Waking from dream. Or still dreaming.
Or not. Barely memory of dream, just black after drinking. Sharp jumpcut from then to now. No sense of sleep. His body wasn’t rested. He could have been dreaming if not for that pasty sick taste in his mouth. The need to piss, bad. That was what woke him.
The woman in his bed did not wake him.
The chair creaked. He had fallen asleep in the chair. He had planted it just right so he could watch her. Sat on it back to front and, leaning there with that long slim bottle to finish, he fell asleep. Or it all went vague and dark and then there was now. No telling how much time no telling even when. At least it wasn’t a work day. He was almost sure.
It was a purple sky, a calm airless evening. Streetlights glowed dull and sleepy. He felt the bump at the back of his head. Again those brief pain sparks. He looked at her lying there across the bed. She was still in his clothes. He told himself that he wasn’t going to turn his back on her, but it looked like he’d killed her with that one bop of the toy bat. It really looked like he had laid her out with just one blow, and so he felt safe to go take a leak, making sure nonetheless to take her purse with him.
In the bathroom, the dress still hung from the shower curtain rod like a limp flag. He flushed the toilet, splashed the slowness from his face, rinsed the metallic taste from his mouth.
He placed the purse on top of the wicker hamper.
The shower he took was brief. The stream of water set off minute brush fires in his head. He dried off with the only towel hanging there. Then he picked up the purse. He examined the strap. It was detachable, with a locking hook on either end.
“The strap on my purse is broken,” she had said, holding up a loose end.
“Shit,” he said.
He spilled the purse’s contents on the blue furry bathmat.
The shoes came first. The delicate curvy arch. Manolo Blahnik. Since when was he with a woman who wore those? Shoes were his business. They were the first thing he noticed on a woman. Generally.
The lipsticks, compact, assorted makeup items. A CD slipcase. Daffy Duck plushy. All into a pile.
The cellular phone. He put aside.
The Smith & Wesson .22 pistol, with spare clip. He put aside.
The yellow envelope had writing on it. Inside was an ID card pinned to a letter. This Document authorizes Ava Reynolds to have access to safe-deposit box 6315 on behalf of David Romero and Fischer-MacMillan, Inc.
The ID card was from the same company and had a picture of a wide-eyed, clean-cut Puerto Rican yuppie type. The letter was addressed to a bank on Third Avenue. Alex checked the address again, then put it all back into the envelope.
The gun had a metallic oil smell and hadn’t been fired. It felt strangely familiar, as if his skin recognized it: She had hit him with it. He could almost feel the sharp sting of the metal striking him. With that, she had blanked out the rest of his day better than a tall bottle of bourbon. He thought carefully about what it could mean, that she bopped him. He’d had enough strange incidents with women during those hectic, near-forgotten one-nighters. He knew it was better sometimes not to overreact.
He thought about calling the police, like anyone would. Most people in distress will think of calling the cops if there’s a spot of trouble. But Alex was a Puerto Rican who lived in the South Bronx, and that meant that any time he was in trouble he had to hesitate before calling the men in blue. It’s just something to do with the way things go wrong between cops and Puerto Ricans. Something in the tone, the approach, the lack of communication skills on the cop part, and once they are in your house—BESIDES if a spick from the South Bronx called the police and said HELP! THERE’S A WHITE BLOND WOMAN IN MY BED, a battalion of cop cars would arrive within moments, sirens shrieking tires screaming. The people Alex knew always tended to be more DIY about such matters. It was usually better not to involve the cops.
He was still thinking about this when that blinding flash—the snap of a twig—the falling down fast slow, bathroom floor speeding up to face. Trying to turn to rise through churn to see through fiery snakes and ladders, a veritable falling star
she was holding the toy bat saying I’m sorry, I’m sorry and as he faded she was moving over him, pulling pulling