Castle Danger--Woman on Ice

by Anthony Neil Smith

  “Ever been here?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t, you know. Places like this. I bet I’ll be surprised, though.”

  He grinned. On him, it didn’t look like a grin. More like he was holding in a fart.

  It didn’t help that once inside, all the wait staff knew him by name and asked questions about his folks, his brother and sister, about a couple of other local boys who were still in the Middle East. While he answered, even as quickly and politely as he could, Lissa kept her head turned towards the window, chin on her fist.

  To Joel, this was a little slice of heaven. He pointed out the chocolates in the display by the hostess station, the long list of pies written in colored chalk on the wall — Apple, Caramel Apple Pecan, French Apple, Rhubarb, Strawberry Rhubarb, Raspberry Rhubarb, Blackberry, Blueberry, Blueberry Crumb, Cherry, Peach, Cherry Peach Crumb, Raspberry, Summerberry, North Shore Berry Crumb, Berry Berry, Gooseberry, Lemon Angel, Cranberry Apple, Lime Angel, Four Berry, and the cream pies, of course, Coconut Cream, Chocolate Five-layer Cream, Raspberry Cream, Bananna Cream (yes, misspelled, he assured me), Blueberry Cream, and a couple of other something creams — some crossed through because they were out, a couple of others erased (out-of-season) but still readable, but his date’s attention had waned. He told her to try the Ritzy Fish, which was amazing. Okay, not super fresh in the winter, but still.

  “I don’t see Ritzy fish.”

  “It has to be on there. There’s always Ritzy fish.”

  “No, there’s Picatta Walleye, is that it?”

  “No, this is Ritzy fish. It’s walleye or catch-of-the-day, but it’s Ritz crackers. It’s amazing.”

  He whistled. Yes, whistled, and one of the waitresses scurried over. He asked why Ritzy fish was off the menu, and Lissa said not to worry because she wasn’t much of a fish eater anyway, but Joel wanted Ritzy fish. The waitress said of course, they still made it. They were just, you know, trying some new things.

  “You can’t lose Ritzy fish.” He smiled while he said it, but his cheeks were starting to burn. “Seriously. That’s, like, famous. I love Ritzy fish.”

  “Oh, no, it’s no problem. We still know how to make it. People still ask for it. Ta da! Okay, I’ll tell them.”

  It took Lissa another ten minutes, an entire basket of bread and two Castle Danger beers for Joel, before she decided … on a chicken chopped salad and water, no ice.

  He felt like he’d been popped with a very thin pin. He stopped trying, focused on his Ritzy fish and made small talk. He thought about some of the other profiles he’d seen before deciding to ask Lissa. He knew there would be no lingering at the table after dinner, drinking a few more Castle Danger beers, no walk up to the frozen Falls, arm in arm. And no. Fucking. Pie.

  It was a long quiet ride back to town. He drove faster than he should’ve, and on more beer than he should’ve, and Lissa looked as frozen in place as Gooseberry Falls would have been this time of year, her fingers gripping the seat and the door padding. Joel’s teeth felt as if they were about to crack. He turned on the radio at one point, mostly to keep himself from asking Why? Why had she bothered? And why had he? Instead, he hoped a little good-mood new country would soothe both their nerves. But after two minutes she snapped, “Please turn that off.”

  “Something else then?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “But if you don’t care, can’t I keep listening?”

  “Please, no.”

  Fine. Click. Quiet. Joel pushed the gas a little harder.

  She got brave about a mile from her place in town, relaxing, huffing, before finally saying, “Don’t call me again.”

  “Fine.”

  “You should really change your profile. Really. It’s not even close to accurate.”

  “Fine.”

  “Seriously? That’s all you have to say?”

  Jesus. “I have no plans to call you. Maybe you didn’t read it right.”

  Three more blocks.

  “I can read. Are you saying I can’t read?”

  “Sure, you can read. I’m not going to call you.”

  “Lose my email address, too.”

  He pulled up to her apartment building, braked right outside the front door. “Good night.”

