Page 92 of Kiss of Wrath

Miranda made a gurgling noise, then turned on her heels and started back toward the stairs. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Good idea,” Mordr called after her as he waved Jack inside. “I’ll be up shortly.”

She turned and gave him a look that would melt concrete.

“Or mayhap not.”

Once she was gone, and Ruff had gone back to his rug in the kitchen, Jack said, “Actually, there’s a reason I stopped by. Do you know some guy named Roger Jessup?”

Bad and badder . . .

“The trouble with you, Rog, is that you haven’t thought this thing through,” Clarence said, and cracked his knuckles . . . his new favorite, irritating habit.

“That’s all I’ve done. Think.” And no action.

He’d gone to Miranda’s neighborhood every day and hadn’t found a way to gain entry to her house without setting off alarms. He was a master electrician and probably could have figured out a way to bypass the alarm system given enough time and access, neither of which he had.

He had managed to see his kids playing in the yard, but only from a distance. He’d discovered, also via binoculars, that some big blond dude was living there in his house, probably nailing the bitch in front of his kids. And, yes, he thought of it as his house since it had no doubt been purchased with his money from the sale of his house. Not to mention the big-ass, expensive Lexus SUV that came and went. Also probably purchased with his money.

It was enough to make his blood boil.

Clarence cracked his knuckles. Again. He was standing in front of the mirror on the wall between the kitchenette and living room, admiring the fake diamond earrings in the ears he’d had pierced yesterday. He thought he looked cool ever since he’d starting wearing Lamar’s clothing, but Roger thought he looked like a bad Hollywood caricature of a black ghetto pimp. A long-sleeved, red nylon shirt, unbuttoned to the navel, tucked into hip-hugging black pants, and of course the requisite gold chains around his neck.

“You gotta think like a criminal, Rog.” Clarence turned away from the mirror. “No pussyfootin’ around, worryin’ ’bout this or that possibility. Jump right in, guns blazin’.”

Crack, crack, crack.

“Take me, fer instance,” Clarence said. “I decided that Vegas was the place for me to settle down. Pimpin’ was a job that suited me just fine. But my cuz Lamar was becomin’ a royal pain-in-the-ass . . . get it, Vegas, royal flush, royal pain. Ha, ha, ha!” Crack, crack, crack. “So, I eliminated my cuz and now I’m king of the roost.” He beamed at Roger, as if he’d accomplished some great feat.

Roger assumed that Clarence had killed Lamar, but he hadn’t asked for details. All he knew was that Lamar was missing and Clarence—who smelled more and more like lemons these days, which was better than his prior B.O.—had taken over the pimping business. Roger was handling the accounting, such as it was. Scheduling which hooker went to what corner, and raking in the cash, which Clarence kept in a safe bolted to the floor in the hall closet.

The only good thing in this mess that had become his life was that Roger had ordered one of the whores, Carlotta, to clean up the apartment and keep it clean. Carlotta had even called in an exterminator to get rid of the cockroaches, which had infuriated the pizza operator on the ground level because apparently the roaches up here scurried on down there. To which Carlotta had said, “Go suck your own dick, Luigi.”

Carlotta, overaged for a hooker at thirty, was grateful for work that didn’t involve lying on her back with her legs spread. Actually, he kind of liked Carlotta, and not just because she gave a good blow job. She knew his history and sympathized over his anger toward Miranda. “The bitch needs to pay,” Carlotta had said more than once in the midst of licking his balls. Yeah, you had to appreciate a good woman.

“What would you suggest?” Roger asked Clarence.

Clarence flashed him a sly glance and went to the freezer to get himself a glass of ice, over which he poured his usual Pepsi.

Roger barely stifled a groan. The next half hour would be filled with cracking and crunching,

“Let me see that picture again,” Clarence said. Crunch, crunch, crack, crack.

Roger knew which picture he meant. It was a photo of Miranda in their backyard playing croquet or some shit game with his kids, all five of them. It had been taken with a zoom lens from the upper floor of a vacant house for sale a half block away.

“Here’s the first thing you need to decide,” proffered the all-wise Clarence, or so he thought he was. Crunch, crunch, crack, crack. “What are you gonna do with five kids once you off Miranda?”

“Huh?”

“Do you want custody of your kids?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, sure.”

“Where would you live?”

“In that house . . . my house,” he said tentatively. “Or I could sell it and move somewhere else.”

“You’re assuming the court would give you custody.”