Leslie Langtry - I Shot You Babe

“You look like hell.” He smiled. “Rough night?”

“And morning,” I answered, running my hands through my hair. “Sorry I missed training.” I looked back at the door. “I was detained.”

Chudruk nodded. “It’s okay. Everyone’s taking the day off. I was coming to offer you the comfort of my goats, but I see you found other entertainment.”

I laughed. “Yeah. I don’t think I’ll need goats for a while.”

“Well, the offer still stands.” He held out a clothwrapped bundle. My stomach growled in appreciation as I opened it to find bread, cheese and milk. I nodded and took the bundle inside to give my sleeping woman breakfast in bed.

Ronnie pushed her hair away from sleepy eyes. “Was that Chudruk?” She smiled when she saw the food.

“Yes,” I answered as I handed her the cup of milk. “He had a tempting offer, but I told him I was giving up goats for you.”

“Wow. It’s good to know I can hold my own against a couple of smelly goats,” she said between sips.

I scratched my chin. “Oh, I don’t know. These are cashmere-producing goats. Very rare and very expensive.”

“Come on!” Ronnie rolled her eyes. “They’re just goats.”

Shaking my head, I replied, “Not really. You see, cashmere only comes from Mongolian and Chinese goats.” I stroked her stomach. “The hair on their bellies creates pure cashmere. These goats can’t live anywhere else in the world. And over the course of a year it takes three to four goats just to produce enough for one sweater.”

Veronica looked at me strangely. “How do you know that?”

I swallowed my food before responding. “Knitter, remember? And I love working with cashmere. It’s really expensive, though.”

She said nothing for a moment. “You know, every time I think I’ve got you pigeonholed, you completely freak me out.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good thing.” If I had hackles, they would have been rising about then.

“When I say ‘freaking out,’ I don’t mean to insult you,” she started.

“I don’t like the idea of being pigeonholed. Now, that’s insulting.” I kissed her on the forehead.

“Why would that insult you?” Veronica frowned as she got out of bed and started dressing.

“Because nobody should be a textbook anything. People are complicated. There’s no black and white.” I reached for Sartre, who began wheeking loudly, presumably for breakfast. “The fact that you thought you had me pegged when you first met me shows how wrong you turned out to be.”

“Wrong?” There was an edge in her voice that was hard to miss. “There are entire behavioral sciences built around categorizing people. Just because you are so different doesn’t mean the majority of people are.”

“Different? You mean because I’m an overeducated carney who likes to knit and study different fighting styles? You know more about me than almost anyone else, and you still don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

She was getting mad now. It was obvious in the way the large carotid artery throbbed in her neck. “Oh, I don’t know you, do I? Even you are predictable in some ways.”

Oh, really? Would she even guess that I’m an assassin?

I watched her as she pulled out some notebooks and opened them on her cot. Apparently she was ending this conversation with the last word and planning to engross herself in her work to shut me out.

“People aren’t predictable. We just like to think that because it makes us feel safer.” I walked over to her cot and picked up a folder. “Take this guy-Senator Anderson. I mean, what do we really know about him?”

Ronnie snatched the file out of my hands. “Senator Anderson was a great man! He was going to change the world!”

Wow. She went from zero to white-hot in seconds. Apparently I’d touched a nerve.

“His life was an open book!” she sputtered. “Unlike you!” Veronica slammed her notebook shut just before she stalked out of the ger. I picked up her file on Anderson, then looked back at the door.

Within just a few hours, I’d managed to seduce this girl and piss her off to volcanic proportions. I really did have a way with women.

Ronnie’s folder was a loving homage to a dead politician. I remembered when I first heard of Senator Anderson. He’d been campaigning at a county fair I was working about ten years ago. William Anderson was a small-town nice guy who spoke from the heart in plain English fused with common sense. Many people compared him to Kennedy with his youth, good looks and optimism. Others saw him as a down-home Bill Clinton. Whatever side you agreed with, almost everyone thought he was presidential material right from the start.

I remember seeing him talk while I ran the Tilt-A-Whirl. The man definitely knew how to work a crowd. And people liked him. He crusaded against big business and corporate America. Anderson came from blue-collar roots and it showed. And everywhere you looked, he was followed by a throng of college students eager to be part of his mission.

I couldn’t blame them. I liked him too. I just wasn’t into politics. Not my thing. Oh, I can chew on an idea for weeks. But politics frustrate me. Not because I can’t understand them…but rather because I do. And then there was the fact that politicians occasionally showed up on the Bombay hit lists. That was part of the problem.

It didn’t surprise me that Veronica had been a follower of Anderson ’s. There was a lot to like about the man. I’d like to think that if he’d lived, he might have made the changes he spoke of. But the fact of the matter was, he didn’t. Senator William Anderson had died of a heart attack before he’d had a chance to take the national stage. And the country mourned him as his most ardent supporters cried out conspiracy theories.

“I never said he wasn’t a good man,” I murmured. Veronica tried to slip into the ger unnoticed, watching me as I read her folder.

“You questioned his ideas,” she said as she took long strides to where I stood and snapped the folder from my grasp.

I looked her right in the eyes. “So?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s just a man. That’s all.” It irritated me that she had this dead guy on a pedestal. Life was for the living.

“He could’ve changed the world. And he was cut down in his prime.”

I sat on her cot. “So, you are one of the conspiracy theorists, eh?”

Ronnie turned sharply toward me. “It’s not a theory. There’s a lot of evidence that says he was murdered.”

That was something I did understand, in a way. After all, the Bombays have been pretty good about hiding their tracks over the centuries and have tended to be at the center of some conspiracies. It’s the nature of the game.

“Ah, but which conspiracy? The right? The left? Fundamentalists? There are so many.”

Ronnie sat next to me. “Don’t make fun of me, Cy. This is something I’ve always felt very strongly about.”

“I can see that.”

“If they can kill a man like that, what hope is there for someone else to come along and take his place?”

“That’s a pretty bleak thought.”

“I believed in him. I volunteered with the campaign. When I wasn’t studying, I was campaigning. It was my whole life.”

“That’s not much of a life. Living only for other people.”

She didn’t say anything. I felt bad about arguing with her. It was pretty obvious I had cut her to the quick.

“I’m sorry. I have a talent for being argumentative.” It comes with a philosophy degree. Or maybe people who argue just tend toward philosophy. And sometimes they become lawyers. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about that.