LITERAL REMAINS

It was three in the morning when Mike “Hustler” Harris pulled his car into a parking spot in the garage of his building, The Palisades. Sounded fancy, but there was nothing really fancy about it. The sign, maybe, but little else. If he craned his head far enough, from the bedroom window he could see the Cumberland River, but that wasn’t exactly a selling point. Modest best described the Palisades, but that was pushing the envelope.

Mike locked his car, the beep resounding in the parking garage and he took the elevator to the lobby. It was deathly quiet as he traversed the gold and crimson carpet and decor. The night manager, Winston, nodded, and Mike nodded in like.

The elevator up to the twelfth floor was bumpy, as usual, leaving Mike to wonder, as usual, if and when the damn thing would eventually fail and send him, or one of the other tenants, plummeting to their doom.

The doors dinged open and Mike ambled his way to 1218, his knee hurting from standing on it most of the night and the added delight of the winter cold. Once inside his one bedroom castle, the smells of cinnamon potpourri and lilac perfume was enough to water his eyes and put a smile on his face.

He shrugged off his long black duster, tossing it over the back of the sofa, then thought better of it. Kim would have his hide for that particular act; his coat belonged on the coat rack, that was it’s proper place when not stowed away in the closet. Since they had moved in together, she ran a tight ship, none of those old bachelor habits escaped her. Kim’s woman’s touch was evident as soon as you looked at the apartment, his crap was noticeably absent. Which, he was sure, was for the best.

Having put his coat in the proper place, he ducked his head in the bedroom. Kim was asleep; her breathing was warm, and the humble mound of her hips stirred under the comforter. Her alarm would sound soon enough, and she would be up for the day, so he headed for a hot shower to not be in her way.

Mike peeled his shirt and stared at himself in the mirror. The gray peppering his dark hair and beard, his budding paunch of middle-age spread, the coming attraction of his love handles. He was a long way from his high school linebacker days, a long way from college dropout. He often wondered if he hadn’t torn his knee, would he be in this little apartment? What woman would he be with right now? Would she have a lean mean body, or a thick one like Kim’s?

He found solace in that he still had plenty of muscle. And he wasn’t bald.

Steam from the shower fogged the mirror, the hot water cleaned his thoughts. He dried off and wrapped the towel around him. As he opened the bathroom door, Kim’s alarm came on, a clock radio blaring country and western.

Kim shut off the alarm. Mike sat down on the bed and smacked her on the butt. “Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey.”

Kim sat up on her elbows, the sheet and comforter barely cover her ample, bare, breasts. Mike always liked the fact she slept in the raw. “You know, Mister Big Shot, you get to sleep all day.”

“But I work all evening and all night,” he smiled.

“Really?” Her eyebrow arched. “Any trouble tonight? You have to break up a fight or throw anybody out of the club, or anything?”

Mike shook his head. “No.”

“So,” she said, “Mister Big Shot Bouncer in a titty bar, you sat around all night, talking and laughing with your friends, watching half naked women dance around on stage.”

“Not true, not true,” Mike said. “I stood most of the night- that’s why this bad knee is hurting like a son of a bitch- I walked around quite a bit. And the women were not half naked. Cliques Gentlemen’s Club has all nude women. You should know this, you were a bartender there, that’s where we met.”

“And you, smart ass, are better than a bouncer.”

“What can I say,” he leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, “I like the ambiance.”

“You better have some coffee ready.”

He laid back, stretching across her legs. “I’ll have it waiting on you when you jump out of the shower.”

“You leave any hot water?”

“Plenty. But I can always warm it up for you,” he wriggled his eyebrows.

“I want it hot,” Kim said, “not lukewarm.”

“Ouch.”

She pushed him off her and got out of bed. He watched her naked form cross the bedroom. “Shake it for me, baby.”

“Kiss it,” she remarked off-handily as she left the room.

“There’s no part of you I won’t kiss,” he called out.

#

When Mike woke, the gray light of an overcast day struggled through the blinds and the curtains. He pushed the covers off him, his t-shirt and boxers stuck to him with sweat; Kim had turned the heat up again before she left. The LED of the clock radio proclaimed 9:45 A.M. He reached to the night stand on his side of the bed, but discovered nothing there. He must of left his cell phone in his coat pocket.

He drug himself from bed and took a piss. The entire apartment was stifling; he knocked the thermostat down a few degrees as he passed. There was no beer in the fridge, so he settled for one of Kim’s diet sodas.

Mike grabbed his phone from his coat pocket and dropped himself on the sofa. The television remote sat on a magazine on the coffee table: everything had a place. He switched on the sports channel and checked his phone.

There were two text messages, both from Kim; one telling him she would buy him some when she left work, and the other commanding him not to adjust the thermostat. “Oops,” he said. And there was one notification that he had a voice mail. He checked the cell’s log to see who had called.

