Philadelphia Noir - Carlin Romano [66]
The passenger side is wounded with depressed streaks of ugliness and, at the shoulder, an awful black spot—an absolute absence of something that once existed, severed at the root—marking the trajectory of that brief ride. Inside, the light dissolves around him. He glances at the beautiful woman waiting by the trunk of a tree, cupped hands at her elbows. She could run, as he’d urged her, but she is waiting for him—and this is something good, he tells himself. There may be hope. He stuffs the bag of dope into the puffy pocket at his knee, a perfect fit, slips the gun into the slim pocket at his hip, along with the keys—he adds the Zippo and alights.
When he reaches her, a distant siren pops and goes silent. She squeezes his arm and pulls herself close. “Did you call?” she asks.
“That car is officially stolen,” he assures her.
Two more blocks, and they ascend the stoop and stairs to his apartment. Inside, she heads straight for the living room. When he comes from the kitchen with a damp washcloth, she’s facing the window, legs tightly sealed, poised steadily on those two impossibly tall, thin pedestals he hadn’t noticed give her at least an inch on him. She appears unsure at first, until he gestures toward her forehead. Her whole body sinks, softens, under the warm pressure, and just like that the thin line of dried blood has vanished.
“It’s gone,” he says, and for a moment pretends he has erased their troubles. He can see a million miles in her eyes, infinite stretches of sun-baked highways and yellow-ribboned roads that go on forever. She must feel discovered. Her eyes close and lips descend. When her tongue meets his, he finds the bare small of her back and pulls her against him. He travels to her neck, her shoulder, the hidden downy hair behind her ear. There is a line, he imagines, joining his two hands, and that line is the golden zipper he delicately fingers. As they shift toward the couch, he thinks, I can die now, just as she whispers, “Stop.”
“What is it?”
They sit, fingers entwined on their adjoining thighs.
“What about your brother?” she says.
He shakes his head. “God knows where he sleeps every night.” He frees a hand and touches her cheek, her forehead.
“I can’t,” she says, and turns away. “Not like this. Not tonight. I should go.”
“You can’t go out there.”
“I don’t live far.” She’s already up. “Please don’t get the wrong idea—I am so grateful. You saved my life tonight.”
“I’ll walk you.” He follows her to the door, where she pauses.
“Please …” She touches his face, takes his hand. “Thank you.”
“You want to get high?”
“No,” she laughs. She must think he’s joking—one last crack for the road. “I’ll call you,” she grins, dabs bashfully at her forehead, “1-800-INJURED, right?” and slips from his fingers.
Her smile lingers in the room, the memory of it tangible, like molecules of goodness dissipating in the air, as dingy reality returns and he sinks into the couch. 1-800-INJURED. He contemplates the implications of a single phone call. God knows how Chris will work his magic once the sordid tale unfolds.
Nicky hits the lights, lies back on the couch, unloads the weighty goods from his pockets. He rolls a fat one, sparks the Zippo.
In a dream, it’s Nicky’s office. She’s in her anchorwoman skirt suit; he’s in Armani. They are just back from lunch, from a real restaurant, one with no theme. He closes the door. She pulls him by the tie toward the big desk. This is their routine.
A knocking wakes him. The light from his phone glows. Sirens ring out. Windows and walls flash. He sits up, stares at the door.
Phone in one hand, gun in the other.
“Open the door, Nicky!”
“They’re coming for me,” he mumbles.
“Everything’s gonna be fine.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
“Don’t be stupid, fuckhead. Listen to me. It’s your brother, who loves you.”
In his mind he can see him out there, pounding, head against the door, and then it’s as if he’s out there himself, feeling what it might be like to be left alone. “I love you too,” he blurts, and when he leaps for the door,