by Lynn, JB
"What did you take of Maggie's?" he asked the Doberman.
"Hungry!" she panted.
He, of course, couldn't understand her, but I could.
"She took my lucky rabbit's foot." I scooped the sodden mess off the floor and stomped into the kitchen to wrap it in a paper towel.
"A horseshoe over your door and now a rabbit's foot," Patrick mused aloud, picking the table lamp up off the floor and putting it back where it belonged. "I never would have taken you for the superstitious type."
"The horseshoe was a gift from my Aunt Leslie and the rabbit's foot and this new horseshoe"—I waved at the one I'd left on the kitchen table—"were gifts from my friend Armani."
"The woman you work with?" Patrick asked.
"Uh-huh."
"She thinks you need more luck too?"
"She thinks I need to get lucky," I muttered. I regretted it the moment the words left my lips, but if Patrick registered the sexual meaning, he gave no indication. I let out a sigh of relief. Maybe my luck was changing.
"I brought dinner," he said, picking up a brown paper bag he'd propped near the door in the foyer.
"What?" I asked suspiciously.
"Meat!" Doomsday barked.
I glared at her. Sometimes the dog ate better than I did. Patrick had been known to feed the mutt choice cuts of meat while handing me a falafel sandwich.
"Lamb gyros," he said. "Is that okay?"
"For all of us?"
He looked around, startled. "There's someone else here?"
I looked pointedly at the dog salivating at his feet.
"Not for you, sweetheart."
She hung her head dejectedly.
Patrick eyed her quizzically. "Sometimes I think she understands every word I say."
She did, but I couldn't tell him that. "Yeah, that's why she wouldn't let go of the rabbit's foot when I told her to."
"Sorry!" Doomsday panted in her sweetest tone, cocking her head to the side. I swear she batted her eyelashes at me.
It's hard to stay mad at her when she's so damn cute.
"You want dinner?" I asked her.
She ran to my side. I quickly poured her a generous serving of dry kibble and said, "Bon Appetit!" which was our signal that it was okay for her to begin eating.
She noisily crunched and inhaled her food in mere seconds.
While she ate, I pulled a couple bottles of water out of my fridge and handed one to the redhead who was watching me carefully.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
I nodded, rather than sharing the fact that I was jealous of the attention he gave my dog.
"You should put this away." He picked up my Lean Cuisine box, a knowing expression in his eyes.
He probably thought that if he didn't occasionally feed me, I'd never eat anything that didn't come straight out of a box, can, or jar. He's wrong. I have dinner with my aunts once a week and nothing served there would count as a processed food. I usually even eat vegetables. If I didn't, Aunt Susan would give me a hard time.
Pulling a couple of paper plates and napkins out of the bag, he quickly set my kitchen table. "So besides the gyros, I got some baba ganoush."
"What?"
"Baba ganoush. It's an eggplant dip. You'll like it." Despite the fact he's a redheaded Irishman, Patrick Mulligan has a fondness for Middle Eastern cuisine. I assume it's because he was married to an Iranian woman... not legally married, but close enough.
He laid out the gyros and some flatbread (even I know what flatbread is) and the baba ganoush, which quite frankly looked a lot like Doomsday's canned food.
He must have spotted the skepticism in my expression because he smiled at me. "Trust me."
I nodded because I did trust him. The guy is a cop, a hired contract killer, and my murder mentor, but really, when it comes down to it, he's the person I trust most in the world. Which may say more about the craziness of my world than it does about him, actually.
So the man I trust, and secretly lust after, scooped up the foodstuff that looks like dog food on a piece of flatbread and held it out to me. I considered leaning forward and eating it out of his hand while giving him by best “come-hither” look (as my Aunt Loretta would say), but then I thought better of it. What if I hated it and had to spit it out… that wouldn’t be sexy.
