Ten Thousand Cops On My Tail
She looked at him, curious. `Such a quiet one.`She clicked his glass with hers. "What do you write?"
He looked at her. "Passion. I write about passion, romance..."He paused. "Fake pass ports, counterfeit paintings, hot cars, hot guns, hot babes and hot lead. I`ve got ten million bucks in the bag, ten thousand cops on my tail, spooks behind my door and tomorrow is a rainbow on fire. Saturday it`s Moscow, Sunday it`s Tel Aviv. Monday I bust out of a foreign prison. I can tell you it`s page one. You need a hook." He looked at her. "You should see me when I take off my glasses." His eyes wandered down to her necklace. "The Princess of Monaco has one like that but it looks better on you."
She wasn`t bored now. "You have a wonderful fantasy life. Do you make all this up?" She laughed.
"The best part of being fifty is not having to make anything up. I can`t get the memories down fast enough. Might run out of ink. Every man in this room is wondering why a woman so beautiful, why someone so lovely as you is sharing a glass with me." He smiled at her.
"Oh, but they can take care of themselves. They have beautiful women with them."
`Keep talking.` he said to himself. `Keep talking for the next fifty years.`"This is true. Let us celebrate capability, beauty and style." He lifted his glass to hers.
"ummm. I`m so thirsty." Her lips were red.
"Booze will cure that. Red or white?"
"Something that sparkles." she said.
He nodded, turned and left for the bar. He turned to look back. Cary Grant was standing beside her. She was laughing. He was holding a scotch and leaning into her. "...oh all that stuff from before. Listen, Frank Sinatras`car isn`t good enough to hold your high heels. We should embrace tomorrow while Frank runs out of yesterdays. Let`s meet tonight. I`m back at the St. James."
He ordered the drinks and waited. He looked back to see she was in the same place. Her hand was extended and she was saying something. Grant had left. Frank Sinatra was there. He had both hands in his pockets. "Tell Grant to take a hike. The road is paved. My car is hot. Guido and Tony over there can have us in Atlantic City in twenty minutes."
By the time he got back she was still there. He passed her a glass.
"Ohh, I love champagne. I think it must be part of my blood. You will please excuse me but this is a necessary thing."
There was a man to her left. He looked like any of the other tuxedo clad men there. She drew a fairly large gun out of her shoulder bag. Without hesitation she held it against the temple of the man, pulled the trigger and half his head evaporated.
He though. `That was one hell of a round.`
She was just standing there. The back splash of blood was all over her cocktail dress. She was looking down at the floor. His white shirt was speckled with the mans`blood and brain bits. She was still standing there. He could see the smoke still drifting in the air.
He politely inquired. " Did you have a plan beyond this point?"
She quietly shook her head.
The man slumped forward, fell to his knees and crumpled to the ground.
He pointed his lips to her ear. "I know you didn`t do it. I know your innocent. Come with me. Lets get out of here. I want to know if your earrings came from Mexico or Peru." He put his arm out to steady her. Her hand grabbed his forearm and clamped fiercely. That was enough. He took the gun out of her hand.He wrapped his arm around her waist and grabbed her hard. He backed up with her.
He starred blankly at the crowd. the crowd starred at the barrel of his gun. She was weightless. No one moved. He pushed a side door open then shut. They moved quickly now into the parking lot and down the line. He fired a shot. It was loud. She shrank back a bit but not much. He opened the door to a TR-6 Triumph convertible and helped her to the seat. She swung her legs in and he closed the door. He opened the drivers`door and turned the key. The engine caught right away. Stood to reason the car would be in good shape. Whose ever car it was. He pushed the stick back accelerated out of the parking lot. He could see people from his rear view mirror shaking their fists and yelling.
"I prefer museums. Others prefer banks. Jewelry warehouses are easier. You have the legs of an olympic cyclist."
She turned to him. She smiled. "You are very good for women. I think I should like best your idea. To get out of here."
Bio: Roy Berger is 51 and lives in Montreal and works as a mechanic by day. He just finished his fourth book.
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