4th Musketelle

by Brian Bakos

25. Decision Time

  Laila sat at her computer, idly surfing the internet. Nothing new on the celebrity gossip sites – just the same old scandal-mongering chit chat, innuendos, paparazzi sneak peaks. What a load of crap it all was! Did they expect her to identify with this legion of spoiled, neurotic misfits – take their ups and down to heart as if they had any meaning for her?

  There simply had to be more to life than this. She should be viewing things of substance during her online forays. She should be reading about world events, economics, business affairs ... only she didn’t have a lot of interest in those things. Except for the brief, traumatic period between her marriages, she’d never had to concern herself much with the outside world. There had always been some ‘take-charge type’ man around to handle things. This had left a vacuum in her mind.

  Yet she was quite smart. She’d always performed well at school, but she’d done little to develop her intellectual capabilities. Why was that? Because some foolish, self-destructive impulse told women like her that men felt threatened by intelligent females; that looking beautiful and acting dumb was the winning strategy.

  Only she didn’t feel like a winner now. She felt alone and trapped by circumstances she could not control.

  Frank had been very withdrawn and quiet since he’d returned from the hospital. Something happened that he wasn’t telling her about. Had Patricia dropped her bombshell; were the incriminating photographs in his possession? Had he decided to go ahead with Henry’s reorganization plan?

  She wanted desperately for him to talk to her, to allay her fears, to assure her a safe and prosperous future. She wanted a reason to pull back from the desperate plot she’d hatched. But she knew that wouldn’t happen. People and events were already set in their ways and could not be altered. She must harden her heart and keep to her plans.

  Still ... if he’d just talk to her! Or maybe she could try to talk to him, when he got back from his walk around the grounds.

  She flinched at the noise of the back door slamming. She heard Frank stomping through the lower floor fuming and cursing:

  “That idiot landscaper!” and “Should have fired his ass long ago!” were the least profane of his utterances.

  All thought of approaching him vanished. She couldn’t talk to him while he was in this state – and he was so frequently in this state. He’d humiliated her often enough on previous occasions when she’d tried to penetrate his angry moods.

  She smiled then. Bert Nagy was getting to him, apparently. This would be very important for the success of the plan.

  Frank was calling for a driver now. He was speaking so loudly that she could hear him fine without leaving her desk.

  “I need a ride to my office, right away,” Frank was saying. “Get here in less than ten minutes, and the rate goes up 20 percent.”

  Wasn’t that just like him? Offer people extra money so that he could lord over them more effectively.

  Ordinarily, her husband enjoyed piloting his own massive vehicle around town, looking out from his privileged roost at the lesser humans in their inferior machines. But now he had deigned to use a professional driving service until such time as ‘this damn cast’ came off his arm.

  Minutes went by. Then Laila heard the beep of a horn at the gate.

  Frank wrenched open the front door and shouted: “All right, I’m coming!”

  He left the house, slamming the door behind him. Laila was ready for it this time and didn’t flinch. She went downstairs and fixed herself a drink. After downing it, she mixed another.

  Then she went outside.

  $$$

  Bert had finished cutting the grass and was packing up the lawn mower. Anger and resentment burned in him like a pestilential fever. He felt vulnerable, unmanned, and totally humiliated. He wanted to knock somebody down. The whole world was against him – Sally, his kids, the government, and worst of all, Frank Armstrong.

  “That sonuvabitch!” he kept muttering.

  From the corner of his eye, he spotted somebody walking toward him from the house. It was Mrs. Armstrong, carrying her customary tall drink. Her movements were languid and a bit tipsy, but also filled with determination. She seemed almost like an angel of deliverance coming his way. A death angel. Bert turned from his work and awaited her arrival.

  She stopped before him and smiled up into his face.

  “Good morning, Bert.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Armstrong.”

  She looked around the property, taking in the freshly trimmed grass, nodding with approval. Then her head cocked in a questioning pose.

  “Have you thought it over?” she asked.

  Bert drew himself up to his full height and sucked in his breath, expanding his chest to impressive dimensions.

  “Yes, I have,” he said.

  Laila took a sip from her drink and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Well?”

  Bert nodded decisively.

  “You’re on, Mrs. Armstrong.”

  Laila smiled grimly, vindictively.

  “I hoped you’d say that.”

  “When?” Bert asked.

  “Tomorrow morning, early,” Laila said. “Let’s make sure he’s angry enough to come out here.”

  She looked toward the flower garden with its myriad of exotic blooms.

  “I think another ‘incident’ with these flowers should do it,” she said.

  “I’ll handle everything,” Bert said.