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Three guys stood up. One, two, three. First Barry, of course.
Then the big guy seated at the table who went about 6'3" 245. Built like an NFL linebacker. And had he ever made it to college he might have ended up one. It was this guy, after standing up and tugging at his pants, who followed Barry into the john.
Frank was the last to stand. Him and his government-issue bullshit bag full of nothing. Which he carried with him out the bar's front door wondering, Was that a picture of a nude guy with a hard-on behind the fucking bar? Jesus!
Frank walked through empty parking lot's gravel to the building's rear where a black limo sat idling. Frank rapping knuckles on the Lincoln's trunk lid as he made his way around to the passenger side. He'd been needing to take a whiz for a good five minutes now, holding it in, enlarged prostate, and after tossing his bag in the back seat he turned his back to the door, unzipped and let it fly. Got some on his hands but, fuck it, he was in a hurry.
As soon as the door slammed Frank shouted up at the driver: "Get me the fuck outta here!"
Marie was at the stove, the chicken parm in one of her precious cast-iron skillets ready for the oven. That was her secret. First she cooked the chicken on the stovetop in gravy then, laced heavy with parmesan, she baked it in the oven until the cheese bubbled and browned. It was to die for. In it went, 400 degrees. Then a sip of Campari on ice, gone watery by now.
Then the doorbell rang. What the...?
Marie looked down at herself. Tried to make her abdomen go flat with a futile downward push of the hands. Too much bread and cheese, too much wine. She was putting on weight, lately. God forbid there was any other reason for it...
For the dreaded occasion Marie had donned her absolute sluttiest mall outfit: stretch blouse with plunging neckline; short-shorts, both top and bottom canary yellow with white trim; bare legs, knobby knees; high-heel sandals, cork-filled, a style that went out two years ago, but...; yesterday's pedicure. I look hot, Marie thought about herself. I owe the asshole that much I guess, after four years.
The doorbell confused her however. Barry had a key, Frank had a key. But wait. Frank wouldn't have carried off his keys to prison with him now, would he? And Barry...Well god knows Barry couldn't use his key to Frank's house in front of fucking Frank. Her husband would kill him. The chiming door suddenly made sense. And did she remember to set the timer on her iPhone? Twenty minutes' oven time for the baked parm?
Marie wore a matching white push-up bra and panty under her diaphanous yellow, courtesy of Victoria's Secret and Frank's credit card. It seemed to make sense, the white. Black would show through. On a couple of occasions while in the joint Frank had asked her to send him a pair of her panties. Why?
So I can feel close to you, babe.
Marie blew air. What the fuck was that all about? A boudoir shot from the calendar she'd had made for him one Christmas years back, and a pair of her panties. Lace, please. The pic she got; but the panties? Say what? Who knows what they get up to in prison, Marie thought. She just hoped it wasn't as weird and perverse as in her wildest dreams.
Marie looked through the spyhole. Her husband was standing there alone, looking fat. A limo sat in there driveway. Limo? Marie unbolted the door.
Frank still had his shades on. He stared. Glared, though it was hard to tell. "Four years and the first thing you have to say to me is where's fucking Barry?"
"No! He was...I mean...I thought he was picking you up."
Frank had brushed past. Not even an ass squeeze on the way in.
"News to me."
"What? No! He told he'd talked to you and you'd asked him to..."
Frank had ripped off his shades. They were aviator style, mirror lenses. He had bags under his eyes. Dark. Looked old beyond his middle age. "I cancelled."
"I told him to forget it.