Mike rubbed his eyes, sat the bottled soda on the coaster on the coffee table and muted the television. He stared at the number. He pressed the speed dial for his voice mail, entered his code when prompted and listened to the message. It was short, sweet. The voice was a stark reminder of a lot things he had put to rest, history he thought would never reach into his present day; an old familiar flutter squeezed his heart.

“Hustler, this is Chrissie. I need help.”

And it ended. Simple. Done.

He saved the messaged. He stared at his phone, looked around the room, feeling a tinge of guilt at having not only received the message but to have actually listened to it. Guilt at hearing her voice again. Just thinking the name, her name, Chrissie, made him feel adulterous, two-timing. He had not thought about her, about her and him, in so long…or so he wanted to believe. But the truth was, she was always there in his thoughts, in that little corner of his mind that he shielded from his life with Kim. Chrissie was always rearing her head, her beautiful smile and lithe form whenever he saw the orderliness his life had adopted in this new, stable, relationship.

Mike went through the routine once more with his cell phone and listened to the message a second time.

Chrissie sounded normal; breathy, even, seductive, down-to-earth. She didn’t sound alarmed or scared, apprehensive or desperate.

What could she want? Mike thought. She in trouble? Chrissie, most likely. She was always getting involved with something on the wrong side of the tracks, putting her nose in where it didn’t belong. Somehow, she just seemed to always be in the middle of something.

Mike dialed her number. He told himself he’d give her two rings, no more. If Chrissie didn’t answer by the second ring, then that was it; he could say he at least tried, had made an effort, but he could tell Kim (he would have to tell her, he knew, at some point) he hadn’t not pushed it too seriously.

Two rings. His finger itched. His mouth was dry. Anticipation…expectation…yearning….

Three rings. Four. Five.

“I tried,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Hello, Hustler.”

His mind went blank. Her voice. Images, memories, not all good, not all bad, plenty of both, and plenty of fun, exploded through his brain in that nanosecond her cloying voice reached through the airwaves, through time and space, or however it was a cell phone operated.

“Yeah, Chrissie.” He looked around the empty apartment. He was all alone, he knew that, but he had to make sure. “I got your message.” The vase of artificial flowers beside the t.v., did Kim have a camera in there? Was the damn place bugged?

“Oh, that,” Chrissie said. “I’m sorry. I got a little carried away, I guess. Hope I didn’t cause any problems?”

“No, no, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. You said you needed help.” Mike wiped sweat from his forehead, then wiped his sweaty palm on the sofa cushion. Would Kim be able to notice he did that?

“I’m fine, Hustler,” she said. “You know me. How excited I get.” Chrissie giggled. “I get carried away.”

Mike nodded. He knew how she was. “So tell me what’s up.”

“It’s no biggie,” she said. “Don’t worry, baby.”

“Look, I called, okay.”

“You’re not going to get in trouble for that, are you?”

“No,” Mike said.

Chrissie said, “I’d hate for that to happen.”

“Tell me,” he said. “What got you so excited…so upset?”

“Listen, Hustler, honey, I’m still in bed. And if I know you like I used to, you just woke up. If you are so concerned about an old friend, you’ll have to hear the story over some food.”

Mike knew better, knew he should not be making this particular decision. “Okay, how about we met downtown at-”

“My place, Hustler.”

#

Mike showered again, pretending he didn’t know why, pretending it was to only freshen up. So what if he didn’t usually take a shower after he woke up, he felt no need to be sparkling clean for work at the nudie bar. But he was meeting a friend for lunch. An old friend. That was it, that was all. Nothing else. Lunch, brunch, whatever side of the coin landed up, or down, it was nothing. Platonic lunch. Friendship brunch.

“Kim, Kim, Kim,” he whispered to himself as he drove to West End. He spotted the florist, he’d have to buy flowers for Kim later, after lunch. She was going to kill him. Of course, he didn’t have to tell her. But it wasn’t exactly something he could keep from her. Or could he?

Yes. He could. He had kept from Kim these years the fact that he was still in love with Chrissie. Maybe not love exactly, but the fact that he still harbored feelings for Chrissie. Feelings that moved him in a way Kim could not. Two different women, whom he both loved; one for normalcy, one for real.

A right at the traffic light, a fifteen minute drive, then a left, and he entered Cannon Estates, a complete counterpoint to his own living conditions. If nothing else, Chrissie still lived in high style. Whether or not it was her money that paid for it was a whole other story.

Two blocks, then another right, and her house came into view. He eased his battered hatchback into her drive, slowing to a stop beside her Mercedes. The garage door was up, the garage itself empty of whatever eminities were usually found in regular peoples’ garages.

Mike killed the car, and it sputtered before finally going quiet. He chose his old route, through the garage, never the front, and knocked on the door. The smell of sausage and bacon greeted him before Chrissie opened the door wearing a smile and silk robe. Authentic, no knock-off.

