you be?”
Carmen thought of birds and saw the bird prints covering the walls of her mother’s house. She said, “I wouldn’t be a bird. I’d be something else.”
He seemed to like that, too. “All right, what would you be?”
Carmen took a moment, breathed in, hesitated and breathed out through her mouth. She said, “Maybe a deer.” She watched him nod, thinking about it. She said, “Although . . .” pulled the neck of the tank top away from her, lowered her head slightly and sniffed. “They smell awful.”
He said, “We all smell at times.”
She fanned the air in front of her. “Not this bad.” She said, “That buck lure really smells.” She said, “Could I get dressed?”
“If you want, sure. I’m not Richie, I’m not the same as him.”
Carmen watched him raise his glass to the shape at the end of the table and take a drink.
She said, “I’ll have to go upstairs.”
There was a silence.
He said, “Well . . .”
She waited, expecting him to say, Didn’t you bring clothes? Or, I’ll go up with you. She watched him pour whiskey into his glass.
He said, “Okay, I’ll give you one minute.”
She didn’t move.
“Go on.”
Now she got up, walked around the table past him. When she was in the hall she heard him say, “You don’t want to be a bird, think of what you would be.”
Carmen closed the bedroom door and locked it. She went to Wayne’s side of the bed, dropped to her hands and knees and saw the Remington, right there, brought it out feeling the weight of it and smelling the oil smell. She went into the bathroom, closed the door and pumped the gun. There would be a cartridge in the chamber now if the gun was loaded. She pumped it again and a three-inch magnum slug ejected. It was loaded. She picked up the slug from the floor and shoved it into the magazine. Now, go do it. And thought, I can’t. And told herself, Don’t think. But at the bedroom door, her hand on the old-fashioned key sticking out of the lock, she started thinking again, she couldn’t help it.
There was a George Jones song Armand had liked called “The Last Thing I gave Her Was the Bird,” until he got sick and tired of Richie and then he didn’t care for it anymore. That fucking Richie, he was like something stuck to the bottom of your shoe you couldn’t get rid of, like his chewing gum. That wasn’t a bad idea, though, take Donna down there to see Graceland. Why not? She was a stupid woman, but that was okay, he was tired of being alone in hotel rooms, bars, motels—take her on a trip, play some Yahtzee ... One moment he felt relieved, a weight lifted off him, looking at the ironworker’s jacket covering the punk. The next moment he didn’t feel so good.
She could wait for him to come up. Get down behind the side of the bed with the gun aimed at the door. He walks in ... But if he came upstairs he’d be ready, he’d have his gun in his hand he killed a man with, nothing to it, so easy for him, or he’d have a shotgun. Or he could wait, her nerves bad enough, and she wouldn’t know where he was. Or she could listen for the stairs to squeak ...And heard Wayne say to her, For Christ sake, if you’re gonna do it, do it. Wayne took her that far, gave her the loaded gun. Now she had to hear herself say it, in her own words, and after that stop thinking.
You have to kill him.
There wasn’t a sound in the house.
You have to go downstairs and kill him.
Carmen turned the key to unlock the door.
He was sorry now he had started talking to her. It was the same with the old man in the hotel room, he was sorry after they had talked; though he didn’t feel sorry for the girl who ordered breakfast from room service and hardly touched it, wasting the old man’s money. He had never talked to a person he was going to kill before he talked to the old man and now he had talked to this woman Carmen. He was thinking he’d better not talk to her anymore... and heard the stairs creak and heard her steps coming down to the front hall. Looking at his watch Armand said, “You’re ten seconds late.” Talking to her again, saying that without thinking because she was easy to talk to. He took a drink, waiting to see her come in, and held the glass, listening. When no sound came to him he said to himself, Man, you’re getting old, you know it? He sat waiting. There was no way she could sneak up on him, but she was trying something. It got his mind working again. This woman had nerve. Putting the glass down he laid the palms of his hands flat on the table and turned his head enough to see his Browning close to Richie’s .38, where he had laid it when he covered the punk with the jacket. He could reach it if he leaned over and stretched—pick it up with his left hand.
“So you don’t like the idea of a bird,” Armand said. “What do you want to be?”
No answer.
She was there, but she wasn’t talking.
***
Carmen had the stock of the Remington against her bare shoulder, the barrel aimed at his face, his profile, twelve to fifteen feet away, close; though she was back far enough that she could see everything at the table: the covered shape, the two guns, Richie’s bright one and Armand’s dull-metal automatic, his head turned that way, and on the other side of him, to his right, the shotgun leaning against the table. She saw the light from the window shining on the crown of his black hair, above the slug barrel’s front sight, her mind telling her, You have to kill him. But saw Richie killed as she heard that word, shot through the head, some of him coming out red to smear against the wall. And she lowered the sight to a point between Armand’s shoulder blades, a thick solid shape in the black suit.
Just as he said, “Where are you, Miss?” and half-turned, brought the chair sideways to the table to sit looking at her over his shoulder.
Standing there in those nice little underpants with the shotgun. She knew it was here all the time, tricked him.
Armand said, “You found it, ’ey?” and squinted at that black hole pointing at him. “It looks like the same one you had that other time. Yeah, with the slug barrel.” Wanting her to understand he didn’t give a shit about it. “Let me ask you something. Is it loaded?”
“It’s loaded.”
Her voice sounded calm, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t scared. “You sure now. You not bullshitting me.”
She said it again. “It’s loaded.”
Maybe she was afraid to say anything else, give away how nervous she was inside her nice underwear. He was thinking he had never gone to bed with a woman as slim and beautifully shaped as this one. He could see the points of her breasts in the undershirt, but couldn’t see her dark place through the white panties. The ironworker’s little wife surprised him then.
She came into the room, moving sideways to keep the 12-gauge pointed at him, and went to the end of the table to stand by the two handguns. He thought she was going to do something with them, get them out of the way. No, what she did was put the stock of the 12-gauge under her arm to hold it with one hand and with the other lifted the ironworker’s jacket, uncovering the dead punk. It amazed him. To look at Richie? No, to fold the jacket against her body one-handed and lay it on the other corner of the table. Her husband’s, taking care of it for him. This was the kind of woman to have. Live in the city and take her places, but not the Silver Dollar. He could take Donna Mulry to the Silver Dollar or Memphis, Tennessee. He felt tired and wouldn’t mind lying down a while. Then pushed that from his head thinking, Man, what are you doing? Take the fucking gun away from her and use your own, one shot, get it done.
Armand got up from the chair. He heard wind rattle the windows, glanced over that way, picked up his glass and put it down, nothing in it, moving just a small step closer to her.
“Look at him, Miss,” Armand said, nodding at the punk, wanting her to see the mess his bullet had made of Richie’s head, his hair matted and dyed black now, some of what little brains he had shot out of him.
