Drop Dead, Gorgeous!

  “But my family—the others—”

  “Don’t you get it, Mrs. Stone? You’re the only ones left. Now come on!”

  “But all the—the others—”

  “Worm food, courtesy of the FBI. You want your boys in lockdown before the sun comes up? Those feds got itchy trigger fingers, Missus, and you wouldn’t be the first syndicate wife to hit the bricks tonight.”

  Kevin squatted and groped around the carpet while his mom and Mr. Garrit were pulling the sleepy twins from their bunks. His fingers passed over several chewed sporks (his daddy loved original-recipe KFC and they went to the Colonel’s every Saturday), and closed over the lava rock Daddy brought back from his last trip. It fit in his hands like a small brick.

  “Let’s go, Stones. Right now.”

  Stumbling and still more asleep than awake, the twins followed their mother, who was following Mr. Garrit. Mr. Garrit, the man Daddy said could squat and lean and had maybe a few too many thoughts about moving up when he should be happy to stay put. Mr. Garrit, the only one who had come to the house tonight. The brains, his daddy called him. “I’m the boss, but he’s the brains.” Then his daddy would laugh and laugh.

  Could it be true? Was Daddy dead? It seemed impossible, too huge for his tired child’s mind to grasp; he might as well imagine God being dead.

  But it made no sense—why would the FBI kill his daddy? His daddy was a good guy—he protected businesses; that was his job. The FBI (as his daddy had told him on more than one occasion) should give him a medal.

  And where were the other guys? Mr. Brady, Mr. Shea, Mr. Flanagan, Mr. Barron, Mr. Donovan? If there was a (shootout, like in the Westerns) problem, Mr. Garrit would be the first one to get shot, the last one to run off and help the boss’s family. Because he seemed nice, and sometimes he talked nice, and sometimes he brought them nice things, but inside, way down deep, he was (crazy crazy crazy) a man who didn’t really care about them. Kevin’s daddy didn’t notice, or didn’t care; either way, it was none of his business and all of Daddy’s.

  Kevin took a moment to dart into the bathroom and take a leak. He found he couldn’t; any desire to pee had been swallowed up by the awful fear that (Daddy’s dead) things had gone very, very badly.

  He adjusted his PJ bottoms and hurried toward the living room, taking just enough time to lift the lava rock from the counter on his way out the bathroom door. He could hear voices now, as he got closer; his mama had been right—this house was too big for five people.

  But he had the feeling new people would be living in the Stone mansion very soon, so what did it matter that it was too big, had always been too big?

  Mama: “What are you doing? Do you hear something?”

  Mr. Garrit: “You know, I always liked you, but I kinda hated you, too. You always acted like you were too good for me.”

  Mama: “Put that away and help me with these children. This is no time for one of your stupid jokes.”

  “Joke’s on you, Missus Stone. Or, Widow Stone, I guess. The FBI didn’t kill your man—they’d much rather have seen him on trial. But who do you think would go to jail if Jack Stone cut a deal? I buried his garbage for ten…damn…years. And I’m telling you right now, after tonight, I’m through with Stone shit.”

  Kevin hurried around the corner, his arm cocked, the lava rock firm in his fist, and he was getting ready to bean Mr. Garrit a good one when the front door crashed open and his daddy staggered into the room.

  “Cripes on a cracker! My arm feels like it’s on fire.”

  “Goddammit,” Mr. Garrit fumed, “how many times do I have to shoot at you?”

  “Not no more,” his daddy said, and Kevin thought, bang, but Mr. Garrit shouldn’t have turned his back on Mama, because she was on him like a wildcat and rode Mr. Garrit all the way down, cracking his head on the coffee table for good measure.

  “You believe this shirt?” his daddy was grumping. Blood was streaming down the shoulder, ruining the flawless white. “Brand new and now I gotta toss it.”

  “Shame on you! This makes, what? Third time this year? How many times I gotta say it? Stop telling your underlings enough info to let them take over the organization.”

  “Aw, Daddy,” Kevin said, coming down the stairs. “You blabbed at work again?”

