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  In Wyoming, for example, Gladys claimed she worked as a safari guide. Two months later, an IRS agent named Steven W. Cabeza-Plana rang her doorbell.

  “Miss Theodora Ratatouille?”

  “C’est moi,” said Gladys.

  Cabeza-Plana’s hair was stuccoed in place. His teeth were bathroom tiles. Gladys disliked him immediately and offered him iced tea.

  Cabeza-Plana said, “Aces,” and asked her for her receipts. He sat down, removing neat papers from his briefcase and flicking his pen. Gladys went to her bedroom, pretending to look for receipts. But in reality, she sat on her bed and quietly sang Don McLean’s “American Pie.” Using the axe as a microphone.

  In the eight minutes and thirty-three seconds it took to finish all the verses, the anesthetic in the tea would kick in. Gladys emerged from her bedroom, twirling her beloved Summerfield axe and half-murmuring, “February made me shiver / with every paper I’d delivered.”

  Numb and paralyzed but still awake, Cabeza-Plana listened as she hacked off his right arm and then his left.

  “Drove my Chevy to the levy, but the levy was dry.”

  Then, as was her habit, she made agent meatloaf, empanadas, and guisada. She ate like a one-percenter for days.

  Over time, however, Gladys found she had less luck. Year after year, refund after refund arrived without question. She became rich. But she ached with an awful hankering. And her Summerfield rusted with ennui.

  So when she moved to Klamath Falls, she sent out ten different forms using twelve different names. Sure enough, neat little letters started arriving in the mail.

  Four agents came by in one week, all carrying neat briefcases and flicking pens. The first one did not drink enough tea, so when Gladys emerged with her Summerfield, a scuffle seemed about to ensue. But the agent had spilled the tea on the floor and, approaching Gladys in his wingtips, had slipped, tripping and sending his forehead right into the edge of her axe. With the second and third agents, everything went hunky-dory. Tea. “Pie.” Chop. In fact, by the time the fourth agent arrived, Gladys found herself bored. She brought the axe to the door and took him out just as he stepped in. Then she did yoga.

  That month, Gladys made so much meatloaf, empanadas, and guisada that she began selling the extra. Everyone on the block said they were delish. She was even written up in a neighbor’s blog, something that delighted her, because who wouldn’t want to be on a blog?

  It also made her wonder if perhaps the ardor of her revenge had been quelled. Yes, perhaps it was time to put away her faithful Summerfield and have a real life, to sleep next to something warm and soft, not cold and sharp.

  And then one day, in hazy August, the doorbell rang.

  “Mrs. Feldshuh, my name is Chris Haragán, and I’m from the IRS.”

  Slouching and unzippered, Haragán did not seem at all like an IRS agent to Gladys.

  “Don’t be alarmed, ma’am, I was going to send a letter, but I got busy at work, my grandmother passed, my cat got this weird eye infection. Listen, I’m sorry. Here’s the letter. I did type it.”

  Haragán handed her a dirty envelope. Gladys didn’t understand. She had already received her refund under the name Feldshuh. Twice. Gladys took the filthy envelope. The letter inside was wrinkled and a coffee stain made a crude yet artistic design in one corner.

  “What’s the hullabaloo?” she said.

  “I happen to subscribe to your neighbor’s blog,” said Haragán, “and I read about the success of your home business. Frankly, ma’am, I think you’re making money that belongs to the government.”

  “Hm,” Gladys said, “Would you like some iced tea?”

  “No, thanks, ma’am. Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “I guess,” she said.

  Gladys suddenly found that she was irresistibly attracted to this fellow. But he was IRS. And she hated the IRS. She could sneak up behind him with her cherished Summerfield—so she wouldn’t have to see his pallid, scrambled-egg-speckled face. It would only take one good swing to get through that skinny, razor-burn-lined neck.

  Instead she began to cry.

  “Mrs. Feldshuh, there, there.” Haragán held her.

  She would have stopped crying but the smoke from the cigarette hanging in his mouth made her eyes water. And she didn’t want him to stop holding her. So she kept crying. And coughing a little.

  Eventually, the cigarette went out and Gladys fried some meatloaf slices for both of them.

