11.
 After extricating himself with many promises that he would never keep, to visit often and bring more of his work, Mick returned to Ben's house and sagged with relief. Perhaps in time he'd get Monica to let down her pretensions, her guard, her reserve. In time maybe on a lonely evening when she was dumped by the lawyer or doctor she was preserving herself for—that's right, Mick thought, or a frigging cardinal on the slum, what did he know—she must sleep in formaldehyde every night.
Ben called him into the kitchen. "Mickey boy, I got a proposition to make. You don't understand about these things, but I'm in trouble with a lot more than some fat stupid cops. They want me to turn on my associates, and my associates do not take kindly even to such suggestions. I know the people I work with. Fuck around they do not do. Ever. En, Oh. As far as they are concerned, and they know about this of course since they own people highly placed among our city's finest, as far as they are concerned, I am now somewhere they do not want to do business. I'm marked, in other words, Mickey. Some night I'm walking home with a bag of fast food, minding my own business, and this car drives by, bang bang, I land in the gutter, French fries all over the place, and that's it. The red shit won't be ketchup. It's me, bleeding up my life, all for some fat stupid cop." He gripped Mick's shoulders and shook them powerfully. "I won't let them do it to me, Mickey. I won't let them do it to me." He slapped Mick's cheek lightly. "What do you say we take off. Go back east. Maine, maybe. Lots of woods there. Snow twenty feet deep in winter. Nobody'll come looking for me there. You come along, keep me company."
"What about Lisa?"
"You bring her along if she wants. You can paint. Take your time, put your life together, take off when you're ready. Say, you in love with her?"
"Yes." He thought of Monica, and said: "Yes, very much."
Lisa threw a shoe. "I am not going to Maine. NOT. You want to go to Maine, Mickey, you and that lump you call a brother, you go right ahead. I'm leaving for California tomorrow." In tears, she sprang up, wearing only panties, and started packing her suitcase. By now, she'd accumulated several cardboard boxes of more stuff. The pink nipples waggled as she make quick angry motions shoveling paperbacks and lipsticks and cigarette packs into a box.
Mick sat back holding his head. "Oh my God. Lisa, no, please. I love you. Wait, let me go talk with Ben."
"I don't give a shit about Ben!" she shrieked as he ran out of the room.
He went downstairs and knocked on Ben's door. "Hey Ben."
"Yo."
"I gotta talk with you."
"Come in." He went into Ben's bedroom, which smelled of old socks and expensive scotch and stale cigarettes. There were clothes everywhere. They sat side by side on the bed. Ben offered a glass of Chivas. Mick declined. Ben puffed on an unfiltered cigarette, inhaled deeply, and eyeballed Mick. "Okay?" He dribbled smoke, and the smoke spoke: "What's all the shouting upstairs?"
A minute later, Ben shrugged. "Okay, so we go to California. What do I care, as long as we get out of this shitty little town. Shitty city, that's what this is." He gulped some more scotch and sucked on his cigarette.
Mick went upstairs, where Lisa sat crying on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a quilt. He put his arms around her. "Honey, listen. I love you, I truly do. I appreciate you more and more every day. Whatever it takes to make you happy, I'll do."
"You will?" she whispered, sniffling. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue and looked at him.
"We're leaving for California as soon as we get the car packed. Ben's car."
"Ben? You want to take Ben?"
"No, I want Ben to take us. Look, ever since my car died, we've been sharing that little box of yours that keeps dying. Ben has this nice big car with a rebuilt engine in it. Real gem."
She thought about it. "Well."
"What, honey. What?"
She sniffed. "Well, when we get to California, I want it to be just you and me. We'll make it on our own."
"Okay!" Mick jumped up and they high-fived. "It's settled." It was all settled now, everyone happy.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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