  “Awwww,” his daddy whined, “we was just shooting the breeze. It gets so boring at work—it’s hard to think of new things to talk about.”

  His mama was rubbing her forehead like she did when she got one of her sick headaches. “For God’s sake, Tom.”

  “Besides, who’d want my job? I been shot at more than a Thanksgiving Tom.”

  The twins were yawning and standing over Mr. Garitt’s unconscious body. Benny opened his eyes wide and said, “I guess we’re gonna move again.”

  “You guessed right,” Mama said.

  Chapter 22

  Nine years ago

  Kevin sat down across from his little brother. They had been given a private room, ostensibly not bugged, but of course they both knew better. Not that Benny would think twice about shooting his mouth off.

  “So, you gonna do it?” he said by way of greeting.

  “Benny. Not only did you knock over all those ATMs with a butter knife, but you got caught on camera each time.”

  His brother scowled, looking like a younger, jowlier version of Richard Nixon. “I never looked straight at the camera.”

  “Not to mention, you’ve got the millions that dad gave us when you came of age, so there’s absolutely no reason to rob anybody. At all. And yet, that’s what you do. It’s what you always do.”

  “Yeah, it’s hard to get your hands on some cash on a Friday night.”

  “You could just use your ATM card on a Friday night.”

  “Well. Uh.”

  Kevin rubbed his temples. “What.”

  “All my money’s tied up in oil wells in New York.”

  “There are no oil wells in New York.”

  “Not yet,” his brother said, winking slyly.

  God, God, help me not to strangle him…give me strength… “You pissed away all your money on a scam,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Look, if you just testify that we were together that night—”

  And the night of the nineteenth. And the twenty-second. And the thirtieth. And the third. And the ninth. And the eleventh. And—”

  “So, you gonna?”

  “Benny, listen carefully. I told Daddy and I told Mama and I told both of you boys and now I’m telling you again: I’m out. I’m not helping you. I’m one of the good guys. Get it?”

  His brother looked vague. “No.”

  “I. Am. A. Good. Guy. I. Can’t. Help. You.”

  “Yeah, but that’s part of your secret plan, right?”

  “My secret plan to go straight.”

  “So.” His brother seemed to be having trouble following. Which meant it was a day of the week that ended with a Y. The twins were admirably following in the Stone family footsteps. “You’re not gonna testify?”

  “Little brother, I’m gonna be in the wind about five minutes after I leave this rathole.”

  His brother brightened. “Then maybe Tommy can—”

  “He’s prepping his own trial.”

  “Yeah, well. Our lawyers say—”

  Kevin got up. “I don’t want to hear it.” He knocked on the locked door and once again squashed the urge to choke his brother. “A butter knife, for God’s sake?”

  Benny shuddered. “After the way we grew up? I fuckin’ hate guns. Don’t tell Mama I swore.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, and left when the guard opened the door.

  Six years ago

  “Congratulations, Mr. Stone. Only one person in ten thousand gets this far.”

  “Thank you, Director.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want the slot in Behavioral Sciences? You’ve got the background for it.”

  “No thank you, Director.”

  “Strictly
undercover, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we won’t keep you here. We’re farming you out to a small FBI-funded cell, Covert Ops Protection—”

  “The C.O.P.s, yes, Director.”

  “I hate acronyms,” Director MacCabe muttered, producing a scowl that made her look almost unattractive. Her hair was more gray than red, but she had the freckles and green eyes straight from County Butler. “That’s all it is around here: C.O.P., O.S.I., F.B.I., C.I.A., S.S.C., A.T.F.—gives me a migraine just thinking about it.”

  “Perhaps an IV of drugs ASAP on the QT, ma’am.”

  “Hilarious, Stone.” She closed his file and pushed it away. “Your psych eval came back just fine, by the way.”

  “Thank you, Director.”

  “Remarkable, considering what you went through as a child. And as a teenager. And last year. Quite, uh, quite a family tree, Stone.”

