THE LADY KILLER: intense, suspenseful, gripping literary fiction (6 page)

“He (Monahan) can handle that sort of situation if anyone can,” the cook informed the fugitives… The band had gathered their instruments and grouped together behind the bar, which for some reason felt safe to them. Realizing there might be an even greater danger out there with a madman on the loose with a gun, the cook then called Hartwig aside.

“You guys’d be better off leaving now. You’re the one he’s after. Here, I’ll let you out the back way.” And he handed over a flashlight. Hartwig who realized a fight was one thing, a loaded gun another, gathered his little group and in torn and bloodstained shirt, ushered them along. Shouting could still be heard out front.

“Come on,” he said, “the trail goes down by the creek. It’s only a short way.” He obviously meant to Sandy’s house. “We’ll be safe there.” The group led by Hartwig stumbled along in the dark.

“Are you sure,” said Vera, “I just want to go home.” She, quite frankly, didn’t trust Sandy in a million years. A strap of her dress slipped from one shoulder and she fixed it.

“No, you come with us,” said Mort. “Better safety in numbers. You can go home later.” He took her hand.

Just then two shots rang out, the group stopped, looked up at the starry blanket above and Hartwig reacted.

“God damn it, he’s shot em. Killed the owner. I’m going back.”

“No, you’re not.” Sandy clung to him in desperation. Then in a soft almost plaintive voice, “you’re coming with us, please?” The siren that had been heard in the distance suddenly ground to a halt, so realizing he could be no help and with a sigh of relief he led the group on hoping no one’d been killed.

It wasn’t until the next day Hartwig found the bartenders unhurt. The shots he’d heard had been those fired into the air by the angry giant after Monahan’d informed him,

“Your man’s gone, Barney. Why don’t you just put the gun down.”

“Want some of this?”

But his anger’d run its course. He became suddenly morose, threw the gun down, dropped to his knees and put his hands to his face, sobbing, as if to say, ‘come take me’. He knew the recourse now; he’d seen it before. And the fact that Sarah’d come over to stand by him and put a hand on his head, didn’t change it. It was called ‘looking out at the world from behind bars’. The name of a new theme song, perhaps, but indicative too of just how much man reveres his so-called freedom.

The sheriffs arrived and Barney surrendered peacefully. All he had to do was put his hands behind his back. Someone drove his girlfriend home. He watched on helplessly from the back of the sheriff’s car where he sat in shackles, a stupid look on his face, guiltily moping, more jealous and flustered than ever. There really is that sort of anxiety, as if one could die of depression, one most of us’ll never experience.

“And we shouldn’t,” said Hammond. “Should we? We’ve led lives that don’t deserve it. And even then we have our own brand of woe. So that was Hartwig’s big victory.”

“Sort of again,” I volunteered. At least it established his reputation firmly out there. Whether it was for good or for bad, I’ll leave to you. It certainly made the boy (Marcus) happy whether it relieved any of his mother’s anxiety or not. And it made Sandy respect if not fall in love with Hartwig right there. At least for a little while they stopped bickering over nonsensical matters that arose for no apparent reason whatsoever.

Chapter Six

Hartwig refused to go to the hospital. He set his own fracture by squeezing the nasal bones together where they were held in place by several strips of adhesive tape. It was called the rugby player’s fix. He’d used it once before.

“Hmm,” Hammond uttered. “It certainly must’ve hurt but it was definitely his badge of distinction. The beach residents must’ve loved it.”

“They did. They did. Many of them, even several who’d first doubted his
intentions
came right up to congratulate him.”

“You did it old sport. You put that creep in his place. Now we can all breathe freely. Let’s just hope he never gets out.”

With old Barney in his cell, his jaw wired shut, and barely able to eat, of course, with each bite or swallow causing him to remember who put him in there it’d certainly be better if he wasn’t released. Especially now since he had nothing to lose for, with the new charges, assault, felon in possession of a gun, violation of probation, he was facing a long stretch. But his greatest fear, and source of envy now was Hartwig who being ‘out there’ could get to his mistress. She’d fall in love with him and her attraction for her rascal’d pale in comparison. The very thought of them dancing so well together pierced him like so many needles. That wasn’t worse than death itself. It was death, especially when one spent all day in confinement with nothing else to think of.

Hartwig, of course, wasn’t even charged in the matter. The sheriffs came down to the beach house to interview him and took his story.

“Very obliged Mr.Hartwig,” Imagine, they called him Mr. Hartwig. They tipped their hats, “Nice to have you in the community.” Then they left. The arrest had also lifted a weight from their own shoulders for the man they’d taken in was a perennial troublemaker.

That time, I believe, Hartwig spent three or four days at the beach before returning. When he did arrive back he still had the tape over his nose but he claimed the bones’d already begun to set. They no longer wiggled. His eyes were a bit yellow but for the most part had returned to their regular color. He was as handsome as ever. More rugged looking if anything.

