Men of Mayhem Read online

  The still-nameless jogger paused anytime we were close to lace her shoes, straighten her bra, or retie her hair. No matter what she did, it was sexy. You know what I mean? Even the most routine, benign actions were done in such a way that I wanted her more and more. And she totally enjoyed teasing me from a distance.

  One of the agents assigned to protect Betty and me approached with his pair of long-handled shears in hand. “Looks like your mystery girl is a no-show today.”

  He guffawed as he walked past. I scolded myself for letting down my guard enough to mention her to Agent Cloverfield. Dealing with my own frustration is bad enough, I don’t need arrogant FBI agents laughing in my face on top of that.

  My only recourse was to pull rank. “Bobby, I’m going to start cleaning up. All of my court-appointed volunteers are expected to finish the day by cleaning the bathrooms, so you’d better get started.”

  Agent Cloverfield glared at me a few moments, keeping in character. He nodded, gritting his teeth, and walked to the bathrooms with his head down. I’d love to tell you that bossing around an FBI agent makes my day, but for years, making the amount of money I did for the mob, I rarely heard the word no.

  In fact, my bosses encouraged cutting loose and indulging in wine, women, and whatever party favors they possessed to avoid the burnout often associated with people working the razor-sharp edges between legal and criminal activities. So now, dumping my frustration from suburban boredom, withdrawal from the action, and worse, failing to arrange a meeting with my jogger behind my fake wife and the FBI agents guarding my life felt pathetic. If there’s one term no one has ever gotten away with calling me, it’s pathetic. Seedy, arrogant, obnoxious, yes, those have merit, but unlike so many others in my field who ended up degenerare gamblers in deep with their former bosses, I’ve always handled my business without needing to beg. Don’t you dare bring up the whole Woodie Wodyzewski fiasco either, because that wasn’t on me. Baseball players can be stubborn, and he was a straight prick at the end.

  Before getting involved with the FBI, I would vent my anger, angst, and worry during high-profile sports games in the kitchen. As a Scottish man adopted into an Italian family, I learned a lot about cooking for large groups, and my specialty dishes revolved around comfort food to satisfy the most bummed out, dejected gamblers you can imagine.

  As Agent Cloverfield and I entered our car, equipped with bulletproof windows, I suggested a plan. “Let’s swing by the grocery store. I think it’s time you agents ate a real meal.”

  Peering over his sunglasses from the driver’s side, my bodyguard for the day asked, “You cook?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Doing what I do isn’t called cooking, sir. If we find the fresh ingredients I need, you’ll be feasting like a king by sunset, and calling me Chef Frank.”

  Agent Cloverfield flipped on his turn signal, swerving the car away from home and toward the store. “So, do you think I should start Rogers or Brady this weekend?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Start Brady, it’s his bye week. Lemme know how that goes for you.”

  Damn it. Last fall, NFL teams invited me to games, allowing me to play high-stakes poker with the players during the flight. Now I spend Sunday afternoons in front of a small screen TV, smelling like mulch and weed killer.

  Though he wouldn’t let me go in the store alone, Agent Cloverfield promised to give me space. He crushed the taco bar in the newly renovated eatery while I grabbed a cart and headed for the fruits and veggies.

  Grabbing a mango while sniffing three beets I held with my other hand, I swerved my grocery cart away from the fruit display using my elbows. Before I could declare the beets smelled delicious, my cart collided with someone attempting to speed past me toward the bakery.

  I jolted, dropping the mango and two of my beets in the process. “Holy shit.”

  Tossing the last remaining beet back into its bin, I grasped the cart’s handle and straightened, cracking my back in the process.

  Next to me, a smoky, deep, nervous female giggled. “Well, I’m sorry about that. Are you all right?”

  I glanced at the woman who hit my cart, picturing Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone with her husky bass. But when I recognized the woman who’d hit me as the jogger, my imagination felt ashamed at short-changing the beauty belonging to the voice.

  I inhaled sharply and attempted to suck in my gut while puffing out my chest. “Don’t worry about me. We must save the mango.”

