Authors: Tim Maleeny
“You mind sitting there?”
Jill shook her head. “Not at all.”
The Tadich Grill was packed, a common occurrence this time of night, couples stacked two or three deep at the bar. The restaurant didn’t take reservations, so Sam and Jill could either wait an hour for a table or take two of the stools at the bar reserved for people who wanted to eat and not just drink.
“Some women don’t like sitting at the bar.”
“You’ve brought a lot of women here?”
Sam flushed red. “That’s not what I—”
Jill put her hand on his shoulder. “Kidding.”
Sam nodded. “But I’m not. There’s a reason so many people are waiting for tables. A lot of people don’t like it. You’re looking across the bar, not facing each other. Rubbing shoulders, bumping into each other, depending on which hand you eat with.”
“I’m right-handed.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m so relieved.”
Sam turned to face her, caught the grin. “You enjoy fucking with me, don’t you?”
Jill laughed, smooth velvet somehow cutting through the din of the restaurant. “It’s just…you’re so—”
“Neurotic?”
She laughed again. “
Thoughtful
. That’s the word. You’re always asking me how I am.” She held his eyes for a moment before adding, “It’s nice.”
Sam studied her for a minute. “How long were you married?”
Jill sat back on the stool, her eyebrows revealing her surprise. “I don’t think I mentioned being married. Or divorced.”
Sam flushed again. “Sorry, that was abrupt. I was suddenly curious.”
“But…”
Sam ticked off the fingers on his left hand as he broke eye contact. “You’re smart, talented, and very attractive…” He let his voice trail off as he gathered his thoughts.
“Keep going,” chided Jill. “You’re doing great so far.”
Sam swung his eyes around to meet her. “You seem to like men.”
Jill flashed a smile.
“And men seem to like you,” said Sam. “If our stoner friend Jerome and I agree on something, it must be true.”
“If you say so.”
“And you notice things,” continued Sam. “Like manners. I’m not the most socially graceful guy, but I guess I’m polite.”
“Manners are important,” said Jill simply, her smile still there but tucked into the corners of her mouth.
“I think they’re more important to you. I think maybe you were married and you got taken for granted.”
The orange mote in Jill’s left eye seemed to darken. “That’s it?” she asked. “That’s how you figured I was married once?”
Sam shook his head.
In for a dime, in for a dollar
.
“You seem sad, like something was taken from you.”
A flash of something in her eyes, just this side of anger. “I seem
sad
to you?”
Sam shook his head. “Only when you sing.”
Her expression softened and the smile returned to her eyes, if not her mouth.
“You must have been a great cop.”
Sam shook his head. “I was married, too, remember.”
“And something was taken from you.”
“Yeah.” Sam shifted his eyes to the menu as he visualized Marie. “Yeah, it was.”
“But?”
“But I couldn’t sing like that.”
Jill smiled broadly this time. “I’d say you were more of a baritone.”
“You know what I meant.” Sam paused, then his tone softened. “That pain had to come from somewhere.”
“Like a man?”
Sam shrugged. “Men are good at causing pain. It’s in our DNA.”
Jill didn’t comment.
“And I figured if you were a widow, like me,” said Sam, “you would’ve told me when we first met. People tend to do that.”
“The same people who don’t like to sit at bars?”
Sam chuckled. “Yeah, them.”
“Maybe they think the pain will go away if it’s shared.”
“They’re wrong.”
“I was married ten years,” said Jill. “He was a jerk.”
“For ten years?”
“No, he was just a jerk the last two years, though I didn’t know it at the time.”
“Know what?”
“That he was banging someone else behind my back.”
Sam winced. “How’d you find out?”
“I walked in on them,” Jill said matter-of-factly. “In our bed.”
Sam let out a low whistle but didn’t say anything.
“He thought I was at a concert, but I came home early.”
“What did you do?”
A bitter but not unhappy smile spread across Jill’s face. “Remember I told you I studied kick-boxing?”
“Yeah.”
“He ran,” she said. “Grabbed his pants and ran. I changed the locks the next day.”
Sam felt suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry I brought this up. That was rude to drag—”
Jill cut him off with a wave of her right hand, which landed gently on his left. She curled her fingers around his and squeezed until their knuckles changed color.
