I'm a fool to kill you

PROLOGUE
I

Las Vegas, Fall, 2003

Jenny Phillips was a looker.

She had the prettiest blue eyes, the kind of nose you’d see on statues of a Roman princess, and a helluva rack on her. Maybe I should have felt like a dirty old man, looking her up and down as she stood in the doorway of her apartment, but she was only eighteen years younger than I was.

She was sixty-five.

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You look great.’

‘For an old lady?’ she asked, smiling.

‘Look who you’re talkin’ to,’ I said. ‘People are gonna think you’re my daughter.’

She reached out and straightened my tie.

‘You’re a handsome old gent, Eddie G.’ she said. ‘Don’t look a day over seventy-five.’

‘Why are people always telling an octogenarian he looks young?’

‘I didn’t say young,’ she said. ‘I gave you about eight years, but you still look like an old geezer.’

‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘The car’s downstairs. Are you ready?’

‘Do I need a shawl, or a jacket?’ she asked.

‘Jacket,’ I said. ‘It’s getting cool.’

‘I’ll be right back.’

I watched her ass as she walked away from me. Still firm and sassy. Sorry, but I’m an old-fashioned guy. I still think the way I did back in the 60s, when I was eyeing every waitress and showgirl’s ass that went by at the Sands.

She came back, stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her, made sure it was locked. Then she turned and kissed me on the cheek.

‘What was that for?’ I asked.

She smiled fondly, wiped off the lipstick with her thumb and said, ‘That was for looking at my ass as I walked away.’

‘I don’t have much of a choice, Jen,’ I said. ‘It’s a great ass.’

‘I love Ava Gardner,’ Jenny said in the limo.

I didn’t comment.

‘I mean, in Mogambo? Why does anyone even look at Grace Kelly?’

‘I agree.’

‘So you like her movies?’

‘Why else would I invite you to an Ava Gardner retrospective?’ I asked.

‘Well, you know how much I like her.’

‘Yes, I do.’

The limo stopped and Jenny looked out the window.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Dinner first,’ I said. ‘We have plenty of time.’

This was my sixth date with Jenny. I kept count because ever since I was a young man I’d never been able to get past the sixth date, except for my wives, and you can guess where those relationships went.

So I took Jenny to my favorite Italian restaurant, my usual table. Which was always for two. I ordered for both of us. She liked that. I liked the way she was staring across the table at me. I was amazed at how smooth the skin of her face was, wondered if she’d had some work. I didn’t think so, though, because there were some lines in her neck and at the corners of her mouth and eyes. She would have had those smoothed out as well. I decided she just had extraordinary skin. And her hair was still mostly black, with some grey streaks, worn long. On her, sixty-five was the new fifty.

‘Do you know why I like you, Eddie?’

‘I could guess,’ I said, ‘and I might get lucky, but I’d rather hear it from you.’

‘You have manners,’ she said. ‘Old world manners.’

‘Me?’ I said. ‘I’m still a kid from Brooklyn; inside, I mean.’

‘Well, the man on the outside has a lot of polish.’

‘And that’s why you like me.’

‘That’s one of the reasons.’

The waiter came with wine, bread and olive oil. He poured; I tasted and nodded like I knew what I was doing. I would have preferred beer, but over the years I had learned a little about wine. For instance, I learned that after you taste it you’re supposed to nod.

‘Should you be drinking that?’ Jenny asked. ‘Eating bread and pasta?’

‘Why not?’

‘Your diabetes?’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘my toes are numb, and my fingertips are getting there. I’m out with a beautiful woman, and I probably won’t be able to feel the softness of your skin, but at least I can taste the wine, and the bread and the pasta.’

‘You can’t feel my skin?’ she asked, looking sad.

I reached over and touched her wrist with the fingertips of my right hand.

‘Hardly,’ I said.

She reached across the table and touched my mouth.

‘Your lips aren’t numb, are they?’

I took hold of her, ran my lips over the back of her hand.

‘Smooth and soft,’ I said, kissing it.

‘If you’re good tonight,’ she said, ‘maybe I’ll let you feel more than my hand.’

I frowned, then sighed and pushed away the wine and the bread.

‘Tell you what, Jen,’ I said, ‘I’ll just eat the pasta.’

She blew a kiss across the table. I may have been eighty-three years old but, on occasion, I was still pretty virile.

This was one such occasion. .