me in an alley. He slammed me up against the wall, held his gun to my head, and told me he loved me, but that if I breathed a word to anyone, no one would ever find my body. Not that anyone would come looking for me.” She shrugged. “He was right about that. When I got involved with him, my family disowned me. And we never had kids because he shot blanks. Of course, those whore wives of his buddies could have cared less. The way they saw it, they’re on a gravy train–at least, as long as none of their husbands gets knocked off. The night it happens, you never hear from those mooches again–a blessing in disguise, let me tell you.” She holds up her drink. “To the last goombah standing. Thank God it wasn’t Knuckles.”

  We belt back our libations, then Pucci puts down her glass and signals Bruiser for another round. “Hey, Donna, seriously–don’t sweat it. If I’m passed over, I won’t be throwing any pity party.” She leans in and whispers, “I have a backup plan.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Real Housewives of New Jersey. They need someone with talent, verve and real class, not to mention better hair. My talent agent is talking to them right now.”

  I choke on my wine. “You’d actually consider that?”

  “Are you nuts? In a New York second!” She laughs as if it’s the funniest question she’s ever heard. “And you wouldn’t, if they offered you a role? I don’t mean New Jersey, but they do have the Beverly Hills housewives show, too. Of course, you’d have to move to a better zip code.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Seriously? With your backstory, I’d think you’d be a natural for a reality show.”

  “Yes, very seriously. And more to the point, I don’t think Acme would appreciate it.” I frown.

  “That’s a shame, because as far as I’m concerned, it’s a deal breaker.”

  When she sees my frown, she giggles. “Lighten up, doll! I was pulling your leg,” Pucci laughs. “The minute I cross the Jersey border, I’ll be gunned down. We both know it.”

  I sigh with relief. “Pucci, I’m glad you realize it.”

  She holds up a palm and stares at it. “Considering my chance at longevity, right now Acme is the only game in town.” It’s the first time I’ve heard a tinge of desperation in her voice.

  Thank goodness Bruiser slides our drinks in front of us. She lights up again.

  “Salute!” She taps her glass to mine, then pauses. “You know, I’ve never had a girl’s night out. Knuckles was too jealous to let me out of his sight, especially with those slut whore wives of his buddies. Even if it’s just an excuse to get me drunk and poke a hole in my audition as the next Donna Stone, I appreciate a night doing anything other than watching reality television.”

  “So far, I like what I’ve seen.”

  As far as Pucci is concerned, this is reason enough for us to toast again.

  Just as she takes a sip, some brawny guy with a glass eye and a nose flatter than a pancake accidentally jostles Pucci’s arm as he makes his way to one of the restaurant’s patio tables.

  Her drink spills onto the front of her dress. Angrily, she turns to him. “Watch it, you clumsy ox!” Suddenly her eyes open wide.

  She turns her head quickly so that he can’t see her.

  He cranes his head so that he can get a better look at her face. “Hey, don’t I know you?”

  “Are you from Atlanta, too?” Her question comes out in Southern drawl that is as thick as sorghum.

  He squints, as if it will help his memory.

  Ah, I get it–Pucci recognizes him, and is praying that he doesn’t do the same.

  It’s time for a diversion.

  I stand up and wave to two men who are standing at the hostess station. “Ooooh, Trixie honey, your adorable hubby just came in! And look! He brought one of his FBI friends with him. I swear! Y’all have to quit trying to set me up–but boy, this one is quite a hunk!”

  The acronym FBI doesn’t set well on Pucci’s jostler. His first instinct is to look toward the front door. The two men standing there are smiling and nudging each other, as if they’ve won the lottery. To be honest, they look like traveling salesmen–one tall with a hawk nose, the other short and bald–but that doesn’t register with Pucci’s Problem Dude. All he knows is that if what I say is true and they’re Federal agents, he wants out of there, and quick.

  I
wait until he ducks out the back, then I pull Pucci with me toward the front door.

  We take the aisle between the restaurant’s tables that is farthest away from the men who thought I was waving at them. Tall and Hawk-Nosed yells out to me, “Hey, where are you going?”

  If he follows, he’ll regret it. The last thing he’ll want is to be caught in the crossfire should Pucci’s old pal remember where he saw her last.

  By the time we make our way to the sidewalk, there’s a line out the front door of the restaurant. In Los Angeles, good eats bring out big crowds–all the better to hide from anyone who may be lying in wait for Pucci.

  While I case the block, she loses herself in the crowd. It’s dark outside, but from what I can tell, no one is hiding in any shadows, so I give her the high sign.

  We parked near the front of the restaurant, on Melrose Place, just a half-block off Clinton Avenue. But if Problem Dude has a window seat, he can watch us get into our car. So, instead, we walk away from the restaurant and circle around to the alley behind it, where Ago has its own parking lot. This takes us a block out of our way before circling back to Melrose via Clinton Avenue.

  It’s a long block, giving me the time to ask Pucci, “Who is he?”

  “Joey ‘Toenails’ Ponti. He’s a lieutenant in the Carducci syndicate.”

  “What’s he doing out here?”

  “You got me on that one.” She snorts. “Either he’s out here running an errand for Carmine Carducci, or he’s bullying his way onto some movie set. The son of a bitch used to brag that he helped De Niro with his wise guy patter for Casino. Now he fancies himself a movie consultant on all things Cosa Nostra. As if.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a quiver in her voice.

  “Do you think he recognized you?”

  “Not necessarily. Back in Trenton, my eyes were brown, and I had long, dark hair.” She pats her platinum bob. “If my cover is blown, does that knock me out of the running with Acme?”

  “Not necessarily. But it sure as hell complicates matters.” I truly like Pucci–all the more reason I’m somewhat disappointed that she’s using Acme to run away from the life she has now.