The Little Black Book

"Hello?"

"What the fuck do you mean hello?"

"Just what I said, husband, hello?"

"I've been trying to get ahold of you for weeks. Why haven't you been answering your phone?"

"Well," I say, sipping my espresso, enjoying making him wait for my answer as if he has any right to ask. "You didn't pay the bill, and for the past two weeks, my phone has been nothing but a fancy clock I can only use if I happen to be near Wi-Fi, which you also didn't pay."

"Okay," he says, stammering for the words to find. "It's on now."

"Clearly," I tell him, looking at my new set of nails, trying to decide if I like the length. "What do I owe the honor of your phone call?"

"Look, I'm not calling to fight with you, but I need to know what the fuck happened to the house?"

"What house?"

"My house!"

"Oh, that house. There was a fire."

"And?" He demands, getting more pissed by the minute.

"And what? There was a fire, and the shit burned to the ground. I'm fine, by the way."

"I know you're fine because I'm talking to you…"

"Not that you and the bitch from the bank give a shit," I tell him, cutting him off. "Tell me, how does it feel to be living off my money? To know your wife is funding your miserable lifestyle?"

"Look," he says, sounding nervous. "She did it. I didn't find out until the money was in my account."

"Did you tell her to put it back?"

His silence is telling.

"And then to cut me off the way you did. You told me you would take care of me and your best effort was to take my money and leave me with a mountain of your debt, no phone, no Wi-Fi, and a house in foreclosure? Tell me, husband, where the fuck was I supposed to go?"

"I wanted to take care of you, but when I got laid off, things got bad."

"Things were so bad you couldn't come to me? I could have helped and would have, but you let some bitch you barely now convince you the grass was greener on the other side with my money."

"Well, I need your help now."

"You got a lot of nerve…"

"Let me finish," he says, cutting me off. "They are investigating the fire and found a body."

"I know nothing about it."

"But you were living in there!" he says, raising his voice. I hear a feminine tone tell him to calm down. "Look, you were there. It has to be someone you knew?"

"No," I tell him, almost laughing as I think about Mr. Sims drinking his cup of tea. "It wasn't."

"Why are you acting like this?" He screams. The same voice tells him to calm down again, but this time, he tells her to shut the fuck up. "This is my life you're playing with."

"Well, it was my life you were playing with when you took my damn money and couldn't even think to leave me a cell phone. Do you know how fucked up that is? Couldn't even allow access to the outside world. What kind of man does that?"

He's quiet, and I can hear the bitch from the bank asking him what I'm saying.

"Look," he says after a few seconds. "I have the detective's name who is heading up the investigation. Can you just call him and tell him what happened?"

"No, I can't because I don't know what happened. I moved out of the house shortly after you left, so that could be anyone. Maybe a squatter got inside somehow?"

"I'm giving the detective your number, and you better clear this shit up."

"I'll clear it up when you put my fucking money back."

"I can't."

"Why can't you? Don't lie and say it's because you paid your bills."

He's quiet as the bitch from the bank asks what I’m saying. He tells her to shut the fuck up again.

"If you just talk to the detective and tell him the person was a maintenance guy or something, they can close the investigation, and the insurance company will pay the damages, and I'll sign the check over to you."

"You're lying again," I tell him, laughing. "You let the insurance lapse."

As I finish my drink, a brown delivery truck stops directly in front of me. The young driver looks around and right at me before turning off the vehicle and getting out. He looks around nervously before approaching my table.

"I'll call you back."

"Wait…" I disconnect, silencing his begging.

The man who looks to be no older than twenty-five is wearing a uniform that matches his truck, his workbooks sounding hollow as he walks toward my table.

"Are you Red?" he asks.

"What gave me away?" I ask, smiling.

"Your shoes," he says, pointing down to the sole of my Christian Louboutin thigh-high boots. "They're nice, by the way."

"You should buy your lady some," I say as my phone rings. I look at the caller id and decline the call.

