One Stiletto in the Grave

by Jason Krumbine

  Stanley smiles. “I remember that evening quite well.” He rests his hand on her shoulder. “We had quite a good run, luv.” He nods at the three male models. “Lookin’ for a little male companionship this fine evenin’?”

  “You could say that,” Brook responds, shrugging off his hand. She looks at him. “Did you want to throw yourself into the running?”

  Stanley adjusts his collar. “I don’t compete, luv. I win.” He settles back on his stool. “I’ve been lookin’ all over for you.”

  “And now you’ve found me,” Brooke says. “Good for you.”

  “Yeah, I feel like I’ve earned a hearty pat on the back,” Stanley says.

  “Well, you’re gonna have to get someone else to pat you,” Brooke replies. “My New Year’s resolution is to stop giving in to my vices.”

  “Not quite the new year yet, luv.”

  “I like to get a head start.”

  He leans over and whispers in her ear, “How bad a vice am I, then?”

  Stanley’s voice sends little shivers of pleasure rippling through her body. Brooke pushes him back and quickly finishes her drink. “Personal space please. I don’t have any money for you.”

  Stanley smiles, happy with the response he got. “I’m not lookin’ for yor money.”

  Brooke clears her throat, trying to watch her three potential dates for the evening, but they’re looking less interesting by the minute. “Well, the other thing ain’t happening either.”

  Stanley pretends not to know what she’s talking about. “Other thing?”

  She looks at him sideways. “Where I sleep with you in exchange for you knocking off a couple grand from my debt.”

  Stanley snaps his fingers, smiling as he does so. “Now I remember. As I recall, that was yor idea.”

  “Well, it’s not happening again,” she says, not quite as firmly as she did before. “One time deal.”

  “That’s okay, luv,” Stanley says, drumming his fingers on the bar. “I’ve got an honest way for you to work off your debt to me this evening.”

  Dick’s Drugstore lives up to its name. It’s a dingy little store on the corner of Apple Street and Broward that looks like it should be selling illegal drugs, rather than the legal kind. Conveniently, though, that’s exactly what they do sell at Dick’s Drugstore-in the back.

  The fluorescent lights are flickering as Brooke and Stanley enter the store. The cheap tile floor is sticky with fluids. Brooke tries not to think about what kind of fluids would end up on the floor of a drugstore. The place smells like used diapers. The shelves are poorly stocked and what is there seems to be placed in almost a haphazard manner. There aren’t any customers present, not that the clerk behind the counter would have been able to help anyone. The ginger teenager looks stoned six ways to Sunday. Stanley doesn’t pay the kid any mind as he guides Brooke towards the back.

  Stanley’s lent her a long coat to wear, giving her a slightly more presentable look.

  “I’m going to need you to step outside yor comfort zone a bit, luv,” Stanley’s saying.

  Brooke raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Mostly I need you for your brains,” Stanley continues. “Dicky here likes the ladies, so that’s going to be a bit of a problem. But if it comes to a crunch, he likes money a little more.”

  “Geez, Stanley,” Brooke says dryly. “If you’re asking me not to flirt with the guy, I’m not sure. You know how insatiable I get.”

  Stanley stops suddenly and turns to Brooke and pokes her in the chest. “That. That right there is wot I do not want you to be doing. No attitude, luv.”

  Brooke frowns, folding her arms. She doesn’t need to actually say anything.

  Stanley holds up three, slightly crooked fingers. “There’s three things you need to know about Dicky Ramburg: He likes ladies, he likes money and he likes a tussle. I would like to leave here without getting the crap beaten out of either of us. You savvy?”

  Brooke smiles. “I always get to meet the most interesting people when I’m with you.”

  Dicky Ramburg is basically a giant grease ball. He lost any real definition in his body years ago. Now, he’s just a ball with black stringy hair and squiggly lines where his facial features should be. To make matters worse, he’s dressed in a dark brown, velour sweat suit. Brooke fights the urge to vomit right then and there.

  The back room of Dick’s Drugstore is cramped and poorly lit. In the shadows Brooke can make out three other forms in the room, they’re considerably larger and in better shape than Ramburg.

