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 It's Too Late to Cry In the mid '80s, a mismatched couple, who met in the Summer of Love, witness the violent end of their troubled marriage. "Bobby," she said. "Bobby, you're my sanctuary. Do you know that, Bobby?" She was naked on the pillow in the wicker chair, stars above the cypress trees, and the roach was no more than a cinder. "Mickey..." Two years later now, living in Stern's genius idea: a house in Half Moon Bay; they'd split the rent, travel to USF in Stern's almost-new VW bus, and Mickey could live with them, bring in chicks for Stern, rake them in off the beach; but leave the men outside, this is no fuckin' commune, Mickey, you hear me? Mickey nodding; Stern, a tinderbox when he wasn't dropping chlorpromazine. Barmer, MBA within reach, agreed. For all his flaws, Stern paid his bills and if he made rules, he generally kept to them. "You're my sanctuary," she repeated, the scent of Herbal Essence and Vitabath surrounding them. "Mickey," Barmer began, "Mickey, you can't... This is not good." It was the best he could do, his guileless angel, fresh from the shower, fresh from jail. Shoplifting batteries, and not the first bust either: film but they had no camera; a steak, but she said she was a vegetarian. This time they pulled him from class, and the cop, straight out of "The Mod Squad," said, "Mr. Barmer, for what it's worth: cut her loose or marry her." Mickey couldn't seem to understand that she was moving toward a felony rap; $75 was the line that couldn't be crossed. Given that she'd been charged with assault during a sit-in at UC Berkley protesting a Dow Chemical recruiter, a felony would result in prison, even if the assault beef had been knocked down to disorderly conduct. She didn't understand the concept of ramifications. "Everything is everything," she said. "Mickey, they're going to put you in jail," Barmer explained, pacing the living room. "Bobby, don't be so..." She giggled. "Don't be so Bobby." "You're smarter than this, Mickey," he said, "and you know where this is going to lead." Behind him, Barmer heard a voice. "Bummer." A girl nibbling a chocolate cookie, and she was dimpled-ass naked too. Barmer said, "And who are you?" "I'm Mickey's guest," she said boldly. Stern figured she was Greek or maybe Italian. "Maybe it's your idea she should rip off Ralphs," Barmer said. "Maybe," said Greek, maybe Italian. Mickey giggled. Simmering, Barmer managed to start up the old Corvair, Muddy Waters on the eight-track, and he drove down to Ralphs to make good with the night manager. The following morning, a call, Mickey answering, and she said, "Bobby, it's Ralph." Barmer thought, Ralph who? They liked his manner, said a regional V.P., who'd heard what he'd done. A young man with priorities. Ralphs had a management-trainee program... "She's your lucky charm, bro," Stern said, the Mediterranean chick on his lap, brown nipples poking the side of his face as she waited for the hash pipe to return. "Hang on to her." Appears in A Merry Band of Murderers (Poisoned Pen) edited by Claudia Bishop and Don Bruns. Published in Autumn 2006. All stories © Jim Fusilli 2005. Reprinted with permission. For permission to reprint, contact the author at jimfusillibooks@aol.com. |