Jackie's Week by M.M. Wilshire Page A

limo
man."
    "I can’t picture it either," he said. "No
matter how much they advertise, the Lexus is a woman's car. But no
matter."
    "Beanie," Donna said. "There is something
else. Something serious else."
    "Shut up, Donna!" Jackie hissed.
    Donna shrugged. "Never mind, Beanie."
    "No," he said. "What is it, Donna?"
    "They caught the guy who did it. But he sent
somebody to threaten Jackie. And Jackie's bodyguard killed him. We
think."
    "Now that’s a horse of another feather," he
said, sitting up.
    Jackie stared at him. "His name is Viktor
Bout. The cops are holding him, but if I don’t pick him out of the
lineup, he’s going free in the next day or so. Donna was going to
ask you to kill him," she said. "I asked her not to."
    Bienenfeld searched her eyes for a moment,
his face unreadable. "For the time being," he finally said, "I’ll
have somebody keep an eye on you, just for your safety."
    "Not necessary," Donna said. "The cops
already have somebody watching us. And Jackie has her own
bodyguard. Dr. Black's brother, Bobby."
    "No," he said. "The cops are idiots. And even
Bobby, whoever he is, has to sleep sometime. I am going to have a
guy I know keep an eye on you. I’ll go and arrange it right now and
then I am going back to bed." With a great stretch, Bienenfeld got
up and disappeared up the stairs.
    Jackie got up and began clearing the dishes.
"He sure took that casually. Where’s the soap for the
dishwasher?"
    "You can leave those," Donna said. "Juana
will do them when she gets in."
    "Well, la-de-da, Charlotte," Jackie said.
     
    Chapter 13
     
    "That’s quite a scar over your right temple,"
Marsha said to Jackie.
    "This scar across my temple is where the
bastard brained me," Jackie said.
    Marsha’s corner banking office resembled a
cocktail lounge, with it’s polished black granite flooring, and
orange-and-chrome decor and dim recessed-spots, which hid from view
the multitude of financial sins committed daily by the bank’s
primary clients—the mafia and their business managers to the
entertainers.
    Marsha was an elegant, petite woman, with an
incredibly thick mane of natural, long blonde hair, its bright
sheen only slightly chemically assisted. Marsha was confidently
decked out in a little black dress, as though it wasn’t really
Tuesday morning, but, rather, the hard edge of Friday night.
    "I know a good plastic man when you’re
ready," Marsha said.
    "Why do people who recommend their plastic
surgeon to someone always say 'When you’re ready?'" I’ll tell you
what I am ready for—I’m ready for a good stiff drink."
    "No problem, I’ll fix you one."
    "If it’s no trouble. Anything with
vodka."
    "An early morning drink is a common request
around here," Marsha said. She got up and opened the cabinet behind
Jackie which contained a shelf of high quality booze and a small
refrigerator stocked with the finer necessities of the drinking
craft.
    "I’ve never had a drink in a bank before,"
Jackie said. "I guess I’ve never been important enough for any
banker to offer me one."
    "You’re important to us," Marsha replied.
    "Mmm. This is one good vodka martini. I
shouldn’t. In fact, I think I can trace most of my financial
difficulties to a few shots of vodka last night."
    "Sounds more like a repressed soul making a
bid for freedom if you ask me."
    "Last night my ‘bid for freedom’, or whatever
you choose to call it, took the form of blacking out and buying a
new car."
    "It wasn’t a blackout. You’re just in the
process of discovering your true self. In a blackout, you know
exactly what you are doing, but later the conscience represses it.
Some people get beyond all that. I have. I do whatever I want and I
don't need alcohol as an excuse."
    "I started seeing a shrink yesterday," Jackie
replied. "To deal with my flashbacks following the attack. To deal
with everything."
    A man poked his head in. "Jackie?" he
said.
    She fought to get her breathing under
control. The man was menacing by any standard. For