by Tom Larsen
“And even if they do it’ll just be a tall man getting out of a taxi,” he turned his palms up like it went without saying.
“But what if something unexpected happens?”
“Hey, it’s just a precaution, no big deal. Who’s gonna say the dead guy isn’t me?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I’ll be Mr. Invisible.”
“What about when we’re out trying to get me picked up?”
“They won’t know we’re together. Anyway, it’s not like they’ll be rounding up suspects. It’s just a heart attack.”
The Pickup. The way Harry sees it, men will be lining up to get a shot at her, that MILF thing, a lead pipe cinch. Whatever it takes she’ll see it through, if just to prove that he hasn’t got it in him to murder anyone. Not a total stranger, in cold blood. Explode that notion for once and for always. Lena’s even managed to work herself up for it. She sees the way men still look at her. Might be a hoot to rub Harry’s nose in it.
And what if he does have it in him? Wouldn’t going along only force his hand? Lena can usually tell what Harry will do, but not always and not lately. She’s almost certain he’s quit his job, but he hasn’t said so. Of course, she hasn’t told him she’s been fired, but that’s not the same thing. Telling him would give him that much more incentive. How much would be enough?
It was different when Gerry was alive. Brother deep end was no picnic, but he gave Harry something to fuss over. Without him there’s too much time to brood. It was after Gerry died that he started in with the life insurance, more to hedge his bets than provide for Lena. She complained, but it’s not such a bad idea when she thinks about it. And she’s been thinking about it.
Lena soaks in moonlight, drunk enough to follow her thoughts anywhere. Closing her eyes she calls up Dominique. What life might be like without Harry’s problems, so much different she can almost feel it. No storm clouds, no more rocks in her stomach, so much better it makes her ache. Save your own life her head tells her, but her heart holds the key, deep in that soft spot where Harry lives.
***
“Hey!” in a loud Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, flip-flops and a Phillies cap.
“Harry?”
He throws his arms wide. “Takes low profile to a whole new level, don’t you think?”
“Weren’t you cold on the plane?”
“I changed in the cab. Come on, it’s funny,” he squeezes past and heads for the refreshments.
“That’s okay, you can kiss me later, Harry.”
“First things first. I got trapped on a coach with the Wilson twins. It was a nightmare.”
“The who?”
“The Wilsons?” he pours vodka on ice. “I took names and addresses so I could look them up somewhere down the line.”
“When you get to the W’s.”
“Right,” Harry turns without spilling a drop. “Casa Luna! Nice, or what?”
“It’s better than nice,” she grabs the bottle and leads him along. “Wait till you see the view.”
All the way to the bedroom balcony before Harry finally pulls her to him. Lena holds on tight, hears his heart beat through that godawful shirt. Loves her Harry and it makes her crazy.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Harry crooks her chin and searches her eyes. “You’re thinking old Harry really has something here.”
“I was, yeah.”
“You’re thinking this is it. Am I wrong?”
“This is it, Harry.”
“Did I mention the pool?”
“There’s a woman who comes in to cook and clean. Rosa.”
“Get rid of her.”
“I already did. Too bad though, she makes a mean pizza.”
“Though that might look funny. Maybe–”
“Let’s sit a while,” she leads him to the table for two. “It’s our first night. I want to just chill.”
“It was raining when I left,” Harry takes the corner chair. “I always get a kick out of that. How was your flight?”
“Oh . . . uneventful, you know.”
“Aren’t you the cool customer.”
“I travel well,” Lena smiles. “Not like some people.”
“You never traveled with Roly and Poly.”
“They were fat kids?”
“Not just the fat, they had nostrils like tunnels. You could see way back and there was stuff in there.”
“Porcine.”
“Exactly.”
She sniffs a tear.
“What is it, Lena?”
“What is what?” she reaches for the bottle.
“Your problem.”
The Garbo smile again. “I let people talk me into things. Dumb things usually. The wrong hairstyle, the wrong car, you name it. I’ve always been like that.”
“Wrong husband?”
“No Harry, I’m talking things, not people. But I’m thinking it’s a little late in the game to make another mistake.”
Harry’s seen this coming. “What better time? At this point you can’t wreck your whole life. Not even half of it! Worst that can happen the state nurses you through those golden years. Can’t you feel it, Lena? The way out.”
“But it’s murder, Harry. You can’t take it back!”
“You can’t take anything back.”
“To throw everything away.
“G’bye,” he tosses a hand.
“If you’re dead set on the idea,” Lena leans into his field of vision. “I mean if your life is so unbearable . . .”
“Come on, baby, not every button.”
“I won’t stand in your way.”
“If it makes you feel better you couldn’t stop me. How’s that?”
Lena settles back. “And when everything goes wrong and someone’s dead and we’re rotting away in some Mexican hellhole? I want you to swear you’ll blame yourself, Harry.”
“My right hand to God.”
“Because come what may, I have to be able to look myself in the mirror and say, ‘You’re good, Lena. You just let people talk you into things.’”
“Burn in hell, gotcha.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” Harry shrugs. “Anything else?”