  I flashed a grin, glad my beard covered up the cheek scar I earned betting against an injured Tiger Woods at the US Open championship. Following her gaze down to the ground, I saw the smashed fruit staining the floor and mentally re-added mango to my shopping list.

  The jogger crossed her arms. “I don’t think there’s enough to save.”

  It was my turn to chuckle. “Best laid plans, I guess. Serves me right for basing such a big meal around such a small fruit, especially now, while it’s out of season.”

  The jogger furrowed her brows, grinning, as she appeared to be studying me. After a few moments, she blinked and again dropped her gaze to the ground. “Sounds like you’ve got a special party coming up. What’s the occasion?”

  What’s the occasion, indeed? Has anyone in history had to explain, ‘I’m cooking a meal for my fake wife and the FBI agents stationed outside my house to apologize for sulking around, due to the disappointment of not being able to see or learn more about a random jogger who happened by my fake house a couple of weeks ago, and oh, by the way, that’s you and I can’t stop fantasizing about us getting together’?

  Instead of explaining anything, I strolled down the aisle and changed the subject. “You’ve never had Mongolian-style BBQ until you’ve tasted my special recipe. If you’ll accompany me over to the spice aisle, I’ll explain more, Miss…?”

  I took a few more steps, but when my jogger didn’t respond, I glanced back at her.

  Her expression betrayed hesitation. Her posture was rigid. Her eyes darted back and forth as if reading a book invisible to me. Or, perhaps, searching the area for her husband.

  Before I could worry if I had been too forward, my jogger’s expression loosened into a friendly grin and her chin stuck out in a challenge. “You’re actually attempting to woo a girl born and raised outside Kansas City with some hair-brained notion about BBQ from where? Get real.”

  I shrugged, playing it as cool as I could. “Well, I’m Frank. I’d—”

  “Hold that thought,” my jogger said, as she abruptly turned her cart around. “I forgot bread crumbs. Meet you in the next aisle?”

  I nodded, and proceeded down the main drag in the front of the store, passing by the taco bar in the process. “Jeez, you goin’ to leave any guacamole for the rest of us?”

  Agent Cloverfield sat hunched over a massive pile of cheese, salsa, and jalepenos. I presume taco shells were on the bottom, somewhere.

  He chewed just enough to allow air down his throat. “Hey, what about my tight end?”

  “To be honest, I’ve never taken the time to look.”

  Agent Cloverfield blushed. “Come on, man. Should I start Davis against the Dolphins or hit the waiver wire? You know how close I am to the playoffs.”

  “The Cleveland Browns have a better shot at the playoffs than you do,” I said, turning down the next aisle.

  The distracting squeak of a cart at the other end of the aisle made it difficult to concentrate on what ingredient I needed next. Until the cart and accompanying footsteps reached just a few feet in front of me, I didn’t realize just how fast it was approaching.

  Danger sense tingling, I glanced up to see my jogger, talking on her phone, winking at me. I wanted to say something cool, but I noticed she had a finger over her lips, asking me to stay quiet.

  Just as she rushed past, she covered the mouth end of the phone, dropped a tube of sour cream and onion Pringles into my cart, and whispered, “Don’t share these with your wife.”

  She returned to her phone conversat
ion. I heard her say, “Let’s meet at one-thirty,” before she turned the corner, out of my sight.

  Abandoning any grandiose notions of meals fit for royalty, I grabbed some burgers and buns, and then rushed to check out.

  Back at home, Betty insisted on helping me unload the groceries, so I slid the covert Pringles underneath my car seat until her prying eyes wouldn’t be around.

  I opened the fridge and pushed around some leftovers, making room for a cantaloupe. “Did you see we have a new agent assigned to us?”

  Betty paused, regarding me with a quizzical expression. “Eh, no, I hadn’t noticed. Where’s Agent Hadley?”

  “Apparently he never showed up this morning. At least that’s what the fill-in guy told me,” I said, popping a grape in my mouth as I put a fresh bunch of them away.

  “He was a good man.”

  Nodding, I grabbed a ginger ale. Not wanting any further conversation, I hustled out of the room.

