Max Collins - The last quarry

“Went for groceries. Had a swim.”

She gave me a sideways look. “You really like to swim…Helps you think?”

“Helps me not to think.”

We ate in silence for a while, and somehow it became a little awkward or maybe pregnant. Which served me right, not using a rubber last night…

Finally, she pushed her almost-cleaned plate away, and got up and got herself some more coffee and refilled my cup, saying, “I, uh…really don’t do this kind of thing.”

“Wait on men?”

She laughed a little. “No…you know.” She sat next to me again, sipped the coffee, raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I hardly know you. I just don’t usually…”

“Kiss on the first date?”

She smiled over the coffee cup’s lip. “Kiss on the first date.”

I pushed my plate away. Sipped coffee. Said, “I live alone, too.”

Her brow tensed. “Sorry. I…I don’t follow you.”

“Sometimes you just…need something.”

She thought about that, and nodded. It was a sort of admission.

“There really haven’t been a lot of ‘Ricks,’ ” she said. “Some. But mostly, the last eight, ten years…I’ve kept to myself.”

“Safer that way,” I said.

“You, too?”

“…It’s the easiest way to get hurt.”

“Also the most painful,” she said quickly. “When I was younger, I went with older guys…?”

I hiked an eyebrow. “And things have changed?”

“Well, you’re the first…‘older guy’…in some time. A shrink once told me I have some kind of ‘daddy’ complex.”

I shifted in my seat.

I shrugged. “Every little girl wants to fuck her daddy. And lots of daddies want to fuck their little girls. It only counts against you when you go through with it.”

She thought about that, then said, “You…scare me a little.”

I gave her half a smile. “Just a little?”

She studied me and something devilish got into her eyes. “You might not be so scary, naked.”

“You’ve seen me naked.”

She shook her head. “Oh no, I haven’t…”

Soon we were seated on the edge of the pool in our borrowed swimsuits, the place muggy as hell, a virtual steamroom, and she was about to apply a straight razor to my well-lathered beard.

“Be gentle,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” she said, and kept her word, starting to shave me gently, tenderly, sliding, gliding the blade, taking whiskers, leaving smooth flesh. Occasionally she would dip the razor in the pool, getting rid of whiskery lather.

It took a while, my beard not terribly long but full, and it felt good, being the object of such care and attention; but when the blade pressed against my throat, I caught her wrist, stopping her.

For all the heat, we froze, my eyes locked with hers, and I wasn’t smiling as I stared at her-she seemed quietly amused, if a bit taken aback by the clutch of my hand.

“What’s wrong, Jack?” She seemed wholly serious, but for a pixie gleam in the eyes. “Don’t you trust me?”

Now I studied her, tried to look inside- did she know why I was here? — and her amusement faded to concern.

I said, “Little tender there. Let me.”

“Sure.”

She gave me the razor.

As I finished the shave, she sat next to me, slightly shaken, holding her arms to herself as if feeling a sudden chill.

We did not make love again. Janet had to work today-it was Sunday, but the Homewood Library was open from eleven till four-and she needed to go to her apartment to shower and change. I dropped her in front of the beauty shop she lived over, and-before she got out-she said, “I’ll never forget last night, Jack.”

“Good,” I said, and managed to smile.

Her eyes stayed on me a beat too long before she got out of the car. I thought I detected something hurt in the expression, but wasn’t sure.

Maybe I decided to take Sunday off. Maybe that was it. But that afternoon, as Janet no doubt did routine work at the library and maybe did her story-hour shtick with another third-grade audience, I wasn’t around to see it.

I was in my motel room, feeling bare with my freshly shaved face, on my back on the bed, elbows winged out, staring at the ceiling, lights off, sun filtering in a little through closed drapes. Janet’s picture on the nightstand, face down. Nine millimeter on the nightstand.

By late afternoon, with the library closing so early, she’d be back at her apartment. And somehow I hauled my dead ass off that bed and made it to my surveillance roost across the way from her.

She beat me home. There she was, already, in a bathrobe again (not the blue borrowed one, but a similar green one of her own), sitting in that comfy chair, bunny-slippered tootsies on the footrest, reading a book (Memoirs of a Geisha), nibbling a sandwich, sipping at a Diet Coke.

But I was having trouble watching her.

Mostly I just sat there, staring at the blank wall in the rattrap vacant apartment, not even dipping into the cooler for my own sandwich and Coke, not fucking hungry at all. The nine millimeter and the binoculars were on the crate, looking like decorative items as opposed to anything practical a person might actually use.

I did at dusk, at a good distance, follow her Geo to Sneaky Pete’s, which was open Sunday nights, where she and Connie met in the parking lot. I drove past, then pulled a U-turn and headed back.

Inside, the place wasn’t very busy, the meat-market aspect given over to a modest family night, where pizza was served from a small kitchen that usually only offered up burgers and fries. The same country-pop was playing, but overlaid with the squeal of kiddies, and it occurred to me it might do the Sneaky Pete singles crowd of Friday and Saturday night some good, stopping by here Sunday, just to see what kind of trouble they might be getting themselves into.

Janet and Connie had a booth, both young women dressed not to the nines now, just sweatshirts and jeans; this was about dinner and dishing, Connie pumping Janet for what had happened between her and “that big scary handsome guy.”

That was the only thing I picked up, from my position at the bar. I couldn’t risk sitting any closer, and I was conspicuous as hell in this family crowd. Even the bartender, not my familiar brunette but a potbellied guy with a mustache, was giving me a hinky look. So unless I wanted to be spotted and invited over to sit with the girls, I had better split.

I split.

Back at the motel, the room was nicely dark, just a little neon sign blush finding its way through the curtains. I deposited the nine on the nightstand and flopped onto the bed, fully clothed, curled up on my side and tried to go to sleep.

But it soon became clear sleep wouldn’t come, and before long I found myself seated on the edge of the bed, slumped, hands loosely interlaced.

What were my fucking options?

Piss and poor, with maybe a couple stops in between. This was what I got, allowing myself to be talked out of retirement for “one last job.” Fuck! There are reasons why you quit the killing business, and going soft is one of them, because then it’s you getting killed, which is no way to run a business.

They were my Achilles’ heel, women. I had no goddamn sense where they were concerned. And it wasn’t the fucking, the fucking was great, but a woman-not just any woman, but a woman like, say, Janet-could touch something inside of me that I liked to think had died a long time ago. Something human that could only put a dipshit like me in a jam.

I sat there, brooding, mentally listing the mistakes I’d made, but the list was so long, I got bored-being seen by the target was one thing, eating her pussy was another. That kind of up-close-and-personal contact can lead a guy to making bad calls.

So I could walk away. You can always walk away.