The address the high-school kid gave me went to an old, single-story row of apartments on 15th Avenue north of Missouri. This part of the city had developed slowly, the cursed subdivisions creeping in on the acreages and farms. Some properties still had horse privileges in the zoning code. But I was not going to horse country. The apartment was in the middle, behind a fading white door that had no peephole in it. There was no back exit and the lights were on. It was full dark.
I walked through the smell of citrus blossoms that only fed my blood lust and gave the hollow-sounding door three knocks.
“Who is it?” A female voice.
“FedEx.”
The door cracked and I pushed through, raising the barrel of the Python to her face.
“Oh, shit!”
She turned to run and I grabbed her by her hair, smashed her into the wall, and dragged her inside, kicking the door shut behind me.
“Who else is in the apartment?”
“Nobody”
I told her we’d double check. With her hair pulled painfully and the big Colt against her back, I made her do a walk-through, to the bedroom, the bathroom, the closet. Then I pushed her back into the living room and threw her to the floor.
It was the same woman: thin, pallid face, long dark hair, wearing dark shorts and a teal top. In the light, she looked about five feet tall. She stared up at me with terror. In the light, her face was prematurely crisscrossed with lines and her skin carried the unhealthy pallor of an addict. I sat in a chair and kept the gun on her.
“Why?”
“Oh, mister, please, I’m begging…”
“I’m going to ask again.” My voice was quiet, unfamiliar. “Why?”
“He said he’d pay me, okay? My old man’s in jail and I was trying to get him out.”
“How did you find him?”
“He found me, I swear to god.”
“Who found you?”
“Mister Lee!”
So he had played the same game. She didn’t know who he was or where he lived. She might have been the woman who had lunched with him at the Phoenician, who, recounted the server Lisa, felt out of place.
“My old man had done some work for him before. When Mister Lee called here I was desperate to raise that bail money. There was nothing I could do and I asked for his help. He said I had to do this.”
“Why?”
“He said you’d shot and killed his son, that both of you were drug dealers, and he wanted justice.”
“Why didn’t you shoot me?”
She stared at the wall. “The gun jammed.”
“Where is it?”
“Under the sofa cushion. He said he’d pick it up. But that kid who brought the money wouldn’t take it.”
I told her to get the gun, hold it by the barrel, and put it on the coffee table. She pulled up a black.22 semi-auto with a silencer attached to the barrel and set it next to a stack of “Real Simple” magazines. I ordered her to lie back down on the floor.
“Did you bail out your husband?”
She shook her head.
“Where’s the goddamned money!”
Her eyes grew wide. She pointed to a black satchel sitting against the giant flat-screen television set.
“You didn’t smoke it?”
“No, no! I’ve been thinking about leaving, starting over. Donnie beat me anyway, so I thought, maybe this was my shot. Let him stay in jail.” She held bony hands against her face. “I know I did a bad thing. I know I did wrong. All I ever did before was turn a few tricks. I was in jail for that but nothing else. I swear to god, mister. I wasn’t raised…”
She suddenly stopped talking when I held up my hand.
“Do you have a dishrag?”
I had to repeat myself.
She nodded and pointed to the kitchen. It was wet and draped over the 1960s-era faucet. I picked it up and tossed it to her.
“Put it in your mouth.”
She hesitated until I cocked the Python. The move is not necessary in a double-action revolver, but the sound gets attention. “Please, Mister…” I aimed. She started to eat the dirty rag, tears running down her cheeks. She lay on the floor, raised on her elbows, staring at the madman over her. I replayed that night in the back yard, Robin hit and falling. I felt shrapnel rubbing up against my heart.
I holstered the Python and pulled out the latex gloves from my pocket. I slid one on each hand and then examined the.22. The magazine still had ammunition. I worked the action to make sure it wouldn’t jam and slapped the ammo back into the gun.
“I know you’ve studied your Northern Ireland history,” I said. “The Irish Republican Army used to do something called ‘a six pack.’ A bullet in each ankle, knee, and elbow. You’ll probably live, if you can stand the pain, and you don’t bleed out. I don’t care.”
Here I was lying, because I intended to put the last bullet between her eyes. Muffled words. Steady streams of water coming down her face.
“You killed an innocent woman. You didn’t kill me. Two strikes and you’re out.” I hefted the cheap, poisonous manufacture in my gloved hand.
My cell rang. I made the mistake of looking at the caller I.D.: Lindsey.
Inside the Lincoln Memorial, where he sits in his chair watching what has become of the republic he did what was required to preserve, words are carved into the walls. Among them,
In this temple
As in the hearts of the people
For whom he saved the union
The memory of Abraham Lincoln
Is enshrined forever
The inscription never fails to move me. But as Lindsey and I stood there that night, barely noticing the light crowd around us, I began to weep full-out.
We had walked the length of the mall. I had been once again trying to coax a talk about the natural disaster that had befallen us. Lindsey, once again, had been silent. None of this was new, nor was my inability to leave it alone. Inside, I tried to imagine the events of grievance, misunderstanding, and disregard that, beyond losing the baby, were pulling her away from me. It was a fool’s errand, of course, worse than asking for trouble. I didn’t understand why we had to mourn separately, or why we couldn’t talk any more. Once again, I suggested that we try counseling, together or separately.
At this she had turned to me and nearly snarled, “I don’t even know who I am!” before stalking ahead.
It had become clear that the distance separating us was one that couldn’t be crossed with an airplane ride. How we had gone so far off course, little by little, was probably beyond either of us that night.
And I cried there before the engraved words, not knowing how to save my union. She wasn’t wearing gloves and put the hand without the wedding rings on my arm.
“Dave, I don’t know how to tell you…” Her voice was nearly a whisper. “The last thing I want to do is add to your sorrows or be cruel to you…”
“Just say it, Lindsey.” My gut tightened.
She said, “I’m not sure I want to be married to you.”
Now I let her call go to voice mail. The woman was imploring me with wide eyes, a shaking head, and making small, animal-like sounds through the dishrag.
My left hand pulled back the action and chambered a round. I would start with her kneecap, supposedly the most painful wound. Her right kneecap that was two feet away. I slipped my finger inside the trigger guard, lined up the sights, and took a breath, started to let it out slowly. This moment had been imagined in my sleepless nights and days a hundred times, T.S. Eliot hammering in my brain, “After such knowledge, what forgiveness?”
But that moment I heard Lindsey. And I heard Robin. Voices as clear and insistent as if they were sitting next to me. They would not let me be.
I put the gun on the table and walked out into the cool night.