  Before I exited, however, Betty asked, “Hey, can we, you know, like, talk?”

  I spun, eyes darting around to avoid contact. “I, uh, I’ve got something, right now. Let’s talk tonight, okay?”

  I pushed backward through the door and ignored whatever Betty continued the conversation with. Out in the garage I picked up the Pringles, shaking them like a maraca as my mind drifted to thoughts of my jogger. Sobbing greeted me as I crept back into the house. I entered the bathroom, locking the door to avoid any interruptions.

  What on earth could my jogger have hidden in this can? A lipstick-stained napkin with her phone number? Dirty photos?

  I popped the top, ripped off the foil seal, and saw—Pringles.

  Not wanting to miss whatever the jogger added in here for me, I carefully picked out one chip at a time and began to eat. About thirty chips in, I felt nauseous, but my disappointment left me unable to vomit.

  I tipped the can and dumped a dozen or so chips into my hand. I looked between each one. Nothing. I repeated until all the chips were gone. Out of habit I tipped the can over my mouth, eating all the bits and crumbs at the bottom. Now the tube was empty, my fantasies of romance were dashed, and heartburn would be coming on soon.

  I threw the can across the bathroom. “What the fuck is going on here?”

  I paced back and forth in the bathroom. In the kitchen, I had a fake wife crying because I was too preoccupied with my fantasy to listen; outside, the FBI agents were coming and going in a massive operation to prevent the Ricci family from acquiring my whereabouts and ordering a hit from New York; and some bullshit thing was stuck to the bottom of my shoes, making an annoying clicking sound every time I stepped.

  I kicked my shoe at the wall in frustration. There, stuck to the sole of my shoes, was the top foil wrap from the Pringles can. Only it didn’t say Pringles.

  I peeled off the label and gave it a better look. The “Pr” had been penned over with enough lines to make the letters illegible, while the “i” was hijacked and turned into an “A” so that it simply read, “Angles.”

  Now, at least, I knew where she wanted to meet—Quad Angles park—but I had no idea when. I flipped the foil chip lid over and examined it closely, but saw nothing else out of the ordinary.

  Wait. Wait just a second.

  Right before the jogger left me, she said something about a meeting into the phone. Or was she talking to me?

  One-thirty, she had said.

  Betty doesn’t sleep deeply, but by one-thirty she’d be oblivious if I went out for a stroll.

  Now all I had to do was get myself cleaned up and hope things proceeded the way I fantasized.

  Who knew suburban life could be so exciting?

  Exiting the shower through a cloud of steam, I wrapped a towel around my waist and danced across the hall into our closet.

  Though the local news had already assured us that by 3:00 a.m. high winds and heavy rains would pound our area, Betty hadn’t yet fallen asleep. In fact, when I jumped in the shower she had been in the kitchen flittering around, prepping a dish for some event, and judging by our still-made bed, Betty was still at it. No bother, there would be plenty of time for her to crash for the night and for me to slip out of the house to finally meet my jogger.

  I let the towel fall to the floor as I checked myself out in our closet’s full-sized mirror. My six-pack intact, I rubbed down my legs with a body lotion my ex-employer had smuggled in from the French Riviera. Though I found the poignant, mossy scent of the lotion irritating, women commented on it every time I wore it.

  A giggle from the hallway broke my train of thought. I spun.

  Her cheeks were flushed, but Betty made no effort to hide the fact she was checking me out, from my business-casual-style-cut ginger hair down to my exposed ankle bracelet with its two green lights, one flashing and one solid.

  Instead of grabbing for my towel, I pulled my gold chain necklace over my head, squeezing the good-luck medallion in the process. “Did you lock the doors and turn on the alarm?”

  She looked me up and down one more time. “Uh, no, not yet. I’m going to shower before bed.”

  Typically by midnight she’s threatening to wake the neighborhood with her snoring.

  I turned away to roll my eyes, but kept my voice warm and friendly when I returned my gaze to her. “I’ll probably have a cigar tonight, so I’ll lock up.”