  Dicky gestures to the round table he’s sitting at. “Stanley, please. Sit.” His voice has an odd accent to it, Brooke can’t place it specifically, but it sounded almost Russian. He looks at Brooke and smiles. “Who is your lovely friend?”

  Stanley sits down. There are no other chairs so Brooke has to remain standing.

  “I’m not here to expand your social circle,” Stanley says. Brooke bites the inside of her cheek to keep from frowning. She’s trying to maintain a neutral expression, but this wasn’t what she figured when Stanley told her to keep off the attitude.

  Dicky’s smile turns upside down. “Watch your tone, Stanley. My blood sugar’s a little low; I might take what you say the wrong way.”

  Stanley folds his hands on the table. “This here is my expert.”

  Dicky’s frown deepens, adding a few extra rolls to his face. “Expert?”

  Stanley holds out his hands. “You didn’t think I was going to come here and just buy it like I was picking up a pair of knickers at Tesco’s, did ya?”

  Dicky doesn’t respond right away. He smacks his lips together, making an unpleasant wet noise.

  “We have a,” Dicky pauses for a second, “relationship.”

  “Of course we do,” Stanley replies. “That’s why I’m sitting here with you and not down at Bernie Kent’s table.”

  Dicky’s frown turns into a scowl. “Kent wouldn’t know a good piece of merchandise if it reached out and tickled his balls.”

  Brooke’s nose wrinkles at the phrasing, but she keeps her mouth shut.

  Dicky’s lips smack together for another few seconds and finally he gives in. “All right.” He raises a pudgy little hand and snaps his fingers. One of the slabs of muscle steps out of the shadows and places a box on the table. Dicky pushes it across to Stanley. “Have your expert look it over.”

  The way he says ‘expert’ makes Brooke feel like she just got tossed through a sewer.

  Stanley holds the box in his hands. It’s about nine inches by eleven inches and made of a dark stained wood. Stanley takes a breath before opening the box. He reaches in and pulls out what appears to be a very, very old human skull.

  fourteen

  “Well?” Stanley whispers to Brooke.

  They’ve taken a few steps away from the table and Brooke’s carefully looking over the human skull in her hands. Dicky’s watching her like a child watches an ice cream attendant build them the perfect ice cream cone.

  “What is it supposed to be?” Brooke whispers back.

  “It’s supposed to be a bloody skull,” Stanley whispers.

  Brooke lowers the skull and gives Stanley a look. “I know it’s a skull. Whose skull is it supposed to be?”

  Stanley casts a nervous glance at Dicky, but the oversized grease ball is just sitting there patiently.

  Stanley says to Brooke, “Sometimes I deal with rare antiquities-”

  “This I know already,” she cuts him off.

  Stanley just frowns. “Look, it’s supposed to be a bloody old skull. That’s all you need to know.”

  She turns it over in her hands. “Well then you’ve got a problem, because this isn’t older than, maybe, twenty years.”

  “It’s a fake?” Stanley whispers.

  “Well, not exactly,” Brooke replies. “I mean, it is a human skull. Just probably not the one you’re looking for. How old is it supposed to be?”

  “Bloody old.”

&nbs
p; Brooke sighs. “Last time I checked, that’s not how we measured time here in the States.”

  Stanley folds his arms. “Bloody older than twenty years.”

  Brooke hands him the skull back. “Sorry, bucko.”

  Stanley looks forlornly at the human skull. “Bollocks.”

  “Seriously, whose skull are you looking for?” Brooke asks again.

  “Nothing you need to worry yor pretty little head about,” Stanley replies.

  She twitches her eyes back towards Dicky. “Is this going to be a problem?”

  “Oh, definitely,” Stanley says. “But, hopefully not a problem for us.”

  Brooke gives him a narrow look. “That doesn’t inspire confidence.”

  Stanley walks back over to Dicky and sets the skull back down on the table a little too forcefully. “This isn’t the skull.”

  Dicky smacks his lips together in disagreement. “It’s the skull, Stanley. It’s the skull you asked for.”