Instead, I plucked it out of his hand doing my best to ignore the little sparks of sensation that zipped through my fingers when they brushed against his palm. Resisting the urge to pinch my nose shut, like I was prone to do every time Aunt Susan had tried to give me a spoonful of medicine when I was a kid, I shoveled a big mouthful of roasted eggplant/doodoo onto my tongue.
It didn't taste like poo or even dog food (not that I've sampled Doomsday's fare). It tasted... good.
Smiling his approval, Patrick scooped up some baba ganoush for himself. "See. I knew you'd like it."
I swallowed before replying. "You think you know everything."
Raising his eyebrows, a devilish glint shining in his green gaze, he nodded. "Pretty much."
"Try?" Doomsday panted pitifully, eyeing the eggplant spread.
"You won't like it." I warned. "It's a vegetable. And it's spicy."
She cocked her head to the side and stared at me, the concept of "spicy" being foreign to her.
"You shouldn't feed her people food," Patrick admonished.
"This from the guy who feeds her meat?" I mocked.
"The fat in meat is good for her coat. No good can come of her slurping down roasted eggplant."
"He's right," I told the dog.
She hung her head, crestfallen.
Unable to endure the guilt her pitiful expression evoked, I unwrapped my gyro, snagged a piece of lamb, and tossed it through the air.
She caught it before it hit the ground and swallowed it whole.
Patrick shook his head. "You spoil her."
"That's my prerogative."
We ate in silence, finishing the ganoush and gyros in record time.
"Thank you for dinner," I said, wiping my mouth with a paper napkin. "Now do you want to tell me why you're here?"
Patrick searched my face for a long moment. "Maybe I wanted to see you. Maybe I enjoy spending time with you."
I took a long swig of water from the bottle in front of me. "Maybe. But I doubt it."
Something flickered in his gaze, intense and hot, but he quickly blinked and looked away. "I could use your help."
"With what?"
"A job."
I considered that for a long moment. Up until now, I'd gotten my instructions for killing people directly from the mob boss, Tony Delveccio himself.
"Does our mutual friend know about it?" I asked carefully. Discussing assassinations requires a bit of finesse.
Patrick shook his head. "No. This is more of a freelance gig."
"Don't do it!" God shouted from the bedroom.
He's a serial eavesdropper.
"I'd be the one hiring you," Patrick continued slowly.
I frowned. "You?"
"Uh-huh. I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd help me out." He let the request hang there, not saying he'd helped me out of more than one jam.
I swallowed hard. In the past I'd felt like Delveccio had put me on the spot with his requests, but those had just been business transactions. This was something more. It was a favor. A personal favor.
Sitting very still, Patrick watched me intently, waiting for my answer.
"You're who's always busy quoting Rule Number Three," I reminded him weakly.
"I know, Mags. If it wasn't important..."
Something in his voice, soft with a hint of desperation, panicked me. "I have my standards," I reminded him in a breathless rush. "I don't go around just killing anybody. They have to deserve it."
He winced. "I don't need you to kill anyone."
I blinked. "You don't?"
"I need you to help me steal something."
"Oh. Okay, sure."
"You're not goi
ng to ask what? You don't want to know who we're taking it from?" He sounded vaguely disappointed as though he thought my having pulled off a couple of contract hits had somehow screwed with my morality.
I bristled at the assumption. "I'm guessing you're not asking me to bankrupt a widows and orphans fund."
"No."
"I'm assuming it's not nuclear launch codes we're stealing?"
He shook his head.
"Whatever it is, it's a bad idea!" God chimed in from the other room.
The high-pitched squeaking sound the lizard made had Patrick glancing in the direction of the bedroom door. "Your lizard?"
I nodded, but pressed on. "So what is it I need to steal and who are we taking it from?"
"There's a certain flash drive I need to get my hands on," Patrick said slowly.
“Like for a computer?”
He nodded.
"Why?"
"It might have some incriminating evidence on it."
"Evidence to incriminate who?" I asked worriedly, afraid that it was me.
"Me."
I blinked. "You?"
Patrick nodded. "I may have screwed up."
"But you're not sure?"