  “It’s okay, Director. You can say it. I come from a long line of criminally deranged morons.”

  “I didn’t, uh, say that. Exactly.”

  Kevin yawned.

  “Am I boring you, Stone?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, too bad. This was, I’m sure you recall, your second psych eval.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because the first headshrinker thinks the pressure of undercover work will crack you like an egg under a sneaker, bring back childhood trauma, send you over to the dark side as you’re supposedly genetically inclined, blah-blah.”

  “Kind of you to arrange another test, ma’am, as opposed to, say, what might be best for me.”

  “Yes, very kind. The first doc had a known prejudice against the new C.O.P. program. Not to mention organized crime. So we found another one, and she thinks you’ll do well.”

  “Ma’am, I—” know all this already, he tried to say.

  “This is the part where you tell me you were born for this job.” Her smile took the sting out of the words.

  “No, ma’am, I wasn’t born for it. I was made for it when I was just a kid down South.”

  “Yes, a budding member of the Stone crime syndicate…you would have been the third generation.”

  “Would have. Maybe.” Even now, it haunted him: was he in the law as a matter of rebellion, or because he was so disgusted by the general idiocy of his family? They were ruthless, they were rich, they were idiots. His father was the Southern Clouseau: he had missed more assassination attempts by virtue of tripping or forgetting a meeting or getting drunk at the wrong time than he ever did by simple avoidance. So the question remained—would he have followed in his father’s footsteps if he had been more like them? Or had the urge to be the black sheep of the syndicate shoved him toward the FBI, to this stinking little office in this teeming, furious town, surrounded by crooked Yankees and too many guns?

  “It doesn’t bother you? Talking about them?”

  “No. I don’t see them anymore, anyway.” Had fled from them, in fact. Was going undercover to avoid being asked, yet again, to perjure himself in court. No, my father didn’t break that guy’s arm and then fall into the river. No, my brother didn’t steal a tray of cream puffs and get pulled over because his taillight was out. No, my mother didn’t shoot the butcher over a poorly cut pork loin. “It’s finished business.”

  “Sing it again, Stone,” the director said, and that was that, meeting over.

  Chapter 23

  Four years ago

  “It’s called the Snakepit.”

  “Yes, and it’s mine, right?” Kevin had to actively restrain himself from leaping over the desk and choking the intel out of the boss C.O.P. “The assignment? I’m going? It’s mine, right?”

  “Simmer down, l’il camper. You’ve been here—what? Two y—”

  “Two years, two months, eighteen days.”

  “Are you all right? You look like you’re gonna stroke out.”

  “I’ve waited a long time for this.”

  “Well, you’re freaking me out. Take a breath. Lean back.” The boss C.O.P. laughed. “You look like you’re going to come over the desk at me.”

  “Too many Diet Cokes today, sir.”

  “That stuff’s poison,” the boss C.O.P. said absentmindedly, still poring over the paperwork spread all over his desk. He had the stooped shoulders and thin smile of a desk sergeant. His hair was carefully combed from ear to ear. His suit was strictly off the rack. He had a smiley face tattooed over the third knuckle of his left hand. “You should drink at least eight bottles of water a day.”

  “Or I could just slit my wrists,” he suggested.

  The boss C.O.P. looked up. “Stone, are you sure you want this?”

  “I have a choice?” he asked with mock amazement.

  “Sure. This will take months out of your life. You’ll probably end up with a bullet in your brain for your pains. The woman who runs the Pit is too young for the job, and stone crazy to boot.”

  “But I’ll get to go in, right? I can start? They’ll think I’m a double agent?”

  “You are,” he reminded him, “just for us, not them. Stone, why the almighty rush? You could have had your pick, you ended up with the Feebs. They punted you to us. Now you’re chomping to go to the Snakepit. Is this about your family?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Because the last trial is just about over, and you weren’t going to testify, anyway—”

  “There will be another trial. And another. And one after that. They’re too dumb to quit. And they’ll never have enough.”

  The man had the grace to pause. “Right. Dumb question, but I had to ask. You’re sort of famous, you know—Mob kid gone good.”