“Yeah this,” Lena reaches in the mini bar, pulls out a small bottle and sealed plastic bag and hands them to Harry.
“Potassium chloride,” he reads the label. “Baby, you’re the greatest. And this?” he waves the tiny bag of powder.
“Secanol. They keep some at the hospital.”
“Right. So the song and dance?”
“I meant every word.”
***
In the morning they take a walk around town. The houses shine in the sunlight and the people move with the ease of natives. This will change within the hour as tourists shuttle in, but for now they seem to be the only outsiders, lean and leggy, half a head taller. Not really tourists, but not from around here. They stroll the ocean promenade watching from the palms as a cruise ship passes.
“We’re not the cruise ship type are we?” Lena shields her eyes with a hand.
“Sadly no.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Too much getting there. We’re more fixed destination.”
“Like Paris,” she looks over. “A real vacation.”
“We do this right and we can be there for Christmas.”
“You mean it?”
“Absolutely.”
Sure sounds like the old Harry, but something else, too. An edge she’s never heard before, a note of certainty that’s a shade too certain, too focused, as if still trying to sell himself. And, of course, he still would be. Harry’s way with the hard things, box himself in until he has to, now that they’re down here, now they’ve spent the money. Not her way, but strangely effective. What she hears in Harry is a note of resolve, or his take on what resolve might sound like. And this, parading around like actors pretending to be tourists, Ha
rry getting into character, not exactly nervous, but strung a little tighter, locked into ends instead of means, so that they’re no longer on the same wavelength. Last night when he told her what she was thinking she’d felt something change between them, a slip of the grip. How someone like Harry would go about this. Murder. He’d have to change himself. Become someone who could. That would change her too, and then where will they be? It’s a way to lose him she’s never considered. That’s what really scares her. That, and the thought she could still talk him out of it.
“Harry?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’ve been thinking. Venice would be nice.”
“Venice, Rome, the Riviera. You name it.”
“The Riviera,” Lena sighs.
Harry sits beside her. “I remember I was in Janey’s Café one morning. It was in the winter, cold snap, snow all over, the city a mess. There was a paper on the counter, one of Janey’s tabloids. On the cover was a picture of Richard Gere romping in the surf with some dreamboat. That’s what it said, ‘romping in the surf.’”
“In Cannes.”
“Wherever, and I’m thinking, look at this guy laying back in some tropical paradise while I’m on my way to work! For the next eight hours I’ll be breathing fumes and butting heads with Baldini while old Richard is boffing some bimbo and ordering room service.”
Lena doesn’t know what to say. Richard Gere?
Harry turns to her. “There’s only one way to make it when you really think about it. It’s either screw or be screwed.”
“If you say so, Harry.”
A strained silence falls between them. Harry flinches first, walking out to the water with his hands in his pockets. Lena sits watching, toes curled in apprehension. She sees a small boy approach with a fist full of sticks, souvenirs or something to eat. Harry takes one and turns the kid her way. They stand side by side waving and she feels a small weight dissolve in her stomach. By the time he returns Lena’s mind is made up.
“What is it?”
“Grilled fish,” he hands her one. “Wait till you taste it.”
“My God, that’s incredible!”
“Gerry would love this,” Harry scoots in beside her. “He wanted to live where it was always warm. I remember we’d watch football games from the coast, sitting in the cold and dark, the Raiders or the Rams in sun drenched stadiums. Half naked fans dousing each other with beer while out the window it’s ten below. Gerry would stare at the television and say, ‘someday I’m gonna live there.’”
“Gerry? Football?” she tries to picture it.
“He was just like me before the heroin. That guy you knew? That wasn’t Gerry.”
Harry draws in the sand with his stick, a jet plane with two faces in the window.
“You quit your job, didn’t you, Harry?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Because I got fired.”
Harry keeps his eyes on the water.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you,” he turns with a grin. “Guess we’d best get busy.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The cab pulls up to Chico’s Place. Harry goes in first, takes a seat at the bar. Lena enters looking pale and anxious. With a quick glance to the bar she circles the dance floor and settles on a corner table. Chico’s is half full but it’s early yet, Friday night the world round.
“Roses, señor?” woman in the mirror cradles an armful.
“Sorry,” he doesn’t even turn to face her.
Lena looks straight ahead, as if daring any man to come near her. Sure enough some do. Harry watches in the mirror, a beefy forty-something year old in a loud Hawaiian shirt. Jesus, what did these guys wear before Jimmy Buffet? Shirt tries his line but Lena sends him off with a sniff. The music starts up and along comes Half Her Age, impossibly bronzed and blond, whispers in her ear and Harry hears Lena laugh. Next thing he knows she’s out on the dance floor, Jesus, with the hip goings!
“Get you another?” the bartender steps into his view.
“Make it a double.”
They dance into the next song as Harry fidgets, man’s hand almost where it shouldn’t be. Light My Fire the long version and Harry’s got two cigarettes going. Doors, for Christ sake as they slow to a grind, Lena’s beaming like the queen of the hop. The kid leads her back to the table then hustles to the head. Harry slips off and slices through the crowd.
