“Yeah.”
“And I'm not here to change you.”
“I'll probably change you a little,” she said, laughing.
“You already have.”
Then Sylvia's spine tingled again as his lips met hers.
“Shit!” Sylvia exclaimed, pulling away.
“What?”
“Today is Melissa's goddamn party.”
“Oh yeah, that's right. Are you excited?”
“If by excited, you mean that I really want to skip it, then yes.”
“You would hate yourself if you missed your chance to say goodbye to your best friend,” said Bill.
“I know. You're right.”
Sulking, Sylvia downed the rest of her bagel and then grabbed the pill bottle out of her purse.
THIRTY ONE
Bill left to get fresh clothes and run some errands, and Sylvia had promised to be ready to go when he came back to get her. He even made her pinky swear, though she guessed that his concern was not so much with waiting for her, as it was the thought that she might bail entirely. He was getting to know her well, and he was right to be concerned. As much as she would regret not seeing Melissa again, a huge chunk of her heart wanted to spare itself.
When she heard his knock at her door, she had not even chosen a bra to wear. He had a childish grin when Sylvia answered the door topless, and she saw him blush. She didn't know if it was just his level of patience, or her tits, but Bill didn't show any signs of minding that she was late. He had shown such acceptance of her lifestyle that it probably should not have surprised her that he wasn't the type to get hung up on timeliness.
“Take your time,” he said.
He looked good. Really good. He was just wearing jeans and a sport coat, but it suited him.
His looks, teamed with her near nakedness, lead to twenty more minutes of bliss before she began to get ready again. She thought of taking another shower to vanquish the stench of sex from her skin, but decided to leave it. She would rather other people smell the fornication than endure Melissa whine over her tardiness.
In the end, Sylvia settled on yesterday's bra and a simple black dress that she had not worn in years. Bill was waiting for her, ever imperturbable, in the living room. He wasn't sitting in her favorite chair, and hadn't once touched it since she first admonished him. As she looked out at the two virtually identical chairs, one with Bill sitting, legs crossed, reading her latest copy of Cosmo, and the other, slightly more worn and empty, the tether that she had fastened to her favorite chair suddenly broke.
“I think I want to get some new furniture,” she said.
Looking up from the magazine, Bill said, “You look amazing.”
“Thank you.”
“I thought you loved your chair.”
“It's time for a change. Maybe you can help me pick out some new ones when we finally go laptop shopping.”
“It's a deal,” he said, now standing directly in front of her. He put his hands on her sides and kissed the tip of her nose softly. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, I just need to grab my purse.”
Bill grabbed it for her, and walked her to the front door. Just before he shut it behind them, she jumped and stopped him.
“I need to get my keys,” she said, grabbing them from their bowl. “I should just get you one so I wouldn't have to remember all the time.”
“Did you just offer me a key to your apartment?” he asked.
She hadn't even thought about it before she said the words, but she couldn't find any emotion that would prevent her from wanting him to have a key. “Yeah, I guess I did. Do you want it?”
“Yes.”
“Good then. Issue settled. Let's not make it into a big scene in the hallway. We have a party to attend after all.”
In all her imaginings of how their conversation might go, she had never imagined that it would have boiled down to just a few words and a key.
* * *
The bar that Sylvia had rented for the party was called Mounds, and she could see the cabbie smirk in his rearview as he dropped them off. The bar was named for its association with baseball, as well as the nearly exposed breasts of its waitresses. It wasn't her cup of tea, but Melissa's friend rented it to her for far cheaper than he could have.
She hated the cab driver's smirk, and when she handed him the fare, she stiffed him on the tip. There was no other situation in life that she felt so comfortable to take out her own vengeance so vehemently than interactions with taxi drivers. It was a habit that she wasn't proud of, but thus far had made no attempt to remedy.
It was an aspect of her personality that Bill had already been privy to, and like everything else, had simply accepted without question. As he exited the cab, Bill slipped the driver some more cash, and that made her feel better. She was able to vent her frustration to a stranger without the guilty afterglow. “Thank you,” she told him.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” replied Bill.
When they finally entered the bar, they were a half hour late, which Sylvia considered not too shabby at all. A young girl in the shape of a stick with breasts greeted them, but Sylvia pushed past her into the crowd that had already accumulated.
She was aware that she was being far bitchier than normal, and it bothered her. She stopped dead in the middle of a group of people and turned to Bill who had been keeping pace. She laid her head on his chest and he gently cradled her with his hand. A tear threatened to slide from the crook of her eye, but she willed it back. She gave Bill a kiss, and again pushed through the crowd.
Sylvia hadn't expected such a turn out. She had made a few calls to people that Melissa knew to inform them of the party, and told them all to bring anyone they wanted, but she had definitely not expected the hundreds that now blocked her way to the bar.
Free booze will make even the most civilized of us wallow in filth.
Once they had finally nudged their way through the crowd, they found Melissa sitting at a table set up at the rear of the bar. Sylvia had set the table up special for them, and had it covered in Mylar balloons and shiny streamers. The rest of the bar was covered in the stuff too, but there were so many people you wouldn't notice.