"No. But if I did, I can't afford to have it floating out there. It would make me vulnerable."
"I understand."
"It's not going to be an easy job.” He stared at me intently, testing to see if I was up to the job.
"Nothing ever is," I said with a heavy sigh. "But I'll bite. Why not?"
"We need to rip off a professional thief."
That sounded almost as bad as having to kill a professional hitman.
"Does our thief have a name?"
"O'Hara."
I groaned inwardly. Another Irishman to complicate my life.
"Lucky O'Hara," Patrick elaborated. "Ever heard of him?"
I eyed the horseshoe at the end of the table. "The lucky part sounds familiar."
Chapter Two
Not only did Patrick want me to help him rob a thief, he needed to do it out of town, specifically in Atlantic City.
A few months earlier, when I was a carefree single gal with no responsibilities, taking a quick trip down to A.C. wouldn't have been a problem. Now, it's a colossal headache. Getting away for a weekend of larceny would take some serious explaining. I'd have to tell my aunts why I wasn't checking in on my niece on my assigned days, and I'd have to find someone to take care of God and Doomsday, since I was pretty sure I couldn't bring them to the casino with me.
While I wanted to help Patrick out of the jam he found himself in, his number one rule "Don't get caught" was swirling round and round in my head. Even God, when I asked him for guidance, couldn't figure out a way to help my murder mentor without causing a lot of suspicion. Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep that night.
Which meant I was dragging worse than usual at Insuring the Future the next day. If Harry noticed he didn't say anything, but there was no way Armani was going to let the circles under my eyes and the incessant imbibing of caffeine go without comment.
"What's wrong, Chiquita?"
We were sitting at our usual table in the lunchroom. She was eating a concoction of spaghetti noodles and cottage cheese. I was grateful that she'd chosen to eat something less revolting than usual.
"Nothing," I lied, poking my fork into the Lean Cuisine I'd heated in the office microwave and wishing I'd thought to grab the leftover baba ganoush instead of the frozen meal.
"Where's all the stuff I gave you?"
I pulled the shark tooth from my pocket and waved it at her.
"And the others?" she asked.
"Left them at home." I didn't tell her that my dog had tried to eat the rabbit's foot or that she'd puked up red dye on my bathmat while I was in the shower that morning.
"Something bothering you?" she asked.
Before I could reply, I saw Aunt Loretta making her way toward me in stilettos and a skirt that would’ve been too short on a woman twenty years younger.
I blinked, wondering if perhaps I had officially gone around the bend. Loretta didn't even know where I worked, let alone would she visit me at work, unless...
My heart stuttered.
My breathing stopped.
Unless something had happened to Katie. An image of my niece, so small and fragile in her hospital bed flashed before my eyes, causing me physical pain.
"Chiquita?" Armani leaned forward, her alarm evident.
I tried to get to my feet to meet my aunt in the middle of the room, but my legs were too weak.
"Yoooohooo, Maggie!" Loretta trilled as though I wasn't staring right at her.
Armani twisted to see who the clickety-clacking woman calling my name was.
"You need some lipstick," Loretta said, drawing near.
"Katie?" I choked out, my throat tight.
Loretta looked confused. "What about her?"
"Breathe, Chiquita," Armani urged, reaching across the table to shake my arm.
“Something happened to Katie?” I asked.
“What happened to Katie?” Loretta asked.
We stared at one another with matching horrified expressions.
“Are you two for real?” Armani asked. “Why are you here, Leslie?”
“I’m Loretta,” my aunt corrected haughtily as though someone mixing her up with her twin sister was the greatest insult.
“Okay, Loretta,” Armani mocked. “Why are you here, messing with my friend’s head?”
“Barry Manilow,” Loretta replied succinctly.
I blinked. “Katie’s okay?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?” Loretta asked.
“Barry Manilow?” Armani prodded, seeming intent on keeping the conversation on track.
“He writes the songs that make the whole world sing,” Loretta informed us.
