4th Musketelle

by Brian Bakos

32. Fantasies Real & Imagined

  Laila sprawled out on her couch, drinking booze from a tall glass. She was drinking a great deal lately – far too much. She reached for a cigarette, thought better of it. Frank would surely detect the smoke scent in the house. Tobacco would have to remain an indulgence taken elsewhere.

  Fear thoughts squirmed around in her head; the alcohol could not banish them. What was she getting herself into? How could she possibly finish what she had started?

  Also, how could she engineer paying Bert the blood money? It was one thing to talk about setting up an offshore account, but how could that be done without drawing undue attention? How could she provide even the down payment without pointing a guilty finger at herself? She recalled Frank’s numerous complaints about the “damned government” snooping into his financial affairs.

  Never had she felt more like a helpless babe in the woods. But wasn’t this what the whole thing was about – gaining her independence?

  She grimmed up. Whatever it took, she would arrange the payouts. If big-time criminals could move money around undetected, then so could she! It was just a matter of doing the proper research.

  There was always the nine millimeter solution. She’d toyed with the idea of dispatching Bert with the automatic pistol after he had killed Frank. She’d claim self defense – Bert had just murdered her husband, hadn’t he? But Laila knew that she didn’t have the stomach for a direct killing. If she did, she wouldn’t be dealing with Bert at all, and she would not have to worry about being blackmailed.

  She was extremely wary of Bert. There was a deep anger in the man that could lash out any moment, and he was powerful enough to snap her in half with one hand. He was yet another domineering, oppressive male in her life. Her whole existence had always been hemmed in by oppressive men, but how could she possibly do without Bert Nagy?

  She stood up and stretched herself, then crossed to the window overlooking the back yard. The big potted plant she’d brought from her old apartment reposed on a stand next to the window like a specter from the past.

  Maybe she could simply jump out and end all her turmoil – as Lady Macbeth had done.

  English literature was another of her good subjects back in high school, and Macbeth had been her favorite play. She identified strongly with Lady Macbeth. There was another woman hemmed in by the ambitions of men, dependent on their actions, unable to turn the world her direction by her own efforts.

  No, a leap out the window wouldn’t work. The distance hadn’t been sufficient to kill Frank, why should it work with her? And she could end up being paralyzed, sitting in a wheelchair for the next fifty years.

  She looked out into the empty back property. Suddenly, a vivid waking nightmare began playing out...

  $$$

  Laila can see Bert Nagy down there digging a pit in the flower garden – a deep pit, rectangular like a grave. Even from this distance, she can make out every detail of his face. He looks up from his work and gives her an evil leer. Then he begins laughing maniacally; the horrid sound flows up toward her in waves, vibrating the glass.

  He points his finger at her like a cocked gun and drops the hammer, silently mouthing the words:

  “Bang, bang, you’re dead!”

  Laila steps back from the window in deep alarm. She wrings her hands, paces the room fretfully. She hears a blood-curdling scream coming from outside. The sound is so horrible that she almost faints.

  Silence as deep as the grave sets in. Then she hears the back door being thrown open and slammed with enough force to rattle the wine bottles in the basement cabinet. Someone stalks through the ground floor with a heavy tread.

  She hears footsteps on the stairs; she freezes in place, her heart scarcely beating. The footsteps continue down the hall; they make a disgusting, squishy noise. Bert enters the room, covered in blood from head to toe. His footsteps leave bloody tracks on the carpet.

  “It’s done, Mrs. Armstrong,” he says. “Just the way you wanted it.”

  Laila gasps, hanging onto her vanity for support. Bert approaches her threateningly, she backs away.

  “Don’t come near me!” she cries.

  “I’ve decided that a half million isn’t enough,” Bert says.

  “I offered you a bonus,” Laila protests.

  “Still not enough,” Bert says. His voice is hollow and booming, as if it is coming from a tomb. “You’re gonna have to pay and pay – forever.”

