The Subtle Art of Brutality

Mr. Franklin looks on, sipping beer. His eyes sneak back at me anytime I lift the watered down drunk to my lips. I wonder if he snuck a little dribble of piss in it. He seems like the kind of frat-house fuck-face who would pull a junior varsity prank like that.

“Delilah isn’t that kind of girl?” I ask. “Until you offer to let her live here? Then she becomes that kind of girl?”

“Well—” Mrs. Franklin says. The thought seems to block her up. Mr. Franklin looks on, not wanting to talk about Delilah’s conduct.

“Mr. Buckner, are you investigating her sexual past or are you making sure she is safe and sound?” he asks. A tell.

I look him in the eye and flash the cards in my hand at him. “Both.”

“I see...” And with that he simply sets his mostly full beer down and stands up. “Honey,” he says, “I just realized I need to finish with that thing out in the car. I’ll be back in about, oh, fifteen minutes.”

“Great, baby,” he gives her a little peck and takes off. He gets my message.

Now that we’re alone: “Did Delilah mention being pregnant at all to you?”

“Oh, Mr. Buckner,” she says, surprised. “In confidence but...I didn’t think she—”

“She called and told her mother. Her mother told me. Have you told your husband?”

“No, I haven’t. I just figured he wouldn’t care. He always kept his distance from her.”

“Shy?”

“Yes.”

“I see. Let me guess: didn’t know what to say so he’d just complement her.”

“Yes. He was always very nice.”

“I bet,” I look at her, so clueless. “You seem very nice as well.”

“Thank you.” Blushes a little. I watch the color rise in her cleavage.

“You are extremely beautiful, I might add,” I say.

She giggles. Fans herself. There’s nothing better than making a run at an asshole’s wife in his own home and coming up roses.

“I hope for the best, Mr. Buckner.” Change of subject. All right.

“Her mother. She’s very afraid,” I say.

“I would be too. What with it being—” She stops, sips her drink. “Will you excuse me, please?”

“Of course.”

She gets up and carries her breasts towards the bar. Freshens her drink. While she is away I grab her husband’s beer and spit in it. I’d drink it myself but who knows what this guy has. Since he obviously was sleeping with Delilah he’s got whatever she gave him.

Mrs. Franklin comes back, sits down. Composes herself. Stirs her drink. It’s all clear booze now, no coloring, no fruit, no salt rim, no umbrella. I take my highball glass and knock back the waste of alcohol in it. One swig. We’re about done here.

“May I call you Juliette?”

“Please do.”

“Juliette, do you have Delilah’s cell phone number?”

“No. If she had one she never told me.”

“She made a call to her mother—when she said she was pregnant—and it was anonymous. Is your number unlisted?”