  She wanted so badly to give him a good brush-off. Something he would remember. It was boiling in her. She stepped out, held the door open, turned around and gave him a hard stare.

  Lissa said, “You know …”

  “You’re a cunt. Close my door.”

  When she didn’t, probably because her mouth was wide open, he winked, reached over, and pulled it shut himself. Then he drove off.

  It wasn’t quite eleven, and he was nowhere near ready to go home. Home. His family’s home. His room had been turned into a home office within a week of him leaving for basic training. They had turned a corner of the mostly-finished basement into a place to pile his stuff, but he’d been able to wall it off into a place to sleep, a place to stare. A place to hide, of course, when he wasn’t driving around Duluth aimlessly or aiming his rifle at wildlife out in the woods.

  His younger brother would be there with his friends, blasting video games on the basement big screen — seventy fucking inches of macho war fantasies — until one or two in the morning. He was still pissed at his dad and not up for the man’s non-apology, that tried and trusted tactic by which he’d “logic” his way into convincing Joel that he had it back to front, that good ole Abe was the one who deserved an apology. Jesus.

  Mom? He hadn’t had a real discussion with his mom since graduating high school.

  So he had more night to kill. He slipped along the lakeside a while, window down, heater full blast, turning the snow and ice into mist. Felt nice on his face. But shit, he shouldn’t have called her a cunt, never mind that she’d been exactly that. Goddamn, wasn’t there a way to save everyone some heartache and have, like, an early exit card? Seriously. Let the daters print out a card that says, “Not working. Let’s go home before we get mad.” Then, near strangers like Joel and Lissa with two ‘s’es wouldn’t spend the next few days telling their friends how awful this person they barely knew was.

  Maybe there was a filter he had missed: LIKES COPS or LIKES MILITARY or NOT A JUDGMENTAL CUNT.

  Which might help stop this fucking game-play …

  He laughed. Well, shit. He was one stupid son-of-a-bitch. He turned into the driveway of someone’s dream lake house, turned around, and headed back to Duluth.

  He knocked on the door of her apartment, thinking this could just go terribly wrong. Fuck it, if it did, it did.

  Her name was Robin and her hair was jet black, which had to be dye, right? Her eyes were clear icy blue, which had freaked him the fuck out the first time. She also didn’t blink much. Sneered instead of grinned.

  He knocked a second time. He thought he heard voices behind the door. Shit, more than one. Sounded like a man and a woman and Robin. So he was about to embarrass himself a second time tonight? End up with the cops he was going to work with next week hauling him off to jail for the night?

  But then she came to the door, swung it open, and stood in the gap, arms braced. She was tall, toned, and those eyes, fuck. Forget torture, these things would make anyone talk. Behind her, a blond girl, bit pudgy but obviously a hottie. The guy, harder to read. Some sort of meathead? Thick. Soul-patch. Hair a bit long and scraggly. Another e-date?

  Joel looked at her, raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Am I interrupting?”

  She peeked over her shoulder, said, “S’okay” or something, but closed the door a few inches anyway. Left just enough of a gap to poke her head out. “What?”

  “You said no games.”

  “Back when I gave a shit. A fucking month ago.”

  “I had stuff to do.”

  “Fine, you did. Maybe I’ve got stuff to do now. Tonight.”

  Joel chinned at the apartment, aiming for the guy. “Another date?”

  Robin shook her hea
d, but more at him for asking than answering him. “Answer a question for me and I’ll let you in.”

  “What are you guys doing? Playing Scrabble? Fine, what do you want to know?”

  “Overseas, in the war, did you kill anybody?”

  Fuck. The alcohol in his blood helped his temper fire up quick. As always. “No.”

  She nodded, propped her thick-socked toes on top of her other thick-socked toes. “Uh huh. Did you want to?”

  “Shit.” He stepped back, rubbed his neck, turned left, then right, then, “I answered one. You said one.”

  “Changed my mind. Answer this one now. Did you want to kill anyone?”

  “Every day.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  She was enjoying it. The sing-song in her voice. Her knee, in yoga pants, swinging back and forth.

