John Locke - Callie’s Last Dance

“I see it differently.”

“Then why me?”

“Excuse me?”

“If you’re being all self-righteous about my affair, why aren’t you trying to string up Tom Bell? He’s fifty percent of the problem, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t say fifty percent. You’re the one who had the unstable husband.”

“I didn’t know he’d try to shoot us.”

“Maybe not. But you must have known the affair would take a major toll on him emotionally.”

“I honestly didn’t think he’d find out.”

“Because?”

“He’s always so busy.”

“With work?”

She nods.

“Is that your excuse? He was too busy? You wanted to be with him more, do things together, but he didn’t have time for you?”

“No. The truth is I was glad he wasn’t around more.”

“Why, did he beat you?”

“No.”

“Verbally abused you?”

“No.”

“Was he a drug user? A drunk? A gambler? A control freak?”

She laughed. “Nothing like that. Ridley was a good man. A good provider. A supportive husband.”

“But?”

“The truth? He was too fucking old for me.”

Ouch. There it is, the answer I least wanted to hear. Because all this is really about me trying to understand why a woman like Connie cheated on her husband. If it was something he did wrong, some flaw in his character, I’d feel better about Callie and me and our chances for survival as a couple. You see, Callie and I share the same age difference as Ridley and Connie. And Connie didn’t cheat on him because he mentally or physically abused her, or gambled, or drank, or anything else. She cheated on him simply because he was older.

“At what point did his age become an issue?”

“When mine did.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I hit a certain age I saw myself on the verge of being middle aged. By then, Ridley was no longer getting the looks from women I’d seen him get when we first got married.”

“But you were still getting them from men.”

“Yes. And I needed them.”

“You felt young around Ridley, but that didn’t count. When other women saw him as being old, you saw him the same way.”

“I suppose.”

“At the point you decided Ridley was too old to excite you, you were open to being excited by another man.”

“Now you sound like a psychologist.”

“I’m disappointed in you, Connie,” I say, looking at my watch.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I reach for the socks and duct tape.

“You know what I think?” she says.

“What’s that?”

“I think you’re a coward. I think you took my clothes off to humiliate me, and I find it hilarious you came to my house to pick on me.”

“Hilarious?”

“Yeah, that’s right, big shot. You’re a pussy!”

“You think?”

“A real man would’ve asked Tom Bell these questions. Of course, you obviously know Tom’s a seventh-degree martial artist who could kick your ass from here to hell and back. So this is how you beat him. In fact, it’s the only way a coward like you can beat a guy like Tom Bell.”

“How’s that?”

“By punishing me.”

“That’s an interesting theory.”

“Tell me, big shot. How does it feel to beat up a woman half your size, strip her, hang her upside down, threaten and bully her?”

“Honestly? It feels pretty good.”

“When Tom Bell finds out what you’ve done to me he’s going to do the same to you, times ten.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because I beat Tom to death before coming here.”

CONNIE SAW TOM as some sort of invincible being. To his credit, he was, in fact, a tough son-of-a bitch. I told her that, and said he gave a good accounting of himself, so she’d have a good memory of him. Nevertheless, she didn’t believe I could possibly beat Tom Bell in a fair fight.

By way of proof, she said, “You don’t have a mark on you!”

“Not true,” I said, and rolled my sleeves up to prove it. “My fists are so swollen I can hardly close my hands. My wrists are sprained from the force of the impact, and my forearms are bruised to the bone.”

“That’s it?” she said. “I don’t believe it.”

“That’s okay. I’m not trying to impress you.”

“Why do you keep looking at your watch?”

“I’m waiting for it to be exactly three-sixteen.”

I DON’T JUDGE people. When I accept a contract for hire, I take the attitude my victim has already been tried, found guilty, and sentenced by the person paying my fee. It’s easier that way, and prevents me from getting too wrapped up in “he-said-she-said” types of issues.

Likewise, I didn’t kill Tom and Connie because they had an affair. Half the people you pass on the street every day are having affairs. What sort of person would I be if I went around killing all of them? And although I never cheated on my wife, I certainly cheated on some of my girlfriends.

Most of them.

Well, okay, all of them.

So I’m not entirely without empathy.

But I didn’t kill Tom and Connie because they were cheating. I killed them because their affair set off a chain reaction that nearly cost Callie her life and the use of her legs. You can argue it wasn’t Connie and Tom’s fault, and I’d agree with you, to a point. I mean, had Connie fucked Tom at his house, the results would have been different. Ridley would have killed them both, or killed one of them, or Tom might have killed Ridley. In any case, the argument would have remained between those who were involved.

It’s a matter of respect.

Rose says my great-great grandfather Emmett Love was a sheriff and saloon keeper in Dodge City, Kansas, in the eighteen-sixties. I’ll bet if two cowboys got into an argument in his establishment he’d tell them to take it outside. Why? Because that keeps the argument between those who have a vested interest in the outcome. If they started shooting up the saloon, innocent people might get hurt. And I’ll bet Sheriff Love wouldn’t allow something like that to go unpunished.

I didn’t punish Tom and Connie for fucking outside their marriage, but for failing to take their outside-of-the marriage-fucking outside.

You know, figuratively.

But they didn’t. They took their affair to the Winston Parke Hotel, in downtown Cincinnati, and drew me and Callie into it. And right or wrong, you don’t put my loved ones in harm’s way without being severely rebuked. And you certainly don’t expose my loved ones to possible death and live to tell about it.

Six Weeks Later.

Top Six Lounge.

Las Vegas.

THE CLUB IS packed, the customers charged with anticipation. Carmine takes his seat. The house lights dim. The MC cues up the mike and says, “Our long-time customers will remember the greatest stripper in modern history, Vegas Moon, and how the Top Six flourished when she ruled the stage!”

The crowd cheers.

“Vegas Moon’s real name is Gwen Peters, and now she’s back, as a part owner! Gwen is now responsible for interviewing, hiring, training, and managing the Top Six girls!”

More applause.

“Gwen’s kicked ass and taken names. No more three-piece band, or feedback mikes. She’s put in a state-of-the-art sound system. Finest in the county! You’ll get to hear it in a minute. And wait till you see the new light show! I swear it’s like being at a million-dollar concert!”

He pauses. Then says, “But Gwen’s made some other changes around here. Of course, you won’t care about them unless you like gorgeous women.”