Pole Star (Z-Spot Diaries Book 3) Read online

  POLE STAR

  by

  ZOE SCARLATTI

  The Z-Spot Diaries - Episode 3

  A well-conceived disguise was part of Zoe’s professional toolbox. First and foremost, law enforcement took a dim view of contract killing. A rather regressive stance she thought considering police spent the majority of their time justifying their own actions while defending the public. Why could they not acknowledge Zoe’s vocational exploits reduced the number of bad guys on the street? Sure a few civilians get clipped along the way. Cost of doing business.

  And if you take a broader view, everybody dies. The targets Zoe hit generally had it coming in one sense of another. Zoe was conscientious. Never in front of the children. And she always cleaned up her brass. Is there a problem here?

  The disguise. Zoe found as the years passed by, she dedicated more and more time to costume, make-up and props. Her Shrink had suggested it was tied to Zoe’s need to hide from her responsibilities. That the stress involved in assuming the leadership of a vast criminal empire…

  that was as far as the once good doctor had made it. Zoe found it good security to cap her analysts every couple of years. This one lasted merely seven months. He’d been late for two recent appointments in any case. No great loss.

  But there was an element of truth to what turned out to be the doctor’s dying declaration. Zoe had become obsessed with altering her appearance, even in circumstances where it was plainly unnecessary. Hair weaves, bronzers, colored contacts and acrylics were just the beginning. It was everything she could do to refrain from scheduling an appointment with a local Botox wizard.

  Nearing age 50, Zoe had finally earned a seat at the table when it came to administering the family business. She and her sister Andi as well. It was tough in a Roman Catholic family. Doubly so when your aging father was “The Boss.” Even with Uncle Carlo’s tacit support, it meant daily impact against a gender-defined glass ceiling which had been in place in Italian Organized Crime since before Leonardo da Vinci.

  Today was reconnaissance. Get the lay of the land. So to speak. Zoe was driving west on Ives Dairy Road in North Miami. The mark was as entertainer. An actress. Currently between roles. And presently plying her charms, skills and ample bosom at the not-quite world-famous Tootsies Cabaret.

  As she passed through the neon blandishments surrounding the main entrance, Zoe asked herself again why she assumed the risks attendant to this division of the family’s business. She could take a step back. Let younger family members handle this end. Hungry soldiers, some of whom Zoe had victimized sexually over the years, were anxious to earn their bones. Become a made guy.

  But the truth was, Zoe loved the work. She had never found a sense of satisfaction comparable to that of the contract well executed. A View to a Kill. The Thrill of it All. The Heart of Darkness. Whatever. There was no poetry to it. No rational explanation. She was good at it. And it turned her on.

  Now seated at a table in the VIP Lounge, having left instructions, and $100, indicating she preferred to remain alone. Zoe ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon and settled in to enjoy the show.

  Frequently commentators suggested there was a sadness to strip joints. The exploitation. The shame. Truth was, the same spoiled sports hated women, or sex, or both. There was an energy here, an electricity that was celebrated by women. And often for women. A reality Zoe was not unqualified to comment on herself.

  She had learned of Mandy’s schedule with some investigation on the girl’s Facebook page. The client had provided a photo. That particular snap not incidentally featured said client’s wayward husband.

  The classic “Boy meets Girl” story. Where in this case, boy is married to an angry bitch, and the girl is a dancer that perhaps augments her income with dynamic extracurriculars. The wife wanted the situation rectified, perhaps overlooking the fact her spouse’s dick found itself inside Mandy. Enter Zoe. And if past performance was any indication of future outcome…no muss, not much fuss, and a douchebag lawyer returns to the cold bed of a greedy wife. Only to press the repeat button at some time in the not too distant future.

  But work was work. Don’t overcomplicate it. Enough faulty narratives out there without creating a new one. Stick to the plan. Clip the vixen. Bank $150K. Kick it at the pool on Key Biscayne while Boston gets hammered with another blizzard.

  A sip of champagne. The DJ making announcements about upcoming feature performers. Drink and dinner specials. And across the room Zoe saw the client, sitting next to the husband. And staring menacingly at Mandy as she prepared to take the stage.

