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Throughout dinner, Ron, Hector, and even good-guy Ben couldn’t stop staring at PJ. Ron became somewhat shameless after his third bourbon. He sat to PJ’s left and touched her arm every time she talked. Carla kept side-eyeing her and looked like the skinless Terminator—mean, rigid, and red eyed. Tony noticed for sure, the way his eyebrows raised quickly, the rubbing of the back of his neck, the yawn. Still, he remained patient, with his arm around the back of her chair, sneaking kisses whenever they could while Carla scoffed in their direction. If he only knew about the trouble he was in. That he could’ve been in. He was lucky that Kim had the job, not some other random person. Did The Stranger know about her past with Tony? This couldn’t be a coincidence. She felt like such a fool. A played, stupid fool, and she’d make sure things were set right. Somehow. Everyone at the table talked, laughed, and shared stories. Ron was a little smashed, and as he shared his expensive bottle with his guests, he knocked over a glass of wine, the stem cracking as the wine pooled on a plate. The incident came and went, and they were all back to their loud, obnoxious, masters-of-the-universe actions. They didn’t all know it, but they were swimming in shark-infested waters in the dark. Who was going to bite first? And who were they going to bite? It didn’t matter. Kim never put that pill into Tony’s bourbon. She never poured the liquid onto his dessert. No one was going to die tonight. As usual, they were the last table at closing time. The club closed at ten, but Carla reveled in keeping the staff later than they had to be there. Peasants. After every dinner, Ron would grab an expensive bourbon from his private locker, and the guys would all have a glass at the bar before they left. Kim had just dropped the individual checks at Tony’s table, the poisons still in her pocket. She’d failed at her task, and she didn’t know what the fallout for that would be. She didn’t even know who she’d been dealing with the past week—The Stranger was just that—but there was going to be hell to pay. She was sure of it. She was going to have to return the money, and Murphy’s precious life was going to be the price. Waiting for them to sign their respective checks, Kim noticed PJ’s face go red. PJ swallowed very quickly, then her big blue eyes strained, bugged out, frightened. She screwed up her face and clutched her throat, then hit the table twice with her right hand. Hard. “PJ?” Tony turned toward her, his brows dented. “Peej? Are you okay?” She hit the table again. She couldn’t talk. “Is she choking?” Ron asked, then took it upon himself to lift her and attempt the Heimlich. Kim thought it was a cheap way to cop a feel. Carla’s horrified face said the same. “She can’t be choking. There’s no food left on the table!” Tony screamed to Ron, ripped PJ from his arms, and lightly shook her. “PJ!” Holy shit. Her eyes were open, but she was frozen. She looked like she wanted to talk but couldn’t. Her body started to contort, like she was doing a backbend; it stayed that way as she rolled out of Tony’s grip. What was happening to her? She couldn’t have been poisoned. PJ wasn’t the target tonight. Tony was. “Does she have an allergy?” Emiko asked, panicked. “No. No allergies. Someone, help! Call 9-1-1!” Tony said to no one. He pushed everything off the table. Carla skidded back in her chair, but not before some of that billion-dollar wine spilled and dripped on her couture. She made a disapproving noise—to hell with the dying woman—as Tony ripped the tablecloth off and placed it on the floor. He laid PJ down gently, stroking her head while demanding everyone give her room. He dipped the cloth napkins in the leftover water and patted her forehead. “Come on, Peej. Hang on, baby. Hang on.” There were real tears in his eyes. They were in everyone’s eyes. PJ looked like a monster, her body twisted in a way no body ever should. Horrific didn’t begin to describe it. She looked like she just crawled out of a well and then through the television to kill everyone around her. Except she was frozen into that shape. No crawling. No movement at all. Everyone at that table stood and stared in shock. Dana screamed that the ambulance was on its way. “Come on, Peej. Come on, baby,” Tony said, her limp head in his lap. Her eyes were still open, as was her mouth, her tongue hanging out. Her head leaned to the right like dead weight. Her back still didn’t touch the ground. She was an arc. Tony’s face was close to hers as he whispered in her ear. Tears fell from his eyes, dripping down onto her face. “Come on, Peej. Please. Someone help her, please!” He was desperate. Pounded the ground next to her. “Peej, please, baby.” Tony placed his fingers on her wrist. “She still has a pulse, but it’s weak.” Ron approached. “Listen to her heart.” He bent down like he was going to put his face near her tits, and Tony shoved him away with his left arm and did it himself. “Where’s the goddamn ambulance?” Tony shouted, tears staining his cheeks. “Come on, Peej.” She made a guttural, vibrating noise. Kim recognized it; everyone in their old Italian neighborhood called it the death rattle. By the time the ambulance arrived, there was nothing that could be done. Although she was still breathing, barely, they couldn’t even move her, like rigor mortis had already set in. She gasped for that last breath, memorializing her body into that awful shape while she was still alive. Ten seconds later, there were no more breaths. No gasps. It was official: PJ was dead. And if Kim had done her job, Tony would be dead too. Someone there wanted them both dead. But who? And why?
