“I don’t get it.”
“I don’t either, Fin, but I’m telling you, that’s what happened.”
“He had you and then he just…let you go?”
“Yep.”
Her brow crinkles. Seated next to Max on the baroque blue velvet love seat tucked into the corner of our favorite murder-mystery-themed dive bar, the Poison Pen, she’s chewing her lip and frowning, white knuckling another bourbon as she watches me pace back and forth in front of the wooden coffee table separating us.
Max is watching me, too. But it’s more of a “you’re a bonehead” look than Fin’s worried one.
She mutters, “You should’ve stabbed that fucker in the eye when you had the chance.”
“I didn’t have the chance, Max, that’s what I’m saying!”
She’s clearly dubious. “I dunno, Jules, it sounds like you two had quite the long talk. There must’ve been one second in between all that yammering when you could’ve shivved that son of a goat herder and made the world a whole lot better in the process.”
She pauses to give me an accusing stare. “I mean…Liam Black?”
I turn and pace the other direction, wringing my hands distractedly. “We agreed it would be best if I kept the identity of the marks a secret. I pick the targets and research the job, you handle electronics and surveillance, Fin handles logistics and transportation. The details of each of our tasks we keep to ourselves in case one of us gets caught.”
Max snorts. “Yeah, I know the rules. I just assumed our whole ‘steal from the rich and give to the poor’ girl gang ethos was about fat old billionaires who beat their kids and cheat on their taxes, not leaders of mafia syndicates.”
Sipping her bourbon, Fin says absently, “Super-hot leaders of mafia syndicates.”
“His hotness is irrelevant,” says Max.
To which Fin replies, “It was relevant when you were ogling him at the bar and your panties were curling off you like burning paper.”
“I didn’t know who he was then. I’d never seen a picture of him.”
“As if it would’ve mattered.”
Max sniffs. “Excuse me, but I’d like to think I’m a little more discerning than that.”
“Maybe you are, but your coochie has a mind of her own. Let’s not forget that cute musician who couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag.”
“He was harmless!”
“He was clueless.”
“An air-brained guitarist is not the same thing as the head of a multinational criminal empire!”
“My point is that when it comes to hot men, your vadge can’t be trusted. If Satan had tats and a strong jaw, you’d fuck him.”
Max says flatly, “This from the woman who falls in love with every leggy redhead who knows how to bat her lashes. No matter how conniving.”
Bristling, Fin says, “Tess wasn’t conniving. She was…clever!”
Max mutters, “Clever enough to make off with all the money in your bank account.”
I have to stop this little spat before it can devolve into all-out war. “Girls! Please! Can we focus for a minute on the situation?”
Max huffs, Fin scowls, and I swing around and pace back the other direction. “Okay. First things first. How did he find us?”
“Don’t look at me,” Max says defensively. “The cameras at the warehouse and all around the drop zone were out. I did my job.”
“What about around the field where we offloaded the truck?”
“Yes,” she says with exaggerated patience, as if speaking to a child. “Those were out, too.”
Fin says, “My side of the house is buttoned-up, too. I took all the usual precautions.”
“There has to be a leak somewhere. A hole we didn’t plug. Maybe someone saw us break into the warehouse and followed us from there?”
“Doubtful,” says Fin. “There were no headlights behind us until we got on the highway, and that was ten miles from the warehouse. Besides, if someone saw us breaking in, they’d have called the police, not tailed us.”
“Could the apartment be under surveillance?”
Max makes a face. “If the cops were watching us, they would’ve showed up at the restaurant, not him.”
“Maybe they’re on his payroll.”
“Well, yeah, they probably are. My point is that we’d already be arrested. Instead we’re sitting here, shitting our pants, wondering how soon it’ll be before we get a bullet in our skulls.”
I stop pacing to look at them. “That’s the thing, though. He could’ve snapped my neck in the taxi if he wanted to. But he didn’t. He let me go.” I think for a moment. “Actually, that’s not technically correct. He threw me out.”
Fin sits up straighter. “Wait. What?”
I drop into the overstuffed leather chair across from the sofa and stare morosely at my feet. “Yeah. It was so strange. He was being weirdly pleasant and not killing me, then he went all Conan the Barbarian and threw me out of the cab.”
Max and Fin gaze at me in loaded silence, until Max says, “What did you say to make him do that?”
My hackles go up at the way it sounds like an accusation. “Why does it have to be something I said?”
Fin says gently, “You do have a way of exasperating men, hun.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
With none of Fin’s tact, Max says, “It means your mouth makes men crazy. And not in a good way.”
Fin nods. “Like not in the wow-you-give-a-great-blowjob way.”
I lift my chin and look down my nose at them. “I’ll have you know I give an excellent blowjob.”
Max snorts. “Really? When was the last time you gave someone a blowjob? And dreams don’t count!”
