Ed Gorman - Save The Last Dance For Me

“You bastard,” she said from the couch, where she was reclining.

“Nice to see you too, Kylie.”

“You’re late,” she said, all hot accusation.

“Late for what?”

“For our job interview.” She was slurring her words but I’ll spare you the drunk dialect.

“Kylie, did you by any chance drink half of that bottle of scotch?”

“What half bottle of scotch?”

“The one next to your hand.”

“My hand?”

She was in fine shape. A drinker she was not.

I’d seen her get snockered once on two beers. The toll the scotch took had to be devastating.

“So where were you?”

“Working, actually,” I said.

“Working actually? Who’s actually?” Then she grinned, looking pretty damned cute. “I told a funny.”

“Yes, you did.”

“You’re late.”

“You said that. But I didn’t realize we had an appointment.”

She shook her head. She was so loaded she had to squint one eye to see me. There were probably multiple me’s, the way I’d be perceived by a fly. “Job interview.”

“What job interview are we talking about?”

“We aren’t talking about a job interview.

I am talking about a job interview.”

“All right.” I went over and sat down on the couch and got a Lucky going. “And what job interview would that be?”

“I want to hire you to kill my husband.”

“Well, that sounds reasonable enough. What’s the pay?”

“I could give you a hundred down. And a hundred more later on. When I get my paycheck.”

“Well, I do have a gun, I guess.”

She squinted again. Her head was rotating as if on a track of ball bearings. “You got any bullets?”

“A few.”

“How many’s a few?”

“Probably a couple dozen.”

“Good, ‘cause I want you to shoot him at least that many times.” Then, “Where’s that damned bottle?”

“I think it got on a bus and went to Cleveland in self-defense.”

She either didn’t hear-or didn’t care to hear-my joke.

“There it is.”

Watching her pour a drink was like watching a high-wire act. There was a lot of danger. It did things to your bowels and heart and the palms of your hands. Somehow she managed to get it poured without (a) cracking the glass when the neck of the bottle slammed against the rim, (but) spilling any on the chair, or (can) spilling any on herself.

“Then I want you to set him on fire.”

“Shoot him first. Then set him on fire.

Got it.”

“He’s a jerk. I just can’t believe how much of a jerk.”

“You know, Miles Davis may not be the best music for you to be listening to right now,” I said.

“I need to be sad.”

“Well, ole Miles’ll help you get there.”

“Who you want to hear? Frankie Avalon?”

“Why don’t I just turn it off?”

I got up and turned it off and then went over to the refrigerator. “You had anything to eat lately?”

“Last night.”

“You haven’t eaten since last night?”

“Too mad to eat.” And again her head rolled free on the ball bearings. “That jerk.” Then she belched. It was a cute little belch. “Excuse me.”

“How about a bologna sandwich?”

“Didn’t I just say excuse me?”

“Yes, you did. And you are excused. Now how about I fix you a bologna sandwich?”

“With ketchup?”

“If you want some.”

“I’m not all that hungry.”

“You need some food. Believe me.”

“The first place you should shoot him is right in the crotch.”

“Poetic justice, eh?”

“Damn right.”

I made her a bologna sandwich.

She said, as I was making it, her head rolling around more violently than ever, “What happened to Ray Charles?”

“You weren’t listening to Ray Charles. You were listening to Miles Davis.” We liked a lot of the same jazz records.

“I was not. I was listening to Ray Charles.

“Green Dolphin Street.””

“You were listening to Miles Davis, and “Green Dolphin Street” is Tony

Bennett, anyway.”

I served her a sandwich on a saucer. “Sit up.”

“Why?”

“So you can digest this better.”

“What happened to Dakota Staton?”

Dakota being a jazz singer we both liked very much.

I decided not to go back through it. “I turned off the music.”

She stared-through a fly’s eye again, no doubt -at her sandwich, looking as if nobody’d ever before put such a thing in front of her. “Did I tell you you should shoot him in the crotch?”

“Duly noted.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means, yes, you told me, and yes, I’ll remember it.”

“What’s this?”

“A bologna sandwich.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You need to eat. Now, c’mon.”

Her head wobbled and she glanced up at me.

“How come you’re so short?”

“How come you’re so drunk?”

“Shoot him in the crotch twice.”

“Eat.”

“We should get some grenades, is what we should get.”

She ate.

Two bites. Then, “You know what I found in his billfold?”

“What?”

“Picture of her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He carries a picture of her around with him.”

“C’mon, just eat.”

“Just like she’s his wife or something.”

“Eat.”

She ate, all right. About six, seven bites alt. Then it-anda lot of the scotch-came right back up. Luckily I got her to the john in time.

There was a fan going in the bedroom window. I positioned her as comfortably as possible on the bed and then let my three cats Tasha, Crystal, and Tess-well, technically, a friend of mine named Samantha left them with me when she went to Hollywood hoping to find gold and glamour-situate themselves around her.

The next four hours were pretty boring so let’s just say that I watched some Tv, I fixed myself a couple of burgers, I fed the cats, and I looked in on Kylie every once in a while. I felt bad for her. Having chased the beautiful Pamela Forrest all those years, I knew all about heartbreak. Or at least I fancied I did. Me and Robert Ryan. But actually never having been married… wow, your mate comes home and admits that he’s seeing somebody else-which is what I guessed had happened-t was head-in-the-oven time.

The heat broke around nine. Kylie got up and went in the john. She wasn’t in there very long.

I got a glimpse of her when she came out.

She was walking that stiff-armed way Boris Karloff always does when he plays

Frankenstein’s monster. She went right back to bed.

I barely heard the knock. The fan was kicking out and the Tv was on. I wouldn’t have noticed the door at all if Tess hadn’t trotted over there. She’s kind of a watch cat.

She can’t bark but if you come in and she’s got her doubts about you, she bites you on the ankle.

He let himself in. And Tess bit him on the ankle.

“Hey!” he said.

He was tall and blond and handsome, I suppose, but in a preppy way I’ve always resented. Or been jealous of. Take your pick.

The one and only Chad Burke.

“What’s with your cat? She bit me.”

“She’s discriminating.”

He said, “She here?”

“Yeah.”

He looked around. “Where?”

“Bedroom.”

I’d gotten up and walked over to him. He started toward me now. Angry. “You didn’t screw her, did you?”

“No,” I said. “And I guess you didn’t, either. Your new girlfriend wouldn’t like that, would she?”

The anger vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

He ran a long, artistic hand through his curly blond hair. He looked miserable. “All I asked her for was a little time. I didn’t say I’d leave her. I just said I needed to work through it. She made a big deal of it.”