  After the meal, he said, “I’d love to try some of that iced tea now.”

  That set Gladys to crying again. She said, “My name isn’t Barbara Ann Feldshuh, and I’m not an Amish electrical engineer.”

  “Of course not. You’re a forest fire lookout.”

  “I’m not that either, you silly fool.”

  And so Gladys confessed to this man with whom she had fallen hopelessly in love by his second helping of meatloaf. Hours later, when she finished, he said: “Really?”

  They made love half-on and half-off the kitchen island right then and there.

  The next morning Haragán returned, freshly showered and shaved, and smelling lightly of coffee and its aftereffects. He brought three Federal agents and a bouquet of freesia.

  The Summerfield axe sang to Gladys from the bedroom, called for her to wield it as the deadly instrument of justice it had been purchased—on sale!—to be. She ran toward it. But all three of the agents tased her.

  “My boss is so proud of me for this. I hope you know how grateful I am. Oh, and thanks for lunch yesterday,” Haragán said. “Wink wink.”

  Although the families of the IRS agents Gladys had killed and cooked with oregano, sofrito, and a teaspoon of cumin almost all forgave her on a highly rated episode of Good Morning America, she spent the rest of her life in a penitentiary, sullen and unpardoned.

  As for her precious Summerfield—after spending years in a lockup, it was auctioned off, then passed from owner to owner, from year to year, and all the while, from dawn to dusk and deep in its dreams, it hummed a Don McLean tune and longed for revenge.

  Back to TOC

  MEET ME AT THE CLOCK

  Snow! And lots of it.

  Lew Betancourt stared out the window and watched the feathery stuff descend onto the cars and the street and the sidewalk. Blankets. This could be bad. This could screw everything. He closed the curtains and dressed as quickly and quietly as he could in his bedroom. He didn’t want to wake his wife. They always got along better when she was asleep.

  But, with an abrupt cease of her snoring, the great and powerful Magda stirred. Without lifting her head from the pillow or opening her eyes, she said, “Want coffee?”

  Lew tied his tie right up to his neck. “No thanks,” he said. “You make me bitter enough.”

  His wife mumbled, “Suit yourself.”

  Then she went right back to sawing her way through a redwood.

  Lew put on his best Brooks Brothers pants—a little worn at the pants cuffs but only a busybody midget would notice—and jacket and then his shoes and then rubbers over his shoes. He took his slightly lumpy gray fedora off the dresser and walked out of the bedroom. As far as the wife knew he was off to an imaginary office in midtown. Let her keep dreaming. Only a nuke could get her out of bed anyway.

  In the living room, he took out a videotape box of The Godfather Trilogy. He slid out the sleeve for Part III, which he’d thrown away a long while ago, and pulled out a fat envelope containing one hundred hundred-dollar bills. He put the envelope in his inside jacket pocket.

  He left the apartment building earlier than usual, and when he got outside he saw there was just one or two or maybe three inches on the ground, and so he decided, what the hell, he’d save the bus fare and walk the thirty blocks to the Fordham Metro-North Station in the Bronx. How bad could it be? It was just a little snow.

  But the sky churned, as dark as a tunnel rat, and as he slogged his way across town the snowfall grew h
eavier. He slipped at a corner. And again a block later and almost lost his old hat. Phenomenal. He really should have checked the weather. What a stupid thing to foul up.

  When he got to the station, his pants wet to his thighs, he ran up the stairs and caught the 5:50 a.m. to Scarsdale just as its doors were about to close.

  Lew felt it was only the first of many lucky breaks he was going to get that day.

  Lew easily found a seat on his favorite side of the northbound train, favorite because he liked to absorb the loveliness of the Hudson Valley. But a curtain of white hid all the good scenery.

  “Some snow, eh?” the conductor said, suddenly hovering above Lew, but looking out of the window.

  “Astonishing,” Lew said, showing his monthly pass quickly. It was a counterfeit, and he didn’t want the conductor examining it too closely. For some reason the conductor gingerly took it and held it in his hands.

  “It’s a blizzard,” the conductor said. “That’s going to screw my whole day, up and down the line.” He stood there, watching the snow like a child.

