J Rain - Dark horse

“Hello.”

“Can I see you?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I hung up and sat at my desk for a minute or two until I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly. Within the next few minutes the course of my life would be set. Amazingly, it was out of my hands, and in Cindy’s alone.

I stood off to the side of my window, looking down onto Beach Blvd, the blinds partly open. Hauling ass down the street and turning dangerously in front of a white pickup, Cindy arrived in her silver Lexus. I could hear the pickup’s angry horn from here.

And trailing behind Cindy was a blue Taurus. Not normally a big deal, granted, but sitting in the driver’s seat was my friend the hitman. He continued on past my building and made a left and disappeared.

He made two mistakes: the first was that I made his plate. The second was that he had involved Cindy.

My phone rang. I grabbed it.

“You’re girlfriend’s cute. Back off, or she’s dead.” The line went dead.

I immediately called Sanchez and got his voice mail. I left the plate number for him to run. Now I was going to owe Sanchez another dinner. So what else was new?

Next I unlocked the door and paced before my couch, trying like hell to get the killer out of my mind and focus on Cindy. To focus on us.

Moving along the cement walkway, heals clicking rapidly along, I could hear Cindy coming.

My hands were sweating; my shoulders were knotted. I resented her for putting me through this. We had been serious for eight years. She knew the dangers inherent to my profession, but she also knew that I could handle them. The only new twist was my interest in resuming my football career; well, and the drinking.

The door to my office opened, and she stood there holding a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers. She came in and set the flowers down on the desk, then threw her arms around me. Her lips found mine and we kissed like lost lovers, which, for a few days, we were. We fumbled our way to the couch, and there we made up for lost time.

And the direction of my life became clear again.

Damn clear.

Nestled between a Rite Aide and a laundromat was a little Italian place that I liked, called Frazzi’s. Cindy and I were heading there now for lunch, holding hands. The mid-day sun shone straight down on us, but lacked any real heat, just a bright ornament hanging in the sky.

“So why is Italian your favorite food?” asked Cindy. I sensed she was feeling happy. The weather was nice, and we had just made love, and she wanted to keep things light and fun, at least for the moment. We still hadn’t talked about the heavy stuff, which was fine by me.

“I’ve discovered in the course of my considerable dining experience and extensive travels that a food joint has to work pretty damn hard to screw up Italian food. It’s usually a sure bet.”

“I’ve screwed it up before,” she said.

“Actually, we screwed it up together,” I said.

“Which is why we no longer cook.”

“And why we eat out.”

“Except for you and your damn cereal and PB amp;Js.”

“Cereal and PB amp;J’s are my staple. They keep me alive.”

“I know. I think it’s cute.”

Frazzi’s was a narrow restaurant with checkered table cloths and red vinyl seats. We found a booth in the back and sat ourselves. By now Cindy knows to allow me to have the best view of the restaurant, where I keep my eyes on the front door, the butt of my gun loose and free. There wasn’t much for Cindy to look at other than me. Lucky girl.

The waitress came by and we ordered two Cokes.

“So can I say a few things?” asked Cindy.

“Of course.” Here it comes.

“Your drinking worries me. Actually, it’s not the fact that you occasionally get drunk, it’s that you feel you need to drink secretly.”

“Well, it’s not a pretty sight.”

“How long have you been getting drunk?”

I shrugged. “Off and on since I broke my leg.”

“The broken leg was the catalyst?”

“Yes.”

“And nothing else?”

I reached out and took her hand from across the table. She needed to be reassured. I looked at her steadily in the eye. “It’s the only reason.”

“Nothing about me?”

“No.”

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Will you try to stop for me? I’m not asking you to give up drinking altogether, but I’m asking you to stop getting drunk whenever we are away from each other, to stop destroying your liver, to stop feeling so goddamn sorry for yourself.”

“I might need help.”

“I’ll help you.”

Our drinks came, along with some fresh bread and oil.

“The usual, Jim?” asked Mama Lucco. She was Italian and in her mid-forties. I’d been coming here for four years, ever since I set up my agency down the street.

“Make that two,” I said.

When Mama Lucco had moved off, Cindy asked, “What’s the usual?”

“Lasagna, of course.”

“I should have known.”

“So what else is on your mind?”

She took a sip from her Coke, and then tore a piece of bread off, dipped it in oil and gave it to me. I took it, and she repeated the process for herself.

When she was ready, she said, “I’ve been feeling sorry for myself, too, admittedly. I asked myself why couldn’t I have a boyfriend who has a normal job, a job in which his life isn’t threatened by a hired killer, a job that didn’t require you to deal with the dregs of society.”

She paused. I waited.

“But then I realized that you are so goddamn good at what you do, and someone has to set things right in this fucked up world. And if you are willing to do it, then the least I can do is stand by your side, and give you my support.”

I digested this, then asked, “What about football?”

“I don’t know what to make of this football business. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

“Fair enough.”

“And I’ve come to the conclusion that if I go back to you now, I will forever accept you, just the way you are, and deal with whatever comes our way, together. I had a taste of life without you this week, and it was horrible. Just horrible.” She paused and took my hand, and looked me in the eye. “Will you take me back?”

“Yes,” I said.

She kissed my knuckles. “You’ve got me forever, Jim Knighthorse. Or for as long as you can stand me.”

Later, with Cindy teaching an afternoon class, and me wondering how I was going to stay off the booze, Sanchez called.

“I got an address on that plate.”

“Swell.”

“You say it was an older model blue Taurus?”

“Uh huh.”

“How about a green ‘89 Taurus?”

“Green, blue, same difference.”

“Christ, Knighthorse. Can’t you tell the difference?”

“No,” I said. “Greens and blues are tough.”

“That could be the difference in apprehending a felon.”

“We all have our handicaps,” I said. “Mine is coloration. Yours is unattractiveness.”

“Fuck you,” he said, chuckling.

“Perhaps if you were better looking.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Convince the killer to stay away.”

Sanchez was silent. “You’re going to kill him,” he finally said. It wasn’t a question.

“No other way to convince a hitman to stay away.”

“You need help?”

“Wouldn’t that be against the law?”

“Yes.”

“No, thank you. He made it personal. Be better if you stayed out of it, in case something goes wrong.” I paused. “I owe you.”

“Fucking eh, you do. You can start with dinner tonight.”