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“What happened to the Hungarian?”
“Dead. He made a move on Cesaro’s daughter, so the boss cut his dick off and fed it to his dogs.”
I hadn’t heard that. “When’d this happen?”
“Just a few days ago. Sterno’s part of Helen’s guard. He’s just filling in.”
Helen’s Arturo’s widow and Cesaro’s aunt by marriage.
“Did Cesaro bring any more than what’s in the kitchen?”
“Four more at the hotel.”
Beefer’s answers are terse. His shoulders are tight and he’s got a furrow in his forehead deep enough to plant a couple trees.
I make a guess as what’s bothering him. “Your daughter’s outside.”
“I know. Goddammit.” He thrusts a hand through his thinning hair and turns. “That fool girl thinks she’s going to be the next Mrs. Cesaro. I tried to tell her that he’s already got a wife and three kids, and while he might fuck pieces on the side, he’s not going to divorce the wife. You never divorce the wife. Besides, Cammy’s all used up now. She’s not the marrying kind. Sooner she understands that, the happier she’ll be.”
Camella hasn’t been happy since Cesaro raped her, but Beefer’s blind to this. It’s the way he copes, I guess, otherwise the guilt would drive him to either kill Cesaro or himself.
“When’s the drop?”
“Two days from now.”
That’s not so bad. I can buy Bitsy a three-day spa retreat. She needs the pampering after all the hard work she’s been doing. I grab my phone and start searching. I need to get her the fuck out of town.
33
Bitsy
“You should visit a friend,” Leka tells me after I answer his call.
“No. I’m working.” I can’t believe he’s still trying to get rid of me.
“It would only be for a week. I’ll pay for everything.” In the background, I hear someone ask for the address to the dungeon.
“Audie’s with her grandmother in Connecticut. It’s the only family she really loves and so I’m not going to bother her.”
“Then a solo trip.” He sounds desperate, which means he’s close to breaking. If I leave now, he’ll rebuild his defenses. I haven’t put all this time and effort to have it be demolished by going away—particularly by myself. I’m tired of being alone.
“That sounds as much fun as getting an enema. No.”
“Please, Bitsy, I need you to go. It’s for your own safety.”
I scowl at the phone. “Of course it is. It is always for my safety. What’s wrong now? Mary doesn’t like the way the new chef is cooking her steak? I’ll stay away from Marjory’s, don’t worry.”
“It’s not Mary.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s…look, can’t you just go?”
“No. Either tell me what the danger is and let me weigh my own consequences or leave me alone.” I can’t always run away every time Leka thinks that there is a problem in our world.
“Can’t you do as I ask just this one time?”
“No. Because it’s never this one time. It’s every time and I’m tired of it, Leka.” I hang up because I don’t want to hear his excuses any longer. This whole process of him avoiding me is getting tiresome. And I’m running out of ideas. None of the internet articles I’ve read have had any success. Really, the only thing I have left to try is to make him jealous, which is a card I’ve avoided playing because I didn’t want to bring some innocent party into this awful struggle Leka and I are engaged in.
But what else can I do? The random lingerie around the apartment didn’t work. The stripper workout was a big fail. The walking around half-nude, stretching in front of the fireplace, and rubbing my breasts against him every breakfast were also non-starters. My limited bag of tricks is empty.
I slump down in the kitchen and stare at the granite countertops, willing an idea to spring up. I pick up my phone and search the dungeon. The top hit is an advertisement for a new club downtown that promises a boundary blurring experience. I tap the phone against my bottom lip.
Is this the “work” that Leka is doing tonight? Is he watching cage dancers, flirting with bar hoppers, and downing expensive, silly drinks while I’m sitting in this apartment decked out in three-year-old leggings and a holey T-shirt prematurely aging?
I get up and go down to my bedroom to take an inventory of my closet. I don’t really have club gear. My closet consists of my school uniforms, the ugly skirt I bought to wear to dinner with Leka at that French restaurant, a bunch of designer coats, and a handful of lingerie—still with the tags on. I push the hangers back and forth, rejecting item after item. Nothing here is going to get me past a bouncer at a hip nightclub. Unless…my hand hovers over my school uniform. When I was paging through the porn selections to find the right one to “work out to” there were several featuring the bad schoolgirl.
