It was in that moment of pure, thoughtless, fury, when one becomes divorced from one's better judgment, and becomes one's own worst enemy, that Bob Margrove found himself with his hands wrapped around his wife's neck.
She had driven him to this, again.
Even now, with his hands at her throat, held back from throttling her to death by the last fragile thread of his self-control, she continued to harangue him with her harpy’s voice.
"You won't do it! You don't have the balls!" she laughed hoarsely, spraying saliva all over his face, "Those left you a long time ago, along with your sex drive! You're a worthless sack of NOTHING!"
That did it.
While it was true his sex drive had driven off a cliff in his middle-age, that hadn't always been case; and the fault that their thirty years of tumultuous marriage had produced no children lay clinically well-documented on her malfunctioning egg basket; nevertheless, as she damn well knew, this was the angle of attack that drew from him the most frothing, thought-destroying rage.
"Maybe if you didn't have such a LIMP DI---"
Margrove tightened his grip, cutting her off mid-word
Mrs. Margrove's eyes grew large, as she started to make choking sounds. Her hands pulled uselessly at his, and her head tried to shake in the attempt to negate what she had been spewing at him for the last few minutes; in the grim hope of taking it all back, just so she could breathe again.
But Mr. Margrove was beyond recall; with a ferocious smile that mixed anger with satisfaction, he choked the life out of his wife.
When she at last went limp, her eyes still open in horror; he released her and fell back. They both fell to the floor simultaneously, but she would not be getting back up on her own.
"Look what you made me do!" Mr. Margrove said, his heart beating like an out of control drum solo. At his age, and expanding girth, a heart-attack was a real possibility; so he tried to slow down his breathing to get his heart to stop thumping so damn loud.
It took awhile, but his heart eventually mellowed out.
Now there was the matter of his dead wife to contend with; but he had an ace in hole, and was not too concerned about ramifications. All the maids and servants worked only during the day, and they did not live on the premises. He had learned that lesson early; Danielle's freak-out moods tended to happen in the evenings, when she headed for the drink.
Mr. Margrove got up, and went to his dresser drawer. There, under his underwear, were four identical business cards. He picked one up.
It was an odd and muted shade of yellow, NICK OLSSON was printed in the dead center.
Under it, in italics was writ: I fix everything.
There was telephone number in the lower right corner, under the legend: Premium Services.
Mr. Margrove went to his phone and dialed the latter number. It only rang once, then a voice somehow silky, somehow raspy, answered with this: "Again, Mr. Margrove?"
By now used to Olsson's creepy way of always knowing it was him when he called, Margrove replied, if a little sheepishly, "Again, Mr. Olsson."
"This is the fifth time, Mr. Margrove. You do know my price increases every time I have to do this?"
"Yes, I know. I can afford it."
"I'll be right there, then."
"I'll leave the gate open."
It was his golf buddy, Tim Lafkin, who first let him in on the best-kept secret among the well-to-do in their area. Especially those with anger and self-control issues.
They were playing a round, when Bob admitted to Tim how close to the edge Danielle was driving him; how he knew one day he would snap.
"So why don’t you divorce her?" Tim asked. He managed to keep a straight face before the both of them started laughing.
The prospect of a divorce from a wife used to the good life, who knew where her husband's skeletons were hidden, was absurd. Prenup or no prenup, a good shark lawyer would know how to drag it all out in the public, and make the husband pay dearly, one way or the other.
Lafkin stopped, and took out his wallet.
"Should you ever find yourself in a pickle; there's this guy who'll help you with that."
From one of the pockets in the wallet, Lafkin retrieved a business card. There was another just like it behind it. He handed the card to Margrove.
"A repair man?!" Margrove said, insulted, "Is this a joke?"
"I'm not joking, Bob." Lafkin said, dead serious, "He fixes things, and he fixes people. I know how that sounds, but he helped me when I had an...incident...with my daughter. I was alone and afraid, and called my lawyer friend Bellman. He told me about Olsson, and his Premium Service. I called, he came, and he fixed Joanna. I don't know how he does it, and I don't want to know. All I know is that I got my Joanna back, and she didn't remember a thing. That's part of what he does, you know; he fixes their memories, so they don't remember. He's discreet, but expensive; and he only takes cash. If you need a repeat visit, however; the price goes up. Just call that number. You'll thank me for it."
