Naked Heat: The Handyman, Episode II Read online

  “My husband is great friends with the Colonie Police, as you can see,” she explained. “As well as the Albany and the Troy police too.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “He works for the policeman’s union. He’s a New York State lobbyist. Thus the house, thus the over the top furnishings that go with it, thus the reason he won’t leave, thus the threats and my ability not to do a thing about them. You see, Vic, the police will always take his side, especially now that he’s presented them all with a fictional portrait of me. His wild, untamable, psychotic wife. My my, how they all feel sorry for him.”

  She reached across the desk, snatched the photo out of my hand, returned it to the desk drawer, slamming it closed.

  “Doesn’t it make him mad?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t what make him mad?”

  “That you store his picture inside the desk instead of out in the open.”

  She exhaled. “It used to hang on the wall in the living room. I pulled it down one night during one of our many bitter fights and tossed it into the fireplace. Of course, the glass shattered. But Andrew rescued the picture, bought a new frame for it. He now keeps it under lock and key in the desk, like he’s afraid I’ll just smash it again if I see it.”

  “Well,” I said, “do you want to?”

  She worked up a grin. “Don’t tempt me,” she said.

  I thought Allison was going to get up, and we could finally leave that room. It was making me uncomfortable. Felt like I was standing in a fishbowl. Hell, maybe a guy who worked for the police lobby kept CCTV cameras hidden inside his office, maybe inside and outside the entire house. But she didn’t get up. Instead, she opened the bottom drawer, pulled out a manila file. Closing the drawer, she stood and came back around the desk.

  “Bathroom,” she said.

  I followed her into the bathroom. Setting the folder down on the vanity, she turned on both the hot and cold water. Taking hold of a washcloth, she dipped the cloth under the water and then rubbed some soap into it. From there she proceeded to wash her face. She wasn’t gentle with herself but really began to run the soap into her skin until something strange began to happen.

  Turns out, she was removing her makeup which had been heavily, but very skillfully, applied. I watched while she scrubbed and scrubbed, but when she was done, she revealed something that took me more than by surprise. It shocked the hell out of me.

  Her left eye had been black and blued. Not today or yesterday. Maybe a week ago, but there was enough purple, yellow, and blue skin coloring left to indicate that someone, no doubt her husband, had balled his fist in it. Her right cheek was also bruised, and now that the makeup had been removed, I could see that it was still a little swollen.

  When she pulled back her hair to reveal her left earlobe, she said, “Look.”

  Pushing her lobe forward I could make out a scar about the length of my index finger. It was jagged and purple and still new. Maybe a week old.

  “That’s where Andrew cut me with a broken plate,” she revealed. “I bled for hours upon hours.”

  “That needs plastic surgery,” I said. “It doesn’t even look like it was professionally stitched.”

  “We got into a fight early last week. I wanted him out, once and for all. I threatened to call the police. But he said if I called them he would kill me. Then he would kill himself. He smiled when he said it. Because he meant it.”

  “He sounds like a real charmer.”

  “I made the mistake of slapping him then. He lost that smile pretty damned quick, and he punched me in the face. Twice. I picked up a plate that was set out on the kitchen table. I was going to hit him with it. But he snatched it out of my hand, broke it over my head.” She exhaled, bit down on her bottom lip like she was hesitant to tell me what happened next.

  “And?” I pushed.

  She started to cry. “Then he went into his office, came back out with a shotgun. He pumped the shotgun and he made me get down on my knees.” She shifted her gaze from me as if ashamed over what she was about to reveal. “He…he made me open my mouth…He—”

  “I get it,” I said. “You’ve said enough, Allison. You’ve been through enough.”

  I’d entered into this handyman thing quite by accident only a couple of weeks ago. My motivation for helping Tara had as much to do with my secret lust for her as it did my frustration with my life. My utter lack of success as a writer, my inability to satisfy Stella, to make her love me, to be proud of me the way she had been with Mackey. When I realized that I could help Tara out of an impossible situation with an abusive husband, and at the same time, gain invaluable experience for my stories, I took the shot and agreed to her plan. I knew it was murder, but then, was it really murder in the eyes of Almighty God? Or was it Tara’s salvation?

