A Last Act of Charity (Killing Sisters Book 1) by Frank Westworth
Authors: Frank Westworth
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your properties has a turret.
The upshot of all this merriment and delight is that she rents the half-house which you had lined up for yourself and for a rental rate which is only just enough for her to avoid feeling either subsidised or patronised. You could of course get a lot more money for it, had you wanted to rent it, which you didn’t, but you do not meet ladies like this one more than once a lifetime. Meeting this lady was a unique experience in my life, and my life, as you will have understood by now, has been both long and intense, interesting and varied. Fulfilling too at times, less so at others. I hope that yours has been the same.
You subtly suggest nailing the deal over dinner. She agrees.
The evening is as astounding as you could have hoped for. You get on impossibly well. Soulmates drawn together through the wilds of the world and destined to be together inseparably for evermore. At the coffee point, she apologises to you and begs your indulgence while she picks up her cell phone, which has been buzzing in her pocket from time to time unanswered. It might, she says, be unavoidable work.
And so it proves. Work. Unavoidable. She texts ferociously and with impressive dexterity and then looks up ruefully and announces that her departure will be imminent, unavoidable and unwelcome but unavoidable. You try so hard to look unsurprised, staying cool, and enquire with only slight bemusement what can be so crucial as it is not exactly early in the evening? In fact, it is approaching ten o’clock, and . . .
She needs to meet a client, she announces, and she needs todress and prepare for it, and she needs to do that now because she needs to meet her client at his hotel and she needs to escort him to a club, where they will spend the rest of the night doing whatever it is paying clients and their escorts do in all-night and very expensive clubs. The sort of clubs where the pearls really should be genuine, my dear. You try your very best to appear unastonished. You offer to pay and you offer to drive her home, wherever home is, prior to her moving into your wonderful half-house with a turret.
She points with her smile towards the door of the restaurant. At the large, well-built and neatly suited chap who is just entering. You hate him at once of course. She laughs, gently and quietly and deeply, staring at your eyes, eyes which may just display a little more emotion and wonder than you would like them to. She laughs, as I said, and tells you that, no, silly, that’s not the client, that’s her midnight wheels. So that’s all right then.
And then she is gone and you are sitting wondering who you can kill. Who you can pick a fight with and beat senseless. Who owes you money because now would be a grand time to go kick the debt out of them, maybe breaking a few inessential bones and generally relieving those innermost tensions which can be so damaging and destructive if left bottled up. Or whether you should instead visit a welcoming and familiar friend and fuck the night into light, and then you immediately wonder why suddenly and unexpectedly that option – always such a sublime way of easing tension in the past – is so abruptly unappealing.
You collect your thoughts, gather your wits, call for the bill, discover that she has paid it on her way out and wonder what on God’s fuzzy green planet is happening to you.
Right now, here in what we pretend is real-time, the dirty blonde apologises, no, laughs at the moment, and checks her cell phone. Sighs, rolls her eyes and says; ‘Difficult, this. Got to go, got to go and party. Don’t want to, JJ, but need to. I had no ideayou would have a fresh corpse available for the evening’s entertainment. Can you put off taking a scan at it until tomorrow? Thought not.’
She is too familiar with my attempts at nonchalance whenever she needs to interrupt our shared time with work. Her work.
My cell calls. Buzzes in a fussy irritated manner in my shirt pocket. I
The upshot of all this merriment and delight is that she rents the half-house which you had lined up for yourself and for a rental rate which is only just enough for her to avoid feeling either subsidised or patronised. You could of course get a lot more money for it, had you wanted to rent it, which you didn’t, but you do not meet ladies like this one more than once a lifetime. Meeting this lady was a unique experience in my life, and my life, as you will have understood by now, has been both long and intense, interesting and varied. Fulfilling too at times, less so at others. I hope that yours has been the same.
You subtly suggest nailing the deal over dinner. She agrees.
The evening is as astounding as you could have hoped for. You get on impossibly well. Soulmates drawn together through the wilds of the world and destined to be together inseparably for evermore. At the coffee point, she apologises to you and begs your indulgence while she picks up her cell phone, which has been buzzing in her pocket from time to time unanswered. It might, she says, be unavoidable work.
And so it proves. Work. Unavoidable. She texts ferociously and with impressive dexterity and then looks up ruefully and announces that her departure will be imminent, unavoidable and unwelcome but unavoidable. You try so hard to look unsurprised, staying cool, and enquire with only slight bemusement what can be so crucial as it is not exactly early in the evening? In fact, it is approaching ten o’clock, and . . .
She needs to meet a client, she announces, and she needs todress and prepare for it, and she needs to do that now because she needs to meet her client at his hotel and she needs to escort him to a club, where they will spend the rest of the night doing whatever it is paying clients and their escorts do in all-night and very expensive clubs. The sort of clubs where the pearls really should be genuine, my dear. You try your very best to appear unastonished. You offer to pay and you offer to drive her home, wherever home is, prior to her moving into your wonderful half-house with a turret.
She points with her smile towards the door of the restaurant. At the large, well-built and neatly suited chap who is just entering. You hate him at once of course. She laughs, gently and quietly and deeply, staring at your eyes, eyes which may just display a little more emotion and wonder than you would like them to. She laughs, as I said, and tells you that, no, silly, that’s not the client, that’s her midnight wheels. So that’s all right then.
And then she is gone and you are sitting wondering who you can kill. Who you can pick a fight with and beat senseless. Who owes you money because now would be a grand time to go kick the debt out of them, maybe breaking a few inessential bones and generally relieving those innermost tensions which can be so damaging and destructive if left bottled up. Or whether you should instead visit a welcoming and familiar friend and fuck the night into light, and then you immediately wonder why suddenly and unexpectedly that option – always such a sublime way of easing tension in the past – is so abruptly unappealing.
You collect your thoughts, gather your wits, call for the bill, discover that she has paid it on her way out and wonder what on God’s fuzzy green planet is happening to you.
Right now, here in what we pretend is real-time, the dirty blonde apologises, no, laughs at the moment, and checks her cell phone. Sighs, rolls her eyes and says; ‘Difficult, this. Got to go, got to go and party. Don’t want to, JJ, but need to. I had no ideayou would have a fresh corpse available for the evening’s entertainment. Can you put off taking a scan at it until tomorrow? Thought not.’
She is too familiar with my attempts at nonchalance whenever she needs to interrupt our shared time with work. Her work.
My cell calls. Buzzes in a fussy irritated manner in my shirt pocket. I