When Pigs Fly

by Bob Sanchez

  “On your sage advice, I won’t. Did someone threaten you?”

  “Said he was my destiny. Ugh. We never did go out. Before that, I was married for a couple of years. Cosmo and I discovered we were wildly incompatible, though, so we got divorced and wished each other happy lives. Oh, and there was the married guy at the office who sent me passionate emails. I never answered, but the company president heard me complaining to him.” She made a wry face. “She fired him and then divorced him. I’m such a bozo magnet.”

  Mack smiled, and Cal put her hands to her face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Let me pull my foot out of my mouth.”

  “No, no. You don’t know if I’m a bozo or not. The jury should be out on me, especially with your track record. Why didn’t you get a restraining order on The King?”

  “You mean why didn’t I wave a red flag in front of a bull? A restraining order would just fuel his passion even more.”

  “Ouch. Conking a man is one thing, but—”

  “You had to be there.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m not into watching other people.”

  “That’s a point in your favor. Believe me, I never would have seen the thing if he had remembered to zip his pants before he went on stage. He asked me out, and I guess ‘no’ was too deep a concept for him to grasp.”

  Mack laughed. “So it was hanging out? In public?”

  “Yep, in pubic. On local cable, no less.”

  “Oh, I hate when that happens. All the women fainting, that’s the worst part.”

  “Mmm, I’m sure. Anyway, Elvis—his real name, by the way, Elvis Hornacre—got really angry—why laugh at a wardrobe malfunction? The look on his face, I thought he wanted to—well, let’s change the subject.”

  “You thought he was going to kill you. You didn’t need to run.”

  “Of course I didn’t. So maybe I’m not running, maybe I just quit my job and I’m traveling. Anyway, what about you? What brought you out here?”

  “Peace, beauty and hot weather. After Mary died, my boys insisted I take the trip we’d planned, like chicks chasing a parent out of the nest. The vacation has lasted about a year now, and I’m in no hurry to end it. I’ve rented a small house, taken a few courses at UA, read a shelf or two of books, checked out Anasazi ruins and tried my hand at watercolors because there was a woman I hoped to impress.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Yeah, until I actually put paint on the canvas. I—There’s a crude expression kids use nowadays.”

  “Are you saying your painting sucked?”

  Mack bowed his head and laughed. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “And she held that against you?”

  “I guess not, but then she fell for some hot watercolor stud.”

  There went that beautiful smile again. “No women in your life?”

  “Well, now and then. Mostly then. I have some good friends at the University.”

  Dinner arrived, and they began to eat. “Any men in yours?” Mack asked between bites.

  “Any men in my—oh, no, no men in my life.” She parceled out factoids about her life: parents divorced, kid brother in Iraq, took six years to get her degree. Loved Shakespeare and summer theater.

  “Still,” Mack said, “You sound like you handled this Elvis guy rather well and didn’t really need to leave town. Buy yourself a can of Mace, even a gun if he’s that dangerous.”

  “Guns freak me out. I’d hesitate, then he’d shoot me with it. I have the Mace, though. Besides, I have the feeling he’d follow me to the ends of the earth if he could. And since I’d never been anywhere, I thought I should see some of the world before he does me in.”

  Mack made a fist. “That’s the spirit. Did you know that Tombstone was the murder capital of America once?”

  “As long as it’s in the past tense. Look, can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure. What have you seen on your trip out West?”

  “Not much. Interstates. Green highway signs, cows, tall corn, the Mississippi River, Motel 6’s, Exxon stations, oil rigs and Roy Rogers fast food. I’ve been anxious to hit the left coast. Tombstone was my first side trip, but I plan to make it to L.A. by tomorrow.”

  “It’s against the law to drive through Arizona without rubbernecking, you know.”

  Cal smiled but said nothing. “But I could make it right for you,” Mack said. “Let me give you a tour tomorrow.”

  “No. No, I couldn’t impose on you like that.”

  “Then how would you like to impose on me? Look, my place is on your way to Tucson—well, almost. I’ll have my secretary cancel all my appointments for tomorrow. You can leave your car in my driveway, and I’ll pack sandwiches.”

  Cal shook her head. “You have a secretary? You have a schedule?”

  “Well, if I had a secretary, I’d have a schedule too, and I’d have her clear it. I mean, what’s in L.A. that can’t wait a few hours?”

  “I guess you’re right. You’re not planning to show me your etchings, are you?”

  “No etchings. And I tossed out my watercolors, but you can see my Jack Kerouac bobblehead doll. Really, I won’t hit on you.”

