Free Quiver by Peter Leonard Page B

the shit in his face, said, “I want to see the manager.”
    “He tied up right now.”
    “I want my money back or I’m never shopping in this store again.”
    DeJuan said, “You promise?”
    “What’s your name? I’m going to write a letter.”
    “Richard Ferguson. Now, why don’t you take your moldy cottage cheese and your moldy old ass, get the fuck out of here.”
       
    There was a silver Benz, big one, S600 out by itself in the parking lot that was getting busy at one in the afternoon. DeJuan drove by, saw Marty behind the wheel, spun around and parked next to him. DeJuan put his window down and so did Marty, Marty saying, “Get in, let’s talk.”
    DeJuan got out, walked around the back end of the Benz and got in the front passenger seat, sat back against the plush leather. Man, it was cold,like a meat locker in there, but Marty look like he was sweating in his Ryder Cup at Oakland Hills golf shirt, DeJuan trying to figure out what color it was—teal or coral some bullshit exotic name like that.
    DeJuan looked through the windshield at Bed Bath & Beyond in the distance and said, “What’s up? Need help picking out sheets and towels?”
    “I want you to kill my wife.” He said it like he meant it. Had a serious look on his face.
    DeJuan said, “Love is a bitch, isn’t it?”
    “I’ll pay you ten grand, but you’ve got to make it look like an accident.”
    “Accident? Nobody said nothing about no accident.” DeJuan pulled the SigSauer, aimed it at Marty, said, “Boom! Was just going to pop her like that, drop her like that.” DeJuan thinking it sounded like lyrics to a rap song.
    Marty put his hands up like he was going to catch the bullet, said, “Hey, what’re you doing?”
    “Be cool, Marty, not going to shoot you. Only illustrating a point, is all.”
    Marty put his hands down now and let out a breath. Looked relieved.
    DeJuan slid the Sig back in the waistband of his Sean John denims. He said, “Make it look likean accident, a lot more difficult. Going to cost you more.”
    Marty said, “How much more?”
    “What do you care? You rich.”
    DeJuan found out—following the man—Marty was a Mormon. He wasn’t just your average Mormon either; man was bishop of the temple on Woodward Avenue, looked like a mausoleum, all decked out in white marble.
    It occurred to him somewhere in the back of his mind—Mormons were the dudes had all the wives. Part of it sounded good, DeJuan picturing a harem, man. Ladies dressed up, having cocktails, waiting for him to come home. He walk in, check ’em out, pick the one he want to get naughty with. I’ll take Shirela over there with the big knock-knocks, feel like some African trim tonight. Or maybe take Shirela and LaRita, get a doublay on a singlay going.
    But part of it sounded bad. DeJuan thinking about all the ladies in the harem on the rag at the same time, PMS hanging over his head like a cloud of doom. No, on second thought, he didn’t want no harem, stick to his current arrangement, pay for what you want, never have a problem.
    Marty live on a street called Martell and man they had some cribs in that ’hood. Houses look likesmall hotels, department stores. He found Marty’s, a modern, single-story place built up on a hill, tennis court out front. DeJuan pulled up in the driveway. Could see the whole house now and it was big, kept going across a long stretch of yard. Man had a four-car garage with coach lights over the individual doors, had an oriental garden with a pond, little pagoda building look like a Chinese restaurant sitting out there.
    He knew nobody was home. Marty was at his company in downtown Birmingham, had a whole floor in a big building called Martin Smith Securities. Named after the man’s grandfather. DeJuan checked it out on the Internet, had a whole story about the grandfather going through the Depression with nothing and starting the business with a three-hundred-dollar loan.
    Shelly, Marty’s wife, was getting her