  I believed then and now that I did the right thing when I loosened that basement staircase in Tara’s home. She was freed and the creep she was married to could no longer torture her or her kids. I could say the same thing about Allison. If what she was telling me was the truth, her situation with Andrew was no better than Tara’s. In fact, judging by the scars and bruises on her face and head, her situation was worse.

  So, why was I having trouble swallowing this one? Why did I find myself doubting her story? No, scratch that. I didn't doubt her story so much as my built-in crap detector was telling me there were parts—crucial parts—she was conveniently leaving out. If what she said about Andrew being the kind of man who could break a plate over his wife’s head and shove the barrel of a loaded shotgun in her mouth were true, then I would have no trouble ending his life. I’d get some good—if not great—material out of it, and at the same time, I’d be doing Allison and humanity a favor. But if I were to kill him under false pretenses, then I’d never forgive myself.

  Neither would God.

  She wiped her eyes then finger-combed her hair. She truly was an attractive, if not beautiful, woman. Her hair made me want to swim in it, her luscious lips made me want to kiss them, her exotic eyes were as enticing as a warm shot of whiskey on a cold winter’s day. And her body, well, it was to die for. It might even be enough to kill for.

  She turned her frown upside down and approached me. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around my neck and brought her face to my face. Our lips touched. She kissed me with everything she had, her tongue playful and sweet tasting. She removed a hand from the back of my neck and brushed it over my ass until she brought it around front, gripping my erection.

  She started unbuckling my belt.

  “Let me take care of you,” she said. “Andrew won’t be home for hours. Let me be your slave.”

  I felt her hand and wanted nothing more than to be her master. If that’s what she wanted, I was willing to do that for her. But then I also had to go with my gut, which was telling me to back away from this one for now. Hadn’t I already been today’s special guest at the neighborhood Sex Club? If all went according to plan, Allison’s plan that is, then I was sure to be the special guest at more Sex Club events. It wasn’t a matter of if but when.

  I pushed myself away.

  “I’ve really got to go,” I said. “I’ve got a manuscript waiting for me, and Stella will be home soon.”

  She let go of my belt and went back to pouting.

  “If you say so,” she said. Then, “Will you tell Stella about this? About Andrew?”

  I shook my head.

  “Stella stays innocent. That’s one of the rules.”

  “She know you play around?”

  “We have an understanding,” I said. It was a fabrication that came out of my mouth automatically. Instinctually. “Maybe she’s explained it to you during one of your dinner dates.”

  “How liberating,” she said, smiling. “Maybe you can bring her to Sex Club one of these days. If she’s so inclined. I can’t imagine you being with any woman who wasn’t ravaging. And Stella is positively ravaging.”

  My pulse picked up. I had to wonder if Stella would be inclined to
swing? My guess is she would. Stella always did live by the ‘I’ll try anything once’ principle.”

  “You never know, Allison,” I said.

  I went for the door.

  “When will I hear from you regarding, Andrew?”

  I turned to her, my hand on the doorknob.

  “I didn’t realize you’d made me an official offer.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, accentuating her cleavage under her too large T-shirt.

  “I didn’t realize I had to come out and formally say it.”

  “Are you making me an offer?”

  “I thought it was obvious, Vic.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty-five percent insurance payout,” she said. “The policy is worth a hair over one million. And all the Sex Club love you want.”

  …and invaluable material for my stories and novels…

  “You open for negotiation?” I asked.

  “I’m told twenty-five percent of one mil is more than generous.” She took hold of the manila envelope set on the counter. She opened it, reached inside, pull out two neat stacks of cash. Twenty-dollar denominations.

  “Down payment,” she said. “Ten thousand.”

