Turn or Burn

by Boo Walker

  He reached our table and said, “I was told to give this to you.” He handed me a piece of paper.

  I took it and he turned to leave. “Hey, wait a minute,” I said.

  The man didn’t turn around. I unfolded the piece of paper and read the short note.

  “Hey,” I said, louder, unintentionally grabbing everyone’s attention in the coffee shop. The man stopped. I got out of my chair and went up to him. “Who gave you this?” I asked, lowering my voice.

  “Just some guy outside. He gave me twenty bucks. I didn’t read it, man.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I don’t know.” The homeless man’s breath was quite unpleasant.

  Francesca came up next to us. “What’s going on?”

  I ignored her and said again, “What did he look like?”

  The man shrugged his shoulders.

  “Black? White? Red?”

  “A white guy. Maybe forty years old.”

  “What color shirt?”

  “Green, I think. I don’t know, man.”

  I looked at Francesca. She was holding the files and ready to go.

  “White guy, green shirt. He’s probably watching us. Find him. Head south. Put his face in the dirt.” With that, I calmly exited the coffee shop and stepped onto the sidewalk to take a look around.

  People that play these little adolescent games aren’t used to playing them with someone like me. Whoever it was thought they could get some homeless guy to hand me a note, and I’d be so flustered that I wouldn’t think to go after them. Or wouldn’t think it was worth it. More often than not, in this kind of situation, the person responsible thinks they are safe in the background. Sometimes, they even hang around to watch what happens, perhaps to make sure I got the note or just to enjoy the show.

  We were up on Fifth Avenue. Almost lunch time and the streets were packed. But I scanned the crowd. In the movies, you always see someone look around and then give up. In real life, you don’t give up until you know they’re gone. You at least put a little extra effort in. It should be common sense, but it isn’t.

  In the spirit of breaking laws, I jaywalked and started jogging, guessing a direction. It was almost like being a keeper in a soccer game guarding the goal during a penalty kick. The keeper has to make a guess as to which way the ball is going. Otherwise, his reaction time won’t be fast enough. Sometimes it works. Other times, not so much. Certainly better than doing nothing.

  Once I crossed the street, I moved right, still scanning the crowd, looking for a green shirt or anything out of the ordinary. Like any eyes on me. Taking another gamble, I hung a left and went down Spring Street. The hill dipped down to the water and I moved quickly. I was starting to lose hope but I kept going. This guy is only human, I kept saying to myself. He didn’t fly away. The person who wrote that note had to be within a few hundred yards.

  After a few more minutes, I dialed Francesca, hoping that she had the guy hog-tied on Fourth Avenue. No such luck. Oh well, it was worth a shot.

  “What did the note say?” she asked.

  “I’ll show it to you. Meet me back at the coffee shop.”

  She was there before I was. I handed her the note. She read it out loud. “Go back home, Harper. The two of you will leave this alone or die. Your friend’s death was an accident. Consider this a peace offering.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Detective Jacobs to me.”

  “Uh, no. It sounds to me like we’re on the right track.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  Out of nowhere, a haziness came over me. The world around me began to spin. That all-too familiar feeling. The one I couldn’t run from. I closed my eyes.

  “You okay, Harper?”

  I shook my head, barely hearing her question.

  “Harper?”

  I peeled my eyes open after a few more seconds. My vision came back. “Yeah, just…I don’t know. I’m fine.”

  Gaining control, I looked around. Out there somewhere, someone was watching us. I could feel it. Behind some corner, someone had their sights on us.

  “Let’s head back,” she said, certainly noticing I was off in some way—and oh, how embarrassing that was. I tried to keep the thought from festering.

  We walked up the street. After a few steps, I got my balance back. My truck came into view around the next block, parked at an angle on a severe uphill slant.

  The second we turned the corner, the truck exploded into flames. A thunderous boom shook the street. I instinctively jumped to my right, covering Francesca and slamming her against the concrete. As we hit the ground, I scrambled to get on top of her, protecting her from any falling debris. “Keep your head down!” I yelled. People everywhere were screaming in terror.

  Once the worst was done, I slowly moved off Francesca. My truck was lit up from bumper to bumper; the flames reached twenty feet in the air. The windows were all blown out and the chemical smell of burnt rubber assaulted my sinuses.

  I looked back at Francesca and touched her cheek. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks for that.”

  I stood and helped her up. Then I jogged up the hill towards the truck. Francesca followed me. I looked for anyone that might have been hurt. The windows of a barbershop only twenty feet away had been shattered. The brick walls were black. I walked that way and looked inside. Several people were on the floor. “You guys okay?”

  “Yep, everybody’s fine,” a man said as he pushed himself up off the ground.

  Sirens began to sound in the distance. People on both ends of the block were staring at the scene. It was almost a miracle that no one had been hurt.

  Unless that was by design.

  “Jacobs isn’t going to be happy about this,” I said, staring at the truck, watching it burn, feeling the heat. “But I couldn’t care less,” I added.

