The Subtle Art of Brutality

“Yes. My husband is an aide to a politician. He doesn’t like to be bothered.”

“Democrat?”

“Of course.”

“I thought so.”

I give her my card and stand up. “Thank you for your time, Juliette.”

“You’re welcome.” She gives me a bright smile.

“Thanks for the drink.”

“Anytime.”

I get my coat. She comes scurrying up to me and hands me a sheet of paper from a notepad I saw under a magnet on the refrigerator.

It has her name and phone number written on it, surrounded by little scribbles hearts straight out of a high school yearbook. Before being her little flirty-note, it was the grocery list. Her hearts have to compete for space on the paper with things like “eggs,” “buttermilk” and “stronger fiber pills.”

I imagine the fiber is for her husband, who looks like he hasn’t been able to shit out that used condom his boyfriend lost up in there days ago.

I give Juliette a smile and open the door.

I walk out and see her husband in the garage doing nothing. The door is up and I walk right in.

“Mr. Franklin?”

He looks at me, straightens and then leans all cool-like against the roof of his non-descript four-door sedan. So tough.

“Yes.”

“So, you fuck Delilah Boothe once or twice and then she splits.” The look he gives is one that all guilty people who cannot hide their guilt give. I expect more from a politician’s aide. Lying convincingly should be the language he does business in.

“I figure the first time was because she was in a terrible place, vulnerable, whatever and you were all cutesy and gentlemanlike.”

I walk closer. Right up on him. See the first droplets of sweat on his brow, his upper lip. It’s freezing outside.

“But after that, she either felt dirty for doing that to her generous best friend or thought it was going to get out of control. She’s got a long history of ruining things by sleeping with married men. Too bad you couldn’t cash in more often.”

“Fuck you, sir,” he says as limp-wristed and empty as the devil must have been moments before he was cast down. “Now get off my property.”

My hand out. He looks down. I take his cell phone right off his belt. He does nothing. Weak. Thumb through; find a listing in his address book for Delilah. View it, write it down.

I drop his cell phone to the concrete. Look at him. Start to turn around and say: “If you’re done with the one inside, I’ll take her.”

I walk off. He says nothing. I leave. Jeremiah is getting off work soon.

56

It dawns on me and I call Mrs. Franklin as soon as I’m down the street.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Franklin? It’s Richard Dean Buckner—”

“Oh my God, I was hoping you’d call me—”

“I know. We can have sex later. Right now I need you to tell me who’s the father of Delilah’s baby.”