  “You’re either a gentleman or a great liar. Give me directions to your place.”

  Mack knew that gentlemen could be liars too, but that distinction seemed out of place. He just wanted to sip tequila and touch Cal Vrattos’s fingertips across the checkered tablecloth. He did neither—the former because he had to drive back to Tucson and the latter because a first date was too soon to ignite his jets. But candlelight flickered across her face, and he knew he wanted to see her again.

  “I have to work tonight,” Mack said, “but then I’ll be off.” Mack had a police department pension that paid his bills, but he did occasional security consulting to pay for extras like the rare hot date.

  Cal was thin, forty-something and pretty, with grown-up worry lines across her forehead. He had about a decade on her. “I figure you for early thirties,” Mack said. “If you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Thirty-five,” she said.

  “And I’m forty-four.”

  The restaurant was packed with diners who didn’t seem to care whether Mack and Cal lied to each other. Waiters bustled, marimbas played and ceiling fans washed warm air over everyone. Cal leaned toward Mack over her plate of half-eaten enchiladas. Mack guessed she had pulled her wrinkled blouse straight out of a suitcase, but he hardly cared. Her eyes darted from left to right like the eyes of a spy dropping off a film of secret missile sites. “I’ll add ten years if you will,” she whispered.

  He grinned and shook her hand, then held it. Her skin was soft and warm. “Deal.”

  They exchanged selected fragments of their backgrounds, which Cal called curricula vitae. He had majored in criminology, she in fine arts. He had two sons who were cops; she had a daughter at Harvard. He read Elroy Leonard; she read Toni Morrison. He followed the Red Sox and the Diamondbacks; she watched figure skating and C-Span. He loved running. She was running. “I couldn’t put enough miles between Elvis and me,” she said.

  He waved away her offer to split the tab, and he paid in cash since his replacement credit card wouldn’t arrive for another day or so. A look of pleasant surprise crossed her face as though Dutch treat was her normal dinner fate with men. His hand touched her back as they walked out to the street and found their cars, apparently both happy that they had so much in common. “Thanks for dinner and your company,” she said. “I’ll be heading out tomorrow morning, maybe to California. And maybe not.”

  “Tarry awhile,” Mack replied. “Pause a day or two. I’ll give you the tour I promised. The Sonora Desert. Anasazi ruins. Pineapple salsa.”

  A smile spread across Cal’s face. “I pray you, tarry,” she said. “Pause a day or two before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong, I lose your company: therefore forbear awhile.”

  “Help me out here. Which play is that?”

  “Merchant of Venice. That’s
Portia speaking to Bassiano. I learned her part for a summer theater.”

  “Oh, yes. The quality of mercy is not strained; it falleth like a gentle rain upon the place beneath. Ninth-grade English. And um, my memory of the rest is a little hazy. The point is, you really add to the scenery, and I don’t want you to leave just yet.”

  “Oh my gosh, a Shakespeare-quoting cop.” Cal’s face lit up.

  “A retired cop, and that’s all I can quote from the Bard. Of course, if you were willing to tarry awhile, I could study up.”

  “No need, really. I’ve left that Elvis bozo far behind, and I’ll take you up on your tour offer. Will you be bringing Mister Ashe?”

  “Of course. You would have liked my friend George. Sometimes we’d sit on a bench along the Merrimack River and feed the odd duck while he quoted T. S. Eliot.”

  “Strange to say, I can picture that. He’s saying, ‘This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.’”

  “He had his own version, though. This is the way my date ends. Not with a bang but a whimper.’”

  “Oho, a card.”

  “You have my address, right? Stop by my place in the morning, and we’ll go out for coffee and I’ll give you both the fifty-cent tour.”

  “I could spring for up to a dollar each. What would that buy us?”

  “Ah, the deluxe package, where I attend to the customer’s every whim.”

  “You might regret it. I can be very demanding, you know.”

  “That’s fine. George won’t ask for much, so I can concentrate on you.”

  “You’re doing that already. Will I have to pay a premium for all this attention?”

  “Nah, I’m getting rich on psychic income.” Mack grinned, and Cal responded with a beaming smile of her own.

  Cal got into her car and headed across town. Mack followed partway but took a left toward Pincushion, thinking how much he wished she would stick around.

  At home, Mack sat down at his computer and Googled Merchant of Venice. As he read Portia’s speech, he imagined Cal delivering the lines on the stage, a spotlight glancing off her lovely face.

  Cal went back to her motel room—alone, she rued. Mack was tall and handsome, with an expressive face and rugged hands that had made her feel secure when they brushed her arm, alive when they touched her face. If he had done something stupid like kiss her, she might have done something stupid like kiss him back, and he would probably be here now, making his moves and making her move.

