Callie's Last Dance (a Donovan Creed Novel)

  “I’ve heard this before. What’s your point?”

  “You love me!”

  “I already told you that! Are you going to keep slapping me every time you question my love?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “So even if I see it coming, I have to allow it?”

  “You’re the one who said that bullshit about giving me the power to hurt you.”

  She laughs. But there are still tears. She’s laughing and crying at the same time.

  “You love me!” she says. “You honestly, seriously, love me!”

  I frown, thinking about the slap. “Try it again,” I say.

  She bursts into laughter. When it dies down, all that’s left on her flawless face is her radiant smile.

  “You love me,” she says, “and it’s okay.”

  “It is?”

  “Uh huh. Because I love you, too.”

  “You do? Still?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “What about Gwen?”

  Callie laughs. “You need to work on that.”

  “On what?”

  “Romance.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m romantic.”

  “Being romantic isn’t the same as romance.”

  “It’s not?”

  She says, “I just told you I loved you, and you said, ‘What about Gwen’?”

  “It’s a fair question. You’re living with Gwen.”

  “What about your ex-wife, Janet?”

  “What about her?”

  “When you said you loved me I didn’t ask, ‘What about Janet?’”

  “That’s different. You live with Gwen. She shares your bed!”

  Callie smiles. “Not after today.”

  She lets that comment hang in the air between us like a giant, heart-shaped balloon.

  I reach for her hand and kiss it. Then slap her face.

  “Ow!” She yelps. Then says, “I could’ve blocked that, if I wanted to.”

  Then she says, “What are you grinning at?”

  I smile. “You love me too, Callie.”

  She rubs her cheek and smiles and says, “I know.”

  55.

  Two Weeks Later.

  Cincinnati.

  “YOU DON’T LOOK like a claims adjustor,” Connie says.

  “No?”

  “You look like a movie star.”

  We’re sitting in Connie’s living room, on her L-shaped sofa. She’s on the sofa, I’m on the L-shaped section. Our knees are a foot apart. She’s a bit over-dressed for the occasion, wearing an Alexander Wang V-neck sleeveless wrap dress, and black zip-front wedge sandals. I have no idea why she thinks a claims adjustor would be talking to her about her late husband’s life insurance policy. All I said on the phone was I needed to get some additional information before the insurance company could pay the death benefit.

  Whatever. It got me in the door.

  “I said, you look like a movie star,” she repeats.

  “Thanks,” I say, and throw a punch that catches her exactly where it was aimed, on her chin, effecting the exact result I intended, an instant knock-out.

  When she comes to she finds herself naked, hanging upside down by her feet in her den. She screams, but the socks I’ve stuffed inside her mouth preclude her from making much noise. Nor can she spit them out, since I’ve placed duct tape over her mouth.

  “I found a ski rope in your garage,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind me borrowing it. I didn’t come in here with that thought, but when I saw this nice, sturdy beam in your den I figured it was the way to go. As for the nudity, you’ll have to trust me when I say my many years of experience have taught me that naked prisoners are more cooperative than those wearing clothes. I know that sounds self-serving, but it’s no less true.”

  She looks at me through wide, terror-filled eyes, and makes muffled sounds of protest.

  I say, “Connie. Listen to me. I’m willing to lower you part-way, so you’ll be more comfortable. Would you like that?”

  She nods her head.

  “Okay, then.”

  I adjust the rope until her back is resting on the floor, though her legs are still vertical.

  “I didn’t tie your hands on purpose, so please feel free to cover up whatever you wish.”

  She covers the parts I used to enjoy looking at before I saw Callie’s. These days it’s all business. Connie’s body means no more to me than a slab of beef on a slaughterhouse meat hook.

  “I’m willing to remove the duct tape on your mouth, and the socks, if you promise not to scream.”

  She nods.

  I remove my knife from its ankle holster and say, “I’ll hold you to that promise, Connie. Do you understand?”

  She nods vigorously.

  I remove the tape carefully, and manage not to tear her lips in the process. Taking the socks from her mouth triggers her gag reflex, which is rather gross, but it soon passes.

  She says, “You hit me! You hit me and undressed me and tied me up! What kind of claims adjustor are you?”

  “I’m not a claims adjustor, Connie.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you doing this to me? What do you want?”

  “I’m doing this because seventeen days ago my girlfriend took two bullets in the back that were meant for you and Tom Bell. As a side issue, I could have also been shot, so for all intents and purposes, your husband attacked me. What do I want? Answers. Starting with why you cheated on your husband.”

  “What are you, some kind of religious freak?”

  “Do I look like a religious freak?”

  “No. But you don’t look like a claims adjustor, either.”

  “As I said, I’m not a claims adjustor.”

  “So the company’s not denying my claim?”

  For reasons I’ll never begin to comprehend, Connie has come to the conclusion I’m not planning to seriously harm her. She becomes—not comfortable, exactly—but somewhat relaxed, and conversational.

  “Have you ever been married?” she asks.

  “As a matter of fact, I have. But it didn’t last.”

