Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

His blank eyes took on a slightly puzzled look. Biner... Mister Biner, are you sure you want to go?”

“Positive.”

“Lord, you're the real big brother.”

“Balls. I'm doing it for... me.”

When I was left alone again for another few minutes, feeling quite cheerful—sort of like I'd finally got from under—the All-American clean-cut came in, scowling a bit. He told me, “Biner, quite rightly the French take a rather dim view of your striking one of their police officers. They insist that if you hadn't bolted the cambio shop, they would have found Parks without all the shooting. I doubt it, and I tried to explain the... eh... tense circumstances under which you took a poke at the officer. However... they've given you forty-eight hours in which to leave the country. I'm sorry. Go to Italy, across the border, stay in Vintimille. I shall try my best to... What are you grinning about? This is hardly a joking matter.”

Suddenly I was laughing, real solid old-fashioned laughter... first time I'd laughed this way in years. When I was able to talk, I said, “Thanks for giving it the old try, but tell the French they're about forty hours late—I'm flying back with Parks tonight.”

“You understand the French only have authority to force you to leave here, you don't have to return to the States?”

I merely nodded because he seemed so upset. There was no way I could make him know how much I had to go back to the States, to that nameless and formless place called... home. I asked, “Am I free to leave now? I've things to do in the few hours I've left in Nice.”

“You can leave any time. I have my car downstairs, can I drive you to your hotel?”

“Sure can,” I said, giving him Sydney's address.

The castle had a high white tower... white turrets... snow white, horse-white. Once read up on castles... call this the Teutonic type... Only real castle I ever saw... the monstrosity at Avignon. The old papal palace. Over-sweet nougat candy they sell in Avignon.

The white tower was beautiful in the last rays of the sun. On one side of the castle a woman sat on a beach chair, reading a newspaper. On the other side, a little boy...

The whimpering barks in my ear... noise of sea gulls? I studied Lu's face... the tense, pasty coloring. Staring hard at the white top of the castle as she tried to call out... the barking sounds... sand clinging to her lips... sand in her throat.

Was she calling for her beloved 'boy?' Or...for... help? Couldn't have help... now. Not with the two stiffs... behind us. Never... never... never... explain them to the police.

I told Lu to shut up, looked at the marvelous white castle. Odd... no blood down there. Tide must be only coming in now... Nuts to time and tide... I couldn't wait for... them.

Lu kept grunting. Raising my left hand... slowly... high as I could...let it fall on her black hair. Where it wasn't matted with blood... still so soft. Lu didn't even feel my hand, glance at me. Gathering my strength... another noise, a jet was flying high over us... I pressed Lu's face into the sand. Pressing firmly... gently... Until the animal grunts stopped..

The effort was too much... I had to leave... soar after the jet.

CHAPTER 5

Through the lace curtains I watched the lights going on in an apartment across the street. Syd's room was large and not too badly furnished—the English have a knack for finding decent and inexpensive lodgings. It was growing dark—and late.

Turning to reach for my watch, my hand fell across Syd's flat rump. Stroking the smooth skin, I felt fine. For this last sheet-exercise with Sydney I'd been as eager as a schoolboy, gone at her with passion which had startled me. Even if I kept thinking of the time—wanted to see Henri at his gallery before I left. But feeling sexually pooped, I knew —for sure—I only wanted to see Hank about my paintings—strictly business.

The room was comfortably quiet except for Syd weeping softly. Stroking her hips I thought of all the truly beautiful girls I'd slept with; the models, my second wife—Amy—with a better figure than any stage beauty—yet none of them had turned me on like scrawny Syd. Rolling her over, kissing her face—salty and messy with tears—I felt her trembling under me as she put her arms around my neck. Kissing again, her tongue trying to part my lips, I reached for my watch on the table. It was six-forty-five p.m. I started to get up but she clung to me. I sat Syd on my lap. She cried harder. Patting her lean belly, I told her, “Stop it, honey. I don't like to see you crying.”

“Clay, I can't help it. Does this have to be the end?”

“All things end—sooner or later,” I said, smartly.

“In a lousy three hours you'll be out of my life forever; I won't have it! I bloody well won't!”

“Aw Syd, we've had a great time, why spoil it?”

“This has been more than a 'great time' for me —Clay, you know that. I don't want it 'spoiled' by being over! I'm not being some sticky virgin gushing over her first man... it's been far more—for both of us.”

“Syd, what good is this kind of talk? No matter what you mean to me—I still have to go back to the States. I'm only marking time here.”

“Clay, go wherever you wish, but take me! Clay dear, please, marry me or don't marry me, but take me with you! Look, I was a bit windy... about being on a holiday as a college graduation present. I really did graduate—a London business school, and when my first position folded—I took all my savings and came here. But...”

Bending down to rub my nose against her breasts, I mumbled, “Syd, really, I have to make a plane... soon.”

“Do hear me out, Clayton. You want to shake Nice, fine. I'm a good secretary, can always find work, support us both. Don't you see, darling, you'll be able to paint and I'll work; in London, the States, or in Australia. I was telling you the truth about my land, Clay, I swear it. I own five thousand acres. Australia is a place of opportunity and frontiers. Once we save enough to build a house on the land, then we have a go at raising sheep, drilling for oil, farming...”

For a moment with my face still pressed against her childish breast, I seriously considered it. It would be something to never look at a paint brush or canvas again, starting all over in a new field... like... whatever you did on five thousand wild acres.

Placing both her hands on my fat face, she pulled my head up to her eye level. “Clay, oh you're not even listening!”

“Sure I was. We'd have a goal in life—work and save for the house. Once that's built, we tackle the land, working together. Maybe we'll hit it rich and maybe we won't, but we'll be together all the time... be happy. Isn't that what you were trying to tell me?”

“Yes, yes... oh yes!” It came out like a sex-moan. “Clay, don't you want that?”

“Oh, I do. It's a great little dream... and like all dreams, turns to crap when you wake up.”

Syd opened her eyes wide. “What a blooming nasty thing to say! We can try it... Can't we, Clay?”

I shook my head. “Honey, it wouldn't work. Face it, I don't know which end of a shovel is shove. Be different if I had a little money to vaseline our way, but—starting on a shoe string only ends with being tied in knots—if you'll pardon the lousy simile.”

“I'll sell my scooter, bring enough for my passage to America. I heard English secretaries are in great demand there. I'll...”

I closed her jabbering mouth with a soft kiss. “Syd, Syd, I'm not getting through—I'd be no damn good for you. I've been a bum all my life, plus now... I'm washed-out, jaded... feel old.