“Know what the worst thing was?” she asked.
“No.”
“He ran away,” she scoffed. “What kind of man does that, runs away from a woman because she might kick his ass?”
“He was naked,” offered Sam.
“He was a pussy.”
Sam coughed at the word but managed not to laugh.
Jill shook her head in disgust. “How could I have married a pussy?”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
Jill squeezed his hand. “Tell me a story,” she said. “I wasted enough time with that asshole. Let’s talk about something else, OK?”
“OK.”
“So tell me a story.”
So Sam told her about being a cop. He talked about walking the streets, being surrounded by people but feeling cut off from all of them. Spending so much time around scam artists and deadbeats you started to feel like one yourself, cutting deals with assholes in hopes of catching a bigger one. He talked about his early years working robbery, before he started handling homicides. Most of the stories ended with someone going to jail or worse, but for some reason they made Jill laugh, maybe because of the colorful characters, or maybe because of the way he told them. Sam didn’t care; he just liked the sound of it.
Sometime between the story about a burglar who got caught asleep in the apartment he was supposed to be robbing and the transsexual con artist who liked to dress like a nun, Jill and Sam finished their dinner.
Sam signed the bill as Jill asked, “Are all criminals really that stupid?”
“Not all of them, no. But a lot of these guys, they’re not that bright, and to tell you the truth, they’re not even that bad.”
“Not that bad?”
“I’m not defending them. And I’m not talking about stone killers, either.” Sam blinked as an image of severed legs flashed behind his eyes, flame tattoos encircling the thighs. “I’m talking about regular people, like you and me.”
“Am I being insulted?” asked Jill playfully.
“That’s up to you,” replied Sam. “But most murders are not committed by serial killers or professional hitmen. Hannibal Lecter isn’t eating one of your neighbors.”
“I thought I saw him waiting for a table.”
“Funny.” Sam gestured across the restaurant. “You take any of these people and put them under tremendous pressure, you never know how they’re going to react. You want to find a killer, nine out of ten times it’s a friend of the victim. A colleague. A family member.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” said Sam. “Nine times out of ten, it’s someone the victim knew.”
“Do I know you?”
Jerome didn’t understand the question, so he responded by staring into Tamara’s eyes. He wasn’t sure if she was hypnotizing him or the other way around, and he didn’t care. This girl was awesome.
But she wasn’t letting him off the hook. “You planning on answering my question?”
Jerome frowned. “Not sure what you mean, babe.”
“I mean you’re different,” she said simply.
“Since when?” he asked. “This morning?”
Tamara studied him for a minute. They sat in a corner booth in the Mexican place, not exactly intimate, but when Tamara asked where he liked to eat, Jerome drew a blank. This was the only place he could think of, being so preoccupied with a single, burning thought.
This girl is awesome.
The waiter did a fly-by but kept walking when he saw their drinks had barely been touched. Tamara seemed to make up her mind. “Yeah, since this morning. When I first saw you in the hallway you seemed like the Jerome I knew and—” She stopped just this side of embarrassment.
“—liked?” Jerome suggested. “The Jerome you knew and liked?”
Tamara blushed only for an instant. “Yeah, you could say that. But yesterday I thought you were cute…” Again her voice trailed off. “I don’t know, like—”
“—a puppy dog?” Jerome said hopefully.
Laughing, she said, “Maybe.”
Jerome smiled knowingly. “Yeah, that was the
old me
.”
“The old you?”
“The stoner—Jerome the lovable stoner.”
Tamara watched him for another minute, took a sip of her marguerita. “You make it sound like you were a character in a movie.”
Jerome shrugged. “I was definitely acting. Playing a part in my brother’s play.”
Tamara’s forehead creased, but she still looked totally hot. She asked, “Larry wanted you to be a stoner?”
Jerome shook his head. “It’s a long story, but I was acting out my frustrations, trying to get under Larry’s skin. A classic case of passive-aggressive displacement. Very common among siblings close in age.”
Tamara took another sip. “Come again?”
“Larry was getting on my nerves, so I subconsciously decided to drive him nuts by becoming someone he couldn’t control.”
Tamara gave him that studied look again. “Jerome, what did you study in college?”
“Psychology.”
