She breezed into the bar, kind of late at night for a society
dame.
Gliding toward my booth in the back, she raised one of her
sleek eyebrows and smirked at me.
“Good evening, Ma’am”
“Ma’am? You make me
want to look over my shoulder to make sure my Mama isn’t here”, she drawled, in
a thick southern accent that sounded like molasses poured over hoe-cakes.
It took me a minute to take her in. Glossy, black hair, skin that looked like
sweet cream, and eyes that looked like someone chipped them out of a northern
glacier.
Her lips looked like a couch I wanted to sink into…soft,
pillowy, lush…
You expect some broad that looks like Snow-White-come- to-life
would be wearing something red hot – but she was dressed in black.
Her gams were amazing….. this gal had legs to make a man
weep.
“Mr. Olson, I hear you are a man that can…..arrange things.”
“I arrange business matters, ma’am, what sort of business are
you interested in, Mrs. Williams?”
“You know me, then?”
she asked—still smirking.
“I had some business with your husband.”
“I am aware of this Mr. Olson, which is why I have come to
you—you are a man that…fixes thangs”
I can’t believe she said “thangs”.
This broad looks like New York Society.
Ice cold. White hot.
She sounds like Scarlett O’Hara over ice.
“I was sorry to hear of your husband’s untimely demise”, I
offered.
“Yes, well, these things happen.” She allows.
“What can I do for you Mrs. Williams?”
“You can arrange an accident”, she smiles, eyes turning into
chips of flint.
“I need someone’s knees busted, and I hear you are the one
that can make that happen”
“Why would I do that?”
“Cash.” She intoned. “100, 000.00 dollars.”
Now we’re talkin’….
“I could…”
“Mr. Olson, I am not
interested in ‘maybe’, ‘possibly’, or ‘perhaps’. I need a certain whore on the ground, with
broken knees, at the corner of 12th and Larsen at 9:00 Sunday. Barneys is having a pantyhose sale, and that
bitch loves her hose”
Again, those ice-chip eyes.
“I could do that, lady," I say, so taken aback I forget to
call her ma’am.
“Good. Do it.”
Voice like a whip-crack.
“Morgan Stone”, she says, naming a
VERY famous escort - favored by most of my colleagues; mostly famous for breaking
up marriages.
“Done”.
She smiles, and those eyes warm up like a summer sky.
“What for?” I ask—breaking one of my cardinal rules.
“I’m gonna run that bitch into the ground,” she says,
smiling and showing a bit too much teeth.
I take one more look at that mouth.
That Mouth.
I nod at her…
She leaves a brown bag, presumably with $100, 000.00 cash, on
the bar and spins around like a dancer.
I watch her leave the bar.
I look at the pumping arms, spinning the wheels below her dead legs and dead
heart.
I am suddenly glad I am not
Morgan Stone.