  The principal that generally applies in situations like this is analogous to the tried and true Damn the Torpedoes. Zoe preferred the new millennium corollary of Get the Fuck Out While the Getting’s Good.

  But Zoe stayed put and sipped her champagne.

  She reasoned she was clean here. The gun she was carrying was licensed to the lawful owner. Not Zoe to be certain. But an administratively sound nexus at a minimum. The client had clearly not seen Zoe as of yet. And if she had, there would be scant chance of a credible description. She’s been disguised at their one and only previous meet. And contrary to her earlier observations regarding identity, Zoe was wearing her favorite wig today. One an earlier mark had referred to as Hooker Hair in honor of Julia Roberts’s flop top in Pretty Woman.

  Mandy was half way through her set and was, on her worst day, a stunning apparition of girlhood. A Scandinavian Goddess over six feet tall with cascading white blonde hair. A body so very toned you could slice…well…your body on it. With pleasure. Thor’s wife’s darkest nightmare.

  Mandy had spotted her shlubby Sugar Daddy and his not-so-Dewey, but oh-so-Jewey wife. And Mandy was playing it to full affect. And effect. She shook her tail feather at the couple with such deliberation, they very nearly hit the floor. The aggrieved wife hurled vituperative invective so loudly, security strolled by for a look. Mrs. Soon-to-be Ex-Client then pitched an ashtray across the room and caused a mirror on the ornate back bar to shatter.

  Zoe reevaluated her departure schedule and sipped a half glass of bubbly. Just as she was about to call for the check, she noticed ten very pink toes in front of her Jimmy Choos.

  “Can I dance for you darling?” She treated Zoe to an almost knowing smile. Zoe had seen it before. But in light of what soon would follow, had Mandy sensed something? Or did her line of work serve to crystalize intuition. Zoe had already made a decision.

  She knew it was the wrong move. Zoe looked past the magnificent mammary sculpture that obscured her view to the right. The client was dragging her husband towards the door by his hair. Zoe would have wagered that Hair Club For Men was involved in that relationship in a meaningful way.

  “Absolutely Mandy,” Zoe said. “But I need to grab something in the car.” Zoe stood. Mandy touched her on the check in a way that made Zoe’s meniscus vibrate. And she was gone.

  Once Zoe crossed the parking lot, she came upon the lovebirds bitching at each other like Richard Sherman and…well…anyone. Zoe climbed into her car and waited for the husband’s Lincoln to roll out of the parking lot. Fortunately they lived close by in Aventura. Having attended law school in Miami many years ago, Zoe was able to arrive at the client’s home nearly ten minutes ahead and waited next to the garage.

  Good fortune smiled down on her for once and the couple drove into the detached structure together. Them it took only five minutes to erase the two with what Rick Scott might describe as a lethal combination of humane chemicals. Zoe then turned the Lincoln back on and closed the door. Exhaust fumes can be deadly if proper ventilation protocols are not observed. In fact more people die from that sort of risk than do from more pedestrian pe
rils. Excluding intimate contact with an attractive assassin from Boston’s North End.

  Zoe seated herself again in the VIP Lounge where her champagne had been iced, and a fresh glass left with a ripe strawberry on the rim. Mandy approached the table, smiled brilliantly, and held her hand out to Zoe. Mandy escorted her through a narrow corridor and into a small but elegantly appointed room. They were the only two people there. It felt to Zoe like the only two alive in the universe.

  Without a word, Mandy leaned forward and kissed Zoe hard on the mouth. Impossibly long fingers on the nape of Zoe’s neck. Mandy whispered:

  “When you took me home last night, your intensity scared me a little. You made me feel wonderful. But there seemed to be something troubling you too. Did I do something wrong?”

  “No Mandy,” Zoe said. “You did absolutely everything right. As I know you will again tonight.” Zoe paused. “Just write it off to the pressures of my job.”

  “I’d never felt such…ferocity, I guess.” Mandy smiled and tilted her magnificent head. “I really thought you were going to kill me.” Another smile from Mandy. Self-deprecating, while retaining a lascivious edge Zoe knew came from the core.

  “Everybody dies Mandy,” Zoe said. “Let’s just take it a night at a time.”

  ###

  @ZoeScarlatti

 

 

  ZOE SCARLATTI, Pole Star (Z-Spot Diaries Book 3)

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