Jonathon King - A Killing Night

"No, I didn't," I said. I wasn't going to offer that I hadn't known I was looking for a cop until Richards ID'ed the photo two hours ago. "Did they talk?"

He sipped and made me wait.

"She finally came down and put a Rolling Rock in front of him without being asked and they looked at each other for a couple of seconds longer than a barmaid and just a regular would. Now mind you, she'd been pretty friendly before he got there, worked the bar nice."

"Thanks, O'Shea. I know you're an expert in that area, but did they talk?"

"Not a word with me sittin' there but there was a hell of a lot being said, if that's what you're asking. They knew each other. She might be dealing for him from the bar. Might be something else. My take was he's trying to be contrite about pissing her off about something and she's making a plan that he ain't got a clue about."

O'Shea had been a good cop. He knew something about reading people. But he'd yet to prove himself a psychic.

"You picked all this up through their body language, Colin?"

"Some of it, yeah," he said. "The girl walks down to the other end and I say to the guy 'Nice ass on that one, eh?' and he looks at me like I just insulted his mother."

"And of course you let it go."

"Sure. I say: 'Well excuse me, pal, but if your name ain't on it, every paying customer in the place has the right to at least look.'"

"And?"

"Guy's got an eye, Max. Kind you see on the street that makes you want to take the baton out of your belt loop just for safety sake."

"He say anything?"

"No. But it was in his throat, twitchin'. I could see it there so I backed off, bought him a beer and made like I was calling someone on the picture phone. When the girl brought him the Rock, I snapped that shot of him," O'Shea said, obviously proud of himself. "That's when he got up and walked out through the back hallway. Left the beer and his money untouched."

O'Shea said he stayed in the bar and hadn't tried to tail the guy. I started to react but held myself; he was right, if the guy was a cop and made him as a tail it might have scared him off completely. O'Shea said he stayed put and waited for the bartender to close up and watched her get into her own car, just like I had the other night. When he got home to his apartment, two Broward sheriff's officers were waiting for him. He called Billy, sent the photo over the phone and went to jail.

When we got back into the car I asked where I could drop him and he asked me to go east. We got over the intracoastal bridge and he motioned me to pull over next to the Holiday Inn.

"You got a room?" I asked.

"Not exactly," he said, getting out at the curb. "I'll keep in touch."

I watched his back while he walked away. I knew the Parrot Lounge was just around the corner and I would have bet a paycheck that's where he was headed. Irish whiskey, straight up, and I'm not sure I could blame him after the night he'd had.

He'd pushed the patrol car up to eighty on the freeway and blown through the toll plaza to Alligator Alley, and hadn't said a word since he'd slapped her.

She didn't know where the hell he was going, but she did know that if she pushed it the wrong way it was only going to make it worse. They'd done this dark stretch of straight road before at night. She remembered the turnoff that he'd taken, up a hard-scrabbled path that was barely a road at all and ended up in some kind of woods he called a hammock.

They'd done some necking and then screwed in the backseat of the squad car. She'd thought it was actually pretty cool at the time. When they were getting dressed she clicked on the switch for the swirling blue lights and it made him yell at her at first and then he'd smiled that goddamn smile.

"You are a pistol, girl."

He wasn't smiling now and she knew she didn't have a choice.

"Come on, Kyle. What're we doing?"

Nothing.

She was using a soft voice and brushed the hair off her face.

"Look, I'm sorry. Really. I just get tired sometimes and, you know, I say stuff I don't really mean."

He was still quiet, but in the dim light from the dash she could see that his jaw was loosening, the marbles of muscle settling. At this point she didn't trust what the hell he might do. She'd witnessed that anger and speed when he'd done it to others and now it was on her and she didn't know how far he might take it. And Jesus, look where they were now, way the hell out here where nobody was going to hear her scream and no way was she going to jump out and run if he ever slowed the hell down or stopped.

She'd been out here during the daytime when they'd taken a drive to Naples on the west coast of the state. The sawgrass and open land went on like a damn meadow for miles and miles and she knew enough about the Everglades to know that most of it was hip deep in water.

But she'd also had plenty of practice getting pissed-off men to calm down. When you're in the bar you use what you've got. Sometimes it's a free drink. Sometimes a smile. Sometimes a promise of something to come later. It was a small price to pay.

"Come on, baby. I wasn't trying to order you around," she said. "I was just thinking about going home and relaxing and being with you instead of driving."

Christ, she thought. Just like her father when he'd start crying about mom and saying how it wasn't worth carrying on and where was the Lord when you were the one in need, and she'd sit down on the floor in front of his chair and take his big thick hands in hers and tell him how strong he'd always been and how much she loved him and as long as they were together they'd be a family and everything would be all right.

She hadn't believed any of those words, either. But it got both of them through. It was the same thing, she told herself now while she forced back the bile that came up while she was apologizing for nothing. But this time she was scared and only trying to get herself through.

"Kyle. Come on, baby. I can't stand it when you ignore me. It makes me feel alone and you know I need you to talk with me."

She straightened up in her seat and squared her shoulders against the seat back, still watching his face, watching that right hand on the wheel, waiting for him to slap her again.

He cocked his head and tightened his lips and she reached out, slowly, thinking she'd try to touch him.

"You don't know how close you come, Marci," he said.

Yes, she did, she thought.

"You know I try to give you everything I can. And then you turn on me like that and how the fuck do you think that makes me feel?"

You're insane, she thought.

"I know, baby. I know and I'm sorry," she said.

He was easing off the speed and she thought that was good. They'd already passed the few cars and a tractor-trailer that had probably gone through the toll before them and now there weren't any taillights out ahead of them. Across the divided highway she saw some headlights going east, but only a couple of pairs. She reached out farther and touched his thigh and forced herself not to flinch when she felt the muscle in his leg quiver.

"I really am sorry, Kyle."

This time he turned his head and looked at her. The expression on his face said "you poor pitiful little girl" and she absorbed it and bit the side of her lip and swallowed it and let him repeat himself: "You don't know how close you come sometimes."

He slowed nearly to a stop and then pulled onto what felt like that same dirt road and now they were moving into the trees and into the dark. When they came to a stop, she let him kiss her. She got out of the car with him and looked up at a smear of stars and thought "Where's my goddamn fairy godmother when I need her?" and then she let him undress her and said she was sorry again, but this time she was apologizing to herself.