Thrills

by K. T. Tomb

  By then, the entire morning had passed me by and, judging from the rumbling in my stomach, it was clearly past midday. I’d always thought that time went by quickest when I had nothing to do. There was, quite literally, nothing worse for me than realizing how fast I was wasting precious free time. One misconception about married women is that they only find excuses to use my service at night; initially that would make sense because there is something intrinsically mysterious about the dark, about the stars, about a moonlight kiss or lying down with a woman on the top of a hill with nothing but crickets and a night breeze and her moans for music. One thing I learned quickly was that romanticism is great. Practicality was better, and what better time to cheat than in the middle of the afternoon, or when the kids are gone to school, husband is at work, and the house is empty and all they had to do was call their office and say they were not feeling well? I did not have a lot of free time. It was part of the reason I was taking this vacation in the first place.

  I walked a little further until I found myself at an intersection. When I looked up I saw the name of the street: Rue St. Anne. Ha! Along that very avenue was a well-known café that was famous for its ‘hot chicken’—Louisiana shrimp po’boys—and for serving the best Creole rums ever distilled. I decided immediately to find the place and stop in for a quick lunch followed by a lengthy rum tasting adventure before eventually heading back to the hotel for a quick nap and then to get ready for dinner. Everyone knew a few basic rums, I supposed. What they do not know is how many distilleries and specialty rums there truly are. For a few hours, I lost myself in absorbing as much about rum as I could—the different types of sugar cane, the different ways it was aged, the different ways it was barreled and blended. I was a bourbon guy. I appreciate nothing more than an excellent Kentucky straight, but I was almost converted after sampling some of the local rum. It was exquisite.

  I lost track of time, and when I glanced down at my watch, I realized that if I was going to get any catch-up sleep at all, it would have to be now. I quickly exited the restaurant, and while stumbling back to my hotel room, noticed the strange photographer again. He had not moved since the last time I saw him, which was odd and not odd at the same time. I decided then and there to ignore him, and that I must be in my own head, and that’s why I kept looking for him.

  ***

  That fucking ape! the man thought as he looked over the lens of the camera. I bet he thinks he’s made me.

  He could have kicked himself in the ass for being so brazen and careless on the street, especially when he really had no need to be out there in the daytime. He should have been getting some rest so he could try to set up for a shot that night.

  But how could he set up for the job if he had no idea where the mark was going to be? That was what had brought him out to the corner of the bistro that morning in hopes of catching a glimpse of Ryans and finding out where he would be that evening.

  He may have been seen paying too close attention to him, but the man didn’t think he had spooked Ryans yet. Why would he have any reason to feel on edge anyways. Even if he was wary of any potential jealous husbands coming after him, he was on vacation after all. How many people knew that he was in New Orleans?

  The man was upset with himself still and decided to grab a sandwich and go back to his motel. He’d start a stakeout at 6 p.m. outside Ryans’ hotel and follow him again. He made a promise to himself that the first dark alley Ryans walked down would be the last turn he made on the road of life.

  ***

  The alarm woke me up at 5:30 p.m., which gave me just enough time to grab another quick shower.

  Las Vegas can get unbearably hot in the summer and even maintains a warm enough temperature the rest of the year, but New Orleans was an entirely different kettle of fish. The difference was the humidity and when it was this humid, I tended to sweat. And I couldn’t very well go meet Sara stinking like B.O. from an afternoon nap. I smiled to myself, thinking about the sweat I’d work up that evening. The shower felt good. I was a firm believer that there was not much that a hot shower and some physical exercise couldn’t fix. I was looking forward to the physical… challenges… Sara would give me later that evening, and since I loved showing up to a date with a pump on, I repped out fifty push-ups and sit-ups before I showered. Physical physique is only thirty percent of the game I’m in, but when nothing but one-hundred percent counts, it’s nice to be able to count on a thirty percent guarantee. That’s mainly why I take care of myself.

  I picked out one of my better white Armani button-down shirts, the one with the black cuffs that I liked to roll twice up my arms. The reason for the white shirt was that, back in my twenties, I had someone whose opinion on how I looked really mattered to me tell me that white was a good color. The other reason for white was that a man in a white shirt was not something to remark on. No one turned to their friend and said, ‘look at that dude in the white shirt’ because every man owns between one and three. One for the office, one for important meetings, and potentially one for going out. The benefit of wearing white was also purely professional tactics. Since it was expected that a man would own, and thus potentially wear, a white button down, everyone’s attention was usually then focused on my date. And what woman did not secretly want to be the center of everyone’s attention?

  I stepped into a pair of black-and-white pinstripe pants and a black belt with a square silver buckle and my black leather shoes finished the picture. I knew I looked good. I finished fixing my hair and stepped out of the hotel onto the street. As I was walking down the street, I was focused on one thing and one thing only. I was astonished, and a little surprised, a little disappointed and a little excited with myself. I never got giddy over a woman. Ever. As I said, repeats made me nervous, and I never mixed emotional and physical. And here I was, repeating with this woman, emotions tied almost inextricably to my physical desire to have her.

