Kicking It(97)

She was.

I’d think her greedy.

She was that, too.

I’d think her selfish and malicious.

Well, that’s in the eye of the beholder.

I’d think her a sociopath.

As if she’d be the first to cross my door, shy little guppy.

I’d think her a murderer.

Don’t we all have our piddly faults?

I made out the puzzle despite her best efforts, and her best was very good. The secret was to not look into her eyes but beside them before wrinkles in her fine skin were hidden like bodies in a graveyard under a blanket of softening spring grass . . . or, in this case, by expensive makeup. See the forehead not smooth from a peaceful nature but unmoving from poisoned nerve endings. Linger on that beautiful dress that had the high neck to conceal the minute sag of skin and also behold the bra that defied gravity, physics, and Einstein himself in one hellacious hat trick.

I felt for her—I did.

I do lie—how do you think I spot the best so well?—but that isn’t one of them.

No one wants to get old. Or rather we wouldn’t mind getting old if only it didn’t show so much. In the past we prized age not for appearance but for its wisdom. In this technology-drenched future when knowledge appears like magic at the press of a few keys if you cared (no one cared), it was different. No, these days we’d put the aged in nouveau leper colonies if we could, to hide the sight and wisdom. How much wisdom can you fit in one hundred forty characters or less? Is that really an issue the modern world cares about?

“Like” yes or no on that question, please.

Sighing, more bored than before, I put down my empty glass and laid it out for her . . . if not quite in the way as she’d laid it out for so many. I did it in words while she used silk sheets. “Elizabeth, you’re making this harder than it has to be, sugar. All this?” I brushed my hand an inch above the table to indicate the threads of her tapestry of deceit that draped in invisible folds. “It’s lies. And they’re good lies, mind you. I may tuck a few away for future use,” or just to take out and covet as the shiny trinkets they were, “but in my bar you don’t have to tell me lies. You said your husband was Catholic. Think of this place as a confessional.” I winked. “Or better yet, a whorehouse. No judgments from me, none at all. You can tell me anything and you should. You’re paying for my service. If you can’t tell me what you really want, how can I give it to you?”

I actually could, but where was the entertainment in that? The only thing better than a great liar was forcing a great liar to tell the truth. We hate it like poison. We’re contrary that way.

Hate it she did, all the warmth draining out of her as quickly as if she’d turned off the lights with a flip of the switch. It’s harder to be a successful sociopath if you have to show your true face to the world. Not impossible, though, not at all—just a little harder. I had faith that Elizabeth could handle it. I had faith that Elizabeth had handled many bumps in the particularly crooked road in her life, much larger ones than simply telling me the truth.

Then again, bigger isn’t always better.

But me? I’m easy as pie to bare heart and soul to—I had said no judgments. Elizabeth, one liar measuring another, saw what she saw and took me at my word. She told me.

The truth hurts. The truth will set you free. Today the truth was a business transaction and nothing more. We shook on it. It was sort of sweet, her trusting me with her most precious hope . . . sweet, indeed, if not for the murder and all.

Don’t you look at me that way. You’ll make me giggle like a five-year-old.

Honestly? Judgments? Please. Do you think I’d have any clients at all if I made them?

Or if I did make them, didn’t keep them to myself?

Work is work. You do what you have to.

Or you do what you want to—sometimes it’s both.

“You can do it, then?” Elizabeth asked as I tapped a bronze nail against an empty glass and pondered the cost of paper umbrellas or little flamingo swizzle sticks. I switched my attention back to her and hid my irritation.

Could I do it?

That wasn’t a question. That was an insult. Of course I could do it. I simply had to figure out the most intriguing way to achieve it. “Oh, honey, you wound me with your doubts.” I forgot the glass, beamed at her, and put my fingers in my hair to give it a wild shake. It was good for getting the brain going. “It’ll cost you, though. Seventy-five thousand. No bargaining, no haggling. Payment on delivery. And it goes without saying, I hope, that I do a cash-only business.” Rich people like Elizabeth had forgotten about the quaint custom of haggling. They bought what they wanted and never cared about the price. I stopped bargaining with them a long time ago. They weren’t good enough at it to make it entertaining. Elizabeth had been rich long enough that while she hadn’t forgotten about it, she was disgusted by it. She thought herself too high and mighty, too good for the likes of that sort of thing now. Shame.