  “That’s exactly how I feel,” Francesca said. “Do we tell him about the note?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “What do you think?”

  “Definitely not.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “So you and Francesca Daly were returning from having a cup of coffee when all of a sudden your truck blew up? Out of the blue…no reason at all.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’re so full of shit, Harper.”

  I was back at the hotel and had just explained to Chaco that we would not be buying a new tractor or grape press until I had a new truck when Jacobs called. After speaking with the cops and helping them fill out their little reports for the second time in two days, Francesca and I had walked back to regroup.

  Jacobs screamed at me for a while, proving to have quite the temper. Then he said, “My threat still stands. I find you investigating this case, you will be arrested.”

  “Detective Jacobs. Sir. I have no interest in this case. The man I was protecting is still alive. Ted’s death upsets me, but she who pulled that trigger is also cold and stiff. I’m good.”

  “That better be the case.”

  I hung up the phone and grabbed a shower, and then went down to Francesca’s room one floor below. She’d done the same; her hair was still wet. She wore jeans, no shoes, and a tight white T-shirt. Very, very tight. Hmm. Some things you can’t help but notice. She had a way of wearing men’s attire and making it looking utterly feminine.

  I raised the stack of papers with the arrests on it. “Back to work?

  “Yep.”

  Her room was just like mine. A king bed in the middle. A table with two chairs by the window that looked out over the stores below. I closed the blinds. “No need to make it easy on them.”

  I gave her half the stack again. She sat on the bed and I sat at the table this time. “I really don’t know what we’re looking for,” I said, “but we don’t have time to talk to every single one of them. There’s got to be an easier way.”

  We analyzed the sheets for a while. Most of the people had been arrested before. No violent crimes, save one.
I wrote the offender’s name down.

  “Harper,” she interrupted.

  “Yeah?”

  “I just wanted to say thanks again. Grazie. You can say all day that you were just reacting, but you still were looking out for me today. Thank you.”

  “That’s what we do, isn’t it?”

  She nodded.

  “Had you been a male soldier, I would not have done that.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can stand to see a man hurt but not a woman. My first objective was to protect you. Because you are a woman. It’s something so deep inside of me I can’t shake it, no matter what. Just like any man. No matter what other lives are at stake. It doesn’t matter that I know you can take care of yourself. That’s why I don’t think women should fight. In the field, we have to worry about you hot ones getting hurt…raped. It clouds judgment.”

  “You’re so full of shit. Don’t lay your mommy issues on this. We add just as much value as any man. And we sign up for it. Don’t forget that. We know what we’re getting into.”

  “Well, you can’t fight like men, either.” I smiled at that one. Yes, I was getting under her skin, and that was really why I was saying it. I was being a jerk. There was something appealing about seeing her get upset. Maybe this was my way of flirting, though I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to get involved. Not that she had any intentions of opening up her doors to me.

  “You don’t think I can fight?” she asked. She stood from the bed and came toward me. I didn’t know how to react.

  “What?” I held up my hands.

  That’s when it came. Full brute force. She punched me with everything she had. A full-on right to the cheek. No holding back. I dropped from the chair onto the carpet. It was a hell of a punch, actually. Then she kicked me several times in the stomach and ribs. Full throttle.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, trying to catch her leg.

  She stopped for a second. “You don’t think women can fight? I’ll kick your culo right now.”

  “You joking? I’m not going to fight you.”

  She kicked me in the stomach again and I lost my breath. “Then this is going to be fun. I’m going to hurt you.”

  “No, you’re not.” I pushed up to my knees and tried to grab her leg. Had it for a second but as I began to twist it, she slipped away. “I’m not going to fight you,” I said again.

  She came down low and punched me in the jaw. Blood hit the carpet.

  “All right!” I said, raising my voice. “You’re pissing me off. You don’t want me to hurt you.”

  “I want you to try.” Another punch. That’s when I finally took control, caught her arm, and pulled her down. She landed a little harder than I’d wanted, but she didn’t seem to mind. Holding her arms pressed down above her head, I got on top of her. We were both breathing heavily, and the climate suddenly changed. I was a foot above her, looking into her eyes.

  “We done here?” I asked. “Can I let you go?”

  She nodded ever so slightly and I released her arms. Her hand went up and I flinched, expecting another punch.

  Instead, she grabbed me by the back of the neck and pulled me toward her. She pulled me down, pressing her lips to meet mine. Still over-the-top aggressive, we began to kiss. I felt the warmth and moisture of her full lips caressing my face. I could still taste the blood from her punches in my mouth. I have never experienced such a random juxtaposition of emotions. Desiring once again the vulnerability with a woman, and at the same time feeling the need to protect myself. I went with my primal instinct and pressed myself against her, closing in on her scent.

  “I like fighting you,” I said. There is nothing like kissing a woman who has just punched you. In fact, I’d never been punched by a woman before, so this was an entirely new experience for me. Not that I was thinking of any of that at the moment. I was completely present, in the state that the men in orange are always trying for but never attain. How can you truly reach some sort of thoughtless Nirvana without a woman like Francesca all over you, touching you, teasing you, pulling and pushing you into some netherworld?

