“I remember those commercials. That's where I got the idea for the claymation chicken in the Chicken Shack spots. Expensive to produce, those commercials.”
“Enough of the small talk. I want you to call off your goon.”
“My goon?”
“The person your wife hired to whack you, he's a teenage kid living in the suburbs. He's not a real threat.”
“I'm aware of that.”
“So you don't need to have that kid killed.”
“Mr. McGlade, I'm not having anyone killed. I'm Happy Roy. I don't kill people. I promote world peace through deep fried poultry. I simply told my wife that I hired a killer, even though I didn't.”
“You lied to her?”
Happy Roy let out a big, dramatic sigh. “When I found out she wanted me dead, I was justifiably annoyed. I confronted her, we got into an argument, and I told her that I'd have her assassin killed. I was trying to get her to call it off on her own.”
I absorbed this information, drinking more whiskey. When the whiskey ran out, I sucked on an ice cube.
“Tho wmer mmmpt wooor—”
“Excuse me? I can't understand you with that ice in your mouth.”
I spit out the ice. “She said you abuse her. That you're insane.”
“The only thing insane about me is my upcoming promotion. Buy a box of chicken, get a second box for half price.”
I wondered if I should tell him about the bruises she had, but chose to keep silent.
“What about divorce?”
“I love Marietta, Mr. McGlade. I know she's too young for me. I know she's a devious, back-stabbing maneater. That just makes her more adorable.”
“She wants you dead.”
“All spouses have their quirks.”
I leaned forward, an effort because my butt was sunk so low in the chair.
“Happy Roy, I have no doubt that Marietta will kill you if she can. When this doesn't pan out, she'll try something else. Eventually, she'll hook up with a real assassin.”
Happy Roy's eye became hooded, dark. “She's my wife, Mr. McGlade. I'll deal with her my way.”
“By beating her?”
“This conversation is over. I'll have my butler show you to the door.”
I pried myself out of the chair. “You're disgustingly rich, powerful, and not a bad looking guy for someone older than God. Let Marietta go and find some other bimbo to play with.”
“Good bye, Mr. McGlade. Feel free to keep working for my wife.”
“Are you trying to pay me off, so I drop this case?”
“No. Not at all.”
“If you were thinking about paying me off, how much money would we be talking?”
“I'm not trying to pay you off, Mr. McGlade.”
I got in the smaller man's face. “You might be able to afford fat Degas and huge estates, but I'm a person, Happy Roy. And no matter how rich you get, you'll never be able to buy a human being. Because it's illegal, Happy Roy. Buying people is illegal.”
“I'm not trying to buy you!”
“I'll find my own way out.”
I stormed out of the parlor, through the library, into the dining room, into another parlor, or maybe it was a den, and then I wound up in the kitchen somehow. I tried to back track, wandered into the dining room, and then found myself back in one of the parlors, but I couldn't tell if it was the first parlor or the second parlor. I didn't see that painting of the naked heifer, but Happy Roy may have taken it down just to confuse me.
“Hello?” I called out. “I'm a little lost here.”
No one answered.
I went back into the dining room, then the kitchen, and took another door which led down a hallway which led to a bathroom, which was fine because I needed to go to the bathroom anyway.
When the lizard had been adequately drained, I discovered some very interesting prescription drugs, just lying there, in the medicine cabinet.
And then it all made sense.
Forty minutes later I found the front door and headed back to my apartment.
Time to drop the truth on Little Miss Marietta.
#
At first, I thought I had the wrong place. Everything was so...clean. Not only were all of my clothes picked up, but the apartment had been vacuumed—a real feat since I didn't think I owned a vacuum cleaner.
“Mrs. Garbonzo? You here?”
I walked into the bedroom. The bed had been made, and the closet door was open, revealing over a dozen shirts on hangers.
In the kitchen, the sink was empty of dishes for the first time since I rented the place fifteen years ago. There was even a fresh smell of lilacs and orange zest in the air.
The door opened and I swung around, hand going to my gun. Mrs. Garbonzo entered, carrying a plastic laundry basket overflowing with my socks. She flinched when she saw me.
“Mr. McGlade. I didn't expect you back so soon.”
“Surprised, Marietta? I thought you might be.”
“Did you take care of the guy?”
“Sit down. We need to talk.”
She set the basket down on my kitchen counter, and seductively perched herself on one of my breakfast bar stools. Her blouse had been untucked from her skirt, the shirt tails tied in a knot around her flat stomach.
“You lied to me, Marietta.”
“Lied?” She batted her eyelashes. “How?”
There was a bottle of window cleaner next to the sink that I'd never seen before. I picked it up.
“How about opening up that shirt and letting me squirt you with this?”
“Is that what turns you on? Spraying women with glass cleaner?”
I grabbed her blouse and pulled, tearing buttons.
“I was thinking more along the lines of washing off those fake bruises. They're so fake, the purple has even rubbed off on your collar. See?”
I shot two quick streams at the marks, then used my sleeve to wipe them off.
They didn't wipe off.
I tried again, to similar effect.
Marietta sneered at me. “Are you finished?”
“So what's that purple stuff on your collar?”
“Eye shadow.” She pointed at her eyes. “That's why it matches my eye shadow.”
“Big deal. So you gave yourself those bruises. Or paid someone to give them to you. I met your husband today, Mrs. Garbonzo. All ninety pounds of him. He couldn't beat up a quadriplegic.”
“My husband abuses me, Mr. McGlade.”
“Yeah, I saw his swollen knuckles. At first, I thought they were swollen from hitting you. But he didn't hit you, did he Marietta? Roy has rheumatoid arthritis. I saw his medication. His knuckles are swollen because of his disease, and they undoubtedly cause him great pain. So much pain, he'd never be able to hit you.”
Marietta put her hands on her hips.
“He beats me with a belt, Mr. McGlade.”
“A belt?”
“These bruises are from the buckle. It also causes welts. See?”
She turned around, lifting her blouse. Angry, red scabs stretched across her back.
I gave them a spritz of the window cleaner, just to be sure.
