Murder Is A Bitch
Louise Guardino

The party had mellowed. Late night, soothed by Ella Fitzgerald's rendition of Good Morning Heartache. The Diplomat's loose grin and unsteady eyes said more than the tumbler in his hand. He was sprawled, leg over chair arm, babe on his lap. And what a babe, thought Stengel. She was murder: svelte, blonde, and dry-ice cool. He knew how easily one could be scorched by those blue eyes. She stood. She'd dressed for the sultry Cape weather: nothing but skin and ice-blue dress. Stengel felt a stirring. His gaze met hers.
"Bitch. Should a known you'd be here." He glanced at her pouty breasts beneath the fabric.
Her cool eyes watched. "Here on business, Les?"
"I should ask you the same." He nodded towards the Diplomat.
Her husky laugh was low. "There's something about a man with power. Beckons like a beating drum."
"Power doesn’t always last. You know that," he said, an edge to his voice.
"Oh, I do, Les. I do. But I can still suck up to it, can't I?" With a laugh, she glided away.
The back of her dress hung open to the top of her buttocks. He watched the covering blue sheen dance as she walked away.
The Diplomat was Stengel's hit. It annoyed him to find Bitch Malisheva here. He wondered who'd hired her. No matter. Of one thing he was sure: the target was his. If she got in the way, so be it.
The Diplomat had arrived sans guards. It was bimbo night. He was here to play. Stengel judged him to be two hours from blotto. He could wait.
Stengel weaved his way to his car, a rental Mercedes with stolen plates. Slouching within, he started up and drove from the compound towards the only way off the little island; the caplog curbed wooden bridge over the inlet. Half way there, he pulled over and got out, leaving the engine running. He took a swig of water then stood by the front of the car, waiting. He figured maybe four cars would be departing.. The Diplomat had driven a red Porsche. Easy pickings.
A car approached, its lights angling into the trees. Stengel leaned over the front headlamp, and as the other car passed, threw-up, disgorging the water he'd been holding. He glanced at the car. Not the Diplomat's. Twenty minutes and two cars later, he knew his target was approaching. No mistaking the engine’s tight torque. When it passed, he was at the edge of the road, back turned, emptying his bladder. Without a shake, he jumped back into his car and tore down the road. He was on the little red job in a flash. The Diplomat was taking the curves wide, stirring up roadside sand. He wasn't alone. As Stengel came up on the car's bumper, his lights picked up the woman passenger’s blond hair. Of course. Bitch. Stengel chuckled.
He swerved into the dirt on the right, sped up, then yanked the wheel left, bumping the smaller car. Now alongside, he could almost reach oot and touch Bitch. Both cars clattered onto the narrow bridge. The Diplomat struggled with the wheel, veering left, then right, bumping Stengel’s car, bouncing off, wildly left. Stengel saw Bitch reach down. He dropped back, getting behind the red car again before accelerating, slamming the left rear bumper of the Diplomat’s car at an angle, pushing its rear right. Bitch's head turned his way as her left arm came up, gun in hand. She had to turn in her seat to fire As she did, the Porsche's left front wheel slipped off the bridge. Stengel worked to straighten his car before it, too, went over the edge. The pitch of the Porsche's engine changed, no longer reverberating from solid ground. Stengel saw the Porsche shoot out towards the dark inlet. It began a slow roll. He'd almost reached land again when he heard the impact.
Stengel parked in the first cut-out he found. He got out and chambered a round. He would make sure they were dead. Walking with his weapon down, he approached the wooden bridge and looked out to the inlet. With the night’s cloud coverage, it was difficult to see. He waited for his eyes to adjust. The water still rippled and bubbled from the concussion of the vehicle. Stengel walked down to and along the bank. A short strip of sand edged the thick bayberry bushes leading back to the road.
He listened to the soft sucking sound of his shoes against the sand. He reached a small beach. From here, he could see the inlet and the bridge. He hunched down at the edge of the bushes and waited.
To his right, the swish of wet cloth. Stengel turned. It was dark now. No shadows. Little reflection. He thought he saw something near the border of bush and sand. He tensed, raising his weapon. The clouds shifted. Moonlight slid across the bushes towards the shore. A woman stood in the light. Stengel was mesmerized. He rose, arm dropping.. She glowed. Wet blonde hair hanging in strips alongside her sculptured face, blue dress clinging at mid-thigh, and one very round, very pale, boob hanging out.
"Stengel," she said.
"Bitch, you're almost too good to waste, but business is business." He raised his gun.
Her left arm, adjacent to the hanging boob, flashed. The knife entered Stengel's throat before his weapon fired. Convulsively, he discharged two rounds into the inlet before falling to his knees, then his face. His blood soaked the sand.
Bitch approached the dying man. "It's murder out here tonight. A real bitch, eh, Les?" A throaty chuckle accompanied her retrieval of the knife. Waste not, want not.

New York City native now North Carolina immigrant (a Yankee!), Louise is a news junky. She doesn't always like what she hears or reads. Vengeance is mine she screeches as she runs to her keyboard. Some of what has spewed forth has appeared in Blue Murder Magazine <bluemurder.com>, Hardboiled <http://www.gryphonbooks.com>, and Murderous Intent Mystery Magazine <http://www.teleport.com/~madison/>.