"What is this, Rick?"
"It's a question, doll."
"Look, I already told you everything. I told you the whole story."
Rick poured himself another glass of Baliol and stared right through her, as if waiting for something to happen--as if waiting for a confession. She looked up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to stop right where he was, to not ruin what should have been a golden moment. But he set the glass down and leaned over the table toward her.
"Sure, and the story was true. Too bad you couldn't keep the characters straight. I know all about Berretta, sweetheart. But why were you questioned about his death when you weren't even living in the city at the time? That was a year ago. You were in Kingston, right? That's what you told me, anyway."
She was stumped. The look on her face told him that she was trying hard to think of something to say, but her silence said everything.
"It's all right, doll. I've got it all figured out. See, you weren't the one that left town. That was Delilah, wasn't it? You're the one who fell in with the wrong crowd. You're the one who met Tony. He got you into trouble, convinced you to steal from Big's bookie. Delilah knew something was wrong, and she wasn't even in the same town. She came back to help you out, and God knows you tried your best. You took the money back and made good with Big, and that made Tony mad. He came after you, so you came to me.
"Your first story--the one you told me about the boyfriend with the temper--that was true. Then you needed to stay low. You had your gun, so you felt nice and safe, but there was still Delilah to worry about. You needed another one. You wanted her to feel that same safety without too many other people asking questions, so you took mine. When you brought it home, well, it was probably dark in that apartment, wasn't it? Maybe you saw a shadow move, and you knew it had to have been Tony. You knew how to use a gun, so you didn't hesitate--not for a second. Bang! The shadow fell straight to the floor. It probably didn't even register at first that it was Delilah, did it? You felt that rush, the blood pumping through your body. I'll bet you were happy for a moment there. Until you got a closer look, anyway."
"No!" she screamed. "Stop it, Rick. Just stop it! Okay, you've got my life story all figured out, but I didn't shoot her. I didn't kill my best friend. It was Tony, I know it. He followed her home one day, found out where our new apartment was. That's when I came to you and took your gun, but with God as my witness, I didn't pull the trigger on her."
"Just like you didn't pull the trigger on Berretta? I'll bet that was Tony, too."
"It was! I was there, Rick. I saw it happen. I let it happen. But this was different. I swear that I wasn't in that apartment when Delilah was killed."
While Laura was trembling, obviously struggling to keep herself together and to hold her tears back, Rick leaned coolly against the table. His eye caught a lonely cigarette laying on the counter. He grabbed it, lit up, and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. The room was already thick. Now it was bulging at the seams.
"Then why'd you lie about everything?" he asked after giving her a moment to stew.
"Because I wanted to get out of here!" she yelled, so loud that Rick drew back. "I know the kind of person I used to be and the sort of company I kept. I wanted so much to be like Delilah. Poor, poor Delilah. I just wanted a second chance at life, Rick. I wanted to start over with a clean slate... and with you, if you were willing to come with me. See, as it turns out, that's the one thing I wasn't lying about."
"The cops would've found out about you sooner or later. I would've, too."
"But we would've been out of here. We would've been out of the city."
"You say that as if it changes things, sweetheart." He took another long draw on his cigarette.
"It does. This city changes you, Rick. You know it does. It changes everything. It chews people up and spits them back out, like seeds, and we take root and start to sprout like a tree should. But there's no tree. We just become another small bit of the city. It's like we're not even people anymore. We're just shadows in the alleyways. Tell me you see that, too, Rick. Tell me it's not just my imagination."
Rick watched her with cold, dark eyes. He watched her, and he smoked.
She couldn't take it anymore. Anything would've been better than silence. She reached out, grabbed the cigarette from his mouth, and pulled it to her own. If nothing else, it calmed her for the moment.
"So what happens to me now?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Am I going to jail?"
"I don't know."
"Well, what do you know?" she asked.
"I know we've still got a killer out there, and we need to bring him in."
"You believe me now?" she asked with a smirk. "What'd I do to deserve that?"
