Mary Anne spends the afternoon wandering around Texorami, getting the feel of the city. She’s particularly taken with a fountain at a little square near downtown; she sits on the rim and watches people go by until the sun starts to set. Then she heads for the country club that Ramon mentioned. She slips inside, convincing the (armed) men at the door that she has a membership, she just doesn’t have her ID on her—these little dresses, you know, no pockets. She takes a seat at the bar and is on her second drink when Robert Landa, police chief of Texorami, comes in from the golf course.
She glances over at him, careful to let her eyes meet his, then looks away, blushing. It’s enough to convince him to have a post-game cocktail. He sits a respectful two seats away, and the game begins.
She introduces herself as Anna Maria; he tells her to call him Bobby. He buys her third drink of the evening and asks her why he hasn’t seen her around before. She blushes. "Can you keep a secret?” she asks, leaning in just a little. "It’s really my husband’s membership. I mean, it’s technically mine, but I never really wanted to come with him and now..."
She takes a sip of her drink. "We’re getting divorced. I figured if I didn’t take advantage of it now, I might never get the chance. No doubt he’ll get it in the settlement."
"I wish I could say I’m sorry," he quips, "but if it weren’t for his stupidity, I might never have gotten to meet you."
She laughs. "Shameless flattery...I like your style."
They spend the better part of an hour flirting before he suggests they continue the conversation somewhere else.
"You have any place in mind?" she asks.
"I know somewhere," he says. "Better drinks than here, and music--"
"I like music," she chirps with the enthusiasm of the fairly intoxicated.
He laughs. "Then let’s not waste any more time."
She walks out the door with her arm linked in his and a little extra sway in her hips.
They don’t go to Random’s club, of course. The place Landa has in mind is more of a restaurant than an actual club, though it does have the well-stocked bar and good music he promised. He leads her to a table just beside the small dance floor and orders drinks for them both.
She murmurs something generic about the place while she takes it in; he smiles and says, "You’ve never been here before?"
She shakes her head. "My hus--ex-husband came here once, a friend of mine said. He was with someone else."
"I’m sorry," he murmurs, laying his hand over hers. She can tell he both wants to comfort her, and get a read on how she feels about affairs.
"It’s alright," she replies, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. "We were falling apart at that point, anyway. Truth be told, I was more jealous of her for coming here than coming with him."
"But here you are," he says, smiling.
"Mhm." She takes a sip of her cocktail, her fingers twining lightly with his. "Do you dance?"
"I do actually." He tilts his head towards the empty floor. "Shall we?"
She practically beams at him. "I think we shall."
This is how they end up entwined in the middle of the dance floor—her hand on his neck, his hand in the small of her back, her arm around his shoulder, his hand at her hip—heads tilted together as they sway to the beat. He hasn’t kissed her yet, but she can tell that he wants to. His fingers play up and down her spine, stroking over the (tattoo) skin her dress leaves exposed.
"If you don’t want to...leave with me," he murmurs in her ear, "I understand."
"No," she whispers against his throat. "Just lead the way."
He hits the bed first, her knees landing on either side of his hips. His hands slide up her thighs, pushing her short skirt higher. She bends down and kisses him, his face cradled between her hands. Gradually, her hands slip down to tug his shirt free of his pants, fingers tearing haphazardly at buttons.
Landa attempts to flip their positions, she rocks her hips in counterpoint, and he gives up the attempt, moaning faintly. Mary Anne kisses a line down and up his throat. "Honey," she sighs. "There’s something I gotta tell you..."
"What is it, baby?" he asks, hands slipping up her thighs and over her hips, settling firmly on her ass.
"The thing is..." She reaches up, one hand slipping behind her neck, seeming to fiddle with the halter ties to her dress.
"What is it?" Landa repeats, more gently this time. He even takes a hand off her ass.
"Ramon sent me."
She has one perfect moment to savor the look on his face—shock that creeps to rage and just a hint of fear—before she draws the sword and buries it in his throat.
Ramon wanted this man to be an example. The body is too damn much to move.
The head is left on the rim of the fountain in the square.
The tongue she keeps for herself.