Ed Gorman - Cold Blue Midnight

'Those bastards.' He clicked off the shaver, set it down, took the toothbrush from his mouth, rinsed, spat and then walked over to her.

He pulled her to him.

She pushed him away. 'Oh God, no, Mitch. Morning mouth. Not fair. You've already brushed your teeth.'

'Then give me a hug.'

A hug she was willing to give him.

He knew she was trying to be tough about it all but he could gauge by the slight frantic air of her derisive laughter as she'd shown him the newspaper how the assault by the press was taking its toll on her.

They were convicting her long before she would ever come to trial, long before the police had a decent chance to find the real killer.

He hugged her. Tight. 'Have I told you how much I love you?'

She laughed. 'Not for five minutes.'

'Well then, I'm overdue.'

'Oh God, Mitch, I'd never make it through this without you. I really wouldn't.'

She put her face deep into his neck and after a moment he could feel her soft warm little-girl tears.

He held her more gently than he ever had before, trying to convey through the physical act of embracing all the tenderness and respect and abiding love he felt for her.

God granted one of Marcy's wishes, anyway.

She was able to find a rock and roll station that played, in order, 'My Sharona, Love Shack' and 'Give Me That Old-Time Rock And Roll'.

She was pounding the dash and having a great time.

The other wish He could have done a little better with, trying to match the James Coburn guy in the photo to the guy who lived in this house.

Not even close. He was fat, bald, old.

He came out of the side door of the house and ran with his head down against the whipping wind and slashing spiky snow toward the garage, where he emerged a few minutes later in his blue, four-door Volvo.

Marcy gave him a few minutes to leave then headed back to her office.

At least they kept on playing rock and roll.

On the scale this morning, Cini weighed nine pounds more than she had exactly one week ago today.

Didn't take her long to calculate that within two months, she'd be knocking on the door of the Whales Club and asking for re-admittance.

Nine pounds in seven days. My Lord.

She went out to the tiny kitchen and opened a box of powdered donuts and ate them.

Then she went to the refrigerator and took out the Snickers King-Size she'd been keeping in the freezer. They slowed you down, frozen like that; felt as if they were going to crack all your teeth they were so hard.

After that, she went into the living room and sat on the couch and bawled. 'Cried' was not the proper word, nor was 'sobbed' what Cini did was bawl. Like a six-year-old trying to understand why her dog has been run over. Everything was just so effing incomprehensible sometimes. Why had she let herself please that scumbag Eric that way, just so she could please that cold-hearted ass-bandit Michael? And why, of all nights, did she have to please Eric on the night he was being murdered? And why did she have to go back up to his office at the exact moment the killer was stabbing away with his scissors?

Her life had actually been better when she'd been fat. She'd been an outcast, sure, but there were at least no terrible surprises in being an outcast. People smirked at you sometimes but mostly they left you alone. And your friends, unlike some worthless men she could name, never betrayed you or let you down. And inside your fortress of fat you felt safe and protected. Nobody could get to you. Not as long as you kept the walls of the fortress tall and deep.

She hadn't been to class for over a week now, having spent her time in the apartment reading romantic suspense novels in which most of the heroines seemed to be extremely horny TV reporters, and making a daily foray out for thirty, forty dollars' worth of goodies. She chose a different store each day. It was too humiliating to let the same clerk in on her awful secret.

Twice she'd forced herself to vomit, two days in a row she'd taken diuretics. But unlike bulimics, she did these things not so she could maintain her weight, she did them so that her stomach would have more capacity for food.

She lay on her side on the couch and looked out her front window. Even at 9 a.m. it was dark as dusk. She could hear the snowplow in the street below, its motor obstinately pushing against piles of the white stuff. She could even hear its two-way radio inside, crackling loud.

She kept thinking about last night.

She'd almost done it.

In fact, she'd gone as far as getting out of bed, putting on her robe, walking to the kitchen, picking up the wallphone and dialing the number of the nearest police station, which was on a sticker (along with ambulance and fire numbers) on the wall.

A lady cop had answered, asked if she could help.

And Cini almost said it.

Almost said, 'You know that woman you think killed Eric Brooks? Well, she didn't. I saw the real killer. My name is Cini and I'm coming in.'

But then, just when she was about to get the words out, she imagined the press reports of what she'd been doing up in Eric's office.

All those horny women TV reporters in those trashy romance novels. They'd descend on her relentlessly.

'Did you reallywell, you know, have oral sex with Eric?'

'Do you usually have sex with men you don't know? Don't you ever worry about AIDS?'

'Were you always this promiscuous? Even when you were in high school?'

And then the faces of her parents. God, that would be the worst thing of all. Something would die in their eyesrespect, maybe, or the hope of ever seeing their 'problem child' get her life straightened out. They would become old then, old of their humiliation, old of their despair, and they would open their arms to Death in hopes that there really was a better life beyond this one.

She just couldn't do it to them.

She felt sorry for Jill Coffey but she just couldn't to this to her parents.

After awhile, she got up from the couch and went out to the kitchen and took down a fresh package of Oreos.

And who could eat Oreos without a pint of French Vanilla Haagen Daz to go with them?

She sat at the kitchen table and utterly destroyed both Oreos and ice cream and then she went back to the living room and turned on an old Perry Mason show and tried to guess whodunnit.

A couple times more that morning, she thought again of calling the police, telling them the truth.

But whenever the urge came, she'd trot out and grab a quick candy bar. And then the urge went away.

Rick Corday was on the Stairmaster in the den when the call came. He'd been expecting it.

' 'lo.'

'Rick. You looked out the window yet?'

'I looked.'

'No way I can fly in today.'

'Convenient.'

'Oh shit, Rick, I don't need this. I really don't'

'Poor baby.'

'Believe it or not, I'd like to be back there, sitting in our homenotice I said ''our" home, Rickhaving a nice sandwich and a glass of beer and watching one of those old sci-fi flicks you like so much. In fact, babe, why don't you go rent 'This Island Earth' and we'll watch it tomorrow, when I get in?'

'I thought we had an understanding about "babe."'

'Did I say "babe"?'

'You said "babe."'

'When?'

'A little while back.'

'I apologize, Rick. I truly apologize.'

'That what you call all the guys you pick up in bars?'

'Could you have a little fucking compassion, Rick? I've had a tough week.'

'I bet.'

'How're things going with Jill Coffey?'

Rick said nothing. Scare the bastard a little.

'Rick?'

'They're going fine.'

'Man, you had me worried there for a minute.'

'I'll bet you really hate to see Chicago have a blizzard, don't you?'