There were a few other people sitting at the table with Melissa, but she shooed them away when she saw Sylvia approach.
“Well it's about time! I thought you were going to miss the most important day in my entire life, Syl, Jesus!”
“It's his fault,” Sylvia said, pointing to Bill.
Bill just smiled and nodded.
It felt amazing to sit down at the table away from the body heat and skin sweat, and Sylvia found cold champagne waiting for her at her seat. The makeshift VIP sported an assortment of finger foods, including–but not limited to–Cheetos and mixed nuts. Before Sylvia was settled in, Melissa was clinking a knife against her own champagne flute. It took a couple of minutes before the crowd was adequately hushed.
“As you all know,” Melissa began, “this will be the last night that most of you will see me. I have found what everyone hopes to find, and he awaits me in Panama. It was amazing to know all of you, I'm sure. Please have a great time. All the booze is free, and there is a table near the bar for parting gifts.” Then Melissa raised her glass, having just asked for presents from a crowd that she only knew a fraction of, and waited for all of the plastic beer cups to be raised as well. When she was satisfied that enough people were participating, she shouted, “Salute,” and the DJ played Seal's Kiss from a Rose–a song that the world had forgotten by 1995, yet remained Melissa's favorite.
Bill began to sing softly to himself, but upon noticing Sylvia's absence in his harmony, tapered off and gave her a look as if to prove that he had never started in the first place.
“I saw that,” she said.
“You saw nothing,” was his reply.
When Melissa had sufficiently basked in the glow of her adoring public, she came back to the table and joined them, and for the remain
der of the evening, save for a few greetings, it was just the three of them.
Very Important People indeed.
“So what's his name? Carlos, right? Does he know that you're coming?”
“Oh, Sylvia, always so blunt. One might even say rude, but one knows better doesn't she? And you are correct, his name was Carlos.”
“What's his last name?”
“Well, I don't know his last name, nor do I wish to. Carlos and I no longer see eye to eye, and will not be in each other's company ever again.”
“Oh Melissa, I'm sorry. What the hell happened? Are you OK?”
Melissa finished off her glass of champagne and then called the waitress over.
“Enough of the bubbly dear,” Melissa said to the stick, “Let us drink like men. Whiskey. The whole damn bottle from the very tippy top shelf. And three shot glasses, please and thank you.”
The waitress came back with a full bottle of Johnny Walker Blue on a tray.
Melissa poured three full shots, spilling the expensive liquor with each pour.
“Drink,” she said.
“Oh, Mel, I don't know if I…”
“Drink,” she repeated.
Then the three of them tapped their glasses together and threw back the whiskey. Sylvia felt the warm liquid splash against the back of her throat and braced for the sting, but was pleasantly surprised as it flowed smoothly down.
They each had two more shots before Melissa said another word. “I'm going to tell the two of you a secret. And, truth be told, I don't really have anyone else of whom to tell. Sylvia, you and I, we live such a lonely existence. How many friends do you have? I'll tell you how many. You're looking at her, and you don't even like me that much.”
“I love you, Melissa,” Sylvia retorted.
This wasn't a lie that Sylvia told. She really did love her friend. Though, she sometimes wondered if it was deserved love, or one of necessity for lack of any better options to love. It was most likely a smidge of both.
“I know dear, but that's far from the point. The point is that Carlos has a family in Portland. The man isn't even from Panama.”
“Well that's great, you don't have to leave then,” Bill said.
“Oh, Bill, you are so wonderful. I am glad that Sylvia has you now because I do have to leave. I will still be going to live in Panama, albeit alone.”
“What in the world for?” Sylvia asked.
“The champagne dear. The champagne. I have to leave or they will gut me like a fish or something to that effect.”
“That bottle you stole?”
“That very one. He wants it back. I told him that he couldn't have it back as I had already used it up, but he has insisted. If I don't give it back to him, he will end my life. I just wished I could have drunk some of the stuff.”
“I thought you said the owner was a very nice person.”
“He was. A very, very nice gangster person. It seems his personality has layers.”
This time Sylvia poured the shots. “This is all my fault.”
Sylvia slumped in her chair and looked down at her empty shot glass, her vision already beginning to fuzz.
“Oh hush, Sylvia!” Melissa insisted. “You do go on and on. This isn't about you and your guilty conscience. This is my day, and we're celebrating; albeit with some decidedly cheaper alcohol to that for which I will die.” Melissa drank another shot and then slammed her glass down. Some of the whiskey dribbled out of the side of her mouth and fell to the table, mixing with the already accrued puddle. She swirled her finger through the spilled spirits as she changed the subject from this to that for hours. Melissa's mind jumped from scene to scene like a high-powered Hollywood action movie, and everyone else was expected to keep up, and keep quiet.
Sylvia often wondered what it would be like to take a long walk on the beach of Melissa's brain, watching the thought clouds swirl and the rainbow synapses fire.