"I feel like I've finally shaken the truth out of you. The boys at the station said there were only two sets of prints on my gun--yours and mine, but I remember something else about my run-in with Tony at the train station. The gun he was holding slipped out of his hands pretty fast. It was like he didn't have a good grip on it. He was wearing gloves--rubber probably, tight enough fit that he could still fire. It was dark, but I know for sure that I never saw any skin on his hands, and a man wearing gloves wouldn't leave any prints, now would he?"
"No... no, he wouldn't!"
"All right, I'm going to call down to the station, and you tell them everything you know about Tony. Tell them his last name, where he lives, his telephone number, his favorite restaurants--everything. We'll have him before morning, and then we can figure out what happens next."
"Oh, Rick, that's wonderful!"
He ran to the phone and picked up the receiver. There was no sound. He tapped the hook switch a few times, hoping to hear the drone of a dial tone, but it wasn't there. The phone was dead.
"What's wrong?" she asked, seeing the look on his face.
"Probably nothing. Could be that the phone company's got their lines crossed somewhere. I'll head down to the lobby and see if their phone works. Here--" he pulled out his revolver, making sure it was loaded, and laid it on the table in front of her. "Just in case."
He didn't have to say anything. She knew what he meant. She took the gun in her hands and sat quietly at the table while he locked up the apartment behind him, and then he was gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen. Without Rick's voice to keep her company, all the other noises around her seemed so much louder. She could hear someone shuffling in the apartment above. She could hear the television playing next door; it was a comedy, and every time the studio audience erupted in laughter, she could feel a faint vibration on the floor. She could hear the squeak of floorboards that seemed to come from the next room.
"That's funny," she said to herself. "It almost sounds like someone else is in here."
As the kitchen door slowly swung open, all she could hear then was the pounding rhythm of her own heart. It pulsed in her chest, at the back of her throat, in her brain. Her blood was beating out a warning. She wished she'd listened to it sooner.
The lights went out, and she began to scream.
"It's a question, doll."
"Look, I already told you everything. I told you the whole story."
Rick poured himself another glass of Baliol and stared right through her, as if waiting for something to happen--as if waiting for a confession. She looked up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to stop right where he was, to not ruin what should have been a golden moment. But he set the glass down and leaned over the table toward her.
"Sure, and the story was true. Too bad you couldn't keep the characters straight. I know all about Berretta, sweetheart. But why were you questioned about his death when you weren't even living in the city at the time? That was a year ago. You were in Kingston, right? That's what you told me, anyway."
She was stumped. The look on her face told him that she was trying hard to think of something to say, but her silence said everything.
"It's all right, doll. I've got it all figured out. See, you weren't the one that left town. That was Delilah, wasn't it? You're the one who fell in with the wrong crowd. You're the one who met Tony. He got you into trouble, convinced you to steal from Big's bookie. Delilah knew something was wrong, and she wasn't even in the same town. She came back to help you out, and God knows you tried your best. You took the money back and made good with Big, and that made Tony mad. He came after you, so you came to me.
"Your first story--the one you told me about the boyfriend with the temper--that was true. Then you needed to stay low. You had your gun, so you felt nice and safe, but there was still Delilah to worry about. You needed another one. You wanted her to feel that same safety without too many other people asking questions, so you took mine. When you brought it home, well, it was probably dark in that apartment, wasn't it? Maybe you saw a shadow move, and you knew it had to have been Tony. You knew how to use a gun, so you didn't hesitate--not for a second. Bang! The shadow fell straight to the floor. It probably didn't even register at first that it was Delilah, did it? You felt that rush, the blood pumping through your body. I'll bet you were happy for a moment there. Until you got a closer look, anyway."
"No!" she screamed. "Stop it, Rick. Just stop it! Okay, you've got my life story all figured out, but I didn't shoot her. I didn't kill my best friend. It was Tony, I know it. He followed her home one day, found out where our new apartment was. That's when I came to you and took your gun, but with God as my witness, I didn't pull the trigger on her."
