A Kiss Gone Bad

5

The small crowd of marina dwellers was a mix of boat bums, Gulf wanderers, and snowbirds. They had little in common except a desire for quiet and the sun-driven crinkle around the flesh of their eyes. They’d been hurried off their boats and they stood clustered in the parking lot, bathed by the glow of the police lights. One could hear mutterings about life being too short and the wrong class of people booking at the Golden Gulf. An overeager Officer Fox had used the word suicide in an ill-advised sentence, and the rumor rippled through the small crowd.

The Blade listened to the murmured gossip. His heart jolted like he’d dosed himself with a tickly bit of electro-shock. No one paid him much heed, only a couple of the boat bums saying hello. He kept his hands tucked inside his light windbreaker.

He watched a police officer forage in the trunk of a patrol car. The Blade wondered how the officer would react if he leaned close and whispered: I have a passion I’d like to share with you. Come see my graves. But he wouldn’t. The city would decorate the officer. The news pretties would hail the cop as hero while labeling the Blade as crazy. The boat snobs right here would jockey for camera position and gasp, Oh, yes, we’re terribly shocked. He seemed like the nicest man. And he probably wouldn’t even get to tell his side of the story on TV.

Life was blatantly unfair unless you were willing to take it by the balls and squeeze hard. He watched as one older lady stopped and chatted with the whistling officer. He spoke and she hurried back to the crowd, where she whispered eagerly.

He stood and waited. The elderly lady panted with excitement, ferrying the sad news to each knot of people.

‘It’s the man who lived on Real Shame that’s dead,’ she said to the Blade and two other men. ‘They think he might’ve shot himself. Isn’t that terrible?’

Shot himself. Shot himself. What wonderful delicious morsels of words. If they were candy he would have eaten them and then licked his fingers.

He wanted to see his new Darling, to touch her, to feel the heavy weight of her hair, lick her skin, and exult in the warmth of her breath against his neck. She would need comfort, poor baby.

‘I bet you that trashy girlfriend of his cheated on him and he killed himself.’ The old woman lowered her voice. ‘Wearing those thong swimsuits. A piece of trash.’

Like Pete Hubble hadn’t been a piece of trash, too, thought the Blade. He wondered what interesting pops and creaks the old woman’s jaw would make if he broke it.

‘She probably won’t stay in town,’ the Blade heard himself say in his thin, wispy voice he so loathed. ‘Not from here, is she?’ Stupid, dummy! he berated himself. Shut up, shut up!

The old woman nodded at him. She had wrapped her fluffy hairdo in a protective cocoon of toilet paper, and the Blade thought she looked ridiculous. ‘You’re so right. Ought to go back to whatever cesspool she’s from.’

He nodded politely. Yes, if everyone thought Velvet had left town, then wouldn’t it all be easier for him? Perfect.

Three people emerged from the marina office. Lovely, one was his Darling. Why, she wore grief well, as cute as could be in her jean shorts. Pretty is as pretty does, Mama used to say. His mouth went dry with want. The three walked back to Pete’s boat, went aboard, and came out perhaps two minutes later. Velvet was sobbing. He could see her bent shoulders in the dim light of the marina.

A man walked with her, steering her toward the police cars.

Panic flamed in him. Oh, no. They were arresting her. That would not do at all, not at all…

But they – and now he could see in the dim light the other was a tall man, not a cop – went past the parked police cars, past the quiet ambulance. And he could hear his Darling sob, and – oh, this would not do – the man put his hand on her arm, tenderly. The Blade’s heart boiled. The man opened the door of a Ford Explorer and she got in, the man helping her like they were on a date.

The man turned toward the crowd. The Blade, seeing his face, grimaced. Heat tickled the backs of his hands.

The Explorer pulled out into the street, and the small crowd of onlookers parted to make way for it. One of those magnetic signs was affixed to the door, white letters bold against a stylized red-and-blue background: KEEP WHIT MOSLEY JUSTICE OF THE PEACE. The Explorer passed within three feet of the Blade, and he saw his Darling’s face, leaning against the passenger window. She had her fists pressed to her eyes. He heard the storm of her voice over the car’s motor as it shot past.

The Blade hurried away. If they were arresting her, a cop would have taken her away. Not a judge. And she hadn’t had a bag. She wasn’t leaving town. That thought steadied him as he jumped into his beat-up Volkswagen. He didn’t like her running around with that judge when she belonged to him.

That judge. That judge had seen her upset and wanted to help her… wanted to take her to his house and undress her and…

No. No. He knew he was letting his imagination run wild and imagination was his enemy until his Darling was safely in his arms. Judge Mosley was part of law-and-order, after all, so he must be taking her to give a police statement. Or to fill out forms.

Yeah, you know what all those Mosley boys are like. You know.

The Blade revved his engine and headed toward town. He wanted her with him. Screw waiting. Maybe he could catch them before they got into Port Leo’s downtown, on the dark bay highway. Flash his headlights, pull them over onto the shoulder or a dark parking lot. Get Mosley out of the car, gut him with one swift move, then cut his throat. He wondered if a judge’s blood would reek of musty courtrooms and old thick books. Then he could whisk his Darling to his cabin and make her his, comfort her, take her away from the world’s sadness.

He floored the accelerator.