This
week I
bring you a little tribute to some pals who are particularly
enthusiastic about
being invited to happy hour. It’s fictional; all similarities to real
people
are purely coincidental. Inspired by a joke from a while ago. Um...
things get kind of intense here. I got a little into this one.
The following is best enjoyed with some background
music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?
From The [] Files
On a cold,
bitter day in February, the wind was biting my cheeks like a teething golden
doodle puppy. It was the sort of day you wanted to ignore, wrapped tight in the
embrace of some sweet scotch, a slow smoke, and a fast woman—not necessarily in
that order.
I unfurled
my collar against the chill. There would be no scotch—not yet, anyway. There
would be no smoke but the hot breath I left in my wake to fade into the cold
[] night behind me; no women but the anonymous passers-by biting
their lips at me from under umbrellas. I was on the job—and not just any job.
This one promised to take me down the darkest alleys, through the sleaziest
dives, and into the most seductive hospitalities in town. It was exactly my
kind of gig.
I paused,
peeling the scent of the city off the air as I leaned into a gust. She
sauntered through the back of my mind again, uninvited. Pamela. The moment her silhouette had appeared at my door I knew
she was trouble—a no-good, low-down, gorgeous dame with everything to hide and
nothing to lose.
“I’ve got it
bad,” she had cooed, stalking toward me, smoky-eyed and silken-voiced. Even
then she was waltzing with disaster, and with each step her shadowy partner
brought her closer to the grave. “It’s on for tonight. I need someone”—she
adorned my desk, pulling my tie and prickling my ear with the warmth of her
breath—“a real man. Someone who can keep
his appointments.” Pulling my hat down low over my face, she kissed me, her
lips lingering on my jaw. She didn’t wait for an answer. A moment later she was
gone, out through the door like a hurricane on stilts, leaving only singed
atmosphere and a card: Seasons. Now,
following the ghost of those getaway sticks into the fog, I felt the warmth of
her mouth again.
But what did
it all mean? What was Seasons? And where would I find my answers? I pushed into
the pitch. The night swallowed me up; bristling against the darkness, I went
down hard, like a jagged pill in the windpipe. There was no question now: I was
in the game.
It wasn’t
long before a car horn, cutting through the city air like a blue-streaking line
drive through August grass, broke my concentration. When the black town car
pulled up next to me, the only words uttered were “Get in.” It wasn’t a
question.
In the cabin
were the only three weasels I’d ever seen who could stuff a three-piece suit.
Them and Pamela. She looked like a cat out of a bath: wet, scared, and mad,
looking for someone to scratch or someone to keep her warm. I was the man for
both jobs, I thought. I just hoped I wasn’t too late.
“We thought
we’d give you a lift, see?” sneered one of the suits. “Nyeaah.”
“Yeah! Give
you a ride, see?” echoed another. Threatening Pamela with his sidearm, the
parrot convinced me to hand over my own. As soon as I had, the scared girl
sharpened like a carving knife on Thanksgiving.
“Thank you,”
said Pamela, turning the gun over in her hands and smiling, “for your
cooperation. Forgive my associates their lack of subtlety.”
I frowned
with comprehension. She had played me like a Russian violin. It was a slow
ruse, bleak and melancholy in its pointlessness, but strangely beautiful and
rewarding. Still, here I was on enemy turf, surrounded—the last piece of
Canadian bacon at a Mounty convention. And it was breakfast time.
“So this is
what it comes to,” I said, laughing to myself. “When I woke up this morning, I
thought I’d end the day the same way I began it—in my bed with a bottle of
scotch. I didn’t count on you rolling through my life like calamity in a
dress—a flaming tumbleweed on a tornado path to the Wild West. Well here’s
something: I’m not going with you.”
Her smile
was like a magnet, and we drew toward each other through the tense silence. I
didn’t give her a chance to respond before making my desperate attempt at
escape. A moment later she was in my arms, tumbling from the vehicle, rolling in
the street over cobblestones littered with broken glass, a red ribbon blowing
in the wind.
We stopped
in a puddle of blood and rain. I didn’t hurt enough; I knew it must be her.
“Why’d you
do it, Pamela?” I asked, as the heavens washed her life slowly down the
gutters. “Why me? What brings a dame like you to a private dick like me on a
cold February morning except lies and death and secrets?”
She looked
back at me with those eyes full of jazz and blues, full of fever and ice, and
her final words walked down my spine like a shivering bassline.
“Happy Hour…
Seasons… five… o’clo—”
The street
dimmed with her passing, and the only light on me was the hot, crackling neon
of an alleyway sign. I looked up.
Seasons.
“Jesus,” I
said, starting toward the door, “I need a drink.”
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