TUESDAY: A Perfect Solution

BY JOHN A. TURES

Copyright is held by the author.

MANNY WHIPPED his .45 from his shoulder holster at the young woman pointing a pistol at him. “Put down your piece, before someone gets hurt.”

“You first,” came the reply from across the hotel suite.

They stood there, each with a firearm that could blast a hole in the other person. If they pulled their triggers, they would wind up like the two stiffs already lying on the floor, one by the couch and the other by the bed.

His night began when he had been ordered to track down Vinnie Fontana. The bosses were sure Vinnie was mixed up in selling out the family to the Russians. Judging by the looks of the other guy, and the Tokarev pistol still clutched in his hand, they guessed right.

Who was the skirt? Vinnie’s side chick? Was she there for the Russians? She wasn’t dressed as eye candy. She had Alexander McQueen shoulders with her black jacket, and what looked like Jimmy Choo patent leather shoes. Was that a silk Joseph blouse underneath the jacket, to go with the pencil skirt and leggings for the cold outside? His sister was in the fashion industry, so he picked up a thing or two. She looked dressed for the office, not a night of ecstasy.

He slowly lowered his weapon. She did too, though she returned into a firing stance as soon as he tried to get the drop on her. She was some kinda pro. Did she whack both Vinnie and the Russian? He’d better get some answers soon. Both couldn’t stay in a shooter’s crouch all night. If he didn’t break the stalemate, it’d be like the end of that Prizzi’s Honor flick.

Manny knew what he had to do if he found Vinnie and his partner in crime. It had to be like that movie “It’s a Wonderful Life” . . . like Vinnie and the other guy had never been born. They had to be erased. As for this sharp-dressed dame, he had to learn who she was, before it came to gunplay. Time to de-escalate. She had the gun on him first. If she was ordered to leave no witnesses, she would have done it right after he beat the hotel suite locks, but before he could retrieve his weapon.

He lowered his .45, and relaxed his arms, only slightly, in case he needed to switch from defense to offense. Although her gun was no longer pointed at his chest, she was coiled like a snake, ready to strike if necessary.

She appeared a lot younger than him, but a closer look into her eyes revealed what you couldn’t hide with workouts or makeup. Gallup polling would put them in the same age category.

“Who are you?” he began.

She barely blinked. “I’m not at liberty to say.” Not Russian or British but American. Maybe Boston, but more likely upstate Massachusetts. Blueblood, he thought.

“What are you doing here?” He had enough time to play “20 Questions,” but not enough for an entire night of interrogations.

“I’m not at liberty to say,” came her response.

“Then who do you work for?”

“I’m not at liberty —”

Manny groaned. “I’m not at liberty . . . not at liberty . . . OK, Miss Liberty. I got a name for you now. That’s somethin’.”

Her eyes, wide, rarely blinking, bored into his skull. “What’s yours?”

“Name? Manny Latte.” He could have smacked himself, giving up that detail.

“Family name?”

“No.”

“You like a certain type of coffee then?”

“Nah,” Manny laughed. “That’s what the family calls me. Everyone was always getting’ me to bring ‘em a drink. ‘Hey Manny . . . need a latte.’ It got shortened over time, and the name kinda stuck. I actually prefer my java strong and black.”

She chuckled, then tossed her long blonde hair that was styled straight and loose. In her hands was a .357 Magnum.

“You a cop?” he blurted out, noting the gun. “No wait . . . lemme guess. ‘Not at liberty to say.’”

“Yeah.”

As they eyed each other, he knew she’d see a stocky guy, broad-framed, with a Planet Fitness card barely used this year . . . thanks to these jobs and Mama’s cooking. He had short, slick-backed dark brown hair, a ‘60s throwback, with what his sister would say was “a pomade sheen,” when describing him on the phone trying to set him up with a date. Round face with strong features with a pronounced jawline and thick eyebrows. Not much he could do about the 5 o’clock shadow, no matter how many times he’d shaved.

He wore a short-sleeve button-down shirt under a leather jacket, concealing his shoulder holster. Because it was a job, he had on the black Levi’s.

She wasn’t giving in, a Southbound Zax to his Northbound Zax, like that Dr. Seuss story he’d read to his sister’s kids on visits. Something had to give.

“We can’t do our jobs if we’re acting like it’s Dodge City at High Noon,” he mused.

Her eyes widened even more as he set his piece on the armrest before plopping down on the sofa. She probably didn’t see him swipe the small club from an ankle holder with the other hand. Now the blackjack was inside his jacket, up the sleeve, ready to use at a moment’s notice.

