~~~
Nicky reclined in Eamonn’s living room and waited while he showered. The Sopranos box set sat on the coffee table, unopened, and it would stay that way. Nicky wasn’t a big fan of Tony and his crew. The Miami Herald was folded open to a story about a Chicago mob killing that had been under investigation for the past three months. “He sure is into this,” she muttered.
Nicky sat back in the chair, sipping a diet cola and reading the Dave Barry column while she waited. After a couple of chuckles she put the paper down, stood, stretched and looked around. She’d been in Eamonn’s apartment, the entire 72nd floor of the building, a couple of times and, as always, it was pristine. She didn’t know if he had someone come in, or if he was compulsively neat. The floors were a highly polish cherry wood, the dark floors offset by white leather living room furniture and a chrome and glass coffee table and dining room set.
She slid open the door to the balcony and stepped out. The view from this height was spectacular. She didn’t think she would ever take it for granted. Fat, juicy clouds hung over the ocean, dropping dark shadows on the otherwise brilliant turquoise water. Jet Skis and powerboats etched silver trails through the water. A slight onshore breeze brought with it the warm salt smell of the ocean. She inhaled a deep breath and smiled. Nothing calmed her faster.
She re-entered the apartment, leaving the balcony door open, as Eamonn strolled out of the bath with a towel wrapped around his waist.
“My God, Eamonn! You’re translucent. You need to get more sun, son.”
“I’m Celt, dear. I burn if I’m standing too close to a bottle of orange juice. I’ve got to slap SPF 45 on me just to pick up a copy of ‘The Sun’.” He noticed the newspaper. “Interesting story, isn’t it?”
“What story?”
Eamonn pointed at the paper. "The mob killing in Chicago. Nicky Morales’ widow set Louis Speccio up. She had leaked, falsely as it turned out, that Louis was a federal informant. Which naturally got him whacked. Saved her a bullet. They could make a movie outta this stuff.”
Nicky looked up at him and feigned a yawn. “Really? Not my cup of tea, as you might say.”
“Oh. And you’re not watching the DVD I see.”
“The Sopranos are a bit too violent and misogynistic for me, dear. Are you going to see the cops like that? You should get something a bit more conservative on that big body of yours.”
“Right. I’ve got to get going. Tonight, have dinner with me, here, okay? I’ve got a chicken recipe I want to try out.” He headed to his room to get dressed without waiting for a reply.
Nicky smiled and flipped open her phone. She scrolled through her phonebook and called her ‘date’ for the night.
“Joyce? Nicky here. Rain check on tonight dear, something’s come up.” She listened to the other side of the conversation.
“Yeah, him. I’ll let you know how it goes,” she said. “Bye-bye.” Eamonn’s chicken was a fair trade-off for a lingerie party, although, knowing Eamonn, he might not agree.
The Whack Job - An Eamonn Shute Short Story Page 3