“What the fuck, Lena? That man won’t look like me for twenty years!”
“He’s sweet. Besides, what am I supposed to do all night? Sit by myself?”
“Get rid of him.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Tell him you have grandchildren.”
“Why Harry Watts, you’re jealous!” Lena bubbles up. “Oh this is priceless!”
“Everything okay, Meredith?” boytoy calls from the stairway.
“It’s okay, Romeo, I’m her husband.”
“. . . Meredith?”
“It’s alright, Tyler.”
“Ty-ler!” Harry recoils visibly. “You know, Ty-ler, you should be ashamed of yourself. This woman is old enough to be your mother.”
“I know,” the bloke leers. “Guess that makes you old enough to be my dad.”
“Get rid of him,” Harry snaps at Lena.
“I’m sorry, Tyler. He threatened to hurt himself if I didn’t talk to him.”
“Do you want me to stay here with you?”
“That’s okay. I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, she’ll be fine,” Harry snarls. “I saw an old lady in a wheelchair on the deck. Go get ‘em, Tig– I mean Tyler.”
“Careful dad, blood pressure,” the fuck shoots a finger.
***
“Here’s one. The Silver Sombrero, Sea View, Dancing and Dining,” they sit poolside, sipping Margaritas. “‘Where those who rate congregate.’”
“So what, we’re gonna spend the whole time in discos?”
“It’s Saturday night! Tomorrow we can do whatever you want, but we can’t miss date night.”
Lena smears sunscreen on her legs and moves into the shade.
“Hey Harry, what if we like him?”
“Who?”
“The victim. What if he’s an okay guy?”
Harry looks to see if she’s kidding. “Middle-age, single, traveling alone? People end up like that for a reason, Lena. He’s either cheating on his wife or divorced so many times only a stranger can stand him.”
“Maybe the bar is the wrong place to look. I never met anyone in a bar but Joey.”
“This guy will be just like Joey.”
Lena sucks on a slice of lime. “You and Joey sort of look alike.”
“A weeper. A guy who puts four sugars in his coffee.”
“I wish I never told you.”
“A farter in bed.”
***
The Silver Sombrero, your standard meat-rack, Led Zeppelin loud and lit up wall to wall. A crowd has the bar boxed in, but two couples leave just as Harry gets there.
“To the seventies!” he salutes them. “Wherever they went.”
“Easy for you to say,” bartender grunts. “Try listening to the Bee Gees four nights a week. This is the high school reunion that never ends.”
“Always a down side.”
“It’s the air guitar guys that get you,” barman leans in. “With the big gut and the little ponytail? Christ, I hate that shit.”
“Leave it to the boomers to bow out gracelessly.”
“And the veterans, an hour of them and you see why we always muff it. And potheads, Christ! Try running a tab with that bunch.”
Harry watches Lena, work too tall cowpoke, all boots and belt buckle. She flutters a lash and the guy’s all over her.
“Cruise ships are the worst,” bartender shakes his head. “They get drunk then they buy the sombrero then it’s Mexican hat dance time. Out there flopping around until one of th
em pukes or falls down. Take my word, it’s an ugly business.”
“Ever see that big guy over there with the blonde?” Harry nods their way.
“Sure, Bo Mitchell? He runs a charter boat out of San Pedro. The ladies really go for Bo.”
“’Is that right?”
“Word is he’s hung like a horse.”
“Get me a pack of smokes there, would you, pal?”
The bartender moves off and Harry catches a face in the mirror. Male, thin and fine featured, something about the face.
“Cruise ships and Club Med,” barman circles back. “They love to get up on stage. Some pencil neck pinhead doing Hendrix on his knees. Painful to watch, man.”
“Middle age,” Harry smacks his lips. “Wasted on the wasted.”
Lena pulls up her sleeve to show her tattoo, the small butterfly winging in from the sixties. Cowboy gawks in dadgum wonder. Harry gives him ten minutes, tops.
“Excuse me,” the face in the mirror bellies up beside him. “Is this seat taken?”
Harry looks him over. “Be my guest.”
“Bartender? May I see a wine list please?”
“Red and white, friend,” barman shoots Harry a get-him look.
“That’s it?”
“Hey, it’s the seventies,” he shrugs. “What do we know from vino?”
Harry raises a bottle to Barry White. “1978, to be exact.”
Face falls in a frown. “But then shouldn’t we be younger?”
“Go with red,” Harry tells him. “The white comes in a tanker truck.”
They watch a quartet of Cornhuskers mangle the mambo. The spirit is willing but the flesh makes a mess of it.
“Just pray they don’t play YMCA,” bartender mutters.
Meanwhile, Bo’s at that point in his sagebrush saga where he pokes the table repeatedly. Lena wears a smile he could hang his hat on.
“Yeah,” barman follows Harry’s line of sight. “Old Bo does alright for himself.”
“Twenty bucks says your goober doesn’t get the woman.”
Barman looks to New Face then back to Harry.