"Just like you didn't pull the trigger on Berretta? I'll bet that was Tony, too."
"It was! I was there, Rick. I saw it happen. I let it happen. But this was different. I swear that I wasn't in that apartment when Delilah was killed."
While Laura was trembling, obviously struggling to keep herself together and to hold her tears back, Rick leaned coolly against the table. His eye caught a lonely cigarette laying on the counter. He grabbed it, lit up, and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. The room was already thick. Now it was bulging at the seams.
"Then why'd you lie about everything?" he asked after giving her a moment to stew.
"Because I wanted to get out of here!" she yelled, so loud that Rick drew back. "I know the kind of person I used to be and the sort of company I kept. I wanted so much to be like Delilah. Poor, poor Delilah. I just wanted a second chance at life, Rick. I wanted to start over with a clean slate... and with you, if you were willing to come with me. See, as it turns out, that's the one thing I wasn't lying about."
"The cops would've found out about you sooner or later. I would've, too."
"But we would've been out of here. We would've been out of the city."
"You say that as if it changes things, sweetheart." He took another long draw on his cigarette.
"It does. This city changes you, Rick. You know it does. It changes everything. It chews people up and spits them back out, like seeds, and we take root and start to sprout like a tree should. But there's no tree. We just become another small bit of the city. It's like we're not even people anymore. We're just shadows in the alleyways. Tell me you see that, too, Rick. Tell me it's not just my imagination."
Rick watched her with cold, dark eyes. He watched her, and he smoked.
She couldn't take it anymore. Anything would've been better than silence. She reached out, grabbed the cigarette from his mouth, and pulled it to her own. If nothing else, it calmed her for the moment.
"So what happens to me now?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"Am I going to jail?"
"I don't know."
"Well, what do you know?" she asked.
"I know we've still got a killer out there, and we need to bring him in."
"You believe me now?" she asked with a smirk. "What'd I do to deserve that?"
"I feel like I've finally shaken the truth out of you. The boys at the station said there were only two sets of prints on my gun--yours and mine, but I remember something else about my run-in with Tony at the train station. The gun he was holding slipped out of his hands pretty fast. It was like he didn't have a good grip on it. He was wearing gloves--rubber probably, tight enough fit that he could still fire. It was dark, but I know for sure that I never saw any skin on his hands, and a man wearing gloves wouldn't leave any prints, now would he?"
"No... no, he wouldn't!"
"All right, I'm going to call down to the station, and you tell them everything you know about Tony. Tell them his last name, where he lives, his telephone number, his favorite restaurants--everything. We'll have him before morning, and then we can figure out what happens next."
"Oh, Rick, that's wonderful!"
He ran to the phone and picked up the receiver. There was no sound. He tapped the hook switch a few times, hoping to hear the drone of a dial tone, but it wasn't there. The phone was dead.
"What's wrong?" she asked, seeing the look on his face.
"Probably nothing. Could be that the phone company's got their lines crossed somewhere. I'll head down to the lobby and see if their phone works. Here--" he pulled out his revolver, making sure it was loaded, and laid it on the table in front of her. "Just in case."
He didn't have to say anything. She knew what he meant. She took the gun in her hands and sat quietly at the table while he locked up the apartment behind him, and then he was gone, leaving her alone in the kitchen. Without Rick's voice to keep her company, all the other noises around her seemed so much louder. She could hear someone shuffling in the apartment above. She could hear the television playing next door; it was a comedy, and every time the studio audience erupted in laughter, she could feel a faint vibration on the floor. She could hear the squeak of floorboards that seemed to come from the next room.
"That's funny," she said to herself. "It almost sounds like someone else is in here."
As the kitchen door slowly swung open, all she could hear then was the pounding rhythm of her own heart. It pulsed in her chest, at the back of her throat, in her brain. Her blood was beating out a warning. She wished she'd listened to it sooner.
The lights went out, and she began to scream.
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