One
The place is called The Cactus Café. It’s about a mile from the motel. From the outside it looks like every other diner\bar in every other town. Inside it’s the same; a bar on the right side with an open window to the kitchen. The bar looks to seat about 15 people. There are four booths along the left side. A large plate glass window sits above the booths allowing the patrons to enjoy the scenic beauty of a seemingly endless vista of prairie. I’m the only patron just right now. Just me, Stew, the man working the bar, and a nameless cook, peeking out of the kitchen window every now and then. The view from my booth, the last one, briefly made me question if I were still on the Earth or had been magically transported to some other diner on some other planet. The illusion is broken by the growl and blur of a car speeding by on the highway.
This is Wellington Texas. I’m here for a job. I kill people.
On this particular day in this particular town I’m here to kill a man named James Horton. He’s the back president of the Wellington State Bank.
That’s all I know. All I need to know.
I’m staring at the remains of my lunch, a too-tough, too-dry chicken fried steak with matching too-tough, too-dry French fries. The only think not too-tough or too-dry was the beer. It was wet, languid, and almost painfully cold.
When he had served the food, Stew had given a slight shake of his head as if to say “Sorry, I know it’s not very good.” But when he placed the sweating bottle of beer down, not to the side of the food but directly in front of me, he had stood there for a second until I looked up into his eyes.
The jovial, easy-going look on his face (that I had assumed was permeant) was gone, replaced by a look of serious intent.
“We take our beer seriously here.” He said, nodding.
I hadn’t been sure what to say. He had been standing there, seemingly waiting for something.
“Sure.” I had said, also nodding.
It must have been the right thing to say. He gave a slight smile, nodded and turned back to the bar.
I’m on my third beer now, killing time. I look up at the clock over the bar. One forty-five. The bank closes at 3:30. Horton will stay till five or so. His wife will pick him up and they’ll drive to Childress for dinner.
They won’t make it to dinner tonight.
I’d made the drive to Childress a few times earlier in the day. It was a lonely, two lane road with very little traffic. There was one sharp left turn overlooking a steep ravine. The railing had been insufficient even before I cut through the rotting wooden posts holding it to the ground. One little bump from a passing car and Mr. Horton, and his lovely wife, will take one last roll down to the rocky ravine floor. I lose the car in the Amarillo International Airport parking lot and I’m home by just after midnight.
I’m thinking of just how the Amarillo International Airport can justify that particular title when the bell above the front door announces another prospective customer.
She walks in, and without breaking her stride to the bar, glances at me, then looks back to Stew.
“Hello Mrs. Horton.” Stew says, smiling a little too big and nodding. He’s already reaching underneath the bar when he says “Your usual?”
Her smile and nod were somehow both cool and friendly. “Yes please Stew.”
He places an expensive looking cut crystal lowball glass on the counter along with an unopened bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. He opens the bottle and carefully fills the glass half-full. She smiles at him as she takes it and in one fluid motion, raises the glass to her lips and drinks it dry, not too fast, not too slow. Just right.
“Oh that’s good…” she sighs as she places the glass on the bar with a slight click. She nods Stew half-fills the glass again. She picks it up, glances at me, and turns the stool to face me.
Mrs. Horton I’m thinking, Might be more than one. But part of me knows. This is the Mrs. Horton. His wife.
She’s tan, with slightly dark blonde hair, softly curling to her shoulders. Her shirt is a soft gold plaid men’s dress shirt, slightly too large. It’s open at the throat. Her shirt tails lie on loosely fitting, old and faded jeans. Well-worn but highly polished boots finish the picture. Overall, everything looked very comfortable.
Her eyes were impossibly emerald green. They seemed to softly glow in the hazy light of the diner.
“You’re staring.” She says, breaking me out of my all-too focused attention.
“Sorry” I said, not looking away.
She smiles and cocks her head just a little to the right.
“May I have another glass Stew?” she says without breaking eye contact with me. Stew looks confused and rattled. But then he reaches under the bar and puts another glass, a twin of the first down on the bar. She takes the bottle and second glass in her left hand, slides off the stool and glides toward my booth.
She puts her glass, the bottle, and the other glass on my table, and then slides into the bench seat opposite me.
“Mind if I join you?”
“No.”
Her smile seems to blink, just a hint of confusion, uncertainly, then the confidence returns as she picks up her glass and slides the other one towards me.