“And Gloria, what’d happened to her?” Hammond said.

“You would remember that.” It wasn’t such a fairy tale ending though she swore off him for a while before she was back in as destructive a relation as ever.”

If only she’d parted with him permanently she’d’ve been better off, home free. But if any of us knew our fates beforehand we could make great changes in our lives. Unfortunately that’s not to be. Future events like death have been sealed off from our everyday knowledge until, of course, we experience them; then any advantage of their helping us beforehand comes too late.

No, Gloria grew to hate Hartwig quite severely but that was only because she loved him. It was almost as though the two notions, though opposed, are mutually dependent when we take them to be far different states. Examine the three days he’d spent at the beach, for instance. The morning she’d left him after cooking his breakfast and stacking it in the refrigerator to eat upon his awakening, remember what she’d said to the drowsy bum as she’d placed a kiss upon his lips.

“See you tonight. Remember, I love you,” or something to that effect.

Of course, she’d gotten no response from the lout. It was doubtful that he’d even heard her but if he had, he’d made no mental note to honor that engagement. Gloria’d been counting on things going the way they used to when he’d been seeing her every night. But things weren’t the way they used to be. She didn’t realize that. Or couldn’t anyhow.

So, when Sandy drove by the houseboat that afternoon while Gloria was still at work, he certainly thought nothing of leaving with her. After Gloria’d gotten off, she visited the houseboat, discovered it to be empty, came downtown to look for him and she found us. As you saw, we didn’t know where Hartwig was. Then what happens. We see Sandy and Hartwig walking their pooches across the street. Gloria sees it and we see it. We see it together. That’s when she became so upset, sought Johansson to find in him a friend to talk to like he’d been at work where she commiserated with him all the time about Hartwig; not, oddly enough, to find someone else to go to bed with and make Hartwig jealous. Johansson, naturally, had other plans. Most men do when they find they can be alone with an attractive female.

After the café he took her to Timmy’s bar, a rowdy neighborhood hangout where they host pool and shuffleboard, to buy her more drinks thinking if he got her tipsy enough she’d let him take her home and he could stay there. He certainly couldn’t take her to his home. With his parents there that’d never do. And though Gloria did let him walk her home, she stopped him just outside the door under the entrance light.

“I’m very tired tonight. I can’t have you in,” she told him, “but thanks for a great evening.”

He hemmed and hawed. He liked her. He loved her. He had for all that time. Hadn’t she noticed it? She listened, very distraught. She told him she liked him. She let the handsome young blond kiss her not once but twice. But true to her resolve, after necking a bit, just a bit, she sent him on his way.

“See you soon and right here,” she left him cheerily with one of her fabulous smiles for remember, she lived at the factory where they both worked. She then went inside, changed into her sweat gear, turned out her lights, waited a bit and left by her side door.

If Hartwig were to be at the houseboat as she’d made clear that morning, that’d mean he’d left the suspect heiress who she’d seen Hartwig with that afternoon and returned to his boat to wait for
her
. She certainly wanted to check on that before doing anything with Johansson. That was partially why she’d been holding him off. She was half expecting Hartwig’d be there, half that he wouldn’t. If not, she knew where he’d be and she couldn’t understand it a bit. That realization didn’t seem to help. She lost control of her emotions and began trembling as she approached the area. She’d been overtaken by a definite fear of rejection, a state that to some people can be as grave as their own death.

Ignoring any of the loitering locals, she walked right by them. The renegades and drug dealers and the like. Hartwig’s car, the old red Beetle was in the lot, but his boat was locked and no dog. With that she collapsed on the outdoor couch and as the fog rolled in overhead, the horns themselves bleating out under the bridge with their eerie sounds, she shivered and cried herself to sleep. In the middle of the night she was wakened by someone who put a blanket over her.

“Take this, dearie. It won’t be so cold.” It was one of the local mothers, a good Samaritan notwithstanding, wanting to help. Gloria, however, threw the blanket back at the woman who wore a heavy coat and a scarf. With a few choice words she then walked home.

She, believe me, wasn’t very happy at work the next day though she’d made it in time for her shift. Seeing Johansson there so bubbly and confident, and the fact that Hartwig hadn’t showed up, put her in a foul mood. She wanted to efface the night before though the sheer detail of it overwhelmed her. Johansson kept her in clay while she turned and molded the pieces she was working on.

“Something wrong?” He’d asked her.

“No, nothing you’d understand.” She shut him off and when Larsen, another Swede though of several generations here, an older married man, who was her boss and who she got along with, went to lunch she asked if she could join him.

“Sure, dream girl,” he said or something like that. “You know where we eat.”