  Tara’s insurance money hadn’t quite come through yet and neither had my check for Obsessive Compulsive. I badly needed the cash. I took hold of it, then reached around her for the envelope. I stored the cash back inside the envelope and folded it in on itself.

  “It’ll be tricky,” I said, feeling the weight of the cash in hand. The most cash I’d ever held at one time. “And highly illegal. Can I trust you to keep your mouth shut if I agree to the plan?”

  “I need this to happen. My life is on the line, Vic. And yes, considering I would be a co-conspirator in a capital murder case you can be assured of my silence.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” I said, opening the door.

  I left without saying goodbye . . . cash in hand.

  I drove home in silence. No music, no talk radio, nothing. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. How odd this whole scenario was turning out to be. First Tara, and now Allison. Two seemingly upscale and respectable suburban housewives engaging in a kind of secret life. A secret life of sex and mutual hatred for abusive spouses. These were not weak, submissive women, although their husbands might view them that way. These were Alpha females. These were women who were willing to risk it all in order to enjoy the life they felt they deserved.

  Or hell, maybe that’s just me the writer wrapping too much flowery language around the plain truth. Maybe it was more accurate to say that these women had been beaten into submission, and were only now rising from the ashes. Way I figured it, they were finding solace in one another’s trust, and even in one another’s arms, and enjoying every minute of it. They weren’t lesbians nor were they perverts. Not at all. They were simply into their sex, their freedom, their love for a beautiful body, and for now anyway, I was along for the ride. I was their handyman. That was both my good luck and my misfortune.

  Thing is, I’d seen the scars and bruises on Allison. I’d seen her tears. Yet, there was something that didn’t seem right. Unlike Tara, who seemed genuinely at the end of her rope with her husband, I sensed Allison was keeping something from me. I had no doubt her husband had done the things to her that she said he’d done, but I couldn’t help feeling that maybe he’d been coerced. Maybe Allison wasn’t all that innocent. Maybe she’d pushed him to his limit, and he just blew up. I’d seen it happen before. Seen it happen between Stella and me. One minute you’re having an argument over a piece of burnt toast, and the next minute, the goddamned toaster is flying past your head and crashing into the kitchen wall behind you.

  Bam! No more toaster. Almost no more head.

  If I was going to put myself out there for Allison, I needed something more. More proof that her situation with Andrew was as dire as she said it was. Before I agreed to her plan, I needed to do a little more research.

  Stella still wasn’t home, which was a good thing. It meant I could use her computer without her knowing it. I wasn’t much for the digital age. I still typed out my manuscripts and short stories on a portable Remington I’d picked up at a garage sale for twenty bucks, still sent them to the publishers through snail mail. Still did things the old-fashioned way. I guess you could say I was sort of a throw-back to an era gone by. Mickey Spillane was my hero. As were Hemingway, Miller, Bukowski, and Mailer. The tough, hard-boiled language these writers—and others like them—espoused, had been lost to a new generation of emasculated, sexless males. I loved my masculinity, and I fed it like a lioness feeds fresh red meat to her cubs. I wasn’t afraid to use it, with my writing, with my mouth, or with my fists if need be. When I fucked a woman, she knew who was in charge, who was out to tame her. She knew my cock wasn’t just an instrument for her arousal and overall enjoyment. It was a weapon.

  It was a fucking loaded gun.

  Truth be told, I always assumed a lot of the editors who’d rejected me over the years—editors who had to be younger than me—kind of appreciated the gesture of receiving real paper in the mail. It was a novelty for these kids. The touch, feel, and smell of real paper and ink as opposed to the cold, third person of an electronic submission…a digital nothing born of a disconnected digital world.

  Back to the assignment at hand.

  Making my way to Stella’s office, a converted corner bedroom near the house’s front door which had once served as Mackey’s writing studio, I flipped up the lid on her laptop. When the icon appeared for me to type in the secret password, I typed “Stella101,” since I’d happened to catch her typing the phrase into the space on many an occasion. The Google search engine appeared as her home page.