  “Hi Sara,” I said, trying to hide the eagerness in my voice.

  “Hey River,” she replied, smiling mischievously. That’s when I noticed that she had a bag slung over her shoulder, and take out in her hands.

  “I thought we were going to eat somewhere else tonight? I’m such a foodie,” I told her.

  “Tonight we’re eating in,” she announced, grinning. “You take too long to eat. It’s like you lose yourself in your plate. I have a full sample of New Orleans cuisine for you to taste and you will sample it all.” She emphasized very specific words to indicate, at least in my experienced yet humble opinion, exactly what it was she wanted me to eat. Two could play that game.

  “Yeah, I do,” I admitted, surprised that I felt slightly defensive, “I love food. With what I do… well, I don’t get to enjoy a whole lot of things as much I do eating.” And I left the sexual innuendos, the implications, the offers completely alone. No need to spoil the surprise so soon. I did not think she would have a problem with exactly how eager I was. I was, to be honest, hardly able to contain myself at this moment.

  “Hmm…” she said thoughtfully. “I can think of something we can do that we’ll both enjoy,” she added, “perhaps if we dined together, the experience would be better for both of us.”

  I loved that she was insatiable, witty and fearless. She knew what she wanted from me and I don’t think that even I could have stopped her. Hell, why would I have even tried? I couldn’t remember the last time someone had pushed me to my limits, and I enjoyed it.

  “So I take it we’re eating at my place?” I asked, knowing the answer already.

  “Yeah, we are. Probably going to have to eat in the bed though... And don’t worry—this is from another really great place. You’ll love the food. But this time we won’t have to wait so long afterward.”

  “Should we stop and grab a bottle of something to drink?” I asked, surprised with myself yet again. I provided my clients with a very specific experience, and I did not often offer to pair wine and food together. Food was my escape; I did not take dining lightly, and yet
here I was, more than willing to throw down hard cash—fuck it, even plastic—for a really nice bottle of wine.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve got us covered. Most people think of Kentucky and Tennessee when they think whiskey. They forget how Bourbon Street kept its name long after the ruling Bourbon royal family was dead and forgotten. I’m going to give you a little lesson in true Southern whiskey.”

  “I like the sound of that,” I replied. How could I possibly not have developed feelings for this woman? She loved food. She loved sex. She loved bourbon. All she would have had to do to earn a ring—another one anyway—was crack a Bud Light and I would have legitimately tried to steal her away.

  She ended up being right about the food and the bourbon. We got back to the hotel, and she laid out a real spread. There was a little bit of everything that I could imagine wanting to eat in New Orleans. Crab and seafood were prevalent, but there was Cajun spiced beef and chicken too. Not to mention dirty rice, fried okra and other veggies. It was great, and the bourbon was smooth as butter and not too sweet. It lit a fire in my belly, and in other places for the both of us. It turned out that her bag had lingerie in it; a French maid’s outfit, complete with a feather duster and an assortment of light bondage tools. I thought it was completely hot when she asked me to tie her up the night before.

  I had no idea what I was in for.

  All I can say is that when she cuffed me to the headboard—and not with the fluffy cuffs either—I did not know what to expect. Yet she blew my mind at every turn. I’ve had women ask me to strip for them; I can say with wholehearted sincerity, that never have I had a woman strip for me. Some men love the strip club. It’s just the amateur version of what I do, so I avoid them. However, if I have a buddy get married, for example, and the bachelor party is at a strip joint, well, I’ll go. Sara stripped with more skill and taste than easily eighty percent of the women employed in the collective amount of strip clubs I’ve been in, which in L.A. was not saying a lot because there are so many, but it is what it is. It did not fail to get the job done. We quickly lost ourselves in each other yet again. After the third or fourth time we had sex that night, I noticed that I was growing to like this girl even more than when she left the hotel last night. So now, as usual, I was going to have to do something about her. I knew that if things continued down this path, I would lose myself in New Orleans. And if she was single, that might have been an easier choice to make. But she wasn’t. She was married, and presumably had a number of children.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Check this out, Strong,” said Hoya.

  “What?” Strong replied quickly. The case was moving slowly. Predictably, the alibis for both husbands checked out every way they looked at it. They were getting desperate for leads.

  “I pulled some strings with an old… ah… friend… who’s pretty high-up at AT&T. There’s a number on Sheila’s phone; it’s not listed in her contacts at all. And she makes a call to it about once every six weeks or so through hunting season. Then she stops calling it until the following year.”

  “What?” Strong asked. This could be the lead they were looking for—the hard evidence to back their theory from earlier in the day.

  “And guess what?” Hoya added. “The same number is the last number called from Erin’s phone. The call only lasted about 30 seconds.”

  “So it went to voicemail, or the person on the other end ignored it.”

  “Yup, you got that right,” Hoya answered.

  “Son of a bitch. Did you pull the number?” Strong asked.

  “Waiting on something from… that friend… over at the cell company.”

  “Keep after it, that’s the best thing we got so far, Hoya.”

