Short Story:
SWEETENING THE POT
by D.A. Davenport
I paused on the stoop of the worn-down brownstone and glanced at the address on the slip of paper handed to me by the detective earlier that day. I had hired him to follow my husband. I knew Elliot was cheating on me with another woman. This was far from the first during the course of our marriage so I wasn't shocked.
However, the strength of the attachment had surprised me. His dalliances were no longer being confined to speak-easies and cat-houses but this was the first time that I had known my position as wife and mother to the heirs to be threatened. I wanted to confront the gold digging little slut on her own turf. I adjusted my snug-fitting felt hat and picked a small piece of lint off my wool jacket. I always feel forearmed when I am putting my best appearance forward. I walked firmly up the four flights of stairs and knocked on the door.
The woman who opened it was exactly what I had expected. Bleached hair, thickly beaded eyelashes, bee-stung lips, soiled silk kimono. The mascara was smudged beneath her large, slightly protuberant eyes and a brown fleck of tobacco clung to her lower lip. Her appeal was lost to me and I wondered if her main attributes lay hidden somewhere under the garishly colored robe. She was hideously cheap. Considering Elliot's downwardly spiraling taste in mistresses, it seemed fitting that the woman selected to replace me as his spouse would reek of a Brooklyn tenement.
"What?" she snapped.
"Hello. My name is Barbara Pettijohn. I believe you know my husband." I held out my hand.
To her credit, she didn't turn a split-end on that frowzy head. I stood there as she shrewdly appraised me; the betrothal ring on her finger was big enough to choke my Pekinese to death. I could see her calculating the cost of my Chanel suit, mentally licking her chops at the prospect of developing a taste for designer clothing. She stepped aside.
"Come on in." She turned as she closed the door behind us. "Look here, Barbara..."
"I must insist on Mrs. Pettijohn. I am, after all, still entitled."
"Not for long." Her sharp laugh sliced the fetid air of the apartment, an 
appalling mixture of her last carton of Lucky Strikes and boiled cabbage with sausages. It was nauseating. Holding a linen handkerchief heavily scented with An Evening In Paris perfume to my nose, I sniffed delicately.
"I see that my husband has never been here. You two must have a room elsewhere."
"How'dya know that?"
"Elliot may have lost his taste in women, but he still has a sense of hygiene."
"Lady, if you're just gonna get nasty, you can get the hell out."
"I'm sorry. That was very rude of me. But honestly, you really must expect a bit of resentment." I couldn't afford to antagonize the tramp, not until she had heard my proposition.
She snorted. " Good God, you society dames are somethin' else! The madder ya get, the more polite ya are. It ain't healthy!" She walked over to the bar.
"Whiskey?" she asked.
"It's a little early. But all right."
She poured a couple and handed me one as she sat in a chair opposite me.
"Here's to love." And she toasted me with her rot-gut, made in someone's basement. "Ya know... I ain't givin' him up."
"I doubted you would. But I thought I'd give it my best shot."
"Whadda ya have in mind?"
"You see, my marriage is... shall we say... less than passionate. Elliot loves his clubs and whores much more than he loves me or our children. In a way, I wouldn't actually mind a divorce. He'd provide a marvelous settlement for me; that is only right considering my social standing and the fact that I will be considered a tragically wronged wife. However, the status I have as Elliot Pettijohn's wife is considerable and I don't wish to give that up. "
"Quit yammerin' and get to the point."
"I'll give you twenty-five thousand dollars to leave him."
"You got to be kiddin'. I put in a lot of hours on my back to hook Elliot and now that I've landed him, I ain't about to let him go."
"You're being too modest. I am quite certain it took more than the missionary position to capture Elliot's heart. But, I'm not being fair to a woman of your obvious talents...fifty thousand."
"I said no. You rich bimbos, you've got some kinda crust! You've had it so easy all your lives that you got no idea of what it means to have the world suddenly drop into your lap. You just expect it, like it's your right or something. Nah, this is my ticket out of this hellhole, and I paid in full for it."
