April Smith: Good Morning, Killer

“What’s up?”

I could have handled the cop face much better, the shut-down superior detachment, but instead he was giving off uneasy suspicion, as any home owner would, to find an unpleasant character from the past unexpectedly on his doorstep.

“Can I talk to you?”

There it was, the scan, the intuitive check for psychotic unpredictable vibes. No, he decided, it was just Ana, as surprisingly flesh-and-blood ordinary as he.

“Want to come in?”

“Are you in the middle of something?”

“Just working out.”

Stiff-legged, I crossed the threshold and hovered by the back of a couch, fingers scratching at the cracked leather.

“Want something to drink?”

“I’m fine.”

Twenty-pound barbells had been taken from the rack near the sliding glass doors and were resting on the dhurrie rug.

“Sorry to interrupt.”

“I wasn’t exactly on a roll. Hard getting back.”

“I know what you mean,” and let it fade.

He was still shockingly underweight. His cheeks were stubbled and gaunt, the biceps that showed out of the cutoffs were not Andrew’s iron signature, but belonged to a different man, a sick man, the flesh of the muscles deflated and pale.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, and willed myself not to flee.

“Sure I can’t get you something? Coffee? Juice?”

“Maybe just some water. My throat is kind of dry.”

“It’s dry,” he agreed. “Come on in.”

The kitchen was just the same — spotless Mexican tile and family-size jug of dishwashing liquid on the wiped-down aluminum sink. Plants in the window, a white embroidered valance above the plants. The reason the curtains went so well with the house was they had been his mother’s, still starched by the same cleaning lady.

He pulled a bottle from the pantry and tore off the cellophane.

“Oh. Did you want ice?”

I shook my head and drank the water.

“Look, I don’t know how to say this.”

“I can’t drop the charges,” he interrupted. “Even though you got Brennan. It’s in the prosecution’s hands.”

The sincerity and swiftness of it caught me off guard, as if he had been waiting for me to show up just to say this.

“I wouldn’t even suggest that.”

“Once it got rolling, there was nothing I could do.”

“Of course. I know.”

“I never gave you up.”

He had begun to breathe hard and through the nose with little snorting sounds and his finger pointed at my heart.

“I did not give you up. I wouldn’t do that.”

“It didn’t matter anyway, because—”

“Yes, it does. It does matter. Even at the hospital. When they came to me, ready to go out and kick ass, I still gave them cock-and-bull about who did it.”

“I know, and I’ll never forget.” My voice broke, and I had to clamp my fingers over my lips. “Anyway, there was Margaret.”

“There was Margaret,” he affirmed with no attempt to hide the bitterness.

“She told them it was me.”

His voice was thick. “She thought she had something to protect.”

“You?”

“Whatever. Who knows what’s in her mind?”

“Also,” I went on perversely, “they recovered the gun, so you had to know, sooner or later, they’d come to me.”

“Just like old times,” said Andrew. “You’re listening but you’re not hearing.”

“What’s the matter?”

Abruptly the color had drained from his face. He reached for a bottle of pills. There were many bottles, collected on a tray.

“Are you all right?”

He took the water bottle and gulped some tablets, then squatted and put his head between his legs. I went down beside him and stroked his hair, his bristly cheek.

“Hey? Hey, partner. You okay?”

He allowed himself to slide all the way down until he was sitting on the linoleum. I hunkered beside him.

“Good thing you keep your floors clean.”

We rested there until his breathing calmed.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve got a heart condition. Nobody knew about it until I almost bought the farm.”

“In the ER?”

“Yeah.”

“See? That’s why it was a good thing I shot you. Otherwise, you’d never know you have a heart condition.”

“You really fucked me, baby. It hurts to get shot,” he said, and slapped my thigh with an empty laugh.

Fear had begun its paralyzing creep. I had not been afraid like this even in the house with Brennan.

“What does the doctor say?”

“It’s called IHSS — idiopathic hypertrophic subaortic stenosis. See, the old fart can still learn new words.”

“Congratulations. What do they mean?”

“There’s a thickening in the walls of the heart that blocks the flow of blood. No symptoms, won’t show up on a physical exam, it’s only when you’re under stress and shock and your blood pressure falls to a dangerous point that it becomes significant.” “Well … we just won’t let that happen again.”

“I’m supposed to have no salt, no booze, no sex.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“The medication wipes out your sex drive. Can you imagine me, without a hard-on twenty-four hours a day?”

I smiled.

“Here’s the other thing.” He paused for the worst of it: “No bike.”

“No way!”

“If I got into an accident on the bike, it could happen again, I could have another ‘cardiac event,’ so I’m not supposed to ride the Harley.”

“But you will.”

“I don’t know if I will. This kind of shit makes you old.”

He was lolling the back of his head against the cabinets, looking up, one transparent tear crawling down his cheekbone.

“I feel,” he said, “like I’m at the bottom of a well.”

I put my arm around him.

“We fucked up, Andy. We fucked up really bad.”

“I’m the one,” he said, “I’m the one who fucked it up—”

“No—”

“Can you forgive me? Please forgive me. I want to make an amend to you,” he cried desperately. “If I hurt you in any way—”

“Yes—”

“If I caused you to suffer because of my actions—”

“ Yes, I forgive you.”

“I made a mistake, Ana—”

“Forgive me, too. I did something terrible, I don’t know how I could have, actually, aimed a gun at you, I’m not capable of it, it must have been—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay—”

Then we were holding on to each other as tightly as humans can grip.

“We were meant for each other,” he whispered and we cradled and rocked.

“Oh God, Andy, this is really, really bad.”

He stroked my hair. “What is it?”

“I need safe passage.”

“You have safe passage, baby doll.”

I had to get my breath. I had to find my voice. It was 1:47 p.m.

He waited, slow and easy. “Go ahead.”

“I know you robbed that bank. Mission Impossible. It was you.”

He lifted his head and smiled sadly.

“You know, huh?” and touched my chin. “How do you know?”

“I ran the DNA on the ski mask. You dropped the ski mask, you stupid dope.” I hit his arm, but I was weak as a kitten. “Your DNA is a match to the DNA in the dried saliva on the mask.”

“Pardon my ignorance, but how did you get my DNA? Did you sneak in here in the middle of the night and cut my hair?”

“Your toothbrush,” I said softly. “The one you always kept in my apartment. It was still there.”

“My toothbrush.” He shook his head in ironic acknowledgment of all the petty bullshit that makes the world go round. He sighed and we released each other.

“Andrew—”

“It’s okay. I would have done the same thing.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You just said you would never give me up.”