  “And have you never cheated?”

  “Never did.”

  “What’s it like being perfect?” she says, sarcastically.

  “You think it requires perfection not to cheat on your spouse?”

  She gives me a knowing look and says, “I bet your wife cheated.”

  “There’s a happy thought.”

  “If we’re going to talk a while, can you at least let me put my dress back on?”

  “No.”

  “Is this how you get your kicks? Punching women unconscious? Stripping them? Tying them up?”

  She’s comfortable enough with my demeanor to transition from terrified to angry. Or maybe it’s not my demeanor. Maybe it’s this face Dr. P. gave me. I’ve always maintained the same demeanor when torturing women, and they always managed to hang onto their fear. Perhaps I should have Dr. P. add a terrifying scar to my cheek like I used to have.

  Wait.

  I can’t do that.

  Not without getting Callie’s input first. It would be like her getting a Tyson tattoo on her cheek without asking me. I want to think about this some more, but Connie’s working herself into quite a lather.

  “You have the gall to ask me questions?” she says. “You want to know about my affair? My fucking affair?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “You bastard! You punched me in the face! Maybe I’ve got a question or two for you!”

  “I’ll entertain one.”

  “Oh you will, huh? You’ll entertain one?”

  “Is that your question?”

  “My question, you sick pervert, is, are you enjoying the view?”

  “You promised not to yell.”

  “No I didn’t. I promised not to scream.”

  “Let’s not split hairs. You’ll keep your voice down or suffer the consequences.
To answer your question, if you’re referring to your nudity, no, I don’t particularly care for the view. I mean, you’re a very nice looking woman. But my interest in you has nothing to do with your body.”

  “You’re sure about that? Because I could swear I caught you sneaking peeks at me.”

  “All pretty women think that. And it’s possibly true. In the course of removing your clothes and tying you to the beam in the ceiling, I’ll admit I noticed your body.”

  “Did it make you feel powerful? Like a big man? Ripping my panties off while I was unconscious?”

  “Powerful? No. And you’ll be pleased to know I didn’t rip your panties.”

  “Be honest. You liked what you saw. And still like it. You wish it was yours.”

  I sigh. “Connie, I’m not a critical person. I think all women are beautiful. Having said that, I think you went too big on the implants.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Just my opinion.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I feel you’re past the age of being able to pull off the completely shaved look. Again, that’s just me. I’m sure it worked for Tom.”

  “I think you’re lying. I think you like the feeling of power. Seeing me naked makes you feel superior. Dominant. You’re meek and small on the inside. The only thing you’ve got going for you is your looks. Your social skills obviously suck.”

  I pause a minute to look at my watch. Then say, “I’m sorry, Connie. I’ve allowed the conversation to get completely off track. Crazy as it sounds, you might be the exception to the nudity thing. It generally gives people a feeling of helplessness. But being naked seems to have empowered you.”

  I go to the bedroom, pick out a nightshirt, bring it back, hand it to her. As she puts it on I say, “I’m going to rethink the idea of stripping women from now on when I question them. I’ll ask Callie what she thinks.”

  I can practically see the light bulb go off in Connie’s mind. She’s thinking Connie, Callie, similar names. Maybe she can transfer my feelings for Callie onto her, get out of this situation by warming up to me.

  “Callie’s your girlfriend?” she says.

  Bingo.

  The nightshirt can only cover so much while her legs are in the air, so I drape her dress between her legs and say, “I’ll bring this to an end as quickly as possible. I’m trying to find out why Callie nearly lost the use of her legs. She could have been paralyzed for the rest of her life because you cheated on your husband. I guess I want to know if it was worth it to you.”

  “Thanks for covering me up. I’m sure Callie would be happy you did that.”

  I roll my eyes.

  Connie says, “The short answer is yes. It was worth it. Not the part about Callie getting shot. If I had any idea that might happen, I would have gotten a divorce before dating Tom. But Ridley still would’ve tried to kill us. Apart from Callie being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Yes, the affair was worth it. Contrary to what you might think, I’m not a whore. I don’t run around all over town, sleeping with men. I love Tom the same way you love Callie. And in your heart, I’m sure you know Tom and I had nothing to do with Ridley shooting her.”

  “I see it differently.”

  “Then why me?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If you’re being all self-righteous about my affair, why aren’t you trying to string up Tom Bell? He’s fifty percent of the problem, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I wouldn’t say fifty percent. You’re the one who had the unstable husband.”

  “I didn’t know he’d try to shoot us.”

  “Maybe not. But you must have known the affair would take a major toll on him emotionally.”

  “I honestly didn’t think he’d find out.”

  “Because?”

  “He’s always so busy.”

  “With work?”

  She nods.

  “Is that your excuse? He was too busy? You wanted to be with him more, do things together, but he didn’t have time for you?”

  “No. The truth is I was glad he wasn’t around more.”

  “Why, did he beat you?”

  “No.”

  “Verbally abused you?”

  “No.”

  “Was he a drug user? A drunk? A gambler? A control freak?”