  Which was a bad idea. Who was this guy who made her feel so good with so little apparent effort? He said he was widowed and retired, but was he really a serial killer? Maybe she should check the FBI wanted posters in the post office, because her ex-husband was living proof that men weren’t always who they seemed to be. Maybe he befriended younger women, then killed them and stored them like cutlets in freezers. Maybe he was a wife abuser, a deadbeat dad, a level-three sex offender, or Whitey Bulger’s bodyguard. None of those ugly thoughts seemed likely, but then she wouldn’t have guessed Cosmo Peters was gay when she married him.

  Of course, she hadn’t been entirely wrong about Cosmo Peters, Esquire, LLD. He was a wonderful man who simply had a trait she couldn’t live with and he couldn’t live without. After their friendly divorce, there was still an energy between them that was no longer sexual but had mellowed and morphed into trust and affection. Maybe Cosmo could help her; it was never too late to call.

  She speed-dialed his number on her cell phone.

  “Hey Cosmo, it’s me.”

  “My gal-pal Cal! Freddy and I were just heading out to paint the town.”

  “Freddy? Oh, right, I remember him. Give him my love.”

  “Oh, I will, dear. I most certainly will. You’ve been quiet for a few days. Is everything all right?”

  Cal recapped her encounter with Elvis Hornacre, his threats, her trip westward and her meeting Mack Durgin in Tucson. “We can track down Elvis,” Cosmo said, “and make sure he never bothers you again.”

  “Thanks. I’ve left him far behind, though. Right now, I have a big favor to ask. If you can’t do it or don’t want to, I’ll understand.”

  “Yes, I’ll do it.”

  “But I haven’t told you what the favor is.”

  “It doesn’t matter, my answer is yes.”

  “Even if I asked you to out yourself to the board of selectmen?”

  “Where have you been? Didn’t you know Freddy’s on the board of selectmen? Anyway, that’s nothing you’d ever ask for. I know you much better than that.”

  Cal laughed. “You’re right. I’m hoping you can check out Mack Durgin before I get in a car with him and gallivant around the state.”

  “Sure thing. When are you seeing him?”

  “In the morning.”

  “Hoo boy.” Cosmo apparently covered the phone, because Cal heard muffled voices. “Well, it’s short notice, but I can find out tonight if he has a criminal record. I know a couple of the Lowell Police, so maybe they can vouch for this Durgin person. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try anything with you, of course.”

  “Naturally. I think I’m attracted to him, but I don’t want to be a bozo again.”

  “Like you were with me?”

  “No! That isn’t what I meant at all. God, I feel like one now.”

  “Relax, Cal. I was teasing you. Are you in love with him?”

  “Are you kidding? We’ve just met, and I never fall in love that quickly.”

  “You never fall in love at all, you bungee-jump. I’ll check around and call you back tonight.”

  Cal hung up the phone and changed into shorts and a t-shirt, then sat on the carpeted floor and did fifty ab crunches. The motel had a small exercise room on the first floor, so she went downstairs and ran on a treadmill for an hour and worked up a pleasant sheen of sweat. She returned to her room, showered and dressed for bed, then lay down and fell asleep in front of a Masterpiece Theater re-run.

  The cell phone rang, interrupting her REM sleep where she’d been dreaming that her bungee cord had snapped and she careened toward the notorious nun-slashing ex-cop whose extended arms offered the only hope that she wouldn’t crash onto the rocky shoals of love.

  She yawned and answered, “Yes?”

  “Cal, do I have news for you, dear. Everything that Durgin person told you seems to be true. He sounds like a catch, Cal. If you don’t want him, send him to me.”

  “Thanks, Cosmo. You are amazing.”

  “Yes, I know. Freddy says much the same thing.”

  Mack lay on the desert floor among the prickly pears and the ocotillos and inexplicably smelled coffee. George’s urn sat beside him; was the Sonora Desert a good place to leave his friend? A hummingbird sipped nectar from a blossom on an ancient saguaro—odd, because he thought the giant had bloomed a couple of months ago. He listened for the rattle of a diamondback’s tail, but heard nothing. He really shouldn’t be resting here, where he was so vulnerable. A Tokyo-sized arachnid climbed onto his toes, his legs, paused to regard the pillar in his crotch, walked across his belly and his chest. Mack couldn’t move, couldn’t brush the fearsome creature away—was it going to rip out his larynx? The spider crawled up his neck and onto his face. It was going for his eyes!