This Just In

By Steph

I never watch the news. I read it. I check it out on the internet. But I never watch it on television, unless, of course, I happen to be someplace where the television is on and the station happens to be turned to the news.

I was in such a place when I heard about the assassination of some bigwig arms dealer who was supposed to give testimony about non-government arms deals involving some major government players. It was all too boring, and I would have given it even less attention if my date could have managed to keep from informing me of all the sordid details. He spent the evening attempting to thrill me with his wide knowledge of world affairs and something akin to wit. What I had thought would be a pleasant evening eating and dancing with a decent looking guy my own age ended up with my smiling mutely while he talked about himself and the world according to him. I did well, though. I didn't laugh when he talked about the Taliban in Argentina. Afghanistan and Argentina do almost sound alike, right?

It was about the time he said, "I bet the guy was Palestinian," that I decided to speak.

"Why?" I asked.

"Brown skinned, dark curly hair and deep brown eyes, foreign accent."

I looked around. "That pretty much describes half the male population of California." But I looked at the TV and heard his height, 5'10" and then I saw the clip of a man running through a crowd. He wore a black suit. His dark curly hair bounced behind him. He ran with a slight limp. He carried a gun. He ran down Market Street, then turned up Sixth.

My throat went dry. He turned up Sixth. He'd probably turn down the alley. No, he would certainly turn down the alley, slip through the back door of the bar, which sat next to the best Vietnamese restaurant in San Francisco, the place where I ate dinner with this very boorish man. He would certainly find his way into the crowded tavern where I now sat, watching the breaking news of the moment. It was fate, my dadblasted rotten fate.

I saw the cops preparing to come in the front way while several ran down the alley.

"Excuse me," I said. "I think I'm going to throw up." My date nodded absently while watching the television screen.

Slowly, I stepped into the women's room, bent and looked under the stalls. I stood erect and looked at the flat dirty white ceiling. There was a high window open but it had a screen. He wasn't in here. Good.

I washed my face with cold water while several people shouted before a calm in the bar. No, he's not here, I thought, and threw more cold water on my face. I grabbed a paper towel to blot the water off my skin and when I removed it, I saw in the mirror's reflection a finger twitch from above the stall behind me. The bathroom door opened and a police officer stepped in.

"Excuse me, ma'am. We're searching the area…"

I put my hand out to stop him. "Please," I said. "I'm sick. Excuse me." Then I turned into the stall from where that finger had twitched. I closed the stall, stuck my head between two knees and vomited in the toilet.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" called the police officer.

"I will be," I muttered.

"Sorry to bother you," he said, and the door closed.

Two fingers wiped at the corner of my mouth.

"That was disgusting," said the man squatting on the toilet seat.

I looked up into a wide, devilish grin. "You're bleeding," I whispered, pointing at his bloodstained jacket.

He pressed his lips together and gave me that little shrug of his, his head cocking quirkily to one side. "It happens sometimes."

I looked at the gun in his right hand.

"This is getting old, Miguel. I think you're stalking me."

"Honey, I only stalk when I'm hunting." He gripped me behind the back of my neck and pulled me close to kiss my forehead. "So, did you come here to save me?"

"I came here to throw up." Just then several women entered, chattering about the exciting prospect of seeing gunplay in the Streets of San Francisco.

"Bad date?" he whispered in my ear.

"Yeah," I said, then turned and sat on the toilet between his legs. "So, now what?" The girls made more noise than the morning garbage trucks.

"Well, you could take me home and let me use your phone." He pulled a handful of plastic out of his pocket. Apparently the police got him right in the cell phone.

"My date is driving," I told him. The girls became quiet while they used the facilities. We also became quiet, until Miguel made a terribly constipated sound. The girls left and I thought I should too.

"Fine, so get your date in the car, drive down the alley, tell him you forgot something and stop. I'll get in."

"You'd kill him."

"You said he was a bad date."

"Not that bad." I stood and turned, shook my head at the growing blood spot on his jacket and said. "His is the white beamer with the gold trim." Miguel grimaced. "I know, I know. Tacky. I'll get you into the back seat, but be careful." Then I turned and left him sitting on the back of the toilet. I walked straight to Mr. Know-It-All and said, "Quick, give me your keys, I think I dropped something in your car." He was flirting with some very young girl who apparently knew so little about the world that he sounded right.

"You okay?" he asked, tossing me his keys.

I nodded and left the bar the front way. A moment later, I beeped at his tacky beamer, and opened the back seat. White leather interior. Geez.

There were still cops about, so I leaned in the back seat, pretending to do something, left the door ajar, opened the front and turned off the interior light. I slammed the front door and walked back to the bar. Miguel would either find his way back there or not. I couldn't care less.

Okay, so maybe I cared just a little.

"You want to go?" asked my date.

"Not yet," I said to him as I sat at the bar. "I'll have a shot of your best tequila," I said to the bartender. I turned and smiled at my date. "So, was she nice?"

"Who?" he asked innocently.

I waved him off, downed the tequila, smiled at my wide-eyed date and said, "Excuse me."

As I checked the bathroom for a gun-toting assassin, I thought, I guess I'm not much of a date either. This time I rinsed my mouth before leaving the bathroom, then popped two Altoids. As an afterthought, I pulled out my lipstick. A minute later, I stepped towards Mr. Date. "Let's go," I said, and grabbed his arm without losing stride.

"Do you always drink tequila like that?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I usually suck lime afterwards."

