always show their naughty bits when entering or exiting limos. She has that same bored, pouty look that tells men she knows what she wants, and has the currency to get it.
What she doesn’t look like is a wife.
Gwen holds out her hand, introduces herself. I take it, and tell her who I am. When we end the handshake, she stands aside so I can enter. When I do, she closes the door behind me, locks it and says, “He’s got tits, you know.”
“Excuse me?”
I turn to face her. She’s wearing gray sweat pants and a pink t-shirt upon which is printed: TREAT ME! RIGHT. Except that the first two letters and the last five are printed in black, while the rest are in red.
If she and Lucky break up, if her t-shirt is any indication, I can picture Gwen babysitting for Charlie Sheen.
“Boobs. Hooters. Breasts. You know, tits,” she says, cupping her ample breasts.
“I know what they are,” I say. “I’m just not sure what you’re saying. About Lucky.”
She circles around me, and starts walking.
I’m supposed to follow.
Not that I mind following. She’s got an athletic body that looks just as good from this angle as it does from the front. It doesn’t take long for my eyes to adjust to the hypnotic sway of her backside, as she moves down the hallway. On a scale of one to ten, I give her a two for attitude, and a nine-point-five for looks.
Sometimes I tell Lou Kelly or my daughter, Kimberly, about the people I run across, and they say, “Is every woman you meet drop-dead gorgeous?” I’m sure it seems that way, because I do encounter an out-sized number of beautiful women in my line of work. It makes sense that I would, since most of my male clients are exceptionally wealthy, and can afford to support such women. And the women assassins I know, with the exception of Carla Mutato, were recruited primarily for their looks, and trained afterward. At the same time, my business often takes me to the opposite end of the spectrum, where I deal with dead-eyed killers, wide-eyed thieves, junkies, hardened criminals, broken-nosed bodyguards, nasty-assed pimps, broken down whores, scar-faced mob enforcers, and a wide assortment of others who, together, comprise the very dregs of humanity. So it’s either roses or thorns for me. Because not many average-looking people play in my park.
“You’ve got great hair,” I say.
“Thanks.”
She does have great hair. It’s thick and lustrous, and a rich mahogany brown in color, with subtle highlights at the ends. Frosted would be too much. What she’s done is unique, and to me, classy.
Gwen motions me to sit at the kitchen table. I do. She brings two beers from the fridge, hands me one. “Coors okay?”
I shrug, and twist off the top. She does the same, then holds her bottle next to mine, so we can toast. When that’s done, she smiles and says, “Lucky has implants. 34-C’s.”
“No way!”
She laughs. “Swear to God!”
“Why?”
“He bet the wrong team in the Super Bowl. I mean, his team won, but they didn’t beat the spread. The guy who won offered him a cash option, but Lucky chose the boob job.”
“The guy’s worth millions. Why would he do that?”
“’Cause he’s cheaper than shit.”
I know what this is all about. She’s bullshitting me, trying to see how gullible I am. Then she says, “Wanna see a picture?”
“Of?”
“Lucky’s boobs.”
Maybe she isn’t bullshitting me. I shrug. “Why not?”
She leaves the room a minute, comes back holding a photo, shows it to me. Callie’s right about his looks. From the neck up, he’s scary. But the tits are spectacular.
“Who did the surgery?”
“Phyllis Willis.”
I must have glanced at Gwen’s chest without thinking, because she says, “Yeah, she did mine, too.”
“Well, if they’re as nice as these…”
“They’re better.”
“Alrighty then.”
11.
“She’s dead, you know,” Gwen says, after polishing off her second beer.
“Who?”
“Phyllis Willis.”