He liked Miss Liberty, but he couldn’t risk her getting in the way of the job. When she lost focus for a second, he’d conk her out, and move her down with the others in the laundry cart. While the two dead guys would find their way into the East River, he’d make sure she was bound and gagged in a stolen car’s trunk in LaGuardia’s parking lot, followed by an anonymous phone tip as to her whereabout. She’d be concussed, embarrassed, and pissed, but she probably wouldn’t I.D. him to the cops, unless she wanted to blow her cover.

Nonchalantly, she set her gun down, but the tiny bulge he noticed earlier that had been down by her left ankle, concealed by the leggings, disappeared into her other hand, as seamlessly as he had retrieved his club. If it was a tiny pistol, as he guessed, it would still be trouble if she ambushed him.

Guess I’m not gonna get the drop on her, he mused. She was too good. Time to work on her mind.

“So you’re not a cop, and too informally dressed to be a Fibbie,” Manny guessed. “I bet you’re a Langley Lady.”

Her eyes narrowed in response.

“Let me guess, Manny. Mob family, but not a boss. You’re a specialist who cleans up others’ mistakes, but never issues the orders. And you’re single. You’re trying to decide what you really want out of this world.”

He did a double-take, then scratched the stubble on his chin. Two could play this game.

“My turn. You’re probably Ivy League, Chemistry and Psych Major. Star student. Hired right out of college by the agency, recruited by a hunky ex-Marine who you never saw again. Job keeps you so busy that you barely have time for a real life, while you hope your parents and girlfriends from college buy your cover story about being a low-level Commerce Department analyst, with only a cat waiting for you back at your apartment.”

Her eyes lowered. “I went to Mount Holyoke, the business card says Labour Department Researcher, and the apartment complex doesn’t allow cats,” she said softly. “But you see a lot, Mr. Latte.”

He sighed. That was mean of him. Time to change the subject.

“Guessin’ by your large bag, and all the stuff stickin’ out of it, we’re here for the same thing . . . to clean up all details,” he waved his hand to show the bodies and blood. “And we can’t do our jobs with only one hand each.” He took the club out of his sleeve and set it down next to his gun.

“Nothin’ up my sleeve now.”

She laughed, as her tiny pistol deftly disappeared from her hand into her jacket pocket. “You a magician, Manny?”

“No, but I’ve made things disappear.” He headed toward Vinnie. “I’ll take him while you get the Russki . . .”

She shook her head. “I’ll dispose of both bodies, while you get rid of the bloodstains. Can you bring Vinnie over to the tub first?”

“Sure, Miss Liberty.” He hooked his hands under Vinnie’s armpits, and dragged Mr. Fontana backwards, while she retrieved something from her bag and headed for the bathroom.

“You usin’ hydrochloric acid, like that show ‘Breakin’ Bad?’” he asked as she fiddled with some sort of jug.

“Heck no!” she snapped. “That would eat through the body, and the tub too! Plus that kind of acid still leaves a residue that the CSI team can probably find. It’s a mistake too many make when trying to get rid of a body.”

“So what’s on the menu?” He lugged Vinnie Fontana into the tub.

“Sodium hydroxide,” she said.

“In English?”

“Lye,” she replied. “It’ll liquify the bodies so they go down the drain. And so many places like this hotel use it as a cleaning agent so investigators may not detect it.”

“But I thought on Mythbusters, they —”

“They were paid to botch that test.”

He was right. She was CIA.

By God it worked. Manny could only watch in amazement as Miss Liberty worked her magic. “You are a wizard. I guess a degree in Chemistry is worth somethin’!”

“Potassium hydroxide also does the trick. Now be a dear and get the Russian, Manny Latte?” she cooed. “You can be my lovely assistant.”

He blushed. Out in the main room of the suite, the mobster grabbed the Russian, grunting with the effort. He glanced over at his piece. What if she intended to make him the third body to disappear? It would be safer to grab it, to sap her or defend himself. Her own tiny pistol was in that jacket pocket. But against every instinct, he left his .45 on the armrest. It had to be Miss Liberty’s charm. Love makes you do dumb things, he thought, as he dragged the Russian into the bathroom.

She slipped her tiny gun back into the jacket pocket, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“A girl can’t be too trusting,” she explained as Manny lugged the Russian into the tub. “Any idea who he is, Mr. Latte?”

