Most dames, they hate rain. Figure it's cold, gets their hair wet, ruins their fancy shoes, so forth. But some dames love it and they're the ones you got to watch.
Tonight I'm watching Clara. I'm not talking about the way any man with a drop of red blood would watch Clara. Or maybe I am; maybe I don't know why I'm watching her tonight. I told her I wouldn't and I told myself my job was done and I'd been paid so I could go home. But I didn't. Maybe it was the way she paid; maybe I figure I owe her.
I'm watching Clara as she walks through the puddles stupidly, like a rain-loving dame. Between her and me there's two lanes of traffic, a sidewalk, the window of Ashman Jackie's bar, an ashtray, and a shot of neat bourbon. In that order. That and the worst storm in the history of Chicago ought to be enough to stop me from doing anything dumb like trying to help her.
She stops outside the Italian grocer and gets a gun out of her purse. She stares at it, letting it get wet in the pouring rain.
Next to the Italian grocers is a smart restaurant with a French name and a Packard parked out front. Next to the French name is Enrique's barber and there's Enrique helping a clean shaven man on with his coat. Clara knows the man and I do to since I met her.
His name's Caxton; he's a coward and he cheated on her. It's smart to be a coward, I got a lot of friends who're only alive 'cos they're cowards including myself. But a man who cheats on a rain-loving dame is asking for trouble.
Caxton leaves Enrique's and turns left, away from Clara, not seeing her. She raises the pistol and I pray she's just going to shoot him but she doesn't. I can see Clara's mouth moving and guess she's calling his name. She should have shot him in the back when she had the chance. Now it's going to be toe-to-toe, and you never win fighting toe-to-toe with a coward.
He's smart like I said and reaches inside his jacket without breaking step. Clara's mouth moves again but I still don't hear what she says on account of the downpour. The only thing I can hear over the rain is the two gunshots.
First was Clara's as Caxton turned and dived in front of the Packard. Then his, a heartbeat later. She missed, he hit, the end? Not quite.
She's hit in the stomach and drops to her knees. Now I need all the Bourbon to make sure I can't hear her. She falls forwards, keeping herself off the floor with her left hand. Somehow she raises her right hand and the gun and her head to look for Caxton. She can't see him because he's crouching out of sight by the Packard's bonnet. He knows he hit her, he knows she's not dead, he knows she'll die soon and all he has to do to kill her is stay put.
Clara's gun hand drops as she starts to crawl towards Caxton. She's on all fours and it reminds me of the night we made it so she could pay me for finding him. It's wasted now because she isn't going to get Caxton. Even with the storm rain washing her a bucket-a-minute I can see blood on her skirt, her legs and her shoes. It's the same skirt I lifted up to her waist that night and they're the same shoes that she left on the whole time she was paying me. She was a rain-loving dame all-right.
I need another Bourbon and turn to catch the Ashman's eye. When I turn back Clara's lying flat on the sidewalk. Her fancy shoes are ruined, her hair's wet and she's cold.
Written as an exercise in response to the thread back here. |