  “No way!” Laila cries. “A deal’s a deal.”

  Bert snorts scornfully.

  “And I want your body too, Laila. Is it okay if I call you Laila, or would you prefer ‘Widow Armstrong?’”

  “Stay back!” Laila cries.

  Bert lunges for her. She dodges away.

  “There’s nowhere to hide, you tasty little morsel!” Bert says.

  Laila pulls a gun out of a drawer and aims it at Bert with shaking hands.

  “I’ll shoot if I have to.”

  “Now isn’t that a turn on!” Bert says.

  He lunges again and Laila pulls the trigger. A deafening roar fills the world. Bert looks at the bullet hole in his chest, amazed; then laughs maniacally again.

  “So long, sweetheart!”

  He collapses on the floor, face down, a reeking pile of death. Then his wife, Sally, enters. Laila had seen her once before when she accompanied Bert in his truck for some reason. She looked bored then, now her face is etched with horror as she stares down at her dead husband.

  “Oh, Bertie!” she wails; then she turns her wrath on Laila. “You shameless hussy!”

  “Sorry you found out about this,” Laila says.

  She fires again, Sally falls on top of Bert with a gurgling scream. Henry enters the room, dressed in his well-tailored and pressed lawyer suit.

  “Now you’ve done it, Mom!” he says. “You’ll be an old lady before you get out of jail.”

  “At least you won’t be there to see it, Junior,” Laila says.

  She shoots Henry, right in the middle of his forehead. He carefully adjusts his necktie before collapsing on top of Bert and Sally. Patricia enters next, looking down at her brother on the pile of corpses.

  “What are you doing down there, Henry?” she inquires. “Henry?”

  Realization dawns on her; she looks up at Laila.

  “I always said you were no good!” she cries.

  “And that’s the last thing you’re ever going to say.”

  Laila pulls the trigger again. Patricia falls gracelessly on the pile, like a sack of cement. Laila looks down on the carnage, appalled.

  “My God! What have I done?”

  She drops the pistol, flees the room.

  $$$

  Meanwhile, Henry Armstrong was tangled up in a pile of living bodies, all of them female. The “special something” he’d brought to the party vibrated raucously in his hand, eliciting squeals of delight from his playmates. His cell phone lay on the side table amid of jumble of lubricant containers, sex toys, and what not.

  The cell phone ring projected a jarring note into the fun. Henry untangled himself from the pile and checked the caller ID. Of all people, it was Dad! He simply had to answer.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and punched the pick up button.

  “Hi Dad,” he said with as much bussinessfied dignity as he could muster. “What’s up?”

  The women behind him giggled. Henry tried frantically to shush them – too late.

  On the other end of the connection, Frank Armstrong jerked the phone away from his ear and glowered at it, appalled by the female laughter. He put the phone back to his ear.

  “Maybe you should tell me ‘what’s up,’ Ace,” he said.

  “Sorry, Dad, I’m a bit, uh ... indisposed.”

  Henry got up out of the huge bed and crossed the room, nearly tripping over the clothes piled on the floor. The girls suppressed their laughter this time.

  “Daddy doesn’t seem pleased,” Sharese whispered.

  “Ye
ah, and he’s swinging the big stick,” Nichole said.

  “The really big stick,” Candy said.

  The women choked back giggles. Henry spoke quietly into the phone.

  “Is this about what we discussed at the hospital?”

  “Yes, it is,” Frank said.

  “What did you decide, Dad?”

  “You don’t expect me to talk important business in front of your ... friends, do you?” Frank exploded.

  “W-well, I – ”

  “Check your email, Ace,” Frank said, “sometime when you’ve got your pants on.”

  The phone cut off.

  “Bye, Dad ...” Henry said.

  He looked sheepishly toward the bed. A thrown pillow smacked him in the face.

  “Get back here, you naughty boy!” Sharese commanded.