The guy walks in around nine, and she knows right away he’s not here for the wings.
It’s busy but Tuesday busy. The usual crowd of regulars, the wandered-in type and those squirrely ones that look like they’ve stepped right in from their cell block.
He’s handsome but in that rugged Clooney meets Stallone, too many hard choices rolled up in his forehead. Broad shoulders but skinny enough jeans that means abs underneath.
Mallory adjusts her triangle top. Tied just a bit tighter so she’s not overflowing but the girls are more than breathing. They’re gasping for air.
Jimmy’s in front of the bar with those same wandering eyes, chasing every tail he sees. Wouldn’t be surprised if he could order the girls by their body fat.
Call him a manager, an inspector, or just what he was – a perv. He winks at Mallory as she walks by.
“Whatcha want?”
“Is that your usual greeting?”
She pouts. Tosses back dirty blond hair. Fake grins.
“How may I help ya, handsome?”
The dude laughs. Pulls a smoke, lights it.
“Ain’t supposed to smoke in here,” she says.
“Yeah,” he blows out one of those silly rings, right towards her face. “Ya gonna arrest me or something?”
“I don’t think I have that authority.”
“Well you’re looking pretty authoritative,” he says.
“Big word…” Mallory says as she plays with the strap of her top.
“For a big man.”
And then she sees it. The gun. Sticking out of his waistband. And he sees her looking at it. Face lights up like he’s getting a kick out of it.
Mallory starts backtracking. But backtrack in a place like this, even on a Tuesday night, means catcalls, whistles, ooh babies.
She’s heard it all. Bikini bartender at The Wiggle Room meant put up with every foul man that walks through that door. Some fouler than others. But this guy, slumped back on that chair like he owns the place, blowing stupid smoke rings, cracking dumb jokes.
This guy.
Ohh fairy godmother, might be the foulest one of all.
He stands, hoists the gun in the air and yells out.
“Everyone down on the fucking ground.”
Then shit gets loose.
Businessmen dropping to their knees. Dudes sliding under tables. Gina and Lana, her two bikini-adorned cohosts scream and shimmy to the floor, hands squeezed together, eyes closed, like they’re churchgoers.
Which they most definitely aren’t.
Jimmy’s got those hands in his pockets. Like always. Playing pocket pool is what some of the girls joke. But Mallory doesn’t like to joke like that. Even think like that. Creepy, mobbed-up Jimmy back glued to the wall like he don’t listen to instructions. Even when they come from hard dudes with guns.
“Fuck, got a hearing problem?” The guy says. He’s looking right at Jimmy but he keeps scanning the room. It’s almost like he has eyes outside his head. Nerdy accountant reaches for his phone and all hell breaks out.
“I want all of it. Now!” the guy says and he’s pointing the gun at Mallory now. “You. Authoritative girl. Help me out. Wallets, phones, watches. Get ‘em all. Put them in this.”
He tosses Mallory a bag. One of those nice grocery store ones. Canvas. The ones she saved. Would use when she visited Momma. Put her gifts and those bakery cookies she liked in them.
“Move it, jugs,” he laughs. Now most guys would be frantic, shaking, coked-up, adrenaline-fused. But not this guy. Calm like he was shopping for paint at Home Depot. Eggshell, not glossy.
Mallory moves quickly. Moving from guy to guy, reaching, grabbing, stuffing, then on to the next. Wasn’t far off from her usual night. Here’s your drink then hand out waiting for the ten or twenty to land. She’d give them a show, stick it right under her G-string. Watch their eyes roll around like they were watching something almost forbidden.
We’re the Maxim here, not the Playboy, she always says. But sometimes just a little was even better than all that.
She holds out the bag to the dude, lets him look in, admire her handiwork. He nods, swipes it with his gun-less hand, then points it at her.
“You and him,” over to Jimmy. “In there.” Jimmy’s office. The room. With the safe. “Three minutes. All of it.”
