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If Only
“How are things, Antoinette?”
I always called her Antoinette when
we were alone.As if her name wasn’t
just plain old Toni.As if the trailer
trash that spawned her had any idea that there was even a country called
France.Much less knowing that young
girls there were named Antoinette and hence the shortened term of
endearment…Toni.As if she were truly a
lady of elegance and poise and beauty and not a whore that made her money in
the front seat of a stranger’s car.
“Slow,” she said, but it was not a
complaint.When it was busy, she made
money.When it was slow, she and I had
long conversations.
“Seen your son?”I asked. Trevor was the kid’s name, but the wounded look in her eyes when I
mentioned the boy was bad enough.Saying his name made it worse.
This time, though, the hurt look on
her face was softer.She was nodding as
she spoke.“I got to see him last
weekend.We spent two days together at
my sister’s place in Richland.”
“Your sister the banker?”
“She’s a teller, but yeah.”
I knew she was a fucking teller, but
making everything in Toni’s world seem better than it really was had become
part of my job description.
“How’s the kid doing?”
She smiled, her eyes
glistening.“He’s wonderful. Smart, handsome.His teacher thinks he should go into that program for smart kids…”
“Gifted.”
“Yeah, gifted.”
I made a show of unwrapping a piece
of gum. She watched as if it were
performance art.
“You want a piece?” I asked her.
“A piece?”Her voice lilted with a half-purr.
I gave her a small grin.“Of gum.”
Her exaggerated pout appeared.“Oh, but I wanted something else.”
I popped the piece of spearmint into
my mouth.“And what might that be?”
Her pout turned seductive and lost
its exaggerated tone.“Your sweet
little ass.”
“Really?”
She nodded and moved a half step
closer.“Uh-huh.And you inside me.”
Not for the first time, I half
considered giving her exactly that.
“Charlie-one-forty-three, a status check,” crackled my radio.
I pressed the button and spoke into
the mike, my eyes never leaving hers.“Code Four,” I told the dispatcher, who I knew to be a fifty-four year
old with an ass the size of a pregnant wilder beast.
“Copy.”
Once,
many months ago, when I went Code Four, Toni asked me what it meant.
“It
means I don’t need any backup,” I told her.
“I’m
sure you don’t,” she had cooed.
Once,
many years ago, when I stopped a working girl on East Sprague, I would have
taken a step back when they moved toward me.I would’ve been concerned for officer safety, the mantra of the patrol
officer. I would’ve been concerned for
appearances of propriety.What would a
civilian think if he or she saw an uniformed police officer talking to a
prostitute and she was flirting with him?Propositioning him?
Once
upon a time, I cared about things like that.
Toni
was still watching me.“How long before
they check on you again?”
“Not
long enough.”
She
pouted again in earnest.
That
was the flow of things between us. If
it was slow, I’d stop her and we’d talk.Sure, I’d get some info out of her and fill out a Field Contact Report,
but the majority of the time, we just talked.And she flirted.And after the
second or third time I contacted her, I quit making her stop.So she’d flirt heavy and I’d flirt back just
a little bit and we’d edge ever closer and closer.Innocence became innuendo become proposition.And I was getting worse at saying no.In fact, I was saying very small yeses.
You want to kiss me?No, I’ll just look at you.
You want to see my tits? No, I’ll just stand here.
You want to fuck me? No, I’ll just stand so close to you that I
can smell your perfume.And cigarettes.
You want to know me? No, I’ll just…yes, I want to know you.
Jesus,
how did I get here?
Her
pout was beginning to look very real.I
asked her why she was pouting like a five year old.
“Because
you don’t love me.”
I
smacked my gum.“I don’t love anyone,
Toni.”
I
expected her to ratchet up her pout, but the pained look that came over her face
surprised me.
“That’s
mean,” she told me, her voice neutral, the purr gone.
I
shrugged.It was probably true.
“You
could love me,” she said. It was half a
question, half a statement. When I
didn’t answer, she went on.“I know you
could.”