The car was locked, so when he opened his door and pressed the button to unlock mine, I tossed my purse into the backseat. I sat up front, not daring to look.

"Did they catch that guy?" I asked.

"No, but the cops came in looking for him while you were in the bathroom. What were you doing in there so long?"

"I told you, I had to throw up."

"What is this, some sort of binge and purge thing?" he asked.

"Not really, never more than once a day," I said.

"And the tequila?" he asked, his lips turned down.

"I don't need it, but it makes my mouth taste better after vomiting."

A grimace settled on his face and I turned to face the window to keep from laughing.

"Listen," he said, "I'm kind of tired and I have to work tomorrow, so you don't mind if just drop you off?"

"You sure you don't want to come in for one last drink?" I asked.

"No, sorry, maybe another time."

When I got out, I thought he was going to speed away, so I didn't close the door before opening the back door for my purse. Leaving the door open, I returned to the front and leaned in. He cringed away from me. I pecked his cheek, pulled out, shut both doors and watched him peel away.

Miguel waited on my stoop. He looked pale.

"Where's your gun?" I whispered. He opened his bloody jacket and showed it to me. Once the door was opened, he tumbled in before me, straight for the bathroom.

I heard, "fuck, shit, motherfucker," muttered repeatedly in varying order but quietly all the same. I rummaged through the closet, found my first aid supplies and joined him in the bathroom.

"Damn," I cursed after seeing so much blood on the floor. He had his shirt and pants off and for some reason, I found it difficult to look at the cause of the mess.

"Come on, come on," he said, waving me into the room. "Help me clean this."

"Miguel, you need a hospital."

"No hospital," he said. "Just help me clean this up."

It was ugly, the bullet had gone through his side and who knows what it hit before leaving him, but the hole was bigger coming out than going in. My hand shook as I rinsed the cloth and I kept thinking I should not have had that tequila.

"Got anything to drink?" he asked, his breath shallow.

"Nothing but liqueurs and sherry," I said, "for cooking." I pressed the cloth against the wound in front. The bleeding had slowed, but Miguel still looked like he was losing color.

"Fuck," he said as he slid backwards into the bathtub.

"Oh damn," I cursed watching him grit his teeth against the pain. I stepped into the deep claw foot tub and squatted to lift him out. Once he sat on the edge again, I rushed to throw the new quilt on my bed aside. I stretched an old raincoat out and spread several towels on top of that, then returned to Miguel, who seemed to have more and more trouble keeping his balance. "You need a hospital."

"I need you to make a phone call for me," he said as he leaned all of his weight against me. I don't know how I did it, but somehow, I made it to the bed without dropping him. "The phone call," he said. "In my jacket."

Once he was covered, I reached into my top drawer and pulled out a bottle of Vicodin that I was prescribed for sinus surgery the year before. I pushed a pill between his full lips and added water from that afternoon's water bottle. I watched him swallow, then returned to the bathroom for his jacket, found his wallet and began looking through that. There was only one phone number in the wallet and it was hidden behind a library card of all things.

"Is this it?" I asked him, returning to the bedroom, the slip of paper in my hands. No answer. I moved closer. He was breathing, but unconscious.

My hands shook uncontrollably as I lifted the phone, wishing I could dial 911, but knowing that he'd kill me, literally, if I did. As I dialed, I looked back at him and saw him watching me. His fingers motioned to come, so I stuck the phone to his ear.

"Hey," he said, grabbing the receiver. "No," he said. "Uh," he dropped the phone.

I lifted the receiver and said, my voice tremulous, "Hello?"

A woman's voice said, "What's your address?"

Something about her voice unnerved me. "You going to kill me if I tell you?" I asked.

"No," Miguel said, his voice not much more than a breath. "Tell," he said.

So I gave my address.

"Okay, listen," she said. "Go out for awhile and leave your door unlocked."

"Its one in the morning," I said.

"Do what I say, if you want to help him."

I looked at Miguel Bain. My bane. Somehow we just kept running into each other. Usually the outcome was much more pleasant than this. He was exciting, but I wasn't sure I liked this particular excitement.

"Okay," I said and hung up. I leaned over him. "Your girlfriend is on her way."

"Jealous?" he asked, smirking despite his pain.

"You're usually more fun than this," I told him.

"I'm sorry. Next time, I'll be your date." He smiled weakly. "I always drive black cars." He closed his eyes, his hand surrounding mine. "Better go, chica. My friend gets jealous." I stood but he tightened his grip. "Kiss?"

I bent and gently kissed his dry lips. His mouth opened slightly, more to release a breath than anything else. I couldn't help myself. My tongue moistened those dry lips. My mouth brushed the tip of his nose. I breathed in his shallow breath and kissed a closed eyelid, sucked the lobe of his ear, played my tongue down his soft neck. He squeezed my hand harder and I looked at him.

"You better go, chica," he whispered.

I kissed his cheek, then turned out of the room, pulled on my coat and left the house with the door unlocked.

I walked around my neighborhood for two hours, thinking about Miguel and why I liked him, why I couldn't resist him, why I put myself in danger for him. When I returned home, the house was empty, the blood cleaned up, the stained towels and coat gone.

Then I went to bed and placed my head where his head had been. I smelled his scent, the scent of danger and immediately I felt that familiar tingle between my legs.

Face it, I told myself, guys like him are myths, and there's nothing more exciting than a myth.

That morning, the doorbell woke me. A dozen red roses greeted me at the door. The card said, "until next time, love, M.B."