  I typed “Andrew Craig Albany New York” into the search engine, pressed the Enter key.

  Several local newspaper articles on him appeared. The suited, mustached and goateed Lobbyist appeared in maybe a half-ozen different articles about him and his work with one variety of policeman’s fund or another. One article bore the headline, Craig Secures Record Payout for Retired Cops. I scanned the first couple of paragraphs, and like the headline stated, Craig, through his successful lobbying and investing skills, had been successful in generating record pension payouts to all local cops who’d served their posts with distinction and were able to retire with full benefits.

  There was a photo of him surrounded by several salt and pepper haired men wearing “Kiss Me, I’m a Retired Cop!” t-shirts. They were all standing outdoors at what looked like a park. Some of the cops in the photos were wearing sunglasses, almost all of them were holding cans of beer. Every one of them were smiling.

  In another photo, Craig stood by the hospital bed of a sick kid. The poor kid’s hair was gone, but he was smiling for the camera. Craig Delivers Donation to Children’s Cancer Ward. It was enough to warm my heart. In yet another article, Craig was standing side by side with a woman dressed in black. She wore Jackie O sunglasses and a black hat. He was wearing a black suit and tie. and a pair of aviator sunglasses masked his eyes. Craig Takes Care of Widows of Slain Policemen, the headline read.

  I sat back in the chair, pulled the lid down on the computer.

  “Jeeze,” I said to myself aloud. “What’s not to like about this guy?”

  In my head, I saw Allison, saw the scar behind her ear, saw the bruising. Could a man like Craig—a man so upstanding and revered—have really been so violent to his wife? A woman as attractive and seemingly sweet as Allison?

  Of course, the answer was yes. Who the hell knew what went on behind the closed doors of all those pretty suburban homes? Just last summer, a decorated Colonie cop came home one day after work and decided to execute his entire family using his service weapon before setting his house on fire and then turning the service weapon on himself. Stunned neighbors expressed their shock and dismay on the local nightly news reports. “He seemed like such a nice man,” they said. “He seemed so normal. So eager to please. Those poor kids.
His poor wife.”

  ...His poor wife…She must have had no idea she married a monster…

  I guess we all have stories like that. You live long enough, you see the true nature of the human condition. A man is just as likely to let a spider live as he is to pull the legs off it, one at a time. What did Henry Miller once say? Inside every man lurks a cold-blooded killer.

  If it turned out the private Craig was a son of a bitch as opposed to the very public and caring Craig, it wouldn’t come as a shock. Who the hell was I to talk? How was I any different? It didn’t take a whole lot of convincing for me to take care of Tara’s husband. In the end, it probably wouldn’t take a lot of convincing for me to take care of Andrew either. However, my gut kept speaking to me, kept asking questions. It needed more proof.

  “So be it,” I whispered as I was getting up.

  That’s when the sound of a small electronic ping came from the laptop. I sat back down and raised the lid once more. It was a private Facebook message for Stella. And it was coming from someone who was very familiar to me.

  Mackey.

  You there? asked the message.

  I felt my pulse pick up. No, that’s not right. I thought I was going to burst with an aneurysm. Heart beating in my throat, mouth suddenly dry, I placed my fingers on the keyboard. But before I typed anything, it came to me that I had a choice here. I had to be careful not to jump to conclusions. While I automatically assumed that two simple words could be interpreted as Stella must be having an affair with Mackey, it could also simply mean he’d been trying to communicate with her any way he knew how, and maybe she doesn’t like it.

  Maybe she just hasn’t said anything about it to me for fear that I would blow a gasket, for fear I would set out to find the son of a bitch, and ring his neck. I don’t lose my cool all that often, but when I do, I’m like a runaway locomotive. You’d better get the hell out of the way, or get smashed, or run over, or both. Stella had been witness to the rage on more than one occasion, and it was never a pretty sight, let me tell you.