Goodballoon's paunch

I don't know how long she'd been standing there, but her disgusted expression said it had been a while. I stood up, did up and tucked myself in, all the while trying to give the impression I hadn't meant to be doing what I was doing by tutting at my penis.
"Mr Goodballoon?" she said. I didn't want to commit.
"Maybe. Who's asking?"
"My name is Gretchen Mounten. My husband is Lance Mounten."
"The millionaire oil baron?" I asked, "Yeah, I'm Goodballoon." I'd probably jumped the gun a little at that. She smirked and looked me up and down, or maybe it was the other way around. I looked her up and down and smirked a little myself. We smirked a couple o' minutes more, our heads rocking up and down like the pump-jacks her husband owned. I took her in, or at least as far as you could take a broad of her size in. She had curves for two and she knew it.
"You like what you see, Mr Balloon?" she asked.
"It's Goodballoon, sweetheart." I hardballed. She wasn't getting me on the hook so easy. I'd known broads like her before. They always wanted one thing; when they realised I didn't have much of that thing, their attention wavered. I knew one who had actually asked after it the first time I met her. She drove straight off as soon as I described it. Rude, I'd call that.
"Sorry, Mr Goodballoon... or can I call you Jasper?"
"Let's keep it civil for now, Mrs Mounten. What can I do for you today?"
"It's my husband, Mr Goodballoon." She quivered slightly, her eyes darting to the floor. I followed them and realised house slippers with a suit is not the image I was after.
"Your old man? What of him?" I was getting sick of this phony act of hers. She wanted something and wouldn't ask for it. When I want something, I ask, like that time I wanted a spare tyre at the garage. "Can I have a tyre for my car?" I had asked.
"No." They had said, but at least I had asked. Anyway...
Mrs Mounten piped up.
"My husband... he's very much alive, Mr Goodballoon."
"Uh-huh. Good for him."
"Well that's my point: I want him dead." I looked her hard in the eye as her baby-blues drilled straight back at me. What the hell was she thinking? Why me? Why now? This broad was something else. Her bust was something else again. At that moment the door to the bathroom swung open. A figure stood in the doorway eyeing us suspiciously.
"You two gonna be long, I need to clean the cubicles before four?" she said. We left quickly.


Next episode: The assassin wore a tabard.