  Stanley points to Brooke. “Not according to her.”

  Dicky looks at her. “Oh?”

  Stanley twirls the skull around to face Dicky. “This wanker’s been dead twenty years and you know that who I’m looking for has been dead a lot longer.”

  The squiggly lines where Dicky’s eyes would be, cinch together. “Is that so?”

  “It is.”

  “And who is this expert that you trust over our relationship, Stanley? You and I, we go back.”

  “Yeah, we go way back,” Stanley replies. “Why else would I bring my own expert?”

  “Are you insinuating that I would try to scam you?” Dicky asks.

  “I’m not insinuating anything,” Stanley. “I’m just pointing out the facts.”

  Dicky rolls his fat lips for a moment. “And what makes her such an expert on the human skull, Stanley?”

  Stanley smiles. “This little bird’s a grim reaper.” He slides the skull back over to Dicky. “No deal.”

  Dicky’s lips curl into a sneer. “You brought a grim reaper into my house?” He smacks the table and the skull rattles.

  The three muscle boys from the shadows step forward. The air in the room gets very tense. Brooke’s adrenaline picks up. Fight or flight is ringing in her ears.

  Stanley takes a step back, holding his hands up. “Now, let’s all just take a deep breath and calm down a bit.”

  “I am perfectly calm, Stanley,” Dicky says.

  Brooke can hear teeth grinding and realizes the sound is coming from the giant grease ball.

  “Honestly, it’s not you I’m worried about, but yor hired help,” Stanley says, eyeing the three goons.

  “You have insulted me,” Dicky continues. “We are businessmen. A grim reaper has no place in this.” He spits out the words, grim reaper, like they’re poisonous apple bits.

  Stanley frowns. “Wot did you think I was going to do, Dicky? There’s a lot of money riding on this particular ‘ead. I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Dicky glares at him. “I don’t like it.”

  “No kidding.”

  Dicky flexes his pudgy fingers. He looks at Brooke. “And, who exactly are you, missy? I like to know the names of the people who cost me money.”

  Brooke swallows, clenching her fists. She’s never run away from a fight before and she doesn’t have any plans to start now.

  Stanley steps in Dicky’s eye line, blocking Brooke from him. “She didn’t cost you anything, Dicky. Now, I think yor best bet here is to play dumb. It’s clear to me you got sold a lemon.” He shrugs. “It happens.”

  Dicky traces the edge of the skull’s jaw, not saying anything.

  “I’d take the out I just gave you, Dicky,” Stanley says.

  “Would you?” Dicky asks, looking at the skull. “Because I have you considerably outmanned and outgunned. So why would I take an out from you?”

  “Because we go way back,” Stanley says, watching the goons. “Because we have a relationship.”

  “A relationship,” Dicky echoes. “This was obtained through very reliable and trustworthy sources.”

  Stanley shrugs. “Maybe they’re not as reliable as you’d like to believe.”

  “You’re pushing the envelope of my hospitality, Stanley,” Dicky says.

  Stanley takes a step back. “I’m just lookin’ ta do some business, Dicky. You get me the right skull and yo’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Dicky grasps the skull between his hands and squeezes it. His face turns a dark shade of red, the fat along his arms quiver and then the skull bursts into pieces.

  Dicky casts his gaze up to Stanley. “Leave here, Stanley, while I’m feeling in a generous mood.”

  Stanley grabs Brooke and pulls her out of the room before Dicky can say anything else.

  Outside, they’re quickly cutting through an alley to get to Stanley’s car. Brooke’s heart is racing and she’s still feeling the rush of adrenaline.

  “That went over well,” she says a little breathlessly. She feels an indescribable itch all over her body.

  Stanley looks over his shoulder at her, intending to say something, but there’s a look in her eyes. There was tension back in the room with Dicky and sometimes, when that tension isn’t released, it leads to something else.

  There’s lust in Brooke’s eyes and it’s mirrored in Stanley’s.

