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You don’t want to end up like me. All the revenge and rage and anger, it ages you. Makes you boring.
Jackie was sitting at her usual table, fighting a losing battle against boredom, when a white lady in a fancy dress walked into her bar. The dress was the kind that pulled in your waist and pushed up your boobs, with a skirt that stuck out on the sides. The skirt was so big it said, “You know how much fabric is in this? More than you can afford, that’s how much.” The whole outfit was a deep, expensive shade of blue, including the eyepatch.
Jackie’s husbands Bart and Gordo perked up in their seats on either side of her. Around them conversations died, as all the low-life regulars turned to watch the newcomer stride in. She was tall—maybe even as tall as Jackie—and she walked with all the trepidation of someone at a local bake sale, pausing here and there to peer at the touristy crap hanging on the walls. The regulars looked back and forth between her and Jackie, because while the lady was obviously a pigeon ready for plucking, her confidence might mean she knew something they didn’t. They were all watching Jackie to see how things would play out.
Jackie gave a small nod to Donny behind the bar—possibly her most useless husband, now that Geraldo was dead—and he cleared his throat and said, “Can I help you?” He said it in the tone that meant “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing here?” It was the only way that phrase was ever said in Jackie’s bar.
“Doubt it,” said the lady, without looking at him. Her attention was on the nose jar. The regulars watched raptly: any minute now she’d realize what was in it. She leaned forward, her own nose almost to the glass, and let out a sharp bark of laughter. Then she turned to Donny and said, “You should try formaldehyde instead of booze; people would be able to see the noses better. I’m looking for Spanish Jackie.”
Donny shot Jackie a bewildered look, and she rolled her eyes. Fuckin useless. The lady, who of course had seen Donny’s giveaway glance, was making a beeline for Jackie’s table. Bart and Gordo stood up uneasily, clearly reluctant to manhandle a lady who was rich and white and seemed likely to use that as a weapon. This was the problem with her husband-selection criteria. She never married anyone smart enough to take her out, which meant she was safe but also surrounded by fucking idiots. She waved the boys away, to their visible relief, just as the lady arrived at her table.
“You must be Spanish Jackie!” she gushed. Oh, fuck. A fan.
“And who the fuck’re you?” said Jackie, narrowing her eyes and taking a drag on her cigar. She blew the smoke out slowly, adding to the bar’s insalubrious atmosphere.
The lady pulled out a chair and sat. The impression of wealth held up even up close: her blond hair was piled on top of her head in precise curls that had to have been crafted by a maid, and her eyepatch was outlined with glittering blue sequins. “They call me…the Widow Eve.”
That was a pretty good name, Jackie had to admit. “Well, Widow Eve,” she said, gazing at the glowing tip of her cigar, “you came into Jackie’s bar. And sat down at Jackie’s table. Without even asking.” She let that hang a moment, then nailed her with a stare. “So I’m thinkin you better have a pretty fuckin good reason.” She was a master at this intimidation shit—that was why nobody fucked with Spanish Jackie. Well, that and because she was completely fucking ruthless.
The widow’s eye widened, but all she said was “Oh, I do!” She plunged a hand into her snowy cleavage and rummaged around—a process Jackie watched with appreciation—to produce a ring, which she set on the table.
It was small, gold, and topped with an enormous square-cut green stone. A man’s pinkie ring, probably. Jackie brought it close to the table’s candle and tilted it back and forth, watching the flame’s reflection dance in the green depths. An emerald, definitely, and nearly flawless. “Huh,” she said, and set it back down between them. “Not bad.”
The widow smiled. She had a smile like a Cheshire cat. “I have a business proposition for you.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Jackie, puffing her cigar.
The widow glanced at the tables on either side of them, where the regulars were making a poor pretence of not listening. “Have you got somewhere a little more private?”
Jackie stood and jerked her head at the back of the bar. “This way.”
It wasn’t till they got to the back room that she remembered she hadn’t moved Alfeo’s altar yet. He still sat in his chair, looking as annoyed by death as he had been by life. The widow examined him with interest. “Mummification, eh? Nice job. I’m more of an embalmer, myself.”
“He was my favourite husband,” offered Jackie. Not that she owed this lady any information, but she was kind of curious to see her reaction.
“Your favourite?” The widow raised her eyebrows. “I’ve always said the best husband is a dead husband. I got rid of mine years ago. But hey, you do you. Mind if I smoke?”
Jackie gestured with her cigar. “Be my guest.” She sat down at the table, leaning back in her chair.
The widow pulled a cigarette case out of her skirt pocket, followed by one of those holders that ladies used to keep the ashes off their fancy clothes. After she’d screwed a cigarette into the holder, she said, “Can I have a light?,” indicating the glowing tip of Jackie’s cigar.
Jackie held out her cigar wordlessly, and the widow leaned forward to light her cigarette, not incidentally showing off her impressive cleavage. She noticed Jackie looking and smirked.
If you think you’re gettin around me that easy, thought Jackie, you got a lot to learn. “So tell me what kind of proposition you got in mind.”
The widow took a seat across the table. From somewhere in her enormous skirt she produced a roll of black velvet and spread it out on the table. Then she dumped out a pouch of glittering items: rings, cufflinks, cravat pins, brooches, earrings, necklaces… It looked like the kind of hoard that hack writers put in their pirate stories, the kind everyone knew didn’t exist in real life.
Jackie kept her face still only from long practice. She sifted through the jewellery with her wooden hand, pushing it around on the velvet cloth; it looked as legit as the ring had. Damn. Leaning back, she took a drag on her cigar and eyed the woman across from her. The widow smiled around her cigarette holder.
“What’s your game?” said Jackie. “Where’d you get this stuff?”