  “Jesus, lady. You know how to turn a guy on.”

  “Stop talking,” Francesca ordered, like some commander in her own sexual revolution. She pushed me over, switching positions, taking control and forcefully slipping her tongue inside my mouth. Sitting up, she ripped off my shirt. My blood was running south. She kissed my chest as my pelvis throbbed and pulsated to the beat of her drum.

  I noticed a comforting smile on her face as she started to slow down for a little while, taking in what had happened so far.

  Where was this going to go? I hadn’t been here in a long time…a very long time. I hadn’t been with a woman in probably more than three years. I’m telling you, my mind had checked out. At the risk of sharing too much, I hadn’t even masturbated in more than a year. Uh, yeah, I was bad off.

  But this felt necessary—not that she (nor my anatomy) was giving me a choice. Wanting her badly was the understatement of the season. What was going on between us seemed very right.

  I reached down and began to pull her shirt up and over her head. She pushed my hands away and did it for me, arching her back up and away from me, just long enough to get the shirt off and toss it across the room. This woman, Francesca Daly, was in the mood. And I liked it.

  I wanted to get in past that white bra so badly I could have ripped it right off her body. I pushed it up off her large breasts, and they released into my hands. Dark, swollen nipples in between my fingers. I touched and kissed them, throbbing with a thirst for her. Helping me with my rustiness, she unclasped the bra and it fell.

  She got aggressive again, kissing me like I’d been away at war and we hadn’t seen each other since our wedding day. Well, the first part was true. I had been away at war. For a long, long time.

  My mind—amazingly—began to wander. I started thinking about what this was all about. I felt too free and vulnerable for this to be real. Francesca Daly, who are you to wake me from my nightmares?

  I could have kissed her for days, rolling around, exploring our sexual frustrations, wearing each other out. But the pants stayed on…and maybe for the best. I felt like I’d just been laid by the Rockettes, but our zippers hadn’t even come down. I was breathing like I’d just won a marathon. At last, we collapsed next to each other on the carpet.

  So there we were, two soldiers, having broken down, letting our human emotions control us. Something we’re trained not to let happen. But I wouldn’t have changed it. Our friction, all that fire building up between us, had led to this moment. Looking back on it, that moment had been coming a long time. It had been written into our lives from the moment she’d started up her attitude with me at the doctor’s house in Magnolia two days earlier.

  It was awkward trying to figure out what to do next. I felt like puppeteers had grabbed us both for a few minutes and had some fun, and now they’d abandoned us.

  ***

  “I wasn’t expecting that,” I said, still breathing heavily. Francesca was on her back, her front exposed. Simply gorgeous. She leaned her head over and beamed her punishing, even torturing, brown eyes at me. The kind of eyes that seem like they might not really be human. Especially when you’re the one lying on the carpet, looking deep into them from only six inches away; melting into them, being soaked up by them.

  “What were you expecting?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think I was. Don’t get me wrong, though. You just put a smile on my face.”

  “Oh, I did? I don’t see it.”

  “Well, I’m smiling somewhere. Trust me. You are a game-changer,” I said.

  “Now don’t start getting all attached. That was just a result of too much sexual tension in the midst of the loss of a friend. That won’t happen again.”

  “Wow…when I finally wouldn’t mind a little of the girl in you, you turn into a hardened vet
eran again. What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “You’re supposed to get up and get your eyes back on that paper. That was fun…now let’s get on with it.”

  “Suit yourself.” I stood and tossed her shirt and bra to her. “Put your clothes on, soldier. This isn’t a brothel.”

  Francesca shook her head with a tiny little smile as she caught the clothes. While she put herself back together, I pulled my shirt on and started flipping through pages back at the table. Not that I could really concentrate. What the hell had just happened?

  My phone rang shortly after. “Harper, here.”

  “Hi, it’s Lana. From the park last night.”

  “Sure. Lana from last night.” I looked at Francesca. She was sitting back on the bed, thumbing through the documents, acting like that hadn’t just happened.

  “So I talked to some people,” Lana said.

  “Yeah, I heard. Got a call from the cops this morning. They said you gave them my number.”

  “Sorry, honey. That’s the way the street works. I’m not looking for trouble. What I am looking for is cash. Can we meet? I got something I didn’t tell the cops.”

  “Sure…how about right now?” Anything to get me out of that hotel room. “You know where those hot dog stands are next to the Seahawks stadium?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you there in twenty.”

  “Bring cash.”

  I hung up, stood, and walked over to Francesca. “Want to come? She’s got some info for us.”

  “Let’s go.”

  An idea suddenly occurred to me, though, and I had to express myself. “If there’s really not going to be another of what just happened,” I said, “can we at least have a quick encore? I’d like to revisit a few things. I may have missed something.”

  “It’s already in the history books. Forget about it.”

  “Did I mention I’m fascinated with history? Quite the historian, actually. Especially Roman architecture.”