by Baxter Clare
Frank imagines calling in sick tomorrow and staying on the couch until she runs out of Scotch. She can call a liquor store and have them deliver more. She’ll write checks until she’s out of money, and that’ll be a long time. She has months’ worth of vacation and sick time. She could just sit here until she dies or the bank forecloses and sends her to an institution. Neither ending seems unpleasant, nor implausible.
With marvelous effort she pulls herself upright. Leaning over the guns on the table, she fingers each one.
“You been with me the longest,” she addresses the .38. “Outlasted everyone.”
She cradles the wheel gun in her left hand.
“Remember that duster that came at me? You saved my ass that time. And that Piru that wanted to eat me for lunch? Saved me then, too. Hell, you had my back first day on the job, with that pig FTO Roper. Don’t think I didn’t know you were there.” Trading the .38 for the .357, she tells it, “He’s my boy, but you’re my girl.”
The barrel is long and blue, as finely turned as a beautiful leg, and Frank easily pulls Gail from her memory drawer.
“Aw, Doc. Best legs in the world. Miss Universe legs. Betty Grable got nothin’ on you.” Frank draws the satiny barrel across her lips, mumbling, “God, I fucked that up. Righteously and completely fucked it up.”
Eyes shut, she slides the steel against her mouth. The metal warms to her touch and Frank dreams the gun is Gail. She kisses it, lightly teases her tongue around the tip of the barrel. Her aching is monstrous. She lowers the gun to her lap. It nestles like a puppy with the .38. After a long pull on the bottle she picks up the 9mm.
“And you, my friend, are just a killing machine. About as sexy as the mess you made outta Timothy Johnston’s brains.”
A couple years have passed since she killed the dealer in a bust gone bad, but she can still see his do-ragged skull flying up into the air. In slow motion. Some things you never forget. The Beretta joins the other guns in her lap.
She’s been drinking for effect, going hard on twelve hours now, but her head and heart are sickeningly clear. Rolling the bottle against her forehead, she whispers, “Where’s the click?”
She opens her eyes to the trio of weapons in her lap. Talking large gulps from the bottle, she reevaluates each weapon. The .38 is short, stout and effective. The little engine that could. Reliable, solid and friendly. She could never betray it like that. It wouldn’t be fair to the gun.
But the .357. Now that’s a sexy gun. Just suck and squeeze. What a fucking mess she’d make. And who’d find her? The cleaning lady? That’d be cruel. Frank would have to leave an extra big check. Probably someone from the squad would come over. Maybe Fubar would send a unit. They could handle it. Probably get some good jokes out of it, too. But as much as she loves the .357, she doesn’t have a history with it. It’d be like fucking a gorgeous stranger.
The Beretta’s the way to go. The 9mm is a working gun. Quick, blunt, to the point. All square edges and efficiency. Nothing personal, just business. It would understand why she chose it and be glad to do its job.
Frank puts the other two guns on the table. She leans her head back. Closing her eyes, she caresses the Beretta. She shakes the towel off, holding the gun in her right hand, the bottle in her left.
It’d be so simple. One squeeze, and pow.
Done.
Over.
Frank puts the barrel in her mouth. Savors the tang of metal and oil.
Her thumb slides over the safety, clicking it off. Her finger wraps around the trigger. Home.
The clip is full.
One squeeze.
Less than a second and five pounds of pressure.
Kaboom. Bye-bye baby. Hasta la vista.
Frank’s heart is thudding. She can feel it in her chest like a tiger in a trap. She has the power to stop it. Forever. Like Noah’s heart.
Boom. One squeeze. Game over.
Frank’s hand shakes. She swallows. Her mouth is dry.
She recalls George Thorogood’s line, You know when your mouth be getting dry, you ‘re plenty high.
She wants to laugh. Sweat runs into her eyes and she loves the sting. She’s really shaking now, her finger still curled around the trigger.
Jesus Christ. One squeeze. That’s all.
Just do it.
Do it.
The barrel chatters against Frank’s teeth. Sweat and blood make the grip slippery.
Pull, just pull. Quick!—and pow. Game over. Lights out.
Dandy Don singing, Turn out the lights, the party’s over.
Frank’s finger curls tighter. She considers her backdrop. All clear.
Go ahead.
Pull!
Pull!
A delay in programming causes the TV screen to go black. For just a second. And in that second Frank catches her reflection, hand jumping, gun in mouth, and she is throwing up. She sweeps the guns onto the floor and pukes until she’s dry-heaving, coughing up blood. She can’t stop the shaking. She staggers into her room and wraps herself in the bedspread. She slumps on the floor, almost convulsing. All she can think is, seconds and inches. Seconds and inches.
In time her shuddering subsides and with it the terror. She feels as scoured as a beach at low tide. Dropping head to knees, she looses hot, clean tears. When they dry, she pulls the phone off the night-stand. It takes her a couple tries to hit the right numbers, but eventually the phone connects. Listening to it ring, she pleads, “Be there. Christ All-fucking-Mighty, please be there.”
A sleepy voice answers.
“Hey. It’s Frank.”
“Goddamn. What time is it? You forget I’m not your LT anymore?”
“I didn’t know who else to call.”
He may be retired, but Joe barks back, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
He stays on the line while Frank searches for enough guts to answer.
Joe encourages, “What’s the matter? Tell me what it is.”
“I can’t do it, Joe. I know you did. Maybe you can tell me how.”
“What can’t you do?”
Frank squeezes her eyes shut. She forces the answer. “I can’t stop drinking, Joe. And I’m afraid something bad’s gonna happen if I don’t. Something real bad.”
The silence is as long as the distance between L.A. and Minnesota. When it’s broken by a war whoop, Frank despairs that her connection’s been severed. But then Joe’s laugh is in her ear, and it sounds like he’s crying when he says, “Girlie-girl! You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for this call!”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Baxter Clare lives in Central California with her spouse, artist Anno O’Connor. In addition to writing novels, she holds a Master’s Degree in Biology and works as a wildlife biologist. She is the author of a non-fiction work, Spirit of the Valley (written as Baxter Trautman), and three previous L.A. Franco mysteries. She is at work on her fifth novel.