I open my mouth to make a smart retort, but have to close it again when I realize I have no idea when the last time was that I performed that particular sexual act, in dreams or otherwise.
Best not to think about it. I’ve got more important things to be depressed about.
“Getting back to the subject at hand: Liam Black has our home address.”
That hangs in the air ominously for a while, until Fin says, “I think the real subject at hand is what specifically you said to make him throw you out of the cab.”
“I agree,” says Max, nodding.
“How is that important?”
“If it was important enough to stop him from murdering you, it’s important enough to consider.” She motions to the waiter for another round of drinks, then turns her attention back to me. “So, what was it?”
I already know it’s useless to try to divert Max from this line of conversation. She’ll hound me until I answer. She’s as stubborn as a Rottweiler. So I slouch lower in the chair, close my eyes, and think.
After several moments, it hits me. “Oh.” I open my eyes and think some more, frowning. “No. That can’t be right.”
Fin and Max lean forward, all ears. They say in unison, “What?”
Still frowning, I look up into their eager faces. “I think…it’s possible I might have insulted him.”
After a beat, Fin turns to Max. “She thinks she insulted him.”
Max turns to Fin. “The head of the Irish mafia.”
“She insulted the head of the Irish mafia so badly, he forgot to kill her.”
They turn back to me and stare at me in accusing silence.
“Jeez, you guys. Thanks for the support.”
The waiter—a cute young guy with a man bun and a tattoo of Betty Boop on his forearm—returns with our drinks. He sets them on the coffee table, takes the empty glasses, and grins at Max. “You need anything else?”
One brow quirked, Max looks him up and down. When she opens her mouth, Fin elbows her in the ribcage.
Max sighs. “We’re good, thanks.”
He leaves with a wistful smile in her direction.
Fin watches him go with a curled lip. “Unbelievable. We’re being hunted by the mob king as we speak, and you’re flirting with hipsters.”
“We’re not being hunted by the mob king. He already found us, and Devil Tongue here”—Max gestures to me—“scared him away.”
“You’re welcome,” I say loudly, grabbing my second shot of vodka.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” says Fin, grabbing her own drink. “The reality is that Liam Black is probably plotting our deaths at this very moment. Our violent, hideous, painful deaths, which he’ll take great pleasure in, considering we not only stole from him, but insulted him as well. To his face. For a man who can make grown men cry by the mere mention of his name, that’s probably worse.”
Aggravated, I shoot the vodka, wincing as it sears a path down my throat. “I said I think I might have insulted him, not that I was sure!”
Fin pushes a lock of hair behind her ear and sits forward. “Just tell us the words you spoke, and we’ll go from there.”
Sighing heavily, I shrug. “I just…he was sort of…sniffing my throat—”
“Sniffing your throat?” she interrupts, wide-eyed.
It sounds even worse out loud. “Um. Yes. I was on his lap and he was sniffing—”
“On his lap?” they say together.
I glance around in irritation. “Can you please keep your voices down?”
Max stares at me in open astonishment. “Your priorities right now are so out of whack, I don’t even know where to start. Who cares what anybody in this bar thinks? You were sitting on Liam Black’s lap and he was sniffing your throat? Shut the front door!”
“And god bless America,” adds Fin, lifting her glass to me in a toast.
I really need to get better friends.
“It wasn’t like it sounds,” I start, only to get interrupted again.
“Oh, really?” Max laughs. “Because it sounds like a certain smoking hot evil gangster got sprung when he saw you at the bar, my friend.”
“He couldn’t have gotten ‘sprung,’ as you so charmingly put it, because he was staring at my back!”
Fin says, “Your back is hot,” and guzzles her bourbon.
I drop my head into my hands and groan.
“Oh, stop your bellyaching. This is good news!”
I lift my head and glare at Max. “How, exactly, is this good news?”
“We’re probably not going to die!” She pauses. “I mean, you’re not.” She pauses again. “I wonder if he’d forgive us all for a foursome?”
“I’m not having sex with you two bozos and a friggin’ mobster!” I say with heat.
Meanwhile, Fin is looking at Max with pursed lips, like she’s considering it.
“Fin. No.”
She blinks innocently at me. “I didn’t say a word.”
“Listen, can we please focus? He knows our address. He could have ten hitmen waiting for us at home right now!”
Max shakes her head. “He wouldn’t have come to the restaurant himself if he were going to have his goons handle it. Besides, I’d get a notification on my phone if anyone broke into the apartment.”
She sits back against the sofa, crosses her legs, and gazes at me.
“No, what I think happened here is that somehow Liam Black discovered who we were, got an eyeful of you, Natalie Portman, and decided he wanted to go in for a closer look.”
I say flatly, “I don’t even look like Natalie Portman’s distant cousin.”