"I probably will,” he says, looking around.

"Do you have something for me?" I ask expectantly as my phone lights up again. I let it ring but turn it over on the table face down.

He looks around again before he pulls a little black book out of his pocket.

"What is so important in this book someone would offer so much money just for me to drop off?"

"Let me ask you a question. Did you rent this truck and uniform to deliver this book?"

"No, this is my regular job."

"How convenient,” I say, smirking. “Do you ask about the other parcels you drop off?"

"No."

"Then why are you inquiring about this?"

"Because I want to know why the book is so valuable."

"Trust me," I say, shaking my head. "You don't want to find out."

"Well, if it's worth so much, maybe you'd be willing to up the price."

"Why would I do that?"

"Consider it a convenience fee."

"Sir," I say, sitting back in my chair and resting my hands in my lap. "You have a cool million coming your way. I suggest you take it and stop playing around."

"Or what?" He says, challenging me.

"Peekaboo," I tease, nodding my head towards his chest. He looks down and sees a single red dot sitting directly in the middle of his shit brown uniform. He looks around as his breath catches in his throat. His eyes grow as big as saucers as he sees my gun resting on my knee, shielded by my oversized purse on both sides.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…."

I turn the target off, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

"Put the book down."

He fumbles, dropping it on the table.

"Let me give you some advice because I don't think you're a bad person. You just make poor decisions."

"Yes, ma'am," he says, almost crying.

"When the check clears, run."

At first, he looks at me with a blank expression on his face, and frankly, I enjoy watching his expression morph into fear as the realization for his future, albeit short, sets in. Without another word, he turns and runs to his truck. He starts it and cuts off three cars as he pulls into traffic and squeals his tires, turning left at the red light.

I put my finger on the book, sliding it in front of me as my phone rings again. I smile before answering.

"What do you want?"

"Don't you dare fucking hang up on me again.”

"I had business. Since my husband left me, I've had to go back to work. A girl's gotta eat."

"I can't believe you're acting this way."

"Well, I can't believe you left me, but here we are."

"Do you think we can get together and discuss this?"

"No can do. I'm traveling, and you may as well know after this conversation, I'm tossing this phone. No one who has this number has my best interest at heart."

"How will I be able to get ahold of you?"

"You won't, but you will hear from my lawyer."

"Your lawyer? What about?"

"Did you think I was going to stay married to your adulterous, fraudulent ass?"

"Don't you think that's a bit hasty?"

"Hasty?" I ask, laughing. "You and your bitch from the bank stole millions from me, and you think this is hasty? My god, had I known you were this dumb, I wouldn't have married you."

"But what about the house…"

"Goodbye, Madison. You'll hear from me soon enough."

I push the disconnect button before fishing in my purse for the sewing kit I took from the hotel. I take out one of the straight pins, and using the trick I saw on YouTube, I stick the pinhead in the tiny hole in the phone's side and pull out the sim card. I put the little tracker on the ground and crush it with the heel of my boot before sweeping the pieces away with one swipe of my foot. I take the phone, and like skipping rocks on a pond, I chuck it into the street and morning traffic.

I sit back and watch, and just like clockwork, here he comes. I don't take my eyes off him as I thank my server for bringing my check.

Like when we were living as husband and wife, every morning, he goes to the same ATM located across from the Marriott hotel I checked into two weeks ago. He always made a habit of withdrawing whatever cash he needs for the day. This was his ritual, and unfortunate for him, he hasn't changed.

He punches in his code and bulks, looking closer at the numbers on the screen. It's been ten days since I deposited the check into his account, and I'm sure the money has finally cleared. As he punches more buttons, I open the black book. I purposely turn to the very last page and run my finger down the list, landing on the name I was hoping to see.

I smile, putting the book in my purse. I pull two twenties out of my wallet and place them on the table before standing and waiting. When my husband finally withdraws his cash, I watch as he puts the money in his billfold and walks away.

I follow.