  He ignored the Boss C.O.P.’s awkward kindness. “If I can get in there, I’ll kick that place apart like it was a pile of sand. No more bank shakedowns, no more intel stealing, no more innocent people killed because they found out the wrong thing at the wrong time. I want those fuckers in the ground six months after I walk in the front door.”

  “Eeeeeasy, Stone. You’re frothing.” He flipped through more paperwork. “And apparently you’re not crazy. No more than the rest of us, anyway.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get the job done. What about my handler?”

  “Not this time—too dangerous. If you need extraction, call the S.A.T. line. Otherwise, no talking to the good guys. Remember, you’re a jaded, annoyed, pseudo-good guy who hates the low pay and the long hours. Why would you ever talk to one of your old co-workers? You’re a Stone—bad guys pepper your family tree. It’s only natural you’d want to switch sides.”

  “Yes,” he murmured, “only natural.”

  “A handler leaves you too exposed.”

  And slows me down, he thought but didn’t say.

  “You only contact us to warn us, or to get out. But essentially, this will be a fact-gathering mission. Probably only take six months, at least to start.”

  “ID?”

  “All righteous. You’re going in as yourself, a Stone from C.O.P. Another double agent in place is going to pave the way for you, ‘recruit you’ to the Pit just before he pulls out. Let ’em run your papers—you’ll come up clean. You’ll be who you say you are. That should lower some resistance. The rest is on you, chum.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow. So I guess you won’t be seeing me for a few months.”

  In fact, Kevin never saw the man again.

  Chapter 24

  Now

  “Well, well,” Charmer said. “None the worse for wear, I see.”

  “No, your rapist/torturer/drug source was surprisingly gentle,” Jenny replied politely.

  “He’ll need a trip to his own clinic,” Kevin said, which nearly made her jump; he’d been so quiet on the way up, clearly lost in his own thoughts. “Had to get rough, to get him off.”

  “Had to? Again?” Charmer frowned. “Really, Kevin. There’s chivalry and then there’s chauvinism. Not to mention, this will make the employee picnic very awkward.” br />
  Kevin shrugged.

  “Please,” Charmer said, the frown vanishing to who-knew-where. “Have a seat, Miss Branch. Can I get you something? Cup of coffee? A Coke? A downer?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Feeling the entire situation was more than a little surreal, Jenny sat. Kevin remained standing behind her, arms crossed over his chest. “So, uh, what now?”

  “Why…nothing.” Charmer spread her hands. Jenny noticed her fingernails were brutally short, the hangnails gnawed red. Whatever Charmer might show on her face, her hands sure didn’t lie. “Some of our techs are processing the information you, ah, shared with us, but the voice stress analysis looks good. Really, we’re grateful.”

  “Grateful,” Jenny said neutrally.

  “Right! And we’d like to show it. Do you have, ah, any outstanding loans we can take care of for you? Perhaps a personal problem you need assistance with?”

  In other words, Jenny thought, can we get you into our debt? Can we give you money so you look bad on paper and have nowhere to go? Can we ice someone for you and blackmail you into working for us?

  “Gee,” she said, baiting the trap, “that sounds nice, but my life is pretty okay. I make an okay living at O.S.I.”

  Charmer laughed, a brittle sound entirely without humor. “Oh my dear! We can do considerably better than the slave wages at O.S.I.”

  “You can?”

  “Considerably.”

  “But I don’t know anything else. Anything you haven’t already heard, I mean. And secretaries are a dime a dozen. Why do you need me at all? I’m worthless to you.”

  (Worthless bitch)

  “Miss Branch, are you trying to get shot in the head and dumped in a ditch?”

  “Well, no,” she admitted. “I just figured, you know, honesty is the best policy.”

  Charmer leaned forward, folding her bony hands together. Jenny resisted the urge to recommend a good cuticle cream. La Source, maybe, or something from The Body Shop.

  “Worthless,” Charmer said, “but that’s funny, coming from you.”

  “Me?”