Perilously Fun Fiction: A Bundle Pauline Jones (the red fox clan txt) 📖

She left, her passage so smooth and silent they didn’t see or hear the door’s movement, and took all the cool from the room with her.

The silence was long, like that after a stellar performance by a diva, then Delaney said, “I like her.”

Mickey grinned. “I noticed.”

“She’s so—so—”

“Normal.”

“I was going to say nice.” There was a moment of silence, then Delaney said, half to himself, “If I were a marrying man—”

Mickey looked up from his notes. “They don’t marry.”

Silence. “Why don’t they marry?”

“I have no idea.”

Another longer silence.

“Damn shame.”

“Maybe,” Mickey said, his mind’s eye reluctantly fixed on a different, younger Seymour’s face. “Could be a blessing by a merciful God.”

10

Dante, aka Harvey Mertz, didn’t look dangerous. Dressed in quantities of baggy silk and an oversized wool coat, he had a young smooth face, round surprised eyes, and standup blond hair. With practice, he kept his soft mouth sardonic, but he didn’t have to practice the cold glow in his pale eyes. That came naturally. As did his affinity for criminal activity.

He’d started out with an illegal gambling operation and then expanded into anything that offered a profit—except drugs.

“Drugs lack artistic appeal,” he told Max, his assistant-in-crime. “Besides, you either have to go national or wind up dead.” Neither of these options appealed to Dante. It was nice staying alive. And staying local it was easier to watch his back. He knew where his friends were if he needed to kill them.

When he wasn’t figuring ways to amass tax-free funds, he designed and constructed Mardi Gras floats. It served as a useful cover, being located in the warehouse district where comings and goings were hard to monitor, and gave him an outlet for his creativity.

Dante also liked being atypical.

Because of the revolving nature of his friendships, Dante kept close to what family he had, particularly to his Aunt Cloris, who had assumed his upbringing when his mother got tired of her husband being in jail and caught a bus out of New Orleans when Dante was eight.

Their relationship was almost Oedipal, until Cloris married a year ago and moved to Miami with her new husband, Arvin Maxwell. Arvin had taken a powder with all her money just six months later.

“Still no word on Arvin, Mr. Dante.”

Dante turned from his perusal of a recent float design and frowned at his assistant, Max.

“That’s not acceptable, Max. It’s been six months.”

“I know, Mr. Dante, but the guy’s dropped off the earth.”

“Even rats have to go to ground somewhere. He’s out there, Max. I want him.”

“I’ve got everybody looking, Mr. Dante. We’ll find his hole.”

Dante nodded, his face brooding. “You arrange for Cloris to get picked up at the airport?”

“Yes, sir. Cain and Abel are going. You want them to take the limo?”

“Yeah. Have them get her some candy and flowers. Daisies. She likes daisies. And tell them to have lots of tissues on hand. She’s still upset.”

“Right.”

Max didn’t leave, just waited until Dante asked, “Was there something else, Max?’

“Benny the Book’s here. Wanted to know if he could talk to you.”

“Benny? Am I angry with Benny, Max?”

“No, Mr. Dante.”

“Is Benny angry with me?”

“No, Mr. Dante. He says he has something to show you.”

“If it were anyone else, I’d have you just kill him, but Benny is innocuous. Send him in. Let’s see what he wants to show me.”

When Max ushered Benny into his office, a sardonic humor lit Dante’s pale gray eyes. Benny was “old school” criminal, back in the days when underlings cringed into the “Boss’s” presence. He even had a satchel clutched to his chest. He removed his cap and fiddled nervously with it.

“Park it, Benny, and tell me what’s agitating your bone box.”

“Huh?”

Dante sighed. Why couldn’t henchmen have intelligence, a little humor? It would have been nice to have a little give and take, a tiny clash of minds. But that just led to nasty power struggles and dead bodies to hide. He sighed for lost opportunities as he indicated a chair with a movement of his head.

Benny perched obediently but uneasily.

“So what’s on your mind?”

Benny’s eyes bulged. Perhaps he wasn’t aware he had a mind to have anything on? He licked his lips several times, his fingers playing with the handle of the satchel as he began to sweat and talk.

“Ya know I pick up a bet or two around the old-timers bins, boss? Oldsters, they like to play the odds now and again, but they can’t get out, so I go in when I can. Pick up a pretty good sum there. Honest.”

“A bookie that makes house calls. How quaint.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Another sigh. “Please, go on with your fascinating story, Benny.” He leaned back in his chair with a discreetly concealed yawn.

“Uh, right.” Agitation always made Benny breathe heavily through his nose, so his words came out nasal and accompanied by little puffs and grunts. “‘Bout a year ago I meets this broad, calls herself Jane, but I figure she made it up. Some do, when they know somebody won’t like ‘em to bet. Me, I don’t worry none, cause most pays cash anyways and they’s easy enough to track down if they don’t. You know, Boss.”

“That’s right, Benny. I know. You’re obviously a prince among pedestrian bookies. So what’s the problem, if it’s not a bad debt?” It was amusing to toy with Benny, but not for very long. No challenge to it.

“This Jane, she brung me somethin’ strange today. To place a bet.” Benny popped to his feet, opened the bag, and extracted a shoebox. Then another and another until there were six of them on the desk. When blank looks met his efforts, Benny opened one box and dumped the contents onto the desk, creating a mini-money-snowdrift.

Max looked at Dante, then popped the lids off the other boxes. “Holy shit!”

“Indeed.” Dante leaned forward, caught a handful of the bills and fanned them in his hand. “That’s a pretty big Christmas package, Benny.” He looked closer,