  She nodded and backed into the bathroom, her sparkling eyes betraying that she was still enjoying the view.

  Not wanting to alert her that my night wasn’t finished, I left the closet wearing only my boxers. I did, however, plant clothes in the kitchen by the back door. In my hoodie pocket I stuffed a credit card sized data strip that was the key to my successful escape tonight. When placed between my leg and my ankle bracelet’s homing sensor, it would force-feed a predetermined location to be transmitted to the FBI, which would prevent the agents from learning of my tryst in the park. Sometimes it’s good to know tech nerds, and just like Betty’s fake dad said, “It’s always good to be prepared.”

  With the lights dimmed, I slipped into bed, pleasantly surprised by the fresh silk sheets welcoming me. Now all I needed to do revolved around getting someone already up past her bedtime to fall asleep so I could sneak away. The neon green of the clock read twelve-fifteen. Piece of cake.

  I yawned.

  Then I panicked. This was not the time to get cozy and sleepy. I shook my upper body, sitting up straight in the bed and knocking the TV remote to the floor. I leaned over and grabbed it, finding an old pack of gum in the process. I flipped through the channels for a few minutes, but nothing caught my eye.

  “I’ll just try the Calvin Hughes show,” I announced to no one.

  Ugh, the current guest on Calvin just happened to be my least favorite retired-athlete-turned-celebrity. Instead of watching another has-been awkwardly deliver pre-written anecdotes, I swiped Betty’s book off her nightstand. Hmm, well, the chick on the cover was hot. Her braided blonde hair and exotic makeup choices portrayed her as a badass too, which was a nice change from the usual mushy stuff Betty reads.

  The shower turned off as I flipped open The Dead Survive. The story sucked me in enough that I didn’t notice the hair dryer going quiet or the bathroom door opening. The first inkling I received that something needed my attention was when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and a chill rushed down my spine. You know that sixth sense of creepiness you get sometimes when people are staring at you? Yeah, that’s what happened. I folded the book closed, keeping my place with my index finger, and peered toward the bathroom.

  Betty stood in the doorway, wrapped in a towel, water still dripping from her hair. “I wanted this to be perfect for you, but, well, I’m afraid if I wait, I’ll lose you as well.”

  I recognized the puppy dog eyes she was giving me for what they were, anxious and subservient, and yet my own nerves spiked. Sure, the thought of her and I had crossed my mind—I’m a man—but did she have to do this tonight of all nights?

  I
put the book back on her nightstand, stalling for time. She didn’t move or speak, so I took a few seconds to take in the sight. Her dark hair fell below her bare shoulders, and her towel struggled to maintain its grasp around her chest. Her legs betrayed her recent dedication to an active lifestyle.

  As I peered at her, Betty stepped forward, allowing the towel to drop. She paused again, timid, conflicted, or maybe just enjoying my shocked expression as I registered just how attractive she looked naked.

  Sure, I’d spent the past few months with Betty on a daily basis, and we’d shared a bathroom and a closet, but Betty favored bulky, non-revealing clothing to hide the truth of her previous life.

  What a knockout bod.

  And this is coming from a man who has seen wave after wave of young women throwing themselves at the athletes, crooks, and the rich men I surrounded myself with. Betty had most of them beat with imperfections to spare.

  She dipped her head and gave herself a once over. She squeezed her upper arms in toward her body, in turn pushing her boobs together and outward. With her head still tilted, she peered at me and smirked.

  Let me tell you, that look right there made it tempting enough to forget the mob, the government, jail-time, and my jogger completely. Betty’s lips are thick and kissable on a normal day, but tonight, they were downright tantalizing. One of her best features, in my mind, is the way her upper lip stretched up in a snarl before spreading into a smile, like whatever she has in mind is dangerous and wilder than normal. It’s easy to see how she got in with some of the high rollers before flaming out with drugs. It’s a shame she feels compelled to appear so conservative nowadays.

  I shifted into a sitting position so that my back rested against the headboard. Not sure if she would notice the bulge in the blanket below my waist, I considered covering it with a hand before deciding I didn’t care either way.