Free Falling

If you want happy, look somewhere else. I can only promise to give you an ending in ninety seconds – one way or another. 

At 20,000 feet, you have ninety-seconds before you hit dirt. That information was generously provided to me by Sal Gianni, right before two of his goons threw me out of the plane.

There may be things worth dying for, but, between you, me and that cornfield, Camello Gianni ain’t one of them.

I met her in a Dairy Queen. She was blonde and knew how to wear the fuck out of a pair of Christian Louboutin high heel shoes. I couldn't believe my luck when she sat down and took the cherry off my Tastee Freeze. I'm no horror show, but I’m no Mr. Hollywood either. I'm more the kind of guy a wife puts up with for longer than she should. So when she asked: 

“Have you ever killed a dog?” 

I wasn’t paying much attention to what she said, as much as how she said it – with a cherry stem nestled between her ruby bee sting lips.

“Um, what?”

She smelled like honeysuckle and her tits worked harder than James Brown. She put her hand on my arm and repeated the question in a breathy voice that made me feel like paying $2.99 a minute. Then she leaned in and whispered: 

“I need someone to fuck me, steal my husband's money, and kill a dog. And I want that someone to be you.”

Yeah, she sounded crazy - was crazy. I was gonna tell her to take a powder. I'm no thieving dog killer. But before I could tell her to get lost, she breathed. Oh my, did she breathe. Instead, I played it cool.

“Um…”

“My husband's a prick, but he’s not a monogamous prick.” She placed her small hand on my thigh. “So I want to return the favor, and then some.” Her hand moved up my leg. 

“Er…”

She gave a gentle squeeze. “So, are you in?”

She kissed my ear. “Or are you out?”

“Uhh..”

“In?” Another soft squeeze.

“Or out?” 

Fifteen minutes later we were in her hotel room. Fifteen minutes and 30 seconds later, I was in her mouth. I know, I know. but I don’t have time for discretion. 20,000 feet, remember? 

She took pictures. All kinds of pictures.

“For hubby,” she purred.

Later, after we scraped ourselves off the sheets, she took two objects out of her purse and placed them on the nightstand. A keychain and a gun.

“Uh…”

“The big key opens the front door. The small key opens the floor safe under the desk in his upstairs study. There should be anywhere from 40 to 75 thousand dollars in there. You keep half. But,” she held up my wallet and waved it under my nose. “If you're not back in two hours, I send these pictures to my husband, along with your name and address. Sal is not the kind of man to let something like this go. He's more the kind of man to have you dig your own hole and leave you there.”

“Um…”

"When you get back, I’ll send the pictures anyway, but only the ones without your face. I want that bastard to do a slow burn for the rest of the day, and then I hope his head explodes when he finds out his money is missing."

“And the gun? I could use the money and I appreciate the, um, the sex. But I don't think I could shoot anyone.”

She gave a throaty laugh, took my head in her hands and pressed it against her moneymaker.

“The gun's for the dog.”

Oh yeah. The dog.

"The house will be empty except for Lucky. Sal loves that mutt more than me and maybe more than his money. Lucky’s about 500 years old and farts more than he barks. Shoot the fucker, bring me back his collar, and I'll wear it and let you fuck me like a dog until one of us passes out.”

“Um…”

The house wasn't hard to find, even without GPS. I'd watched enough crime shows to know you didn't input the victim's address in your car's computer. See? I'm smart enough. Like all suburban neighborhoods in Jersey, the place was a ghost town between 10:00 am and 2:00 pm. on weekdays. I opened the door and slipped inside. It was a nice place. Not Scarface nice - more like Soprano nice. I made my way straight up the stairs. Hook a right, go past two doors, open the third. Bingo. The study.

The room was dim and smelled like popcorn. Sal must be a snacker. I hit the light switch and ceiling fan whirred to life. I walked to the desk, got on my hands and knees and found the keyhole to the floor safe. Camella was right. There was a lot of cash. $55,000 and change. I took it all, as well as a sweet Movado watch.

I put everything in a “Kings Supermarket” reusable shopping bag and stood up.

A German Shepherd sat in the doorway. Camella wasn't lying about Lucky. His eyes were filmy, his fur matted and his panting sounded like my Grandpa Manuel when he watched the showgirls on Telemundo. He was big enough, but I could see there was no fight in him.

And he wore a silver studded black collar.

My mouth went dry at the thought of Camella on her knees, wearing nothing but that collar.

“Hiya boy. Who's a good doggie?” I cocked the gun and took a few cautious steps toward the door. Lucky took the opportunity to lie down and pass a fart, causing me to curse the ceiling fan. I stood there, gun in hand, looking eye to eye with the Methuselah of the canine world. Lucky whined. Even a rube like me couldn't miss at this distance.

But I couldn't do it. I may be a sick twist, but I'm no dog killer. Besides, I had fifty-five thousand dollars, a watch and a beautiful woman. Why should I kill a dog? I'd stop by PetCo, buy a damn dog collar, and have my fun.

“Today's your lucky day, Lucky.” I put the gun away and stepped over pooch. I was at the top of the stairs, trying on the watch, when I heard the front door open. Fuck. I silently ran into the first bedroom on the left. My choices were under the bed, in the closet,or in the bathroom. I chose under the bed.

 Footsteps. A brief pause. Then, a man's voice.

 “Lucky! How ya doing boy?”

 A dog’s happy pant and halfhearted bark.

 Dog paws clicking on the wood floor. Then scratching at the bedroom door.

 “Where are you going, boy?”

 A door opens.

 Excited whining.

 A long, wet nose peeks under the bed, sniffing and searching for its new friend.

 “Lucky? Out of the way boy.”

 I should have killed the godda--