Play To Kill

Chapter Ten

Clint ran his red pen down the list next to his computer, crossing off the items he'd completed one by one. Feed Ruffian. Eat supper. Wash dishes. Code post.

If you're too stupid to remember your chores, write them down, Clinton.

The only valuable advice from the dead bitch who claimed to have borne him, although the thought of such a thing still made him sick to his stomach. To have lived in the sagging, bloating belly of such a creature was more than he could imagine.

He put a gold star on the last of the one-page essays the dear children had written in class today, then crossed 'grade papers' off his list. Perhaps the gold star hadn't been earned in this case - certainly not grammatically - but this particular boy always tried so hard, and needed a pat on the back every now and then.

He put down his pen, leaned back in his chair, rubbed his hands together, then keyed in the magic that would send away the post he had coded earlier. The anticipation began the moment he pushed the last key. It filled him with energy, and made him jump up from his chair. Two more items on the list: Walk Ruffian; Chesterfield's. He could hardly wait to cross off the last one.

'Ready for your walk, boy?'

The golden retriever rose heavily from his bed next to the desk, but he wagged his tail as he walked to where his leash hung on the hook by the door. He was old for his breed, and his beloved nightly walk took longer as the arthritis got worse. Clint didn't mind the extra time. It was still too early, and he had a few hours to kill.

Marian put away her mop and bucket, took a last swipe at the bar with her rag, checked the final load of glasses, and started turning out the lights. On nights like this, when she was especially anxious to get home, there seemed to be a million switches: one hooked to the mirror lights that reflected the polished bottles; another for the window lights; then the interior neon signs. 'This is ridiculous, Bert. Get an electrician in here and put these all on one circuit. I spend ten minutes every night shutting them off.'

'Can't.' Bert was already at the door, receipt wallet under his arm, hand on the knob. 'All these lights on one circuit and this place would blow like a two-dollar whore. The electric's way below code.'

'They're going to nail you on that one of these days and shut this place down, and there goes Alissa's college fund.'

Bert snorted. 'They're not going to nail us on any damn thing Cheetah Bacheeta did some lip service to our noble inspector in the can one night, and I got it on film.'

Marian rolled her head to release the tension in her neck. She didn't understand the world anymore. All men were pigs, and the system sucked. 'Jeez, Bert, you are the slimiest of slimes.'

'Maybe. But Alissa's going to college, and I'm all over that. Any acceptance letters yet?'

Marian smiled. 'A couple. She's waiting for Barnard.'

'What's Barnard?'

'The grand prize.'

Bert chuckled and reached deep into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Big bills, even for a weekend night. 'Tips, baby, for Alissa's tuition.'

Marian thumbed through a few of them and made her mouth hard. She could take all the crap the guys dished out here every night without blinking, but kindness always brought her up short. 'Christ. I didn't even blow any of the guys here tonight.'

'Yeah, well, there you go.'

'Bert?'

Yeah?'

'How many times have I got to tell you not to walk out of here with that receipt wallet? You're going to get mugged one of these nights. Everyone in town knows you take the cash home.'

'Everyone in this town loves me, doll baby. Kiss the kid going to college for me. Tell her the boys all want to see her down here before she shakes the dust of this town off her shoes. You gonna lock up?'

'Don't I always?'

Marian wiped at her cheek as the fat slimiest of all men walked out the door. She was dead tired. Six days a week for fifteen years she'd worked two shifts at the diner; then the night shift here at the bar, and most of the time she felt like she was being pulled through a knothole backwards. But Alissa was going to college, by God, and that was the brass ring.

By the time she locked up and the worn heels of her cowboy boots clicked across the empty parking lot, the stars were out, shining on who she was and what she'd done, and the moon looked surprised. Maybe, she thought, it didn't matter so much what you did as what you made happen for somebody else. Like your kid.

She knew Alissa was already asleep. She also knew that there would be a freshly baked, beautifully decorated chocolate almond cake on the scarred, shabby kitchen counter, because the kid baked a birthday cake for her mother every year. There was some guilt wrapped up in that, because Marian had always had three jobs to support them, and no time to be Betty Crocker. Alissa had jumped into the role. There would be forty candles on the top of the cake, and some sloppy sentiment written on the brown icing, and wrapped presents around it with curlicue ribbons.

Marian's face had weathered and hardened into a mask that no man would want; her knees were bad and her hips were shot, and most of the time she couldn't feel her fingers from all those years carrying the heavy trays; and still she figured she was the luckiest woman in the world.

Dew sparkled on the windshield of the old Ford Tempo, lighting her way, and made Christmas in July on the spruce that towered around the slab of tar cut into the forest. 'How lucky are you?' she whispered to herself, key out to unlock the door, heart open to the blessings of her life, and even when she saw the tripod with its mounted camera, and felt the hand on her shoulder and the cold knife on her throat, she couldn't imagine that this could be anything bad.