  She laughed. “Nothing like that. Ridley was a good man. A good provider. A supportive husband.”

  “But?”

  “The truth? He was too fucking old for me.”

  Ouch. There it is, the answer I least wanted to hear. Because all this is really about me trying to understand why a woman like Connie cheated on her husband. If it was something he did wrong, some flaw in his character, I’d feel better about Callie and me and our chances for survival as a couple. You see, Callie and I share the same age difference as Ridley and Connie. And Connie didn’t cheat on him because he mentally or physically abused her, or gambled, or drank, or anything else. She cheated on him simply because he was older.

  “At what point did his age become an issue?”

  “When mine did.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When I hit a certain age I saw myself on the verge of being middle aged. By then, Ridley was no longer getting the looks from women I’d seen him get when we first got married.”

  “But you were still getting them from men.”

  “Yes. And I needed them.”

  “You felt young around Ridley, but that didn’t count. When other women saw him as being old, you saw him the same way.”

  “I suppose.”

  “At the point you decided Ridley was too old to excite you, you were open to being excited by another man.”

  “Now you sound like a psychologist.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Connie,” I say, looking at my watch.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I reach for the socks and duct tape.

  “You know what I think?” she says.

  “What’s that?”

  “I think you’re a coward. I think you took my clothes off to humiliate me, and I find it hilarious you came to my house to pick on me.”

  “Hilarious?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, big shot. You’re a pussy!”

  “You think?”

  “A real man would’ve asked Tom Bell these questions. Of course, you obviously know Tom’s a seventh-degree martial artist who could kick your ass from here to hell and back. So this is how you beat him. In fact, it’s the only way a coward like you can beat a guy like Tom Bell.”

  “How’s that?”

  “By punishing me.”

  “That’s an interesting theory.”

  “Tell me, big shot. How does it feel to beat up a woman half your size, strip her, hang her upside down, threaten and bully her?”

  “Honestly? It feels pretty good.”

  “When Tom Bell finds out what you’ve done to me he’s going to do the same to you, times ten.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I beat Tom to death before coming here.”

  56.

  CONNIE SAW TOM as some sort of invincible being. To his credit, he was, in fact, a tough son-of-a bitch. I told her that, and said he gave a good accounting of himself, so she’d have a good memory of him. Nevertheless, she didn’t believe I could possibly beat Tom Bell in a fair fight.

  By way of proof, she said, “You don’t have a mark on you!”

  “Not true,” I said, and rolled my sleeves up to prove it. “My fists are so swollen I can hardly close my hands. My wrists are sprained from the force of the impact, and my forearms are bruised to the bone.”

  “That’s it?” she said. “I don’t believe it.”

  “That’s okay. I’m not trying to impress you.”

  “Why do you keep looking at your watch?”

  “I’m waiting for it to be exactly three-sixteen.”

  57.

  I DON’T JUDGE people. When I acc
ept a contract for hire, I take the attitude my victim has already been tried, found guilty, and sentenced by the person paying my fee. It’s easier that way, and prevents me from getting too wrapped up in “he-said-she-said” types of issues.

  Likewise, I didn’t kill Tom and Connie because they had an affair. Half the people you pass on the street every day are having affairs. What sort of person would I be if I went around killing all of them? And although I never cheated on my wife, I certainly cheated on some of my girlfriends.

  Most of them.

  Well, okay, all of them.

  So I’m not entirely without empathy.

  But I didn’t kill Tom and Connie because they were cheating. I killed them because their affair set off a chain reaction that nearly cost Callie her life and the use of her legs. You can argue it wasn’t Connie and Tom’s fault, and I’d agree with you, to a point. I mean, had Connie fucked Tom at his house, the results would have been different. Ridley would have killed them both, or killed one of them, or Tom might have killed Ridley. In any case, the argument would have remained between those who were involved.

  It’s a matter of respect.

  Rose says my great-great grandfather Emmett Love was a sheriff and saloon keeper in Dodge City, Kansas, in the eighteen-sixties. I’ll bet if two cowboys got into an argument in his establishment he’d tell them to take it outside. Why? Because that keeps the argument between those who have a vested interest in the outcome. If they started shooting up the saloon, innocent people might get hurt. And I’ll bet Sheriff Love wouldn’t allow something like that to go unpunished.

  I didn’t punish Tom and Connie for fucking outside their marriage, but for failing to take their outside-of-the marriage-fucking outside.

  You know, figuratively.

  But they didn’t. They took their affair to the Winston Parke Hotel, in downtown Cincinnati, and drew me and Callie into it. And right or wrong, you don’t put my loved ones in harm’s way without being severely rebuked. And you certainly don’t expose my loved ones to possible death and live to tell about it.

  58.

  Six Weeks Later.

  Top Six Lounge.

  Las Vegas.

  THE CLUB IS packed, the customers charged with anticipation. Carmine takes his seat. The house lights dim. The MC cues up the mike and says, “Our long-time customers will remember the greatest stripper in modern history, Vegas Moon, and how the Top Six flourished when she ruled the stage!”