Even though she pointed that gun at me, I wasn't scared.
You see, it wasn't the first time and truth be told, I wasn't sure if this little chickadee had what chickadees didn't to pull the trigger. In fact, I couldn't help think how it made her sexier. I tried not to smirk. She looked cute.
I slowly walked over to the bar cart and poured myself a copper delight. I raised an empty glass in her direction, asking if she wanted one herself. She shook her head. That was the extent of our communication.
At this point, the smirk arrived. "You could still have some hooch and point that gun, ya know..."
She said nothing and kept that barrel aimed square at where my heart beat. Funny since she always claimed I didn't have one. I shrugged, downed the cheap scotch she usually kept on hand and tried to calm her down.
I focused on those lips that looked like that came from pink roses. They weren't quivering which told me that she meant business. Or at least she thought so.
Her makeup wasn't smeared so that told me she wasn't losing any tears on my behalf. Somehow, I was expecting at least a small amount of water works. There I go, flattering myself again.
Also, she was also wearing black leather gloves. That little trick she learned from me. And to think I foolishly thought that trip to Gimbel's yesterday was for that bra she was now lying in. Now wasn't the time, though, to focus on that ample bosom. If I was lucky, later. Maybe.
I was mildly distracted by the Crosley. It blared a blues tune and she knew I hated blues. Acoustic no less. She got that pointer from me as well. Keep your subject disoriented. I started to think that she was up to something. I lowered the radio and found my station. Our station.
Some piano jazz, seduced with some trumpet, echoed throughout the small apartment.
"Wanna dance?" I asked, extending my hand. I knew she wouldn't go for it. Still I had to test whether she'd break. That was my trick in the past but here, now, she remained stoic, impressing me again. My little cupcake, all grown up.
We'd been at this Midwestern con game now a couple of years and she'd proven herself to be valuable enough. So much so that she started demanding more cabbage. That wasn't part of the deal. At the end of the day, I needed my shape in a drape to be happy with the dresses I bought and the perfume she sniffed, not a lion's share of the popcorn. Uh-uh, that wasn't the arrangement. I'd sooner put her back on a bus to whatever depot I found her at twinkly-eyed.
So here we were. Me admiring how cute she looked with the big boy gun and her doing the best Sterling Hayden impression she could muster with the tricks I taught her. Shaking my head, I reached for the scotch once more, bad as it was.
The one thing I didn't teach her? How to skate away, clean as a whistle, with all of the money. That trick was still mine. Or was it? I caught a glimpse of a burgundy leather duffel peak out from under the bed. I knew it too well. It belonged Fat Sam, my bank in the region. He held on to my dough, banked it under his name for a hearty cut. Little did I know that Fat Sam also wanted a piece of her chicken wing.
I pointed to the duffel and she cocked the trigger. That was his cue. The closet door creaked open and Fat Sam walked out and before I could say anything, she did it. God dammit, she really did it.
She pulled that trigger.
As I fell to the ground, slug in my belly and water in my eyes, I smirked my last smirk and couldn't help think that I taught her well. It gave me an odd sense of satisfaction.
Photo: Taken by photographer Marco Patino with subject Allison Grace of the grindtastic Tumblr blog Nekromistress.
Music: Smoky Babe - 'Rabbit Bues,' courtesy of the Internet Archive.