I
still didn’t answer.I had figured we’d
get back to this. The last time I
stopped her, she had been depressed.Depression seemed to have a strange effect on Toni. It made her hope.She looked past the things she did for money or what she did with
the money. She looked at the way things
could be and that was all she talked about.
She
told me she could quit the streets. She
told me hat she typed seventy-five words a minute and could get a job as an
administrative assistant. That she
could get clean and be a good mother.That she and I could go out to dinner and that if I only gave her a
chance, I would fall in love with her.
“I
know you could,” she repeated.
“If
only.”
She
cocked her head at me.“If only what?”
If
only I wasn’t so tired of this job that I daily want to blast a fucking hole in
someone’s chest, including my own.
If
only my partner hadn’t been a stupid fuck and let that little doper reach into
his pocket and pull out a twenty-two and snap a round through his eye, where it
bounced around inside his skull, turning his brain into jam.
If
only my wife hadn’t been a frigid ice queen for eleven years before deciding
that it was just my dick she didn’t like and that there was a long list of
other ones that were actually pretty fun for her.
If
only the judge hadn’t seen things her way and made sure her exit from the
marriage including a financial windfall and the kids, who are daily informed of
what a bastard their father is.
If
only my sergeant wasn’t a weaselly little fuck who thought I was more worthless
than chewed gum and spent every duty hour trying to prove it.
If
only I didn’t work with testosterone-laden super-cops who thought that a
moustache and some hair gel made them all knowing and invincible.
If
only my apartment wasn’t really one small room with a fold down bed and a paper
thin door to a bathroom that still stunk from the last tenant, who obviously
had dietary issues.
If
only I didn’t need to keep this piss-ass job to pay an ex-wife alimony and
child support until the fourth and last kid was out of college in fourteen
years.
If
only you weren’t addicted to heroin.
If
only you didn’t give head to strangers for money.
If
fucking only.
When
I didn’t answer right away, she asked me again.“If only what, Paul?”
She
had started using my first name about a month ago.Don’t think I didn’t notice.
I
spit out my gum, the flavor already fading.Her eyes followed the chewed up wad as it flew outside the ring of light
from the street lamp.
“If
only?” I bit off the words.“Well, if
wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.”
Her
dull look didn’t surprise me.She
wasn’t getting it.
I
clicked my tongue against my teeth.“Try this one, then.If worms
had forty-five’s, right? Birds wouldn’t
fuck with them.”
Toni
stared at me in the dim streetlight.I
waited for the tired sigh, but it never came. Finally, she whispered, “Now you really are being mean.”
I
was getting tired of this.It was
fucking depressing.
“I
guess there’s just a meanness in this world,” I quoted the Boss.
Toni turned and stalked away.
I stifled a rueful laugh.Apparently not a Springsteen fan.Nebraska.1982. A perfectly good answer to
life’s nagging questions.
Her
stride didn’t slow down for a full block.As she crossed Magnolia, though, I noticed the sway was back in her
hips.I tried to enjoy the form of her
ass for a moment under the streetlight.
I
keyed the mike.“Charlie-one-forty-three, clear.”
“Copy.”
“See
you tomorrow,” I muttered and walked back to my patrol car. The rest of my life, for what it was
worth, was waiting.
Frank Zafiro is 35 years old. He has been a law enforcement officer in the Pacific Northwest for eleven years.
He started writing at thirteen, penning two hundred word vignettes that were largely derivative of the
work he was reading. He moved on to slightly more original short stories and poetry. Several stories
and about fifteen of the poems have been accepted to small press magazines. He wrote his first novel
at eighteen...and it showed. It was atrocious, self-indulgent and maudlin. It also only ran 45, 000 words
and he thought he had War and Peace. It wasn't until 1995 that he wrote a second novel. This one was still
rough but had some promise. It sat in a drawer until recently, when he began editing it. At the same time,
he is working on another book with a friend. They are each writing one of the main characters.
It is shaping up to be interesting. Although he has done many different things in his life, he has to
say that all he ever imagined himself as was a writer. In fits and starts through his life, he is making
that happen.
Frank Zafiro
Frank Zafiro's Web Site
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