  Strong knew in his gut that the person on the other end of the line was the person they needed to talk to. If that person was not the killer, then they knew whoever it was that had killed both the women cooling in the autopsy room.

  ***

  The contractor couldn’t believe it. The bastard managed to pull tail even when he was on vacation.

  Well, I should’ve guessed.

  He watched the very attractive blond and the target converse quickly, and then head back to the hotel. He had no doubt as to what would happen next. He was going to have to factor her into his plans now. It was clear to him that where he went, she would follow and vice versa. He almost wished he could go down to them, let them know exactly what it was he was being paid to do, and ask them if they would like to live, and if the answer to that question happened to be yes, well, then perhaps he would let her live. Maybe him, too, but definitely her.

  I don’t want any casualties, but it won’t be the first time. If I have to, I will. The client is being very specific. Get the job done, whatever the cost.

  Satisfied that he could pull off a successful mission, knowing where the target was and knowing who he was with, he went back to his motel to plan his next move. Because the target was spending time with this woman, it would make him easier to find. That made his job both easier and harder. Easier, because there were a limited number of places a couple in New Orleans would go. On the other hand, those places were not always off the beaten path—typically, they were right on the beaten path. Normally, when encountering this type of situation he would try to set up a night shoot so that no one would be around. However, that was probably the worst possible time to attempt to complete his contract in New Orleans at Mardi Gras. Since a night shoot was out of the question, he would have to try in the morning, but there was no guarantee that the target would be awake, or moving around in the morning. That brought him back to a night shoot. Maybe if I post up outside his hotel. Then, when they’re stumbling in drunk, I’ll have a clear, quiet shot. If I put the first shot into his chest, as long as he is standing in front of stone and not glass, I shouldn’t need to worry about hurting anyone else.

  ***

  It turned out that Mike and Rick ended up choosing the same undertaker’s services and two weeks after the murders they were both seated in the lobby of the Tranquility Gardens Funeral Home waiting to meet with the funeral director to make their wives’ final arrangements.

  “Do you mind if I go in with you, buddy?” Mike asked timidly as they waited. “I can’t be sure that I’ll make the right choices for Erin. She was always a lot classier than me, you know?”

  “Yeah, Erin had great taste. She always considered us a couple of hillbilly rednecks.”

  Mike laughed at his friend’s easy commentary. It made him feel half alive again. Having Rick with him at the condo the last couple of weeks had been great. They’d taken care of each other and kept each other’s spirits up for as long as it had taken the relatives to start turning up.

  That was one thing about living in Northern California, not a lot of people really came from there. Most were transplants like Mike, Erin and all their friends. So when there were births and deaths and such in the family, people were always waiting for relatives to get in from out of town. The delay to get the funerals planned had been all the same to the two men anyway. The police had delayed the release of their wives’ bodies while they waited for a coroner from the FBI to get there to perform the autopsies. The mysterious murders had officially boggled the shit out of the local police officers’ minds.

  “Mr. Mancini?”

  Mike looked up at the plain brunette who had stepped out of the office to invite him in.

  “My friend, ummm, Mr. Upplandsson and I would like to make the arrangements together. Is that okay?”

  “Of course, sirs. Please come with me this way. Mr. Nelson is ready to see you now.”

  They followed the woman into a well-appointed office where a graying, middle-aged man was seated behind a desk, signing some papers. When they stepped in, he stood up from the desk and walked out to shake their hands.

  “I am very sorry for both your losses,” he said. It was the customary statement to be made by people who had no idea what to say to people who were grieving the loss of a l
oved one. Even so, the man looked as sincere as a man who dealt with bereavement for a living could be expected to.

  He turned to the credenza behind his desk and produced two files of paperwork which he laid out before him.

  “So, gentlemen. Who would like to start the process?”

  Rick piped up first.

  “Well, you see Mr. Nelson, my buddy Mike here has been a real friend to me and Sheila ever since we moved here from Georgia. Mike here grew up in Tennessee so we got that Southern upbringing that we share and well our ladies were both West Coast girls. We have been inseparable for years and I wanna do him a solid.”

  Mike’s mouth was wide open as he sat listening to the sentiment that Rick was pouring out to the funeral director but he had no idea where his friend was going with his narration.

  “He even gave me a place to stay these last few weeks while the houses were being investigated and cleaned.”

  “Yes, I see,” Nelson said nodding slowly.

  “Sheila and I always thought we’d have kids… at least two. And a few years back, she got into this whole retirement planning and final arrangements thing and she made all sorts of plans and even bought the insurance and stuff.”

  “That’s, quite right, Mr. Upplandsson. I’m looking at the pre-need forms right now.”

  “Well, I want the girls to be buried side by side in the middle two plots and the two on the ends to be kept for Mike and me.”

  There were two of everything at the double funeral of Erin Mancini and Sheila Upplandsson the following Saturday.

  The two men clung to family in the front row of St. Peter’s Episcopal Church while the priest went through the program and gave their wives the traditional last rites. White roses and calla lilies flooded the pulpit in huge arrangements and as the pallbearers brought out both caskets, the men from Mike and Rick’s hunting club raised their rifles over the procession in an honor line.