He also enjoyed playing that game with other people, reallive people whose death he could enjoy with no danger to himself. Of course when he said “people” he meant girls, young women, teens—older too, though forty or thereabouts was his limit. He preferred the tight body of youth to the overblown tumultuous flesh of the older woman. Like, for instance, the young blonde racing across the street, dodging traffic with a cheeky wave and a big smile as cars screeched around her, making for the very café where he sat, sipping his lemonade.
Folding his arms across his massive chest, the Boss leaned back in his chair—the extra-large one the café kept specially for him—enjoying the sight. Medium-tall, slender, with long legs shown off to perfection in short white shorts that also showed off her pert butt, and a black tank top with, thank God, no insignia inscribed across it. Instead he could take note of her small high breasts, bouncing attractively as she skipped through the traffic, noticed, of course, by every man in the café, as well as by the irate drivers. She stopped suddenly in the middle of the road. Cars screeched to a halt, windows were lowered, angry shouts made her shake her head and point down at the small sausage dog tangled in its lead around her own ankle.
“Sorry,” she mouthed. “So sorry, oh dear. Oh, gosh darn it, Sossy, get a move on, won’t you?” And the dog miraculously untangled itself and shot forward, jerking her off her sneakered feet and onto the sidewalk fronting the café.
The Boss admired her as she stood for a minute, a hand on her hip, dog lead wrapped securely around her wrist, surveying the crowded terrace. There were no free tables, there never were in the early evening, when everyone stopped for an aperitif, though inside the place was empty. He saw her mouth the word shit, almost thought he caught a hint of a stamp of her foot, but no, surely not.… Whatever, it was an opportunity sent from heaven.
“Mademoiselle…” He waved, caught her eye. “There’s a free chair here, if you don’t mind sharing. I’ll be leaving soon anyway, then you can have it all to yourself, and your little dog, of course. Looks like a sweetheart,” he added, though he was obviously not referring to the dog.
Verity heaved a sigh of relief. “You are so kind to offer, I mean, you don’t know me or anything and sharing is such a … well, intimate … thing, isn’t it? Especially with a stranger.”
“My pleasure,” he said as the waiter appeared out of nowhere to adjust the chair, set down napkins, a coaster for her, a bottle of Perrier, chilled glasses. He noticed there was no ring on her finger; not married then, or engaged, a free spirit perhaps. Or there was a divorce. Either way, it was good.
“You can’t imagine how grateful I am,” Verity rattled on, exhausted from chasing the dog around the back streets. She had already stuffed it in the car and had simply turned to get something when it took off. “You’d never think a small dog like this could move so fast,” she said, finally managing a smile and remembering her manners. “Thank you so much, Mr.…?”
“Bergen.” He held out a large hand that almost swallowed hers as she took it. “Around here they call me the Boss.”
“Wow. You must really be somebody. I myself go by the name of Verity. I am currently choosing to forget my last name, until a more appropriate time.”
The name Verity rang like a clarion call through his brain. He leaned back in his chair, the cane creaking under his bulk, arms crossed, hands flat against his chest, and eyelids half lowered as he took her in. He was looking at the young woman whose death in the car accident he had ordered, for no good reason other than she was Mirabella Matthews’s friend and companion. Her bad luck, his good fortune.
He allowed a small worried frown to cross his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, to intrude … I simply wanted to make your acquaintance.”
She was smiling at him, sipping the icy Perrier, burping softly on the bubbles. The dog nudged her foot and she took a couple of ice cubes, put them in the saucer meant for the waiter’s tip, and set it on the ground. The dog licked, took a step back, looked up at her, and growled.
“There’s thanks for you,” he said, patting its golden-brown head. It growled again.
“Okay Sossy, I’ll get you the real thing,” she said, but with the flick of a hand he beat her to it. A waiter appeared with a bowl of water for the dog who proceeded to splash it lavishly all over Verity’s sneakers as he lapped.
“Good dog,” she said happily.
A second waiter appeared bearing a tray with duck paté, St. Aubin cheese, black and green olives, and chunks of sliced baguette.
“Oh, and lucky us,” Verity said, even more happily. “In fact, just what I felt like.”
“Surprising how I guessed,” he said, laughing.
Looking up at him, she said, “Well, now we’ve introduced ourselves, can I ask what brings you to the South of France, Mr. Boss?”
“Please, just ‘Boss.’ And to answer your question, I have a place here, a villa up in the hills. I come here often. In fact it’s my favorite home.”
Verity’s eyes widened, she was impressed. “So, exactly how many homes do you have?”