She leaned on the door, hair perfect, as always, smile enticing- the spider to the fly. “Hustler, how you doin’?”

“You left the garage door up.”

She motioned for him to enter. He brushed past her. “You know I always leave it up,” she said, closing the door. “I never know who will decide to drop in.” She kissed him on his winter bitten cheek. “Or come by.” Chrissie tickled his beard. “It’s nice to see you.”

“I’m still around.” He shrugged off his coat and laid across the back of a chair at the kitchen table. “So what kind of help do you need?”

She stood at the stove, scrambling eggs. “Down to business. The Hustler I remember.”

“People change in six years.”

“Seven,” she said. “But who’s counting?” She switched off the stove. “Plates are in that cabinet there,” she pointed. “You still take orange juice with your breakfast? OJ with pulp, right.”

#

He hardly ate, and he noticed she barely touched her own food. They both sat in a percolating silence, prodding at the full plates with their forks.

“You going to tell me what you’ve gotten yourself into this time?” Mike asked.

“You make me sound like I’m attracted to trouble, or catastrophes.” Chrissie let her fort rest on the table.

Mike didn’t look across at her. “I didn’t mean to sound so-”

“Can’t blame you,” she said. A crooked grin came onto her face as she brushed back her long raven locks. “We had a riotous two years, didn’t we?”

Mike chuckled to himself. “We did, at that.” His tongue ran along the interior of his lips. “Two and a half years. But who’s counting?”

“Remember that fight you got into at Buffalo Billiards? Oh my God! That was vicious. Even in the parking lot you were still kicking the shit out of that guy.”

“I remember it. And if I remember correctly, you spurred that one on.”

Chrissie’s eyes widened in shock and surprise. “Excuse me? You did that all on your own. He kept looking at me, and you didn’t like it.”

“Who kept telling me, ‘That guy keeps looking at me. He keeps making eyes at me, making gestures’? Who was the little bird whispering that crap in my ear, stroking the fire?”

“You got me.” She threw her hands up in surrender. “Guilty as charged.”

Mike smoothed his napkin. “You got me into more than a couple knock-down-drag-outs.” He reflected a moment. “We had some bad go-arounds. We did like to argue.”

“We had some good times, too, though, didn’t we? It wasn’t all bad between us.”

“No,” he said, “it wasn’t all bad. There were plenty of good times.”

The silence returned. Cars passed on the street outside, kitchen appliances hummed, cold winds blew. They stared at each other. Their eyes met over an unnecessary breakfast, and Mike wanted to look away, but could not, and would not, no matter how hurtful and irritating the truth.

“She makes you happy.”

Mike couldn’t discern if it was a statement or a question. For a split second, he didn’t know who Chrissie was talking about, then it popped into his head she had just commented on Kim and he mentally kicked himself.

He said, “She makes me very happy.”

“I can tell,” said Chrissie. “I’ve seen the two of you on the town. I can tell.”

“You stalking us,” Mike attempted a grin, trying to mask an entirely new discomfort.

“No. But I get out.” She rolled her eyes, “I’m rarely at home. You know how it is.”

“Same old Chrissie.”

She nodded. “Same old Chrissie. If I had been here more, would you still be?”

Mike tried to form the right words. A picture of Kim faded into view in his head. “I want to say no.”

#

Same old Chrissie. The symmetry, agility, and grace of Angels from on High. She had always been a caring, giving, and demanding lover, and Mike was pleased to discover she still was all that, and more.

The years had worn at him, age had gradually and stealthily snuck up on him. His knee popped when moved at certain angles, his back caught when he least expected, his breath bordered on hyperventilation. Chrissie, by contrast, though younger than him, had seemed to improve with the dawning of her middle thirties as he seemed to slide into uselessness with his late forties. She had not changed, but had learned a few new tricks. Mike was an eager pupil, she an exacting teacher.

#

Mike collapsed on the bed beside her. Chrissie rolled over onto her back, snuggling against him, running her fingers through the hair on his chest.

“That all there is, Hustler?”

“I’m getting old, baby,” he said.

Chrissie laid her head on his air-seeking chest. “You still got it where it counts, Hustler. Still the best, honey.”

“Thanks for your generosity. And pity.”

“It’s neither,” she said. “It’s the truth. Always has been.” She drew circles on his stomach. “I’ve missed you, Hustler. Bad. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m sorry for letting you get away.”

“You didn’t let me get away. I chose to leave. Breaking up was hard, Chrissie, really hard. But it had to happen, you know.”

“I know.” Her voice was a whisper.

“I’ve got a good thing now, with Kim. Which I’ve just messed up big time.”

“I apologize.”

“Don’t. I messed up as soon as I answered your message.”

