Reed Coleman - They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

Coyly, she wondered, “How much more would I be worth?”

“Back to that again?” I tried unsuccessfully to sneer at her. “I don’t know, a buck and a quarter maybe.”

She punched me in the arm, less playfully this time.

“Ouch!” I rubbed it. “Okay, I’ll tell you how much more you’re worth. You’re worth the rest of my life. If I thought there was a chance you’d say yes, I’d ask you to marry me.”

Her face went utterly blank. She knew I wasn’t kidding.

“I’d like that,” she whispered, curling her arms and legs about me. “Ask me.”

“But I’m old enough-”

“-to make me happy.”

“What about school?”

“I suddenly don’t care much for Riversborough. Ask me, Dylan.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

At that moment I wasn’t thinking of love and the future, children and white picket fences. I was thinking of a movie, The Day The Earth Stood Still. There’s this scene when Michael Rennie and Patricia Neal are trapped alone together in a darkened elevator as all the power in all the world is shut off for half an hour. And in that half hour, as the rest of the planet panics, Rennie and Neal, people literally from two different worlds, bond in a permanent, unspoken way. Even as a kid, before I understood anything about love and relationships, the power of their connection in that dark elevator got to me. I guess it’s funny what you think about.

“Where are you?” Kira caught me drifting.

“Trapped on an elevator.”

I never did get to explain that. Reaching back, she flicked off the lights. Taking a gulp of champagne, she kissed me, urging some of the wine into my mouth. I swallowed it. She kissed me again, softly, peeling back my denim shirt. She ran her tongue down along the hair of my chest. Kira cradled my left nipple between her lips, first sucking gently, then harder and harder still. I cupped the back of her head in my hand and pressed her lips against my chest. Sliding a petite hand along my abdomen, she undid my belt and button. With some persuasion, my pants and briefs fell to the floor.

Kira bit my nipple. She poured herself some more champagne, directly from the bottle this time, and dropped to her knees. She took me into her mouth. I got weak. The mixture of her hot breath and the cold wine against my skin was so overwhelming, my knees buckled. But I held back. I wanted to be inside her, holding her, not standing above her. My impending orgasm, however, would not afford me the leisure of taking it slow and easy. I pulled away and pulled her up, tearing at Kira’s black silk blouse. The buttons ricocheted off the walls and windows like so many BBs. There was no brassiere to tangle with.

Sucking on her breasts, I worked her pants loose. She kicked them free of her legs as I rolled her onto the bed. I kissed her mouth, her painted red lips were dry with the fever of the moment. Her tongue forced its way between my teeth. She reached below my waist and pulled me into her. Her vagina was incredibly wet with excitement, so wet that I felt I could slide my soul inside her. Kira’s back arched up. Her teeth took hold of my bottom lip and I tasted blood as I let go of forty years of aloneness in ten exquisite seconds.

I could see nothing there in the dark other than vague hints and outlines. But I imagined I could see the shadow of her smile. That I imagined it was of no consequence. I knew that I had pleased her and that was suddenly the most important thing to me.

As we lay there, sipping the rest of the champagne, giggling out of unsuspected joy, we heard several fire alarms sound in town and in the hills surrounding Riversborough. We didn’t pay them much mind, but when a small fleet of fire trucks rolled past the inn, we couldn’t help but pause to wonder what the fuss was all about.

“Do you think its the school?” Kira sounded worried.

“I don’t think so. The school’s in the opposite direction from where those sirens were headed. Do you live on or off campus?”

“That’s right,” she said, “you don’t know where my apartment is.”

“Or your phone number.”

“If you ask me to marry you again, I might be persuaded to tell you.”

“You’ve already said yes once, I’m not giving you a chance at second thoughts. I’ve got other means of persuasion.” And with those words, I moved quickly to coat my tongue with the taste of her and to fill my head with the scent of jasmine in the snow.

It was still quite dark out when I stirred. After finishing in the bathroom, I was restless with panic and nervous energy. I turned the TV away from the bed and hit the remote’s power button. I muted the sound and clicked merrily up and down the channels. On one of the local channels I spotted a graphic of a fire truck. I stopped surfing and turned up the sound ever so slightly:

“. . fifteen volunteer fire companies, some as far away as Blue Sky Lake, joined Riversborough firefighters in their efforts to bring the blaze under control. As of yet, their efforts have met with little success. Now, for a live update, here’s Linda Di Corona at the scene.”

Linda Di Corona’s audio feed wasn’t up and running, but the caption beneath the live picture of her standing in front of a fire truck told me all I needed to know. The ski resort at Cyclone Ridge was burning down. Given the presence of the woman sleeping in my bed, I wasn’t about to question the power of coincidence, but a fire at Cyclone Ridge was just too damned convenient. I shut off the TV. I paced for a few minutes, tried reading, surrendered, at last, to fitful sleep.

I don’t remember what ring it was when I got to the phone, but I was glad to see Kira was undisturbed from the depths of her dreams.

“Klein?” It was MacClough.

“Who were you expecting, Chancellor Bismarck? Christ, MacClough, it’s 2:30 in the morning.”

“He can write books and tell time, too. I know what time it is. I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be back up there in a few hours and we’ve got to move fast.”

“Why’s that?” I was worried. “Did something go sour with Zak?”

“Calm down, Klein. It’s just that I’ve established a definite link between all the parties involved. It seems that Detective Caliparri used to do a little moonlighting as a private investigator for a certain lawyer we both know.”

“Jeffrey!”

“None other. I had a chat with Caliparri’s widow this afternoon. From what I can piece together, your brother didn’t blow off the Valencia Jones case at first blush like everybody seems to think. Back when Zak asked him to take the case, your brother hired Caliparri to have a look. But the case looked like a dog. I mean, she does look guilty as hell and her family tree doesn’t help. So Caliparri must’ve warned Jeffrey off. Then,” MacClough stopped to clear his throat, “a few days ago, Caliparri’s wife says her husband took another trip up to Riversborough. It was right after your nephew disappeared.”

“Shit!”

“We gotta get a look inside those buildings at Cy-”

“Forget it,” I cut him off. “They’re two steps ahead of us.” I began to sing to the tune of “London Bridge”: Cyclone Ridge is burning down, burning down, burning down. Cyclone Ridge is burning down, my dear detective.”

“Fuck!”

“My feelings exactly.”

“You know,” he said, “it means we’re close, real close. Did you say anything to the girl?”

“The girl’s not our problem. That’s the good news. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. You want me to pick you up at the airport?”

“No, not worth the risk.”

“Listen, John, I know this sounds weird, but I think we should also stop meeting in our rooms. I’m not sure about this, but it could be the desk clerk is our mole.”