“Everything in his wallet is fake,” Manny declared. “But we know he’s Russian, a killer, and a cocaine fiend. We call him ‘Vlad the Inhaler.’”

She guffawed while pouring lye onto the Russian so Vlad eventually joined Vinnie in the pipes.

“While we wait for the Russian to transform from a solid to a liquid, let’s handle those blood stains.” She pulled a bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide from her bag and handed it to Manny.

“Uh . . . hate to Manny-splain you . . .” He laughed at his own joke and she managed a smile. “But while Hydrogen Peroxide gets up the blood, it can change the colour of the carpet, making it look like someone tried to clean up a crime scene.”

Her response indicated interest. “Do you have another idea? Like pouring a latte on it?”

He shook his head at her attempt at humour and pulled several items out of his bag, while she slowly reached for her jacket pocket. But she relaxed when she saw what he retrieved. “Vinegar, baking soda, and cornstarch?” she asked. “What are you cooking tonight?”

“I’m making a paste to rub out the bloodstains,” he replied.

Miss Liberty shook her head. “Vinegar doesn’t work. Our lab said as much.”

“It’s got to be undiluted stuff,” he insisted. “And you add salt.”

She watched in amazement as he went to work.

“Where’d you learn this?”

“Mama taught me,” Manny pointed at the mixture. “She was a wiz in the kitchen, and good at figuring out how to get rid of blood if things got rough in the family business. Sometimes, the old recipes are the best.”

It took more than an hour to clean up the puddles, and the trail left by dragging the bodies to the bathroom. He learned to his dismay that she was a Red Sox girl, a bitter rival to his beloved Yankees. But at least she didn’t swoon over Tom Brady and the Patriots. He had long ago given up waiting for the Jets to win anything. He decided not to ask whether she cheered for the Boston Bruins. He bled New York Ranger blood, after all. That’s how he knew you couldn’t trust Vinnie Fontana. That guy was a damn Islanders fan.

They finally cleaned up the paste, splashing it down the drain with more of her lye.

Then Manny handed her the .357, and holstered his .45.

“You know,” he noted. “We make a pretty good team . . . the perfect solution.”

She surprised him by smiling. “I had fun on a mission for a change.”

“Maybe we’ll meet at another double homicide,” Manny offered. “Like during the Cold War, where the Mafia and CIA teamed up on Cuba . . . Italy . . .” He turned to head for the suite door.

The lady tucked her magnum in her purse. “You never can tell, Manny Latte.”

***

The bartender looked up in amazement. “That was seven years ago?

Manny nodded.

“And you just walked away from her that night?” he asked.

The phone ringing at the bar interrupted them. The barman answered. “Jake here . . . Manny?” He looked at the big guy on the stool. “It’s for you.”

The mob man took the receiver. “Is this line secure?” a female voice asked.

“Yeah, Miss Liberty. Bartender’s a new guy, but he’s ‘extended family,’ if you know what I mean.”

Jake’s eyes widened as Manny grinned.

“Well, I got a late start leaving the office, and Chicken Alfredo is taking longer to prepare than I thought,” she began. “Can you snag some lye and cornstarch on your way home? Got a job after Frieda’s P.T.A. meeting tonight. A pair of Assad’s goons who were looking to retake Syria have to disappear. I have to clean up things before midnight.”

“You bet, Miss Liberty. Anything else?”

“Bottles are in the fridge for Manny Jr. tonight. Get him before the daycare closes after you do your shopping. Can you be home before I have to leave for the parent’s meeting at school at seven?”

“I got things covered, hon.”

“Thanks!” She kissed into the phone, and he clicked off.

“So Libby is . . .”

The mobster’s look froze the bartender. “If you finish that sentence, Jake, you’ll find your career going down the drain, if you catch my drift.” He dropped a 10-dollar bill by the register and started for the door.

“How’d you win over the dame?” Jake couldn’t resist.

Manny turned and grinned. “You could say we had good chemistry.”

***

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Born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, and raised in El Paso, Texas, John A. Tures began writing sports for the El Paso Hearld-Post. In college, he worked for a radio station. He worked his way through graduate school in education outreach for the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra. He earned his doctorate in political science at Florida State University, analyzed data on international politics in Washington D.C., and is now a professor at LaGrange College in Georgia. He writes columns for a number of newspapers and magazines and has published more than two dozen short stories in various genres, from thrillers and mysteries to nonfiction and flash fiction, including “The Scholarship” in CommuterLit!