She rolled away from him, sat up on the side of the bed. “I’m scared, Hustler. I really do need help.”

He propped on his elbow, rubbed her back. “What is it?”

“Do you know Glen Avery?”

“I know of him. Owns a few night spots. Does a few questionable things.” Mike laid back on the bed. “That your current man?”

Chrissie nodded. “I’ve made him really mad.”

“I bet you have.”

She spun and glared at him, those sable eyes cutting beams into him.

“So you pissed off a rich guy. A probably criminal rich guy.”

Her defense was, “It just kind of happened.”

Mike laced his fingers and put them under the pillow. “It always just kind of happens with you, Chrissie.”

“Well, what would you have me do, Mike? Not everybody can have the nice little complacent life you got.”

“How about you fucking grow up, Chrissie. Haven’t you learned in the last six years, I don’t get you out of trouble anymore.”

“Seven years, bastard,” she said, “and he’s threatened to kill me.”

“Maybe he’ll do us all a favor.” He regretted the words as soon they left his mouth. What was Kim always telling him,Think, think before you talk asshole.

Chrissie’s face froze. No expression. Devoid, seemingly to the untrained eye, but Mike knew different. Rage was building behind that beautiful face, those soft features were hiding a powder keg of anger that was just about ready to explode all over Mike Harris.

Her lip snarled. “Goddamn you-”

Mike heard the click, and then the shot. Chrissie’s face exploded, raining blood, bone, and brain matter all over him.

“Holy shit!” he yelled, and fell to the floor, crawling naked to the corner.

The man was standing in the doorway of the bedroom. He lowered the hand that held the smoking gun. “Bull’s eye,” he said, no inflection, no machismo.

Mike struggled to breath, the smell of smoke and gun powder wafting in the air. The copper smell of blood, the stench of shit and piss and gore. Mike wiped blood and bits of matter from his face and chest. he struggled with the urge to vomit.

The man sat down on the edge of the bed, looking down at Mike. “It doesn’t change, does it,” he said. “It’s still the same. Killing her doesn’t change anything. Not really.”

Mike drew his legs up.

“I’m Glen. But you probably guessed that much by now, Mike. It is Mike, right?”

Mike sounded like a child. “Yes.”

“I could have had someone take care of this, but…well, it’s personal. You understand.”

Mike whispered that he did.

Glen cocked the revolver. “And now, Mike, what do I do with you? You’re a witness.”

“I guess so.” Mike’s breathing had steadied, his heart rate had lowered.

Glen rested the gun on his knee. “I know about you, Mike. I’ve been standing in that hallway right there, listening to the two of you talk and fuck. She doesn’t lock her kitchen door, always leaves that garage door up.” He looked at Chrissie’s dead body. “I should use the past tense. But anyway. She told me about you, Mike. Talked about you all the time. I felt like I was living in your shadow a bit. But that’s over now. The damage has been done. She’ll never sing another pretty note again.”

“You’ll going to kill me or not?” Mike said.

Glen eased the hammer back into place. “No real reason to kill you, Mike. Crime of passion is what we got here. I can make sure this doesn’t come back to haunt you. Or your gal. I can do that. It’s all in the connections.”

Mike looked away from the mess on the bed. He was sticky with blood. “It’s good to be king.”

“It is.” Glen stretched out his hand, and helped Mike to his feet. He didn’t back away from the taller Hustler, he closed the distance between them. “You may be the better man here, Mike.”

“I am the one without a history of murder.”

“Big talk for man without the gun.” Glen looked quizzically into Mike’s face. “Tell me, Mike, how long you know that cunt?”

Mike swallowed hard. The vein pulsed at his temple. “Eight years, I guess. Give or take.”

“So you didn’t know Chrissie when she was Christopher?”

“No,” Mike said.

Glen was right in his face. “It didn’t bother you she still had a dick?”

Mike was silent.

He chuckled, “You must be the better man, Mike.”

Mike slowly nodded then head-butted Glen, hearing the bones break in the little man’s nose. Glen stumbled back, bringing the gun up. Mike tackled him, the gun firing wide, plaster splintering on the wall.

Mike was on top of him, grabbed his wrist and brought Glen’s elbow down over his knee. The arm bent down with a snap and the gun dropped from his hand. Mike’s fist came down, impacting Glen’s jaw. Teeth rattled scattered across the carpet.

He was lost in madness. Lost in heartache. A crime of passion. When Mike’s fists where finished with their work, they were split open and bleeding. He thought he may have broken a finger or two. Glen’s face was a red soup. He had to call the police. He had to call them and tell them how it all went down. They may be on their way, he thought; two gunshots in a ritzy neighborhood such as this, someone was bound to call the law.

Kim might would understand if the police were with him when he confessed to his infidelity. She might overlook his indiscretion, forgive his cheating heart.

A crime of passion, Mike thought. That’s what we got here.