"May I remind you that my children are involved? They have rights that must be protected."
"So hire a mouthpiece and protect the little Fauntleroys! That's your lookout, not mine."
"Then there is nothing I can do, no way I can appeal to you to do the decent thing and leave my family alone?"
"I'm lookin' out for Sadie, lady. I got priorities and you and your brats ain't high on the list."
I gave her a watery smile and held out my glass in concession. She had triumph written across her face as she turned and sauntered over to the bar once more. I stared as her kimono slipped down her shoulder, and I noticed a bright Chinese dragon tattooed along the cleft of her spine. It writhed and twisted with the movement of each back muscle. It was mesmerizing. It must drive Elliot mad, I thought. It would be hard, competing against her kind of audacity. But then, few people would suspect me of having a certain audacity, myself.
She blanched when she turned around to find a .44 in my hand, pointing towards the center of her impressive chest.
"What the..."
"Shut up and take your seat." She did as she was told.
"Now, it's my time to talk. But first, I want you to do something." I looked around until I found some cheap stationary and a pencil.
"Write exactly what I tell you...
Dear Elliot,
I am sorry, but I can't go through with this wedding. None of your family, or friends will accept me.
"I ain't gonna write this crap. I do that and you're gonna kill me!"
"The choice is yours. I may kill you, I may not. Do as I say, my dear; this way, you stand a chance." She bent over the paper and I continued.
"Your partners will hate me. I don't want to live like that. I'm too tired as it is. I just want it all to end.
Love, Sadie"
I looked it over and laid it on the coffee table.
"Now, I hope this note puts your position in a more serious light, and that you listen to me a little more intelligently this time. I am giving you something you and Elliot never considered allowing me, a choice in this matter. I am offering that $50,000 dollars one last time. However, I expect you to leave New York and never contact my husband again. I will not make this offer a third time. I suggest you think this over carefully."
She glared at me; if she had the chance she'd rip out my throat with her teeth.
"All right! I'll take it!"
"You're sure?"
"Screw you. I said yes."
I removed the fat envelope from my over-sized purse and handed it to her. I watched as she took her time counting it. When she was finished I walked past her towards the door, then paused.
"Appearances, unlike yours, are often deceiving, my dear. I wasn't born with a silver spoon up my ass. I scrambled up the hard way, just like you. Chicago can be a pretty rough town. I learned to shoot one of these things from Big Jim Colisimo himself. We were quite the couple back then. "
I returned, stood behind her and whispered close to her ear.
"By the way, a word of advice... never trust a girl from the South Side."
I put the muzzle to her temple and blew her brains out.
I'm not a stupid woman. The conniving bitch had snatched up that fifty grand way too fast.
I moved quickly. I wasn't worried about fingerprints; no lady ever leaves her house without wearing gloves. Pressing the gun into her hand, I let go so that it fell naturally to the floor. I brought my glass to the sink and rinsed it out, removing all trace of my lipstick. And I retrieved the cash, stuffing it in my alligator bag. I was out of there inside three minutes and nobody saw me leave the building.
At the corner, I looked at my wrist watch. Damn it, I was late again. I had wanted to bob my hair, like Louise Brooks or Joan Crawford, for a long time now, and Marcel could be such a prissy old maid if I was not on time for my appointments. I laughed out loud as I imagined handing him a $100 dollar bill from the envelope, as a tip.
I do love spending Elliot's money. I believe poor Sadie would have loved it, too.
About the Author:
D.A. Davenport is a writer living in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. She's been married to the same man for 33 years. She also lives with 2 mad Scottish Terriers, a sadly land-locked Chesapeake Bay Retriever, her Mom and whatever elk, deer, cougar and bear decide to visit that day. She has a grown son, who is the light of her life. She has been writing all her life, but it started getting put to paper about a year ago. She has always been a late bloomer.