“Does it matter?”
Jackie nudged it again with her hand. “Some of it’s got them fancy-ass letters on it, you know—”
“Monograms?”
“Yeah, fuckin monograms. You know we’ll have to rub that shit off. Jackie don’t deal with traceable items.”
“Trust me,” said the widow, “no one’s gonna miss these.”
Jackie blew out a skeptical cloud of smoke. “ ’Sthat so?”
“Oh, absolutely. These items are…let’s say, a final bequest from the fine plantation owners of the British West Indies.”
“Hm.” Jackie did like the sound of that. She thought back to what the widow had said earlier. “An embalmer, huh? Like in a professional capacity?” Nailed you!
“Could be a hobby,” said the widow, unblinking.
Jackie let out a guffaw in spite of herself, slapping her left hand on her thigh. The widow laughed too, and not a ladylike titter: she leaned forward and honked like a breeding goose. This made Jackie laugh even harder, and it was a few minutes before they leaned back sighing and wiped their eyes.
“I like you, Eve,” said Jackie, pointing at her with her cigar. “You got spunk. So I’ma give you a good deal. Jackie will sell your items and give you…fifty percent.”
“Jackie,” said the widow, leaning her elbows on the table, “I gotta confess, I’m a huge fan. Everything you’ve made of yourself—the bar, the criminal empire, the whole vibe. The way people respect you! It’s all very sexy. And if I may say, your outfit is exquisite.”
Jackie waved her cigar hand graciously. “You may.”
“But I was thinking more like five percent.”
“Jackie ain’t into that. Jackie ain’t going below forty.”
“Think about it,” said the widow. “This is an unlimited resource! These people aren’t getting any younger! Ten percent.”
“Thirty.”
“Fifteen.”
“Twenty.”
“Done.”
They shook on it. The widow’s hand was as soft as you’d expect a fine lady’s to be—or maybe it was the embalming fluid.
There was a bottle of the good whisky on the sideboard. Jackie stood and grabbed it, tucking it under her arm, then snagged a pair of relatively clean glasses and set them on the table. She pulled out the cork with her teeth and poured generously into both glasses. “Well, well, I do believe this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership.”
“I’ll drink to that!” The widow knocked back a healthy swallow, then wheezed. “Whew!” she coughed. “That’s a…damn fine tipple!”
Jackie laughed loudly and clapped her on the shoulder. “I loves me a woman who can take her drink!”
The widow finished her glass and accepted a refill. “You know what,” she said, her face flushed with success and alcohol, “you should come over for dinner aboard my yacht. I’ll introduce you to Ned.”
Jackie’s good mood evaporated. “I thought you said you got rid of your husband?”
“Oh, I did! Ned’s my leopard. I always take him sailing with me—he loves it.”
“You got a leopard?” Jesus, this bitch was crazier than she thought. A wise woman would stay far away. A wise woman who hadn’t almost forgotten how it felt to laugh and who wasn’t burning with curiosity to see how that blond hair looked spread out on a pillow. Clearly, that woman wasn’t Jackie.
“Yes, but he’s a complete sweetie!” continued the widow. “You just have to be sure to feed him regularly. And he loves dogs!”
Jackie blinked. “You mean, he loves to play with them or, like, eat them?”
The widow laughed uproariously, as if Jackie had just said something funny. Jackie laughed along; maybe she was better off not knowing. “Dangerous and witty!” said the widow. “Just my type.” She winked.
Jackie’s pulse quickened. But before this went too far, there was one thing she had to ask. “So, listen, the leopard, the eyepatch…it’s all an act, right?” Jackie knew a thing or two about curating an image.
In response, the widow flipped up her eyepatch.
“Damn. Guess not.” Jackie nodded with respect. “The leopard do that?”
“I mean, sometimes I tell people that when they ask,” said the widow, resettling her patch. Jackie felt a pang of sympathy; it was always fucking annoying when strangers demanded to know the story of her hand, and then she had to stab them in the face. “But the truth is, I fell out of a tree when I was eleven. On the way down, one of the branches went—” she jabbed a thumb at her eye and made a popping noise. “That’s all.”
“Huh. I guess life do be like that.”
“Yeah.”
Jackie refilled her glass. “I lost my hand when a hangnail got infected.”
“Really?”
“Nah. Some motherfucker sliced it off when I was raiding his ship.”
“Oooh! That sounds like a good story!”
“Yeah,” said Jackie, setting her cigar down in a brass ashtray. “But you know what I tell people?”
“What?”
“I tell them it was when I was in a Spanish prison. They had me in iron cuffs that were hanging from the wall, like this, you know?” Jackie held up her arms as if they were pinned over her head.
“Uh-huh.” The widow’s eyes were riveted to Jackie’s face.
“Well, I busted out of the left one no problem, but the right one, it wouldn’t give an inch. So I pulled a knife outta my boot, and I sliced that fucker off myself. Just like that! ’Cause ain’t no prison been built that can hold Spanish Jackie.”
The widow leaned back in her chair, visibly impressed. “Wow. That’s genius.” Her cigarette was mostly ash by now, and she stubbed it out next to the cigar. “You know what I would’ve told ’em?”
“What?”
“That I chewed it off. Like a wolf in a trap!” She mimed gnawing at her wrist like a manic Pomeranian.
“Damn, girl. That’s some dark shit,” said Jackie. “I like the way you think.”
“Likewise,” said the widow, grinning at her. Jackie couldn’t help grinning back.
Yeah, she was gonna accept this woman’s dinner invitation. And they were definitely gonna fuck on her rich-ass yacht. And sooner or later shit would probably get messy, but right now Jackie didn’t care, ’cause this was gonna be fun. And she wasn’t bored one bit.