Gun still flashing all around the room like he’s just waiting for the trigger to slip. Send some finance bro’s brains all over the pale walls.
Paint it red.
So it’s her and Jimmy in the little office. Door locked. No phones. No window of course because this was that type of place. Cameras? Fuck, no, she almost giggles. They weren’t stupid.
“Shit, shit, shit” Jimmy says as he’s staring at the safe.
Two minutes, thirty seconds?
“Well, open it,” Mallory says because like what choice do they have.
He grunts. Shakes his head. “You got brains in that pretty little head?”
“I got one, how about you?”
Outside the door. One of the girls screams. Lana. Jimmy’s girl.
“You want to keep her alive?”
“Fuck, I care.”
“Jimmy, open it. It ain’t even your money.”
Well, that’s a lie but she isn’t supposed to know. Most of the money is mobbed-up. Guys with no necks and ill-fitting suits would slide by after hours, sneak it out into Escalades, disappear into the night. But Jimmy’s smarter than he looked. So, Mallory knows it won’t be easy.
“Chicky, I open that safe…I’m a dead man. We all are.”
One minute?
“And if you don’t?”
Jimmy glances over at his wrist where his Rolex usually resides then remembers.
Footsteps outside the door. Louder.
“I’ll take my chances.”
The door opens. Guy just standing there, halfway in, halfway out. Gun moving back and forth like he’s ready to make a choice. Eenie, Meenie, Miney…
“Time’s up.”
“You’re a dead man,” Jimmy says, “You know who owns this place, right?”
Then the gun’s pointed at Mallory. Right at her head.
“You got three seconds. Then she’s dust.”
“They’re gonna slice you up. Mail your body parts to Mama. You know they do that shit,” Jimmy keeps talking. Always a motor mouth.
“3…2…”
She should be scared but she isn’t.
“1!”
Guy flips the switch and splatters Jimmy’s brains across the floor. Jimmy’s two-hundred and fifty pounds crumple down with a loud thud.
“Your turn. Two minutes…”
The guy turns away, slams the door.
“I don’t know the…” but it’s hopeless.
Mallory fucks with the dials. Six numbers. She knows there’s a kill switch too. Three wrong answers and a two hour lockdown. Knows it because some dude who worked in the kitchen tried once. Jimmy found out. The guys from Atlantic City came quick. Faded blood stains still in the freezer room.
Then it hits her. Lana’s 23rd birthday? Still in her head because two months ago, the three of them celebrated at Emilio’s. Steak, scallops, red wine, tiramisu. Then dancing at Flanagan’s until closing. Lana barfing in the limo on the way home.
She tries it: 04-19-02. Wrong answer.
Two more tries.
One minute? Or less?
Fuck, what is she thinking? Vain old Jimmy. She glances over and averts her eyes. Pervert or no pervert, seeing that big old hole in his head isn’t such a pleasant sight.
Jimmy’s birthday? Shit. Think back.
Hey chicky, how ‘bout a birthday hug?
Cold night. Winter. Jimmy bundled up in one of those North Faces, gloves on. She in her leopard-skin thong. Not today, Jimmy.
But what day?
December. Frigid. Ice on the sidewalk. She glided in that night like she was on roller skates.
Before Christmas.
A Friday.
Doing the math in her head, though she sucked at math. If she didn’t she’d be accountant or an actuary, some shit. Not serving drinks in well…one step above her birthday suit.
December 16th? A better guess than nothing.
12-16…81? Makes Jimmy 43.
Wrong!
Thirty seconds?
12-16….82?
The swoosh of the lock opening. She pulls the door back and sees wads of money. Glorious money.
“Well, well, well. Jackpot,” the guy says looking over her shoulder.
Four hours sitting in the club. At least she was able to change before the cops pulled up. All she’d need——more guys leering at her.
Plenty of questions but she had the right answers. She slipped out while the cops were doing their thing. Before those dudes from AC would be arriving. Once the coast was clear.
