Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle by Pauline Jones (best fiction novels of all time .TXT) 📕

“It’s not an Uzi, but I suppose it’ll get the job done,” she conceded.

“And then some.” He mimed rapid firing.

She turned, pushing her worries to the back burner. From one of the sacks she’d dumped on the bed, she extracted two pairs of joke glasses—the Groucho Marx kind with dark frames, large noses, and mustaches attached. One pair she handed to Donald, the other she put on, adjusting the fit. Then she took a large muffelatta out of another sack.

“Get me a beer, will you?” she asked.

Donald put his glasses on, also adjusted their fit, and bent over the cooler, his pants sliding down to display his hairy butt crack. Fern did a quick right turn from the sight and spread their lunch out on the rickety table. Donald sat down in front of his half of the sandwich.

“What’s this?” He handed her the beer and examined the offering: a huge half-round of crusty bread layered with spicy meats and cheeses, and topped with a tangy olive dressing.

“Muffelatta.” Her mouth formed the unfamiliar words with the satisfaction of knowing this was another thing her parents had probably never done.

“Smells good.” He took a huge bite, chewed a couple of times, then said through the remains of the bite, “Is good.”

Fern studied her sandwich with satisfaction.

“What about wheels?” she asked before biting down.

“We’ll pick a car up right before we head for the airport.”

It was a peculiarity of Donald’s, this waiting for the last minute to pick up a car. The three times he’d secured wheels early, he’d done jail time. He also had a pair of black thong underwear he wore, but Fern tried not to think about that. There were some parts of her middle-class upbringing she couldn’t shed, no matter how far she got from it.

She watched him chew for a moment, then asked, “Do you think we could steal something foreign this time?”

Donald had strong feelings about driving American cars, but he got to pick the gun. Time for turn-about.

He looked up. She looked at the AK-47. It lay on the dresser, still gleaming in that stray bit of sun. His struggle at the thought of even a minor adjustment in his MO was written on his face in large block letters. With timing honed through long years together, she raised one brow. He grinned.

“Sure, Fernie, whatever you want.” He bit into his almost decimated sandwich. His gaze strayed to her half of the sandwich. With only a moment’s hesitation, she shoved it towards him. His appetite was always keen before a kill.

Arthur Maxwell studied the new shoes in the mirror. The shine was satisfactory, though it could be a touch brighter. The fit—he wiggled his toes—was good, though he wouldn’t know for sure until he walked in them. He backed up, then walked toward the mirror. No pressure points. He backed up again to get the whole picture. Did the shoes fit with his suit? He stroked the fabric, enjoying the feel of expensive fabric. Silk was still too new for him to take for granted.

Prosperity suited him, he decided, smoothing an errant bit of hair back into the smooth line of his expensive hair cut. It suited him down to his toes.

“I’ll take them,” he said, turning to the sales clerk who was giving him a look with which he was all too familiar. Awe, admiration, a touch of lust. Women of a...certain age...had been reacting to him the same way since his hormones kicked in. It hadn’t taken him long to realize there were benefits to be had from reacting back. Now it was second nature to smile with just a hint of shy to temper the charm. His eyes twinkled on schedule and her jaw went slack. She’d have been his, he knew, if he bumped up the stakes a bit, but he didn’t need to anymore. He had money and he had Helen. “Let’s box up my old ones, shall we?”

Well, he’d have money if Artie and Fern took care of Luci Seymour before she could get to her aunts. Which they would. He’d dangled a lot of money in front of his old cellmate, enough to get him to defy his ball and chain. Fern was the only woman alive of that certain age who was immune to Artie’s particular brand of charm. Odd, unexpected, but overcome with cash, like most of life’s problems. He might even pay them like he’d promised. He didn’t have many friends and, well, Artie was a bopper. One didn’t stiff a killer for hire unless...

It was a dangerous business and accidents did happen.

He smiled at the clerk, slackened her jaw again, as he counted out the exact number of bills needed to make the shoes his.

Outside, he unlocked his car and slid in. It didn’t go with his suit, but it didn’t matter. He had a nicer one waiting at home with Helen. He pulled his old shoes out, pausing long enough to sadly rub the scratch on the glowing surface before tossing them in the back seat with his other rejected shoes.

When he pulled out into traffic, he was only somewhat aware of the flurry of irritated honks and screeching tires. With any luck, it would be finished tonight. He could get his money and go home to Helen a free man. He should stop off and check his post office box. He made the turn without signaling and got another flurry of honked objections.

2

Mickey Ross was not a happy man.

He’d just come off a two-day stakeout and had the rumpled suit and unshaven chin to prove it. He was tired. He was cranky. And he wasn’t home in bed having that dream where the cover girl for Sports Illustrated was rubbing sun tan lotion onto his back.

He looked at where he didn’t want to be, but the waiting area of the New Orleans International Airport didn’t fade to something more pleasing. Nor did the