“And he wrote the Dr. Pepper jingle,” Armani said. “I’m a Pepper, You’re a Pepper…”
I eyed her suspiciously, wondering how she happened to have that bit of trivia available to trip off her tongue. “You’re a Barry Manilow fan?”
“So what if I am?” Armani said a tad defensively.
I raised my hands in surrender. I had no desire to get into a fight with the feisty psychic. Instead, I turned my attention on my sexpot aunt. “What are you doing here? You scared me half to death.”
“Barry Manilow,” Loretta repeated.
I scanned her quickly, worried that perhaps, like me, she had a head injury and was suffering from some bizarre delusion.
“Theresa loved Barry Manilow,” Loretta elaborated.
This wasn’t crazy. Well it was, but it was true. My big sister, Katie’s mom, had been a rabid Barry fan.
“I bought her tickets for his show in Atlantic City,” Loretta explained.
“Do you want to sit down?” I asked, standing and grabbing her elbow to lead her to a seat.
“I bought them for her birthday,” Loretta continued.
I wondered if she was having some sort of mental break and had forgotten that Theresa had died in a car accident months earlier. I considered calling Aunt Susan for advice about how to handle her sister.
Armani, who knows full well that Theresa is in no position to sing along with “Mandy,” tapped the side of her skull with her good hand, indicating that my fears that Aunt Loretta had lost it were well-founded.
Loretta rummaged in her purse. I closed my eyes for a second, searching for an internal strength I wasn’t sure I had.
“I want to give them to you,” she said.
I opened my eyes and stared at her, noting that her make-up, while heavy, was applied expertly. “You what?”
“I want to give you the Manilow tickets.”
“But I don’t like Barry Manilow,” I said, ignoring Armani’s snort of outrage. Then, remembering that I needed to go to Atlantic City to help Patrick, I added hurriedly, “But I’d love to see him perform.”
Loretta beamed. “Oh good. I know Theresa was planning on bri
nging you with her, so this will be a nice way to honor her memory.”
“She was going to ask me?” I asked, a painful lump rising in my thought.
Loretta nodded. “You don’t think she was going to bring Dirk the Jerk with her, do you?”
I chuckled, having never before heard my aunt refer to Theresa’s husband by the name I used for him.
“There are two tickets,” Loretta suggested. “You could bring a date.”
For a split-second I thought of Patrick. I wondered whether he’s a fan of Barry.
“And the hotel room is already paid for. You leave tomorrow.”
“I can’t,” I blustered.
Loretta squinted at me through her tarantula-like fake eyelashes. “Why not?”
“It’s my day to visit Katie.”
She waved dismissively. “Not to worry, Leslie already offered to sit with her since she’s going to be in the hospital anyway.”
Aunt Leslie, Loretta’s twin, has recently gotten clean and part of her plan to stay that way is volunteering at the hospital as some sort of over-aged, kinda-kooky candy striper.
“Oh.” Something tickled the back of my mind, something important I was forgetting.
“And Susan wants to babysit DeeDee,” Loretta crowed with a clap of her hands.
I wasn’t sure if she was proud of herself for remembering that the dog would need caring for or if she was amused that her sister who’d professed a hatred of dogs for decades was going to watch my Doberman Pinscher without protest.
“So you just go and have fun,” Loretta ordered, handing me an envelope. “This has the tickets and the hotel reservation… everything you’ll need.”
Armani eyed the envelope greedily. If Patrick didn’t need my help in A.C., I’d have gladly given it to her.
“Thanks, Aunt Loretta.”
“You’re a good girl, Margaret May.” She patted my cheek like I was four, then turned with a more than slight wobble due to the height of her heels and clickety-clacked her way out of the break room.
“Lucky!” Armani muttered as soon as my aunt was gone.
“What?’
“Lucky. You got lucky.” She jutted her chin at the envelope for emphasis.
I nodded slowly. She was right. Sort of. This was just the excuse I needed to leave town and help Patrick out with his little problem.