And he did.
That was over a year ago, and Margrove had needed multiple visits.
The front doorbell rang, and Margrove ran to the door to open it. He looked through the peephole, and saw Olsson standing there, on his doorstep.
Physically, he was a young man; tall and thin, dressed in crisp black pants and a matching suit, over a white shirt and red tie. He had a pale youthful face, and raven black hair; but his knowing eyes belied his youth. In his left hand he carried what looked like a black carpet bag, from its stylized wooden handles.
Outside there was still some light left in the day, but it was raining. Despite this, Mr. Olsson was perfectly dry, and as usual, there was no car or cab in the driveway behind him.
Just how Olsson managed to reach Margrove's secluded manse at all hours without any apparent vehicle (or without getting wet, in this case), was just one of the many mysteries that surrounded the man.
The last time Margrove had needed his services, he planted himself in the windows facing the front door. Seeing no one, he was startled by the ringing of the doorbell. He threw opened the door, and found Mr. Olsson there waiting, as now.
Now, as then, Margrove gestured Mr. Olsson to enter.
"Has it been raining long?" he asked. In his screaming match with Danielle, he had not noticed the arrival of inclement weather.
"Not long," Mr. Olsson replied, "It rolled in maybe ten, fifteen, minutes ago. Is your wife in your room?"
"Yes." Margrove said, and led Olsson up the stairs to his room.
"What was it this time?" Olsson asked.
Margrove stopped at the top of the stairs, turned around, and made choking gestures with his hands around his own throat.
They reached the room, and looked down at Danielle's body.
"This is becoming a habit with you and your wife, isn't it?' Olsson said.
Margrove didn't answer. He helped Olsson carry Danielle to the bed. Her eyes were still open.
"Alright then, leave me to my work."
From the beginning, Olsson had demanded total privacy for whatever it was he did to bring Danielle back from the dead; and sneaking a peek was a big no-no, and grounds for his quick departure, job unfinished.
Margrove left the room, closing the door behind him. He marched to his office and went to his safe. He unlocked it, and retrieved enough cash to cover Mr. Olsson's price. He put the money in a paper sack, and walked back. There was no hurry, though; whatever it was that Mr. Olsson did, it took a good ten to fifteen minutes or so.
All there was left to do was wait.
Light flashed from the crack under the door, like paparazzi swarming a celebrity, but there was no sound. Olsson neither spoke nor chanted, he did his job in dead silence; only the flashes of light gave proof that something was indeed occurring in there.
At last the door was opened, and Olsson stepped out. He met Margrove in the hall and opened his carpet bag. Margrove placed the sack of cash in there. Olsson didn't bother counting it; Margrove suspected he would know if someone tried to cheat him.
As always, the carpet bag was empty when he did this. Yet, it always seemed hefty, somehow.
Olsson gave Margrove another one of his cards. Margrove didn't bother telling him he had some already, as it didn't seem to matter; it was one of Olsson's little eccentricities that he always had to provide the customer with a new card.
With that, Margrove led Olsson back downstairs and to the door.
"Good night, Mr. Margrove," he said, "Until next time I see you."
Margrove closed the door, and went back up to his room.
Danielle's eyes were closed, and was sleeping soundly. She looked peaceful, and had not a single bruise around her throat.
As the times before, she would likely wake up fuzzy-headed, without any memory of the last few hours, or the violent events that had occured within. He would tell her she had taken a nap, and she would believe it. What was there to doubt?
The premium fix was fantastic that way.
Margrove began cleaning up some of the evidence of the rather explosive argument/fight in the room, that had ended with Danielle's death. This included her purse, that had been knocked from the dresser, upside down to the floor, spilling it's contents.
Margrove bent down and turned the purse over slowly.
Above him, on the bed, Danielle emitted a light, coming-to-wakefulness, groan. So Margrove hastened in scooping the purse's much too many contents back inside, until he was stopped by an object that caught his eye.
It was a small credit card caddie, with pockets for credit cards, coupons, pictures, and things of that sort; but it was what was in those pockets that stopped him cold.
Two business cards, of an odd and muted shade of yellow.
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