THIRTY TWO
Last night, Harry and Love had gone for a walk.
She had been very busy with work since their date, but she had made time for him. On the flipside, Harry had done absolutely nothing productive with his own time. Every so often he would crack a file open in an attempt to find some clue that he may have missed, but his mind would soon wander. Several times a day, he would order searches on certain buildings or fields, but this was mainly to show the bureau that he was doing anything at all to catch the killer. He knew very well that it was all just a shot into the darkest dark.
He had felt like an idiot with the number of times that he had called Love, but he could never detect any annoyance in her voice. She would text him when she took breaks, and for the first time, he understood the love people had for their phones. He hung on each word she typed to him, over-analyzing every syllable. It was text messages that lead to their walk. How had he not seen the value in this technology?
They held hands as they walked through the neighborhoods of Hennington. She had interlaced their fingers and rubbed her thumb gently across the back of his. Harry had never held hands like that before. “I think I could live here,” he told her.
“Oh yeah? You think that you can hang your hat up and stop catching the bad guys? Because once Strawberries moves on, this place probably won't see another bad guy for a century.”
“I think I could,” he said, “I don't think I have the passion for it anymore. I feel like my priorities are changing.”
Love had not said anything in return, and they kept walking, hand in hand, until she had to leave. She kissed him deeply and left him standing outside his dusty old motel room door.
He had slept like the dead for the first time since getting assigned the case.
Hell, Harry, since Sara left.
When he awoke, it was nearly noon. Instead of dealing with his responsibilities, he had decided to walk all the way to the diner named Diner, and sat there all day.
He played checkers with the old men in the corner, who as it turned out, were brothers named Felix and Jerry. Many years ago, they had fallen in love with the same woman, and she had broken both their hearts.
Maggie told Harry later that they had hated each other for decades, and then one day, after both had grown old and grey, they forgave. She said they had been playing checkers in that booth every day since. Maggie was full of stories, and Harry ate them up. She let him in the back to watch her make her pies, and even gave him a task or two along the way.
Before he knew it, the sun had receded behind the horizon, and it was time for Harry to head back. He had not intended to stay as long as he did, but even now, he was reluctant to leave.
“Can I get a coffee to go please, Maggie?”
“Of course, Hun, but are you sure that you don't want me to drive you?”
“No, I'll be just fine. I like the walk.”
As Harry took the Styrofoam cup full of hot coffee, the television caught his attention and stopped him dead.
“Maggie, could you turn that up please? I think my life may have just gotten flushed down the toilet.”
With a look of concern, Maggie cranked up the volume. On the screen, Shelly Cervantes was speaking, and just under her was a graphic that read, Strawberries IDENTIFIED.
“Again, I can confirm the name of the Strawberries killer is Robert Kirkman. The name was given to me through an anonymous source, and I have confirmed its validity.”
“Oh, shit,” Harry said.
“Language,” Maggie said, scolding.
“Sorry. But, it's okay. She can't actually know who he is, can she? This is probably just some sort of publicity stunt. Maybe viewership is down or something.”
The night anchor was reiterating what Miss Cervantes had said when they suddenly cut back to her. “Yes, John, I'm sorry to interrupt again, but I have just received information from my source. In two days' time, I will have an exclusive interview with Robert Kirkman himself. I haven't been told when or where yet, John, but as soon as I know, you will too.”
“Can
you disclose where you are now, Shelly?” the anchor man asked.
“No, John, I can't disclose that information. I'm told that if I do, Robert will not agree to meet. And John, I don't have to tell you how important this meeting is.”
“Absolutely Shelly,” John said, “you stay safe out there.” Then he turned to the camera and assured Harry that, as any new information came to light, they would be the first to tell him.
Harry felt as if his jaw had dropped to the floor and he was now standing on it. When he swallowed, all that went down his throat were lumps of his own failure. He didn't even know where to begin his thought process, so for a time, his mind existed in limbo. He felt nothing. He thought nothing.
It didn't last.
Harry. Oh, Harry. This is so bad.
Taking out his cell phone, he set the coffee down and dialed Sheriff Gambon's office. After an extensive admonishment from Frank, Harry ordered a full-scale search for both Robert Kirkman, and Shelly Cervantes. Then he made a second call to the bureau ordering any information on anyone named Robert Kirkman. While Harry was on the phone, the system had already pulled up over six hundred names, and he ordered them all looked into by anyone that the bureau could spare before hanging up. Then he sat down at the counter and sipped his coffee, head leaning into one palm.
“Are you okay, Sugar?” Maggie asked.
“No, Maggie, I'm fucked.”
Maggie frowned and then softened.
“I'm gonna let that one slide.”
“Thank you.”
Harry set down the empty coffee mug, said goodbye, and began the walk back to the motel. All at once, he was aware of the pain in his knee again, and he wished that he had had the presence of mind to enjoy his time without it. The air was hot, but his fear and anger had made his blood run cold. The night breeze was like icicles stabbing his skin.
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