“Please help yourself” she says, just before taking a sip. I reach for the bottle, fill my glass about a quarter full, and return the bottle to the table. I pick up the glass, nod and tilt the glass towards her. She returns the nod and the glass tilt and sips again.
I sip the rich, brown liquid and gently lean my head back, letting the whiskey roll around in my mouth, like cool molten vapor.
“You like good whiskey?” she says, smiling and cocking her head to the left.
“I do.” Taking another sip and rolling it around in my mouth.
“I do too.” She says and takes another sip. She swallows and looks out of the window. Her gaze plays across the desolate landscape.
“You don’t talk much.” She says, like a question, turning her eyes back to mine.
“I don’t” I say and take another sip.
She looks at me silently for a while. Then she takes another sip, smiles, and says “Good.”
She looks through the window for a long time, the smile leaving her face.
I look too, trying to see what she’s seeing. The room is quiet.
“Do you have a room at the motel?” she says, not looking away from the window.
“I do” I say, looking back at her.
Without looking at me, she nods and says “Let’s go see it.” She gives me a quick smile, knocks back her drink, and slides out of the booth. She keeps the glass.
“Bring the bottle.” She says, walking towards the door.
I do.
We walk from the dry summer heat into the too cool air of the room. It’s dark. I put my glass and the bottle on the dresser and move to turn on a lamp.
“Leave it.” She says reaching down to slide a finger along the foot of the bed.
“Does housekeeping make the bed this early?” she says.
“I made it.”
She looks at me, gently puzzled.
“Habit”
She puts her glass down on a side table and walks towards me.
“Too bad. We’re just going to mess it up.” She says, her eyes looking seriously into mine as she approaches.
“Are we?” I say as her hands go behind my head and gently pull my lips toward hers.
“Yes, we are.” She whispers just before her lips touch mine.
Her lips are warm, soft, and nearly liquid as they gently work mine. Her body seems to press into mine. She takes one hand from behind my head and coils it around my back, pressing herself into me. I envelop her with my arms and pull her even closer, feeling the heat and soft strength of her embrace.
Her lips pull away from mine to let out a whispered sigh. Her lips return with renewed passion and not a little hunger.
I stop thinking.
Two
It’s dark and the road is empty. I’m parked on the right side about two miles from the curve. It’s 5:40. They should be along soon.
The events of the afternoon play through my head like some sort of fever dream. There was a part of me that didn’t believe any of it had actually happened. Maybe it hadn’t.
A dot in the rearview mirror, quickly growing larger. It looked like them.
It was. I started my car as theirs flashed by. Just a blurred shadow, but I had no trouble seeing It was her. My tires screamed as I power onto the highway, fishtailing slightly before the tires grip.
I’m about a quarter of a mile behind them, going about 80 and losing ground. I punch it and speed up to 95, gaining ground now.
I’m close and I can see them now. Her attention is on the road. She never looks back or at the figure next to her. He’s just sitting there, his head lolling back on the seat; drunk or asleep.
I see the curve ahead and make my move. Just before I pass, she quickly glances in the rear view mirror. I see the green glow of her eyes flash at mine and then return to the road.
My car moves beside theirs, both cars speeding down the dark road. There’s the curve. I punch the gas and jerk the car to the right, hitting them hard near the driver’s door. Their car lurches through the useless railing and disappears.
I turn around and make my way back, parking on the side of the road opposite the broken railing.
I look down the ravine and see the broken car sitting on its side, still and silent except for the hiss of the radiator.
I make my way down to make sure
Three
The plane back to Dallas was nearly empty. I had plenty of time to think, to remember.
I remembered the way she smelled, the soft, unknown fragrance that she wore. It seemed, even now, to linger. Impossible as I had stripped, showered, changed my clothes and burned the old clothes. The fragrance wafted through my memory, fresh and unencumbered by time.
But mostly I remembered her look. I had seen it twice. Once in the room just after we were finished. I had gone to the head. When I returned, she was lying on the bed, quietly looking at the picture on the back wall. She had the look then.
She also had it the last time I saw her. Just before my car hit, time slowed. Her head turned and her emerald eyes locked into mine. Her face was sad, lonely, and distant.
But the message in her eyes was emerald-clear:
Remember, they said Remember.
I will.
