“I’ll meet you in the garage.”
The last five minutes of my drive to Callie’s were difficult. I’m a Time Saver, a person who captures special moments in his life, stores them in his brain, and can replay them with precision. I didn’t take the time to properly save my moments with Gwen these past couple of days. In truth, I didn’t know how special they were going to be. So, for the next few minutes, I focus on the highlights.
I think about the first time I saw her wearing that silly pink t-shirt that said Eat Me! if you read it a certain way. I smile, thinking about Fast Eddie and his plastic wife, Surrey, and how Gwen schooled me about the odds she’d memorized. I’ll keep the memory of how she called Lucky a bullshit artist. I’m sad, now, thinking about her look of despair when Eddie told Hampton to be gentle, because the money was more important to him than her dignity. I’ll never forget the look it put in Gwen’s eyes. I know I’ll disappoint my share of women over the course of my life. But I’ll never give a woman cause to show me a look like the one I saw on Gwen’s face when Hampton tried to make his move. I think about that some more, and feel that twitch I get sometimes before bad things happen. It’s at this moment I think I’ll kill Hampton on my way out of town, after burying Gwen on the vacant commercial lot, right smack under the sign that says, Vegas Moon. Named after me, Gwen had said, and now I know why.
I’m going to be buried there someday, she’d said. And you have to respect my dying wish.
I will respect it, sweetheart.
I’ll have her cremated, then I’ll dig a trench under the sign while Callie stands guard. I’ll sprinkle Gwen’s ashes in it, say a few words, and fill the hole back in with my hands. I’ll kiss the ground that covers her, too.
I think about how Gwen gave me luke-warm sex the first time, and hot, wild, monkey sex after deciding I had enough power to kill the mob boss that was threatening her. The look on her face when she had to have it is something I’ll never forget. I’m smiling now, thinking about it. And the sex that final time? Let me just say this: could a man possibly die a better death than from getting the best sex a woman can give? –If you say yes, I’m happy for you. But keep it to yourself. No, strike that. I want to hear what you come up with. Whatever it is, I’ll take Gwen and give you odds: 2,000 to 1.
A block from Callie’s place, I pull to the side of the road and stop a minute. I need a memory to help me wrap all these scattered images into a tidy little package so I can label it in my mind, under Gwen.
And then it hits me.
The one image that stands above the rest: when Gwen and I walked her rooster down that long driveway!
I remember how she got angry when I asked if it crowed every morning. I realize now she wasn’t angry about the stereotyping of the rooster. She was living a huge stereotype, and didn’t like it, and was attempting to change her life around.
I think about Gwen and her rooster, and the leash, and the harness she tied it to.
There’s one problem with the image: I don’t like the outfit she was wearing. When we did the cock walk, she had on gray sweat pants and that silly pink t-shirt. Later that evening, she wore the black sweater with the sleeves rolled up to just above the elbows, tucked into a black, pleated skirt. She also had on a pair of fire-engine red boots with a black heel and two rhinestone strips attached over the toe, and above the upper ankle. I remember the boots stopped mid-calf, and left plenty of leg showing.
It’s my memory, right?
I can save it any way I choose.
I close my eyes, think of her evening outfit, and superimpose it over the cock walk outfit.
Wait—am I boring you with all this? If so, back up and re-think it. If you’re not saving the precious memories in your life, what the hell are you going to have when you’re locked away in a maximum security cell some day, waiting to be executed?
I superimpose the one outfit over the other, and what goes into the memory box is this: a gorgeous woman walking a rooster down her driveway, while wearing one of the hottest outfits I’ve ever seen.
I close my eyes, lock the memories in my mind, and think, I’m going to miss you Gwen. And everything we might have become.
50.
Callie’s holding a gun on me.
We’re in the garage of her condo. Five of the six indoor parking places have cars in them. Only Eva’s spot is empty. It’s quiet as a tomb in here, and musty. As I walk toward her I hear my footsteps echo off the concrete walls and ceiling. She lifts the barrel of her gun slightly, to indicate I’m close enough. I stop twelve feet from her.
“Either shoot me or open the trunk,” I say.
“Show me your hands.”
I do.
She pulls a fillet knife from her handbag and places it on the rear bumper of her car.
“What’s that for?”
“You wanted the device, right?”
“Jesus, Callie.”
She takes a few steps back, then pops the trunk. At first it takes my eyes some time to adjust to what I’m seeing. Because what I see is something I’m not prepared for.
Gwen’s alive.
She’s got a hood over her head, and her wrists and ankles are bound with shipping tape, and she’s obviously unconscious, because she’s not making a sound. But she’s very much alive. I can tell because one of her legs is twitching. As is her head.
