The Retirement Plan

Chapter 22

The stocky man approached the walled villa on foot when the plain, black metal gate trundled into motion. He did a quick about-turn, back in the direction he had come from. The MG blew past, followed a few moments later by the minivan, minus a rear window. He waited until both cars were out of sight before breaking into a run.

Some forty minutes later, following the winding road through the mountains, the stocky man spotted the MG parked by a wooded copse. While debating whether to risk getting out and proceeding on foot, a loud explosion shattered the bucolic silence.

Thick black smoke rose over the top of the green firs. Had Vic's body gone up with the minivan? Surely, those two brain-deads would have exercised more caution when disposing of a corpse. Then again, what kind of dumb ass sons-of-bitches set fire to a vehicle in a wooded area? And where was the other man, this Christian? Probably back at the villa, guarding Vic. That was a logical conclusion. Yet, not much by way of logic had occurred in the past twelve hours.

* * *

Phil parked the Jag by the curb, switched the engine off. And sat staring out the windscreen, like a writer waiting for inspiration. In his head, he pictured his ex-wife, imagined how the conversation would go. Conversation implied a spoken interchange of thoughts; this promised to be a screamed exchange of abuse, with the majority of said abuse directed at him.

The longer he sat there, the more reasons he came up with to drive away, but none more compelling than his family's safety. He looked at his unshaven features in the rear-view mirror, moistened his fingertips with saliva and fixed his wayward, steel gray hair into place. Ran a finger over the black sacks under his eyes that made him look older than Greek mythology. At least they complemented the fading bruises. Sighing the sigh of a beaten fighter, he reached for the door handle.

Lucia answered the intercom on the third ring and buzzed him through the side-gate. She was already out on the steps, hands on her hips, before he'd made it halfway up the drive. Somehow, she looked younger than she had a year ago. Make-up free, but her olive-skinned face looked fresher than he remembered. Must be that Mediterranean diet doctors and health gurus were falling over themselves to recommend. Funny, he had existed on legumes, salads, and veg, drowned in olive oil for years, and he had gained more wrinkles than a Rhinoceros' scrotum.

"Hiya, Lou," he said, upbeat, friendly, showing he wasn't here to cause an argument.

"What happened your face?" Lucia asked with a hint of concern.

"The Botox didn't take."

"I have to be back at work in," Lucia said, glancing down at her bare wrist as though looking at a watch, "forty minutes. Whatever it is you want, make it snap."

"Snappy," Phil snapped. How many times did he have to correct her on that one? "It's—" He closed his eyes, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"What is it you want." The coolness in her tone could give you goosebumps on a sweltering Summer's day.

"We need to talk. Can we go inside?" Lucia turned on her heel and strode back into the white villa. Phil followed, psyching himself for the inevitable explosion.

He spied his World's Best Dad mug stood on its own under the wooden cup rack. Jennifer had gotten him that for his fortieth birthday. The handle broke off, where Phil had knocked it from the table, stretching to reach for his ringing cell phone.

"Old place looks the same," Phil said.

"That's because the only thing needed changing in this house was you," Lucia said in that sharp, cutting tone she seemed to reserve especially for him.