Dave Zeltserman - Fast Lane

“Just an old college buddy. Look, why don’t you go try that on? I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

“You better.” She pouted, but it was forced. She was uneasy with my company. She reached over and gave me a kiss, letting it linger. As she pulled away her eyes flashed. She gave Hawknose a curt nod, then turned and walked out of the lobby, letting her hips sway to an exaggerated beat as she moved.

“Excellent,” Hawknose exclaimed, nodding admiringly. “Very shrewd to bring her. Her body will be found only little bit burnt, yours like . .. . charcoal. It will be, as you say, open and shut case. Tragic jeep accident while riding to mountains. Very good, we do it for twenty-five thousand dollars.”

I shook my head involuntarily.

“No?” he asked. “I do not understand. Why you bring her then?” That couldn’t be the reason. But why had I brought Marge?

“I see.” He smiled. “Okay, let us not haggle. Twenty thousand dollars. We got deal, no?”

“No!” It couldn’t have been for our nightly tumbles, though. I never have any problems meeting gals for that. Just step in a bar and smile. But if I didn’t bring her for that, could it be possible I . . . .

Looking perturbed, Hawknose turned to the heavy-set man who shrugged and scratched his head. He was going to try to argue with me, but something about my look told him it was no use. “Okay. If you change your mind, contact me. We do it for same price. Trust me, nothing to worry about, but could be if you don’t get smart.”

He stood up and gave me a sour look, and then followed his associate from the lobby.

I ordered a drink, then another, and before long it would’ve been cheaper to have bought the bottle. Sometimes it’s hard to understand why you do certain things. You think it’s for one reason, but all you’re really doing is just playing along. Maybe deep down you understand, maybe not, but when the time is right it all comes straight out of you. You end up reacting like a cold-blooded automaton, doing what you were meant to do from the start. Maybe I had planned that for Marge. Maybe I just hadn’t realized it yet.

* * * * *

By the time I left the lobby I could’ve flown to my room because that’s how high I was. I guess I must’ve been wobbling a bit. When Marge saw me she turned up her nose in disgust and told me I was drunk. I grabbed a bottle of rye and made my way to the bed. I almost cried when I saw the bottle was already three-quarters empty.

“That guy gave me the creeps,” she said, wrinkling her upturned nose. “Who is he?”

“Santa Claus,” I said, taking a swig. “Going to be bringing us bag loads of presents. But you’ll only get yours if you’re extra good. What are you going to do to be extra good?”

“You’re stinking drunk!” She reached for the bottle, but I was quicker. “What are trying to do?” I asked her. “Make me spill some? That’s not being extra good.”

“I didn’t come here to lie around this crummy hotel room with you all day,” she said. “That’s all we’ve done and I’m sick of it!”

Not as sick as I was, I could guarantee her that. I took another swallow of rye, hoping it would dull the red-hot poker jabbing around in my stomach.

“I got fired!” she shouted, veins streaking down her neck. It made me kind of sad seeing that, because it made her look so damn worn-out, and she had no right looking that unattractive.

I guess it also made me a little mean. “You can hardly blame them,” I said. “You can’t say you didn’t deserve what you got.”

Her mouth gaped open. The black hole slowly closed and she took a step back. “That’s a pretty rotten joke.”

“What can I say? I’m only as good as my material.”

She studied me quietly and then took a step forward, apprehension pulling at her mouth. “Let’s not fight, Johnny. I’m sick of fighting. I want to do things with you, not just sit here all day and watch you get drunk. I hate this lousy fleabag hotel.”

“Yeah, well,” I said. “Honey, we’ve all got crosses to bear. You’re stuck in a lousy fleabag. And I’m stuck with a lousy fleabag.”

“You dirty drunken-” She pulled back and took a swing at me and then broke down crying. Her face got flabbier and more creased until it was looking worse than a sharpei’s rear. Even though neither of us moved, she seemed to be gliding away from me, her face shrinking to a small white point. And then there was nothing. Even the sounds of her bawling faded away.

* * * * *

I spent the next three days apologizing. She took it quietly, mumbling stuff about it all being forgotten, but making sure I knew how good and sore she was.

It took about all I had keeping her quiet at night, and I just didn’t have anything left to persuade her with during the day. By morning, I couldn’t do much else but spend my time curled on the bed trying to hold my stomach together.

Sometime Thursday afternoon whatever was heating up inside her boiled over. She slapped a bottle out of my hand and stood over me, glaring.

“Aw, Marge,” I said. “Why’d you go and do that? How many times do I gotta say I’m sorry? Come on, be a good little gal and get me that.”

“Lover, it’s time for you to get out of bed. You’re taking me out to dinner tonight. I made the reservations and I don’t want to hear a damn word about it. You better get up and take a shower.”

When a gal’s got murder in her eyes, you listen. As I was closing the door to the shower, she screamed, “And lover, my name’s Margo. M-A-R-G-O! Quit calling me Marge!”

* * * * *

The place Marge dragged me to was this marble mausoleum where you had to tip a half-dozen folks before you even sat down. Once you were seated the show really began; three attendants stood beside your table like propped-up corpses.

One guy seemed to be eyeing our water glasses, and I was pretty sure his job was to keep the water at a proper level. Another seemed to be there to keep our cigarettes lit. The third I wasn’t sure about, but I would’ve guessed if my balls got itchy he would’ve been ready with a finger.

Marge beamed through the dozen long-stemmed roses arranged in the middle of the table. “Isn’t this wonderful?”

“Just great,” I said. “I’m out twenty bucks and I haven’t even eaten anything yet.”

That dimmed her beaming a bit. She said, “I’m sorry about some of the things that were said. I know you haven’t been feeling well and I should’ve been more understanding. Can we be friends again?”

Her voice contained an almost desperate pleading, and it touched me. At least, it loosened me up. “Sure,” I said.

“Isn’t this great? This is supposed to be the best restaurant in Mexico City. I’m so happy we’re finally doing something. Maybe if you’re feeling better we can start doing more things together? Maybe we can lay off the alcohol?”

I looked at her small, pale face. A funny, tough smile was trying to contradict the anxiety in her eyes. I made my mind up about something, or, rather, I decided to quit trying to fight the inevitable. After a while the fighting wears you out and all you can do is step aside and let fate take its course. There was a reason I brought her to Mexico and it was time I admitted it.

“That’d be nice,” I said. “How about tomorrow we rent a jeep and take a ride to the mountains? Do a little sightseeing?”

“You mean it?”

I nodded. “When we get back to the hotel, I’ll get on the phone and make the arrangements.”

For the first time in days a soft easy smile broke out over her face. “Lover,” she whispered, “maybe I’ll let you do a little sightseeing tonight.”

“Sure, honey. We’ll have ourselves a little party.”