Page 87 of Thankless in Death

Then it quieted, and all slid away.

She died with the smile deep in her heart.

He kept kicking her long after she went still. He couldn’t stop.

She’d called him nothing. She’d hurt him.

It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right. So he kicked her, and he wept and raged until he’d exhausted himself.

Dropping into a chair he struggled to get his breath back. His foot throbbed like a rotted tooth where the chair, with her fat ass in it, had dropped like a boulder. And his midsection hurt, felt bruised and tender where she’d slammed the chair back against him.

He should’ve sliced her up. Fuck the mess, he should have sliced her to pieces like he’d done with his old lady.

Now he was sweaty, shaky, and he thought maybe something in his foot might be broken.

He ought to burn her house down and her with it. That’s what he ought to do.

But he wasn’t stupid, he thought as he swiped tears away. He wasn’t nothing. The longer it took them to find her fat, dead ass the better.

Besides, they’d never tie him to it. Who’d tie him to the old bitch? Some bitch who taught high school Comp Science?

All he had to do now was walk away. And he could soak himself, and his aching foot, in his new jet tub.

He rose, let out a whining whimper, and was forced to limp out of the room. Blinking back tears of self-pity, he hobbled downstairs where the droid stood awaiting further instructions.

“Take the rest of this, on foot.” He made another memo cube, with the address, instructions. “Straight there, straight to the concierge. Give her that memo, and get things set up. Where’s the money?”

“Here, sir.” The droid handed him an envelope.

After a moment’s consideration, Reinhold pulled out a few bills. “Walk to West Broadway, that’s far enough. Take a cab from there. No leave those,” he said when the droid reached for the duffel and one of the suitcases. “I’ll take those. I want everything set up before I get there. Then you go out, buy what you need to make me a big steak dinner, and a martini.”

“Yes, sir. Gin or vodka?”

Reinhold went blank. He hadn’t known martinis came in more than one variety. “What do you think, Asshole? Vodka—and don’t get cheap shit. Now get moving.”

Reinhold hobbled into the kitchen. He’d seen blockers in there. Hunting them up, he took two. Then out of pique, he yanked dishes, glassware out of cabinets, hurled them against the wall, used a kitchen knife to gouge at the refrigerator, the front of the dishwasher, across the counter, the cabinets.

And felt better.

Satisfied, he went out, retrieved his duffel, the last red suitcase, and walked out of the house. But even with the blockers and the release of breaking and destroying, the foot troubled him. After two blocks, he ran a search for the closest clinic on his latest victim’s handheld, limped another block before he managed to catch a cab.

He should’ve snipped off her toes, he decided. He should’ve made her scream. Being dead wasn’t enough, not when she’d hurt him first.

He slumped in the corner of the cab and dreamed of his new place, a jet tub, a manly drink, and money to burn.

•••

Eve rang the bell by the door of the Golde apartment. Within seconds she heard locks clicking, snicking, sliding. The woman who answered was still on the shy side of fifty, and wore lip dye Eve assumed Peabody would claim popped. She boasted impressive breasts and broad shoulders, and gave Eve a dead-on measuring stare.

“You’re taller than I thought.”

“Okay” was the best Eve could offer.

“Could use some meat on you. Skinny girls,” she said to Peabody with a quick, crooked smile. “Hard to understand them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come on in. Mal’s back in the den putting in a new screen. I don’t allow the screen in the living room. Living room’s are for living, and living means having conversations.”