  “Absolutely,” Lew said, watching the man’s hands. “A blizzard.” His counterfeit pass couldn’t stand much scrutiny. It wasn’t even the right color for the month.

  But the conductor only had eyes for the white fluff outside the window. He handed the pass back to Lew and then waddled away, looking past all the passengers as he went. “Yeah, some snow,” he said to himself.

  The weather slowed the train down, made it sluggish. To pass the time, Lew tried drying his pants by opening and closing his legs like an accordion player on espresso.

  The train pulled into Scarsdale at 6:45 a.m., a little late but leaving Lew with enough time to take his spot.

  He bought a black coffee for a dollar-fifty—What a ripoff! Then he looked around—all the other passengers were bundled up, huddled in groups and with heads tucked down. Magda called people like that “Penguins in the Arctic.” He turned and bent into a deep trashcan for a copy of the Wall Street Journal that lay jammed into a corner. He pulled it out and stood up, looking around again. “Penguins.” The paper was slightly stained but usable.

  At 7:01 a.m. Lew took in his usual spot on the crowded southbound platform, two cars from the back. He tapped the paper against his thigh, to all appearances a businessman with business thoughts.

  A few minutes behind his normal schedule, Warren Kiner stumbled through the crowd and took his own usual spot, right next to Lew. Kiner wore a heavy parka, galoshes, a winter hat with fur-lined earflaps, and the look of a sheep.

  “Betancourt. Good morning,” Kiner said, brushing snow off his shoulders.

  “Warren. Good morning. Some snow, eh?”

  “Sure is, sure is. Listen, about today—”

  “Shhh. Prying ears,” Lew said. “Let’s talk about it on the train.”

  “Sure, sure,” Kiner said, slightly embarrassed. “Sorry. Of course.”

  Across the tracks and piling high, the snow fell in a steady thrum.

  “Say, I was wondering,” Kiner said. “Do you live in the Tudor on Walworth Avenue? I passed it the other day, and I’m pretty sure you told me you live near Fox Meadow, but I saw workmen redoing it.”

  “Yes, that’s ours. We’re having a little work done.”

  “Wow, I don’t know that I would consider renovating a gable roof, and one as steep as that, minor work. And are you getting all your windows redone? How are you guys living in there while all that work is going on?”

  “Oh wait a minute—you mean the Tudor right by Fox Meadow? No, we’re the Tudor a couple blocks over. You and Wilona should stop by sometime.”

  “We’d love to. Where exactly—”

  “Oh, here we go.”

  Parting the dense white curtain as if emerging from a fairy tale, the southbound train chugged into the station. The train was near to full, but the two men were lucky to find seats together.

  “So, yes, everything is set,” Lew said. “Mr. Carswell can’t wait to meet you. Are you all set?”

  “I have the check. And I can’t wait to meet Mr. Carswell.”

  “Cash, Warren. You know I don’t trust banks.”

  “Of course. Cash. Right. Sorry.”

  “Magnificent. I love to help friends make friends.”

  “So, where will it be? Did you finalize that?”

  Lew took out his cell phone, which hadn’t worked since he stopped paying the bill two months earlier, and pretended to scroll around, making sure to keep Kiner from seeing the screen.

  “Yes, of course, three days ago. Sorry, but my secretary only reminded me about it yesterday. She’s a hottie but not a smartie, like the kids say. Ah, here it is: We’ll meet at my regular suite at the Grand Hyatt, so it’s more convenient for everyone all around.”

  “Oh that’s swell.”

  When the train pulled into Grand Central, the two men walked together up the ramp. As they entered the main concourse, Lew pointed at the information booth in the center, topped with the shining golden clock.

  “Soon, that will be all yours, my friend,” he said.

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Meet me at the clock at noon then. And we’ll go up to my suite and have lunch brought up. So bring your appetite.”

  Kiner laughed and smiled and waved and then merged into the crowd queueing up the stairs.

  Lew felt great. Screw the snow. Nothing could stop him now.

