Fast Lane

Chapter 30

I guess none of you had forgotten about Marge’s letter, the one I took from her purse. Well, I hadn’t forgotten about it either. I had it out on my desk, kind of playing with it, trying to decide what to do. Part of me wanted to throw it away, but I figured if Marge was going to spend the time and effort to write it, the least I could do was read what she had to say. Except there were those red smudges all over the envelope, and I just didn’t know if it would do me any good to read it, and . . . .

I opened it. The letter read:

Johnny,

I cried for two days straight when I realized what you did to me. At first, I wanted to tell you to go to hell, but Johnny, I can’t. I don’t want to. I hurt so bad without you. I’m typing this because when I think about it, I start shaking and I don’t want you laughing at my handwriting.

I don’t care why you did it, Johnny. That’s what I decided. It doesn’t matter. Whatever the reason, I forgive you. I know deep down you didn’t want to hurt me. I know you’re in trouble, and I want to help you. Whatever it is, please trust me and let me help. You don’t have to be afraid to tell me anything. That funny looking man I saw you with in the lobby came by after you left. He was furious. He claimed you owed him twenty-five hundred dollars. Don’t worry about it, Johnny. I took care of it. I had my mother wire me the extra money, and I paid him. You don’t have to worry about him.

I don’t know what else to say, except . . . .

Except three more pages of the same stuff. She ended it by telling me how much I meant to her, and how she’d always be there for me. Well, I guess she exaggerated some because she was no longer around and at that moment I needed her more than I ever needed anything.

Of course, I didn’t have to kill her, at least not when I did. She would have found out about Bert Debbles, but she would have kept quiet about it. I wouldn’t have had to worry about her, at least not right away. Eventually, I’d have had to take care of her, though. Because she would have used the old man as a chain to keep us bound together. She’d use his corpse to beat me down. To keep me in line. To suffocate me. I knew her well enough to know that.

Anyway, I probably would have had to deal with her long before that. Probably even before I’d gotten sick and tired of her. Because she would know about the old man. Even if she kept her mouth shut, she’d still know and no amount of pretending on her part would be able to hide it. She’d start looking at me funny, maybe not so I could notice, but I’d know she’d be doing it. And there would be all those questions just busting to come loose. She’d struggle to keep them in that pretty little head of hers, but they’d come bubbling out of her soon enough, each one of them hitting me like a lead pipe to the gut. And waiting for them would be about as bad.

No, I had no choice with Marge, just like I had no choice with any of it. I didn’t ask Bert Debbles to come to Denver to blackmail me. I didn’t ask Marge to follow me to his room. Or Jerry Bry to thumb his nose at me, or M-Mary to . . . .

I-I did what I had to, just like I always have.

* * * * *

Later that afternoon, a homicide detective came by. He heard the same story from Marge’s mom that Braggs heard, and wanted to ask me about it. I explained to him what happened, and he felt kind of bad, you know, prying into my personal affairs and all. Well, to make sure he understood there were no hurt feelings, I offered him a drink. No, he couldn’t, not while on duty. Well, maybe a wee one, just so he wouldn’t be unsociable. We shared half a bottle together, and by the time he left he had tears in his eyes, seeing how shaken up I was over Marge, and feeling ashamed for bringing it up. I couldn’t blame him, and I told him so. After all, he was only doing his job. Doing what he had to. Like all the rest of us.

* * * * *

I was feeling kind of low. I headed over to the Corner Diner, hoping Carol would be working. It picked me right up when I saw her behind the counter, but I guess she was in a sour mood herself. Instead of joking around with me like she should have, she made some smartass comments back to me. Sh-She even gave me a look, like maybe there was something wrong with me. After I paid the check I picked up every goddamned penny from the counter. She opened her mouth as if she were going to say something about it, but then she looked into my face and knew better.

* * * * *

I woke up in the early morning wondering why it was so quiet. It was the type of quiet you have only when it’s dark and the air is dead still. The type of quiet where you can’t help but hear your blood rushing through your head. It was the type you try not paying attention to.

I laid there, feeling anxious, like a kid waiting to open his Christmas presents, but not knowing what’s in store. Or maybe knowing and dreading it.

I couldn’t figure out why I was so anxious. Or why it was so quiet. I started thinking about Marge, thinking about when she was going to show up next. I laughed, because she was always showing up when I didn’t want her to. Any minute now she was going to be ringing the doorbell, all ready to bust out of her clothing. And well, I’d have no choice but to help her out of it and . . . .

And I remembered about the room-about what happened when Marge went into that room. It didn’t make any sense. Why would a robber have to do that to her? Even if he was doped up, he didn’t have to kill her, at least not like that. Twisting her head around like she was a plastic doll. It was all so senseless, and . . . .

What does a guy have to do to get some sleep around here?

I looked at the clock. Three twenty-one. It hit me that my deadline with Mary was up and she’d be calling me in the morning to find out who her parents were. I hadn’t found them yet, and she’d be furious with me. She’d probably want to fire me on the spot. She’d get so serious, her brow furrowing up, and thinking about it made me smile. She was awful cute when she got upset. It did something to me deep inside when I saw her like that. Just thinking about it made me want to . . . .

It was so damn quiet. Three twenty-three. There was something about Mary, what was it? She-she’d committed suicide, that was it. Right after she’d visited Jerry Bry. Fired three bullets into him, leaving him bleeding to death on his own floor. Well, you couldn’t blame her. Still, I couldn’t figure what she saw in him in the first place. She should have known better than to get involved with him. He just wasn’t worth it. If only I could have made her see that. If only . . . .

Three twenty-four. It was too damn quiet. Too quiet to breathe . . . too quiet to keep from thinking. Oh Jesus, too damn quiet to keep from remembering all of it. From remembering all of them. It surprised me when I counted them, because there were so many . . . .

Three twenty-five.

Hours before the sun was going to come out . . . .

The hell with it, the hell with all of it. As long as I had a full bottle of rye what difference did any of it make?