5 AM and thankfully winter, so it’s dark enough that she could pull her car in front, slip out and in without notice.
Hit the lights and what do you know?
He’s there. Sitting at her kitchen table. Nursing a cup of coffee and munching on whatever stale Entenmann’s there was in her cupboard.
“Morning, Princess.”
Jack. The foulest one of all.
He gets up. Wraps her in his arms and kisses her hard on the lips.
Mallory pulls away.
“Thought we said that was done.”
“Celebration?”
Jack glances over towards the floor where two green canvas bags sit. One filled with wallets, phone, watches and the other with a shitload of money.
“I’m tired.”
She tosses her coat on the living room sofa, takes a couple steps back.
“And 3…2…1 wasn’t part of the act?”
“Sometimes you gotta improvise,” he says and he’s got the bag now, on the table, counting out stack of bills like he’s a banker.
“And if I didn’t guess the code?”
“You did,” he says.
And that tells her everything she needs to know.
“Four hundred and fifty grand.”
“Fuck me.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“That’s two twenty-five each.”
“Yeah, about that…”
Mallory feels her hand balling into a fist. Then sees the gun still sticking out of Jack’s waistband.
“What do you know about Des Moines?”
“Not much. Some dumbass town in Ohio——”
“Iowa,” Jack laughs, “You wanna double this? Triple this? Because I got something. Even better…”
Jack’s shoveling the money back into the bag.
“Fuck no, Jack——I want my money. What we agreed on.”
“Des Moines.”
“Fuck Des Moines——”
She feels it before she even hears it. Then sees it. The gun in his hands. A hot burning, stabbing pain from her upper thigh. She crashes to the ground, hand squeezing the wound.
“Sorry, Princess,” he says, “Nothing personal.”
She hears the door slam. The pain. Worse than anything she’s ever felt. Kidney stones. That infection in her jaw.
Jack. Motherfucker.
The way he cozied up next to her, rubbed her shoulders, told her in a way that made everything seem so simple. Like she’d be an idiot for passing it up.
Run-away-and-hide money.
Gone.
Her phone. Almost dialing 9-1-1 out of instinct. But then what? Too many questions, not enough good answers.
So she crawls. That wood floor scraping her knees (should have put the carpet down!). Up the hallway. To the bathroom. Pawing through drawers. Finds the gauze. Wraps it. Tighter than tight. She’s halfway towards passing out but can’t. Not now.
She takes a deep breath.
A flesh wound.
She’ll live.
Des Moines? A lie just like everything else Jack told. She wonders now what was even true. The three months of sneaking around to the Triangle Inn. Sex and strawberries, big plans and deceit. Now what?
Two more deep breaths. Pain still there but settling.
Phone in her hand. But no calls. Not now.
Instead, she opens up the app. Hidden. Three quick clicks to even find it.
Then she sees it.
The tracker.
He’s on the highway already. Heading west.
Probably not Des Moines. But wherever he lands.
She’ll find him.
Topeka, Kansas.
Fuck, if he sees one more cornfield. One more iteration of Buck’s Saloon. One more bierock. Barf.
He jiggles the key into the lock because it’s the type of motel that still uses keys. Even comes with one of those chains that he attaches into his belt loop.
He opens the door and enters the darkness. The smell of dank mildew, cheap imitation Clorox and mice in the walls.
But then.
Something else.
Strawberry body lotion.
The bullet pierces through his forehead and lodges in his brain before he can even grab for his gun.
A woman true to her word.
Jesse Binger is a fiction writer from New Jersey whose work explores broken people, moral compromise, and quiet acts of redemption. His debut novel The Penitent Hours is currently on submission. His short stories are published or forthcoming at Bending Genres, Bristol Noir, Close to the Bone, Revolution John, Pistol Jim Press, Underbelly Press, Yellow Mama and Literary Garage. You can find him at www.jessebinger.com or X:@jessebinger. His favorite revenge story: Christopher Nolan’s Memento.