  Joel cleared his throat and said, “I was scared of it. Does that sound right? I was a coward and I didn’t want to die, but I was bored shitless over there. And I hated those fuckers. They hated me.”

  “But you never killed anyone?”

  He shook his head. “So can I play Scrabble with you now?”

  She gave him one of those Well, aren’t you special? Looks and said, “Wait a sec.” Then closed the door almost all the way. Joel heard her say, “Guys, you’ve got to go. Me and soldier boy need to talk.”

  Of course the guy inside was all, “Fuckin’ kidding me? I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  “Fuck that. He’s a fuckin’ loon.”

  The other friend said, “Yeah, this isn’t a good idea.”

  “It’s me you’re talking to, you know.”

  “No way I’m leaving.”

  “Then I’ll leave with him. How about that?”

  “Jesus. That’s crazy.”

  It went on with Robin more and more insistent and the friends more and more angry, then just downright abusive. “Bitch, you’ve lost your mind. This ain’t on me.”

  And then they were leaving, the dude sucking on his bottom lip, giving Joel the eye, while the girl pulled him along. Joel tossed a nod, a “What’s up?” and got nothing in return. Robin’s apartment door was wide open and she’d already walked away.

  Joel stepped inside, closed the door, and took in the living room. It was barely decorated. A couple of big framed photos, not taken by Robin, obviously. A print of something arty, maybe famous, Joel didn’t recognize it. Some make-do furniture — couch, love seat, armchair — all of it felt like it came from Target.

  Robin stood in front of the couch, feet crossed again, knee angled out front, hands high on her hips. Long oversized t-shirt, Yosemite Sam, some holes in it giving him a hint of a black sports bra. “Sit.”

  He kicked his boots off, even though the carpet looked like no one else had. Habit from home. As for his Army jacket, that stayed on. Another habit. He headed towards the armchair, but Robin said, “No, the couch. Dead center.”

  Like a sculpture? On display? He played along. He sat dead center, manspreading his legs, and slid his hands down to his knees. “Okay.”

  “So you want to kill people.”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “It is. You just did. You’re pissed you didn’t kill anyone.”

  “That’s right, but that’s not what—”

  “That’s what all your issues come down to, and you need to understand that before you really kill someone.”

  This was a mistake. “You don’t think I would kill you, or your friends would still be here.”

  She hiked her shoulders up. Put her hands on her hips. “Not true. I don’t know if you’d kill me or not. But I wasn’t going to get the truth out of you with them here.”

  “Who were they?”

  “You’re jealous. You think he was another date? Tell me if you do.”

  “Yeah, sort of. I don’t know. He sounded possessive.”

  “He’s an ex. I’m friends with a few of my exes. There are three of them in town, and another who lives in Paris but still calls me all the time. Is that a problem?”

  “For what?”

  “For you hanging out with me. For you taking me to dinner again.”

  “Jesus, that’s a little—”

  “You want to sleep with me?”

  He turned to the TV, cleared his throat. It was paused on Kevin Spacey in a suit with an evil grin on his face. “I’m a gentleman.”

  “You’re a liar.” Her laugh was pissy. “Of all the shitty answers. You either do or you don’t. Your aunt says you probably would’ve wanted to if I was a bit stupider. Stupid does it for you?”

  He leaned forward, ready to bolt. “I’m sorry I came.”

  She stepped over, shoved him on the shoulder. He sat back. She got down on her knees in front of him, far enough away so he couldn’t touch her. “So you want to kill someone.”

  Joel took a deep breath. Waited a minute before saying, “I thought I was going to kill people. But I never needed to. I just feel … I feel like an ass. Like I did the Marine Corp wrong.”

  “Plenty of soldiers never shot anyone.”

  “Marines.”

  “What?”

  “We were Marines. Plenty of Marines never shot anyone.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Plenty of them died from fucking roadside bombs, too. Another boring, non-shooty day in the Middle East.”

  “And you didn’t know who did it.”

  “They did it. The same ones who fucking … I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You need to.”

  “Do I? Do I really?” Antsy, man. Antsy.