“Uh-huh.” Tamara shifted in her chair and leaned in closer. “And when did you decide to get off the grass?”
Jerome screwed up his face. “This morning, I guess.”
“Just like that,” she said.
“Gimme a break, Tamara. We’re not talking crystal meth here.”
“Sorry,” replied Tamara. “I’m just…curious. I mean, you smoked
a lot
, right?”
“
Jah, mon.”
“No cravings?”
“Not since you made me breakfast.”
Tamara looked like she might cry. That’s when Jerome knew.
He was in love.
Grab the bull by the horns. You’re in the driver’s seat. Put the pedal to the metal. Strike while the iron is hot. Fish or cut bait.
Every bullshit motivational cliché Jerome had ever heard ricocheted around his brain. All day he’d felt guided by an invisible hand, and so far it hadn’t steered him in the wrong direction.
Shit or get off the pot.
Tamara was watching him over her drink, as if she expected him to make the next move. This was destiny calling. Jerome took a deep breath and gave her his trademark lopsided grin, which he could now summon at will.
The Force was with him.
“Hey, Tamara, let’s say you and me get married?”
“I said,
do you want to get married?
”
Gail reached across the loveseat and jammed her index finger into Gus’ right ear. Finding the little dial on his hearing aid, she spun it like a roulette wheel till he winced from the feedback.
“What did you say?” His voice was unnaturally loud, as if Gail had turned up the volume on his vocal chords by accident.
“Don’t pull that selective hearing shit with me, you old bastard,” said Gail, her tone more playful than angry. “And don’t make me ask you again.”
Gus looked sheepish but scooted closer until their hips touched. “Gee, Gail, I dunno. I mean, what we’ve got is sure nice, but this is kinda sudden, and—”
Gail leaned in close and barked directly into the hearing aid. “Sudden?
Jesus-H-Christ
Gus, we’ve known each other fifteen years!”
Gus worked his jaw, trying to ascertain if Gail had rattled his dentures. “When you put it like that, I guess—”
“I guess you could make an honest woman of me.”
Gus put a dry right hand on Gail’s lap, waiting for her left to join it, which it did. Their parchment fingers intertwined for a long moment before Gail untangled herself and moved his hand away.
“OK, enough of that, you old rogue.”
Gus looked wounded. “Enough of what?”
“No more free lunch for you.”
“Free lunch?” Gus tried not to sound indignant. “That wasn’t even a snack, Gail.”
Gail smiled, but her eyes went supernova.
“Do you love me, Gus?”
“Of course,” he replied without hesitation. “You know how I feel.”
“And do we not have a bond, Gus?”
“A bond?” Gus tried the word on for size. “I never thought of—”
“It’s time, Gus.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to shit or get off the pot.”
Gus smiled wanly. “My mother used to say—”
“I’m not your mother, Gus.”
“I wasn’t saying—”
“Just wanted to be clear on that. A lot of men want to marry their mothers.”
“My mother’s been dead fifty y—”
“I’m just saying.”
“
Jesus.
” Gus stood up. “Is this how it’s gonna be?”
Gail blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You didn’t even let me finish a sentence till I took the Lord’s name in vain, for Chrissakes.”
“You’re not religious.”
“That’s not the point, Gail.”
Gail looked him up and down, then smiled gently. “No, it’s not, is it? Sit down next to me.” She patted the sofa, then gestured toward the tray of cookies on the coffee table. “You want an almond cookie? They’re to die for.”
Gus shook his head and sat down heavily. He ran his hands through his thinning hair and smiled. “You want me to eat one of your cookies, Gail? Is that what you want?”
“What do you think I want, Gus?”
Gus shook his head as if to clear it, and Gail thought he might bolt. Instead he dropped to one knee with surprising grace. All those years on the tennis court had paid off.
“I want to marry you, Gail,” said Gus, taking her hand in his.
Gail blinked, and for a moment Gus thought she was going to cry, but then he came to his senses. She did manage to look surprised, which was no small trick. Gus felt like a marionette that had been forced to dance a polka.
What a woman.
“So?” he asked, maybe sounding a little too eager, but what the hell—he was on his knees.
Gail scooted to the edge of the couch and leaned forward to give Gus a slow, dry kiss.
Gus thought she tasted like almonds.