Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

“What... what are you doing in uniform?”

“My turn to ride patrol. We all got to take a turn, except for your child. She’s special.”

“I... I always thought so,” Keith said.

Another siren was screaming.

So were his sides.

Then everything went blessedly black.

You are not anxious to do this.

Well, that’s not exactly right. You are anxious, in the sense that anxiety is a low fluctuating hum beneath your surface calm. You are prepared to do this only to protect yourself. You really have no wish to hurt her. The memories with this one are too fresh. Too sweet. Too vivid.

But you will probably have to do it.

And, you tell yourself, several other important functions may well be served. Confusing the issue is one. Throwing suspicion elsewhere is another. Sentiment cannot be allowed to defeat self-preservation.

First, you must check on the person to whom you hope attention will be drawn. Is he at home tonight? That could prove a deciding factor. If he is with her, or is planning to meet her when she gets off work, you would have two people with which to deal, simultaneously... and that would not do.

Your hope is that he will be at home, that is, the home of his parents, in the basement apartment they have provided him. The house is at the end of a cul-de-sac on Bluffwood Drive, barn-shaped but with modern touches against a wooded backdrop. You park down the street, walk to where two houses have no lights on and then cut between them, to work your way through the trees and around to the barnlike structure’s nicely landscaped backyard.

Staying low, you are able to peek in a window into the finished basement. There’s a massive wall-screen TV, and a big open area with comfy chairs and a couch arranged for viewing. But against the far wall is a single bed and a dresser; also a desk with a computer on it. Seems to have been a family room until it was turned into this studio apartment.

Its inhabitant is sitting on the couch with his feet on an ottoman. He has a can of beer in hand, wears a T-shirt and jeans, no socks. Next to him is an open bag of Sterzing’s potato chips. He would appear to be in for the evening.

Good.

Even better is that the rest of the lights are off in the house and there’s no car in the drive or the garage. The parents and their Chrysler are nowhere to be seen.

Perfect.

You drive back to downtown Galena, park on Commerce, and walk up the slope of Washington Street to South Main. It’s after eight and, with the stores closed and few restaurants or bars at this end of Main, things are very quiet. Not many cars parked on the street; traffic’s light.

And it’s only going to get quieter.

You take the old concrete stairs by the narrow closed-off cobblestone street, to the right of which is a modest park-like area, and go up to the patio of Vinny Vanucchi’s. No one around, but lights are on in the restaurant. They don’t close till nine.

You go in. Take a left to go down the short hall to the restrooms. You duck into yours, relieve yourself, wash your hands. You look at yourself in the mirror. It’s you. Normal. Nothing shows. You check your hair, brush it back in place, and smile at your reflection. Not pushing it. Just friendly.

Walking past the little unattended deli counter, you find the greeter, the thirtyish assistant manager who you know a little, leaning at the station where he seats guests. Another deli counter, also unattended, is at right, its low electrical hum a manifestation of your anxiety.

The restaurant is fairly empty. Dean Martin is singing “Sway.” Somebody in white is working in the kitchen. The sunken wine-cellar nook at left that you pass has both its tables empty. Up the stairs your host pauses at the bottom of the stairs to the main dining room, from which there is no noise at all. You are taken into the cozy dining area that you like best and are seated by the faux fireplace in the corner. By the window onto Main, a middle-aged couple are having a late dinner. They are the only other diners.

Jasmine appears to be the entire waitstaff at this hour, late in a slow day. She comes over, looking surprised to see you, her expression falling, but then picking itself up into something pleasant that could be called a smile.

“Alone tonight?” she asks.

She is pretty as ever, her medium-length brown hair framing her face beautifully. You feel a pang and it’s not hunger. Well, really, it kind of is. There are hungers and there are hungers.

“Everybody at home but me has the flu,” you say.

A real smile. “I sure hope you’re not contagious.”

“No, I’ve already had it. You’re perfectly safe.”

She has a menu for you, but you say you don’t need it.

“Rocky’s Ravioli,” you say.

“Your favorite.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re my favorite.”

Her smile is gone but a frown hasn’t replaced it. “Don’t say that. It’s cruel.”

Sammy Davis is singing “Something’s Gotta Give.”

“I don’t mean to be cruel,” you say. “It’s just that... I’ve missed you. I am not coming on to you! Just telling you. I’ve missed you.”

“Yes,” she said, cheerfully, “it’s nice seeing you, too. I’ll bring your bread and salad.”

She goes off to do that. The middle-aged couple are finishing up. After Jasmine returns with the bowl of salad and basket of bread, she goes over and gives them their check, then disappears.

In a few minutes, when you are still just getting started on your bread and salad, she returns and takes the middle-aged couple’s money. A little while later she brings them their change, and you are done with the salad and bread.

You only eat half of what she brought. That low hum inside you means your stomach might not like any more.

You sit and think. Ponder. Consider. You may not have to do it, after all. She seems friendly. She seems not at all scared, though you would imagine by now she has reason to be. Your belly seems to be handling the rich buttery garlic bread and the tangy Italian salad. You even eat a yellow pepper.

You are doing fine.

Bobby Darin sings “Call Me Irresponsible.”

She brings your order of ravioli — a half dozen good-size pasta puffs filled with ricotta cheese; the marinara they luxuriate in is excellent. You ordered this because it’s your favorite all right, but also to take it easy on your stomach, which is not made of cast iron. Neither are you. You are human. You once felt something for this girl. You still do maybe.

Maybe you won’t have to go through with it.

While you are eating, Jasmine comes in and clears the middle-aged couple’s table. No busboy is working this evening. When she bends over, her slender shapely figure reminds you of the needs that drive you, needs you can’t help, needs you must respond to or you might just go mad.

When you are finished, eating only half of the serving, Jasmine returns, brings the check, and asks if there’s anything else.

“I would like a glass of white wine,” you say. “Chardonnay. The Main Street.”

“From California. Good choice.”

“Why, is that your favorite?”

She smiles a little. “One of them.”

“Why not sit and talk? You’ll be closing, in what... twenty minutes. I don’t see any other customers.”

“No. I’d imagine you’re my last.”

“If Tony spots you,” you say, referring to the assistant manager who seated you, “you can scurry off like a good girl.”

“I... I have to clear the table first.”

You say fine, and then give her two twenties. “Settle up for me later, and keep the rest.”

She nods, or you think she does — it’s barely perceptible. She clears the table.