And she did. This was at Ted’s, the little greasy spoon on Bridgeway where everything was fried on a large open griddle with plenty of oil. You just hoped it was the healthy kind. Locals, yachtsmen, sea goers, and boat repairmen frequented the spot. Johansson, of course, had expected to go with them but not having been asked he ventured to the sandwich shop at the marina by himself. All afternoon he kept staring at her. Next to the kiln, in the outer office where behind a fancy desk she acted as sales lady when someone came in. She knew what was on his mind. It was on hers too. She wanted no part of it. He’d already asked her out that night and she’d refused.

Contrary to all her feelings, just before quitting time she called him aside and said,

“I just don’t feel like going out but you’re welcome to come to dinner at my place if you feel like it. I’ll cook.”

“You will?” The youngster beamed. “That’d be splendid.

In fact she planned not to be there if things worked out differently and Hartwig returned. But after work as she walked down the dock and approached the boat, she saw everything was the same as the night before. The blanket she’d thrown back at the woman lay on the deck right where it landed. With a pulsating anger still jolting through her at the thought of that socialite bitch, she walked to the market and bought chops and potatoes along with several cans of creamed spinach and rushed home to cook in her all-metal shed she’d stocked with the antiques she’d purchased at the flea market. All bargains, nothing but bargains and it was true. Some of the items, some new, went for very little. She, of course, wanted nothing to do with the
new.
Like she dressed, she furnished her apartment in the old fashion.

The tin shed contained an oak dining table, an armoire, a dressing table and a four-poster bed with a carved headboard to say nothing of a love seat and ottoman along with a Persian rug. She refused to own a TV but had collected a wide selection of CDs and had two matching bookshelves that were filled with classics. It was said her IQ rating was as high as her looks profile.

“That, of course,” said Hammond, “was part of her problem, wasn’t it? If you’re that good looking you’re supposed to be dumb or act it, though I forget, she wasn’t blond.”

“No, not quite. For one from her background she was just very high strung. Very! She’d go out on one limb so far before it’d start to crack, backtrack; then embark on another. Always towards the same goal, unfortunately. And that turned out to be Hartwig. She, it seemed,
had
to have him, and if she couldn’t, no one else could, though why I’ll never know.”

“Me neither on that one, though love if that’s what it was does strange things to people. It can certainly make them do the worst to themselves just as the best, but maybe that’s part of it, otherwise it wouldn’t be love.”

“And we wouldn’t be here,” I added though this time I heartily agreed with the analysis of my brilliant friend although I couldn’t comprehend where it might lead. Requited love was one matter, unrequited, another.

The young man showed up freshly squired in a sports coat and tie as if they had some big plans to go out when they didn’t. He looked altogether different than in his clay smeared work suit and painted face. As she opened the door he thrust a large bouquet of purple and yellow roses at her, which she took and stuck her nose into peeping over the top at him with her sexy dark eyes.

“These smell so good,” she said as he closed the door and the two moved inside, “and so do you.” For he hadn’t gone lightly on the cologne.

“You like it? It’s Yardley’s.” Hardly a famous brand but certainly an enhancement to a malodorous boyfriend you might be going to bed with. She’d had several of those before. Never again. Her long, straight light red hair contrasted with the purple smock, which she’d hemmed with Swedish ribbons. Johansson, the Swede, remarked on them immediately.

“My grandmother uses those,” he informed her. “When we were over visiting she showed us. She had an entire collection.”

“Really,” she looked at him. “Swedish ribbons. I wish I had such a collection. Where is she?”

“Gottingen. I can get you some,” the eager beaver volunteered.

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t accept them.”

“Really? Why not?” His blue eyes were perplexed.

“Just because.”

Her response was coquettish. Something to play with all right. She brought out the candles, lit several incense sticks in her Buddha statue holder and the two sat down to a dinner of wine, baked potatoes and lamb chops with an opera contributing to the background sound. While it wasn’t the kid’s favorite music it was definitely tolerable. Puccini was to most people. His parents played that sort of stuff. Matter of fact he’d grown up on it. Then to be in the private company of the prettiest girl in town or very near it he wondered how with that privilege he could object to anything she liked. Strangely enough the conversation didn’t turn to Hartwig. For that he was thankful. He wasn’t about to bring him up though he hadn’t seen him around lately. His absence wasn’t a bad thing for him; or for her either, he reasoned, because of the weird spell that man seemed to hold over the very nice girl before him. He could see she wasn’t too happy.

“Guess Cynthia won’t be seeing Ted anymore. She’s found a contractor.”

“Really?” Said Gloria. “Too bad. He’s such an arrogant bastard. She’s lucky. Finally lucky.” She shook her head.

Ted was the older German man, owner of the greasy spoon. Cynthia, a Jewish folksinger had been his girlfriend. The two talked about events familiar and local. The conversation definitely lightened the evening for the host. Now that he was alone with her in intimate surroundings Johansson was very nervous as to how he should approach someone as nice as this. Or if he should at all. Maybe just a kiss or two was satisfactory rather than take a chance of going the whole way if she didn’t want to and maybe not being able to ever see her again. She was excellent company and so pretty to look at.