“It’s a Gift”
Gunselle wiped egg off her lips. She threw the napkin onto an open copy of Good Housekeeping, then rose from the chrome-edged table in her bright yellow kitchen. The rapping came again. She pulled tight the belt of her green silk robe, removed a High Standard .22 from a junk drawer next to the sink, and walked on bare feet to the hallway door.
“Special delivery!” barked a muffled voice.
Gunselle spied through the peephole. A punk kid stood there in white coveralls. Jensen’s Delivery Service embroidered above the left breast pocket. He held up a festive basket wrapped in red cellophane. No one knew where Gunselle lived. This wasn’t a good start to the day. Her coffee was getting cold.
She opened the door, the pistol behind her back.
The kid’s eyes raked her body as he snapped his chewing gum.
“Jeepers. You look like you just rolled off the assembly line at a TNT factory.”
“You should see me when I’m dolled up for a night on the town.”
“Could we make that happen?”
“Maybe when you’re out of high school.” She pulled a clump of dark hair behind her ear.
“I graduate in June.”
“Scram,” she said. “And tell your boss I’ll be around to see him later.”
The kid blew a pink bubble, pointed a finger at her, and winked before walking away.
Gunselle glanced both ways down the quiet hallway before snatching the basket and hauling it to the kitchen table. After tearing off the cellophane, she removed a flat box from a bed of orange Begonias. A small envelope had been slipped under the white ribbon. She pulled it out and removed the card.
Roses are red,
My husband is dead.
Violets are blue,
I’m coming for you.
Gunselle tried to remember any recent job with a wife angle. She’d separated husbands from grateful wives on numerous occasions, but they’d all been clean, efficient operations. No one showing up at her door later with buyer’s regret. If it was some mug she’d killed for men, by contract, then how would his angry wife have found her?
She unwrapped the box of chocolates, a See’s truffle collection, and popped one into her mouth after sniffing it. The burst of flavor contained an almond note. She spit the mess into the sink.
Gunselle set the basket down on the manager’s table. He wore black-rimmed spectacles and a dirty gray smock over a tweed suit. Jensen’s Delivery Service didn’t look like a florist’s setup because there weren’t any flowers around. Boxes of all shapes and sturdiness climbed the walls. A rolling clothes rack held a dozen mink coats with tuxedo collars. Must be a pickup service, too, she thought. Middle man for some outfit jacking trucks or cleaning money.
“Who ordered this?” she asked, shaking the wicker basket by the handle. “Did she give you a name?”
The owner squinted at her over the top of his glasses.
“She didn’t. We don’t usually deal in measly gift baskets, but we aim to please.”
“What did she look like?”
“The kid took the order over the phone while I was at lunch. He put it together. Picked everything up. You don’t like chocolates?”
“Where’s the kid?”
“Pete!”
The kid scampered into the office.
“Yeah boss?” He smiled when he caught sight of Gunselle.
“Do you remember the broad who ordered the basket for our lady here?”
“Sure. She sounded like a real cupcake. Sexy voice. Like Linda Darnell. I asked her if she wanted to talk to the boss, but she said I’d do.”
The boss snorted.
“Sounds like my wife. That’s her slogan. Any man will do. We should hang it over the front door at home.”
“Where did you get the card made out?” asked Gunselle.
“That florist on Market,” said the kid. “She dictated the poem to me over the phone. I wrote it down.”
“Aren’t you clever. Which See’s did you snag the box of candy at?”
“The big one on Valencia.”
“I hope you didn’t give my address to anyone at either location.”
“We don’t give out our customers’ private info,” said the boss. “We’re not dumb.”
“Does anyone else work here?” asked Gunselle.
“I’ve got drivers out making pickups or deliveries. All legit. Peggy, my wife, sometimes helps out with office work. Accounting is her thing, but she’s been home with a female ailment for the last few months.”
“Lucky her.” Gunselle looked at the kid. Then at Peggy’s husband.
“Where do you file the receipts?”
“I haven’t filed that one yet.” He picked it up from his desk. “1850 Sacramento. That you?”
“Yup,” said the kid. “I remember. 1850 Sacramento. Apartment 22.”
“Idiots,” said Gunselle, pulling a Savage .32 from her purse and firing a round through each male head. The brass on the concrete floor made a metallic commotion. With the receipt in her hand, she wouldn’t have to burn the place down. She hoped the business owner had enough life insurance to cure his wife’s female trouble. That’s the way it usually worked.
Two weeks later, Gunselle knocked on the front door of a well-kept Victorian in Dolores Heights. A pretty brunette wearing a tight sweater and short pants answered. Dimpled chin. Springy breasts. Perfect teeth. The husband didn’t need to put a sign over the door. She wore it in neon.
“I’m gonna put a bullet in your head,” said Gunselle.
“But not until I tell you where I got your address.” The woman stepped aside.
“I plan to tease that out of you first.” Gunselle stepped into the foyer, gripping the pistol in the pocket of her leather flight jacket.
“And I’ll happily tell you, but wait here.” Peggy walked to a secretary in the living room, jerked open a drawer, and returned with a stack of C-notes. She handed it to Gunselle. “Prudential came through like a champ. The cops think it was attempted robbery.”
“Jesus, you’re good,” said Gunselle. “I’ve never been paid for a job I didn’t know I was hired to do.”
“Just for the record, I didn’t hire you to kill my husband, but you can see how grateful I am. Pete was unfortunate.”
“Not in my book. Now tell me who else knows where I live?”
“Luca Lombardi. One of Lima’s muscle boys. I’ve been fucking him for the last couple of months.”
“He’s a prick.”
“You should see it. Anyway, he told me about another tough dame he liked. How he once had to stake out her place for his boss. Don’t ask me why. I don’t care. Said he peeped in her windows from the fire escape. Liked looking at her in her pajamas. I asked him where she lived. He told me. Just like that.” Peggy tapped the wad of cash in Gunselle’s hand. “That’s five grand. Ought to cover the Lombardi job, if you feel like starching that blabbermouth.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Do it. I’m done with him. Lima, too. Clean house. I’ll be grieving off to Buenos Aires next week. And if you don’t put that bullet in my brain, I’ll be back here in a month to take over my husband’s business. I could use some occasional muscle I can count on. And don’t worry. You won’t have to invite me over to play Parchesi at your new apartment.”
“That’s a relief.” She loved the old place just fine.
“Wanna stay for coffee?”
“Whatever you say boss,” said Gunselle, pulling out the pistol after Peggy turned to lead her to the kitchen.
Russell Thayer’s work has appeared in Brushfire, Tough, Roi Fainéant Press, Guilty Crime Magazine, Close to the Bone, Bristol Noir, Apocalypse Confidential, Hawaii Pacific Review, Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, Pulp Modern, and Outcast Press. He received his BA in English from the University of Washington, worked for decades at large printing companies, and currently lives in Missoula, Montana. You can find him lurking on X @RussellThayer10
REVOLUTION JOHN. 