Fin tilts her head, examining me. “There’s a definite resemblance. Mostly that kind of bookish, nerdy, tomboy brunette thing. The hot Harvard grad vibe. I’ve always thought you were more of a Greta Garbo, myself. Very aloof and mysterious. Very ‘I want to be alone.’”
“I do want to be alone.” I look back and forth between them. “I have a very strong desire to be alone. Not here, having this ridiculous conversation, with two people who obviously took drugs at some earlier point in the evening.”
We sit in silence for a moment, until Max says suddenly, “I know what we have to do.”
“Really? What?”
“You have to call him and apologize.”
I wait for the punchline. When I realize she’s not joking, I scoff. “Oh, good plan, Einstein. I’ll just call Gangster 4-1-1 and get his phone number, then say sorry we stole your stuff, please don’t kill us.”
“No, not that we’re sorry for stealing his stuff. That you’re sorry for insulting him.”
I look over to Fin. “Help me out here.”
But Fin isn’t on my side, the traitor. “She has a point, Jules. I mean, from what you said, he told you straight out that he wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“He’s a criminal! We can’t believe a thing he says!”
“We can believe his actions. Exhibit A: you’re still breathing.”
“For now!”
“Exhibit B: we’re criminals, too, and we’re trustworthy.”
She stares at me like what she just said makes complete sense. Groaning, I scrub my hands over my face. “Your logic makes my brain hurt.”
“It’s the whole honor among thieves thing, Jules,” says Max. “The Code. He said he wouldn’t hurt you, which is basically a promise.” She pauses for effect, dropping her voice. “But he never said he wouldn’t hurt me and Fin. So you have to call him and apologize.”
I mutter, “This is insane.”
Fin says, “I think it’s worth a shot. Men like Liam Black are all about ego. Respect. Stealing from him is business, but insulting him?” She tsks. “That’s personal.”
Max adds, “Especially insulting him while you were sitting in his lap.” She gasps, her blue eyes going wide with panic. “Oh god.”
I cry, “What now?”
“Please tell me you didn’t make a crack about the size of his dick. Because then we are all dead, for sure.”
I motion to the waiter for another round of drinks. He’s been watching Max like she’s his next meal, so he sees me right away and jumps into action.
“No, I didn’t make a crack about the size of his dick.”
Max exhales in relief.
“I think what happened is that he got that I’d rather have him kill me than…other stuff.”
Fin understands right away. “Kidnapping,” she says quietly, nodding her head.
Max stares at me in confusion. “You’re saying you’d rather die than be kidnapped and held captive by that burning hunk of man?”
“Two minutes ago, you were arguing that I should’ve stabbed him in the eye.”
“Well, yeah, if you thought he was going to kill you. But I said that before I knew you two were canoodling in the back of a taxi cab. There’s a big difference between self-defense and canoodling.”
“You also said the world would be a better place without him.”
“I like to be supportive of my friends’ choices in men.” She sends Fin a pointed glance.
“Oh god. I give up.”
When the waiter arrives with fresh drinks, I’m flattened in my chair, staring in defeat at the ceiling.
“Ladies,” he says, grinning at Max. “This round’s on the house.”
“How sweet!” With a wink in my direction, a beaming Fin turns to Max and squeezes her thigh. “Honey, did you tell him we’re newlyweds?”
I have to give him credit: the waiter doesn’t fumble the drinks. His smile doesn’t falter. But still, his disappointment permeates the air.
I feel sorry for him for all of half a second, until I see the light bulb go on over his head as he looks back and forth between my two pretty friends, his smile returning.
Men.
I think god actually created woman first, then created man after deciding we needed something to vex us so we didn’t die of boredom in the Garden of Eden.
I say to Fin, “Hey, did you get that nasty rash cleared up? Max said you were on some pretty heavy antibiotics.”
Fin nods, playing along. “Oh, girl, it was so bad. My gynie said she’d never seen such oozing sores. Unfortunately, by the time I got my meds, Max had it, too.”
Watching the retreating back of our waiter as he hurries toward the bar, Max says dejectedly, “You guys suck.”
“It’s his own fault for assuming lesbians just need a good rogering to go straight.”
“I’m not gay,” says Max, “and I could really use a good rogering.”
“Well, sorry for the cock block,” says Fin, obviously not sorry at all. “But it’s common knowledge that guys with man buns are bad lovers. They’re too focused on their hair to focus on their partner. You deserve better than that.”
“Thank you. I think.”
We’re all reaching for our drinks when the waiter returns. Before I can tell him that we’ll pay for that last round, he says, “Which one of you is Juliet Jameson?”
My stomach tightens. The three of us look at each other for a moment, until I say warily, “That’s me. Why?”
He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “You’ve got a phone call.”
No one knows I’m here except Fin and Max. The tightness in my stomach turns to a knot.
“From who?’
The waiter shrugs. “Some Irish guy who says you owe him ninety thousand dollars.”
