Secret Dead Men

I stole a glance at Amy. She was “essential cuteness.” Her smile had this sweet, slow way about it-the kind of smile only a few lucky men see every day of their lives. I've always considered marriage to be a sort of lottery, and considered myself not to be the gambling type. There was too much to lose. And the odds were too staggering to overcome. Yet, here I was, sitting with the female equivalent of a thousand dollars a day for life. For a few moments, with the combination of her smile and the tequila, I forgot about the Brain Hotel and everything. It was easy.

“What are you thinking?"

Whoops. She'd caught me staring. “Nothing,” I told her. But I meant: “Everything."

Amy looked to the side and nodded to a small man in a chef's uniform standing in the kitchenway.

“Amy?"

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Something caught my eye."

I stretched my head around as an army of restaurant staffers came marching out of the kitchen with a lit birthday cake, clapping their hands as they chanted: “Happy, happy birthday! Happy happy birthday! Happy happy Day, Del Winter!” They stretched the word “Winter” to eighteen full syllables.

My jaw dropped. “You've got to be kidding."

“I wasn't around to celebrate your last birthday, so here,” Amy said. “We'll celebrate it now."

I smiled in spite of myself. “Amy…"

“Actually, it's a big scam. They never check I.D.s or anything. I just like to get the free dessert."

The Casa Tequila staff surrounded the table, smiling and clapping and singing in manic Spanish gibberish. Finally, the flaming cake was lowered to the table and it was revealed to be not a cake, but a plate of blazing nachos. A staffer in the middle whipped out one of those new, instant-printing cameras. Amy saw her chance, grabbed me by the shirt collar and pulled me into camera range.

“Say nacho cheese!” she shouted.

I was aghast. “Amy!"

The flash popped and I was temporarily blinded. I lowered my head. In fact, I kept my head lowered until the staff dissipated. Amy placed a finger beneath my chin and raised my head.

“Honestly, you looked cute."

I finally looked up, smiled grimly, then took a long, thoughtful sip of my margarita. A sip or two had brought me into this fugue state; it took another to snap me out of it. What was I getting myself into? Where the hell was the investigation headed? Was this what I considering “doing my job?"

“I'm sorry,” she said. “You look annoyed."

“No, no. It was sweet. But I'm not big on pictures."

“Why not?"

“I don't show up well in them."

Amy smiled. “Are you a vampire, Del?"

“What?” Then I got it. “Oh, no, no. I'm not photogenic."

“I think you are. I would love to see some pictures from your childhood."

I looked down at the table. “My family wasn't big on pictures."

“Oh, what a shame,” Amy said. “Well… Del. We'll always have the Casa Tequila."

I smiled again. Again, in spite of myself. Our food arrived. We ate, had some pleasant, meaningless conversation. I promised myself not to be that stupid ever again.

That promise was forgotten after the second margarita.

* * * *

We arrived back at 1530 Spruce a bit more intoxicated that when we'd left. I pushed the elevator button, she pushed it again, and then I pushed it, and she bolted up the stairs, and I followed suit, laughing all the way.

Amy ran to my door, then turned around and braced herself against it. “If you want to go home, you're going to have to get through me first,” she said.

“I can be a pretty rough customer. You might not survive the encounter."

“I can handle more than you think, mister."

I was tempted-hell, my insides were practically burning up. This was everything I shouldn't be doing with my time on Earth, which was probably why I wanted to do it. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with the need to grab Amy and smother her lips and press her body back against the door, fumbling blind with the key as I probed deeper…

No. Wait. Horrible idea. No telling when Susannah would call, asking for her babysitter to run over to Rittenhouse Square. What if Amy was inside when that call came? What would I tell her then?

Then I had a better idea: we would go to her apartment.

I touched her cheek with my palm. She smirked, but quickly melted her lips into a fake grimace and bared her teeth. “Come on, soldier. Let's see what you're made of."

My index finger brushed her lower lip. I leaned in close. “Not here,” I whispered. “Let's go upstairs."

Amy jerked her head back. Unfortunately, she didn't have much room to work with, and her skull bumped against hard wood. “Ouch. What did you say?"

“I want to see where you live,” I said, as casually as possible. “I want to see what you're made of."

“No, no, no,” she said, sliding away. “We can't. My apartment is a mess. I couldn't have you up there now. Besides, we're right here at your apartment. Only a few feet away from your couch."

She had a logical point, but something seemed odd-why couldn't we go up to her place? Was she hiding something?

“I feel as if you have an unfair advantage,” I said. “You can tell a lot about someone from their personal belongings."

“Del, you don't have much stuff."

“True, but… but I haven't seen anything of yours."

“You can see all you want,” she said, and raised her hand to unfasten a button on her blouse.

It was certainly not the reaction I'd been expecting. Amy was definitely trying to change the subject. Whenever a woman starts to unbutton herself in a public hallway, you know a subject is about to be changed. But as much as I wanted to abandon myself to the moment, I couldn't. Nagging suspicion had freaked me out. No matter that I had something to hide-I couldn't get past the fact that Amy did, too.

“Amy, it would mean a lot to me."

She froze at the sound of her name. Then she rebuttoned, and took a few steps away. “I'm sorry, Del. I can't."

“Why not?"

“I'd better go now."

“Wait…"

What now? Keep her talking. Keep it light.

“I want to know more about you. You're not storing dead bodies in your apartment, are you? Heck, so what if you are. I've seen ‘em before."

Amy was silent. She wouldn't look at me.

“I know they decompose awfully fast, and there can be quite a stench, but it's not a problem. We can buy a few of those room air-fresheners, and…"

She interrupted me. “Del, if you're not going to invite me in, I have to go."

Now I felt like a bigger jerk for even joking. But I couldn't cave in, either.

“I guess you'd better go, then,” I said.

Amy locked eyes with me, and I thought I saw a teary glimmer of hurt in them. She turned and walked down the hallway, then up the countless flights of stairs to her mystery apartment.

This was for the better, I told myself. I was merely avoiding something that would eventually cause me pain.

Then I felt a sharp, hard jab to my right temple.

Twenty Shot Contest

“Don't move. I can squeeze this trigger before your piss hits cloth.

A female voice. A bit coarse, but syrupy beneath. A seductive combination. However, I was in no mood to be seduced. Again.

I swung my fist around to where I guessed her nose would be. I was a few inches off. My knuckles slammed into her temple. She yelped. I spun around and launched a fist into her face, and another one to chase it down. I don't mean to sound like a jerk, but for me, that old rule about “never hitting a woman” goes right out the window when the woman is packing heat. Sure, maybe she was holding the stem of a toilet brush to my forehead, but I didn't want the benefit of the doubt to earn me a trip to the city icebox.