  Then she scooted closer. Her hands on his thighs, pulling them closed. Of course he wanted to fuck her. Even right now, her face scrubbed of make-up, acne scars on her chin, unsexy old-as-fuck shirt. Of course he did. On his own terms. Not like the bitches with the phones. He wanted her to want him. If only she’d need him to fuck her like she needed him to talk.

  “I went to war and I didn’t fight. I couldn’t fight. I got made fun of. I got bored. Goddamn, I hated those people, always in your face. Dust everywhere. The smells, the, the, Jesus.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Okay. So how does that make you feel?”

  “I’m done.” Leaned forward again. She moved her hands higher, leaned her face closer.

  “No, you’re not. Just say it.”

  “You already know.”

  “I’m not going to say it. That’s not for me to say.”

  He felt like he had a fever that wouldn’t break. An erection he couldn’t do anything about. Fists not gripping a gun or a steering wheel or his rifle. His lungs hurt. His head hurt.

  “Why should I? Why? Why should I say that for you? You like watching me squirm? You like me humiliating myself?”

  He wished she would blink. Blink, please, blink. I’m blinking. Why aren’t you?

  “Can you please fucking blink?”

  She blinked. A long deliberate blink.

  “Don’t make me say it.” Like a whimpering dog.

  Robin launched forward, her ribs on his knees, scrabbling for his face. He took her by the sides of her head, pulled her as close as he could. They kissed, glancing kisses, not quite close enough to …

  He spread his knees again, and she fell closer. He caught her, and their kisses were short, hard, messy, and they were stealing breath from each other, and fingertips gripped into skull, into cheeks, over the ears, both of them. When she finally lifted her face and gasped and her neck was right there, he gave it a bite and she moaned and …

  Yesyesyes!

  He came in his jeans. Braced his teeth. Huffed through his nose.

  Robin backed away, rested her arms and head on his knees while he collapsed against the back of the couch and held his palm over his eyes and tried to imagine anything, anything, that could make him look even worse than he already did tonight. He felt like three pennies.

  He started his sorry’s as whispers, building in volume as h
e cleared his throat. “I’m real sorry. Real sorry.”

  “Shut up.” She gave him another unblinking stare. “You weren’t getting anything more from me than that kiss tonight, so don’t worry.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I’m not stupid, I already said. So I guess smart girls can get you off after all.”

  He didn’t say anything after that. They both stared at Kevin Spacey’s evil grin until Joel caught his breath and his cum-wet jeans went cold against his skin.

  Robin pushed herself off the floor and pulled his hands. “Time to go. Call me tomorrow. Invite me out again, okay? Something interesting this time.”

  She pecked his cheek on the way out. In three more minutes he was in his truck. Sticky, sleepy, and, for the first time that night, feeling not so bad.

  5

  The detectives didn’t return my first call. They didn’t return the second one either. Shit, they didn’t even return the third one, and that was when I showed my cards: “Any chance our popsicle was Hans Marquette?”

  Usually, when I had pulled that shit over the past month, it got me a warning call, but this time I got nothing. Several days at home with the family, some board games, some fondue, binge-watching TV shows, and then that trip to Minneapolis with my mom and sister. The whole time, no calls for me. I wondered if my phone had stopped working. If I’d forgotten to pay the bill. But it hadn’t and I hadn’t. Nobody wanted to talk to me.

  So at the end of the week, I drove back to Duluth and started work again, as if nothing had happened between Gerard’s death and now. The uniform, freshly laundered, starched, itchy. The gun felt weird in my hand. The outfit, plus the winter coat and hat and gloves, felt like a burden it hadn’t the year before.

  The first time I saw Joel Skovgaard was at roll call that morning. My first impression was on the nose: a desert soldier boy who had let himself go once he’d returned to the land of cheeseburgers and stuffed-crust pizzas. Bulging out of the uniform like a sausage, but he held his fat well. Still strong-shouldered and thick-necked with legs like Paul Bunyan. Just saying, muscles can distract from the pudge.

  I bumped the cop next to me. “Who’s that one?”