  He pushes her against the wall in the alley, mashing his lips against hers. She grips his shoulders and Stanley lifts her into his arms. He pushes her skirt up out of the way, it’s so tiny it doesn’t have far to go. The panties come off with a quick tear.

  There’s no time for foreplay.

  A moment later his pants are opened and he’s inside her. Brooke moans into his mouth as he fills her.

  With each thrust the tension melts away, replaced with something else.

  With each thrust his grip on her bottom tightens, there’ll be marks later, but neither of them cares.

  With each thrust her body feels lit on fire with pleasure.

  It doesn’t take long to get the desired results. Their bodies were more prepared for this than their minds were.

  Brooke’s grip on his neck tightens and a muffled scream escapes her lips into his mouth as she’s flooded with bliss. It rolls through her like a wave. Every muscle in her body seizes for one flash of a second and then releases. She shudders, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to grab every ounce of pleasure from the sensations that are overwhelming her body.

  A moment later Stanley follows her with a guttural growl and it sets off another wave through her body.

  His hips roll against her once more and Stanley’s rewarded with a contented sigh from her. Nothing more is said for the evening.

  fifteen

  “Hey, Graves, I’m not your damn secretary!”

  It’s the next morning as Avery and Brooke stop at the street door to their office. Howard Chang is yelling at them from his 24 Hour Chinese Food restaurant.

  Avery’s dressed in jeans and a black button down blouse, with a sparkly tank top beneath. She’s got her hair back in a ponytail and skipped the makeup for the day.

  Brooke’s looking considerably more conservative than she did yesterday, with dark jeans and a light grey oversized tunic top. Her hair lazily held up with a pencil in a loose bun. There’s some light make-up applied to hide the dark circles under eyes. She also has a brand new pair of faux leopard fur boots.

  “Do you know anything about this?” Avery mutters to her sister as the angry Chinese man stomps towards them.

  “Not a clue,” Brooke replies.

  Howard Chang is middle aged with a flat face and black hair that languishes on his head as though each strand were a dead worm. His white cooking apron is covered in a multitude of food stains. Chang’s glaring at the sisters, but to anyone else it just looks like he’s squinting extra hard.

  “Howard,” Avery says, noticing that Brooke’s positioned herself directly behind her. “Nice to see you. Great weather we’re having today. What the hell are you
talking about?”

  Howard nods at their office. “That lady. She come by earlier. She say that you not around and she wants to leave a message with me. I’m not your damn secretary!”

  Howard’s got a butcher knife in his left hand and he’s waving it around as he speaks.

  Avery holds up her hands. “Okay, calm down, Howard.”

  “Every time, you do this!” he snaps. “Get your own damn secretary!”

  “Well, we don’t have the money to get our own damn secretary,” Avery explains. “But in our defense, it’s not like we’ve got a sign on the door that says to come down and bother the crazy Chinese man when we’re out.”

  Howard points at her with the butcher knife. “Stupid white lady!”

  “Okay, well that’s a little racist,” Avery says. “But I’m assuming there was something lost in the translation.”

  Howard swears something in a language Avery doesn’t recognize.

  “Howard?” Avery says, snapping her fingers in an attempt to get the chubby Chinaman to focus. “Howard? Who was the lady, Howard?”

  Howard spits on the sidewalk. “Shelly Jones.”

  “Shelly Jones?” Avery repeats.

  “Are you deaf?” Howard snaps.

  “No,” Avery replies calmly. “No, my hearing’s just fine. What did she want?”

  “How hell should I know?” Howard snaps. “I not your damn secretary!” He stomps his tiny little feet and then heads back into his restaurant, muttering to himself.

  “Thanks for the back-up,” Avery says to her sister.

  “Excuse me, but did you see the giant knife he was waving around?” Brooke says.

  “So you hid behind me?” Avery starts up the stairs to their office.

  “You can defend yourself,” Brooke says. “You know all those knife moves.”

  “What knife moves?”

  Brooke shrugs. “I don’t know. You used to throw knives.”

  “Darts,” Avery says. “I used to throw darts.”

  “Whatever. Shelly Jones?”

  “Yeah, Daniel’s widow,” Avery says.