  He hopped down the stairs to the food level, bouncing past dead-ahead-focused yuppies and turtle-slow tourists, and up to the coffee stand in the center. He spotted a young cashier. Pimples. Headphones. Bored. Perfect. Lew lingered there, waiting for the line to dwindle. Just as a woman was leaving, he turned quickly to the cashier before the kid could close the register.

  “Say,” Lew said. “Can you do me a big favor and give me a ten-dollar bill for ten singles?”

  “Yeah, okay,” the cashier said, not even looking up. Classic.

  Lew held out the bills. With the register open, the cashier picked up a ten and handed it to Lew. They exchanged bills at the same time. Lew pocketed the ten. Then as the kid was trying to count, Lew said, “Oh, pardon me, I think I only gave you nine. You’d better check. I’ve got to tell you, I’m a cash user. I love using cash. All these fancy debit cards and PayPals, it’s just not the same, know what I mean? I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy.”

  The cashier counted the bills. His lips moved as he did it. “Yeah, it’s only nine.” In a mumble.

  “Well, here you go, here’s another single,” Lew said. “Wait, wait a minute. You know what? Might as well give me a twenty. I hate singles. But I love twenty-dollar bills.” He handed over eleven singles altogether.

  “Uh huh.”

  The cashier handed him a twenty.

  “Thanks,” Lew said. “You’re great.”

  Lew walked away from the stand, ten dollars richer. It was a simple trick, a short con, but he couldn’t help himself. He walked back upstairs, through the throngs, whistling.

  Lew stood at a row of what he figured were some of the last remaining public phones in the civilized world and dialed Bernie.

  “Bernie! The pineapple is sweet.”

  “What?” Bernie sounded nasal.

  “It’s happening,” Lew said. “The pigeon is ready to be picked.”

  “Oh, Lew. Gosh, I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry? What?”

  “I feel lousy. I mean, Lew, I think I’ve come down with the flu. Must have been from that dogface kid nex—”

  “Flu? We’ve been setting this up for months. Not to mention how long it took to build the roll.”

  “I understand that, Lew, but—”

  “Men in our business don’t call in sick.”

  Bernie blew his nose loudly, then sniffled. “That seems a bit extreme, Lew, I think. Don’t you—”

  “Why didn’t you tell you felt sick last night at the bar?”

  “
I wasn’t so bad then, and—”

  “Well, you have to get here.”

  “Lew, I’m sorry. I really feel like crap. And with this weather, I could catch pneumo—”

  “I’m not kidding, Bern. The trick doesn’t work without you. If I wait another day or two he might cool off. I need this one. I got Madga, Queen of the Shoppers, chained to me, and I have exactly twenty bucks to bequeath to my heirs, should I pass yonder this very moment.” Lew did half a genuflection. “The good faith roll is all I have left to my name.”

  “Listen, I worked it out. I called Pete and he can be there. He’ll be—”

  “Pete, your college-kid cousin from Red Hook? He’s no slouch. He’ll be smoother at Carswell than you.”

  “Oh, and about the Hyatt. All the rooms—”

  “What about the Hyatt?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. That’s a no-go. I checked with Jose. All the rooms are booked on account of—”

  “So it’ll have to be in here some place. Gotta think. Nothing’s going to stop this deal, Bernie. Certainly not the flu. The Queen needs a shopping spree, and she’s gonna get it. She’s a pain in the ass, but it’s my ass.”

  “Hey, Lew, listen, so, Pete says he’ll meet you at eleven at the clock thing in—”

  “In the center, yeah. Got it.”

  “I’m really sorry, Lew. I—”

  Lew slammed the phone onto the receiver so hard it made his hand sting. He looked up to see a cop watching him. Giving him the stink eye. Lew gave him a weak smile and moved on.

  Lew went back to the food concourse and had to walk around a few times to find a seat. The only one was in a sea of empty tables radiating ten feet in all directions from a very large homeless man sitting at a table in the center. There was a reek. Lew had smelled worse. He sat down.

  He opened up a Metro that lay on the table next to his and began working on the Sudoku puzzle. He idly wrote in the numbers and thought back to how he had roped in Kiner. Someone had told Bernie that Kiner was a businessman looking for a way to the big time. Warren Kiner, King of the Kiosks.