Dakota Trail

by David R Lewis

  “You haven’t been here for dinner in almost two years and you bring me potato soup?”

  He caressed her chin with a forefinger and allowed his voice to drop an octave. “Once its succulent creaminess passes those pouting lips and warmly caresses that ever so sharp tongue of yours,” he said, “you will never again want another, but will yearn only for mine.”

  Ruby smiled and slipped out of his arms to collect dinnerware.

  “Open the wine, Hotshot.”

  Thirty minutes later she pushed her empty bowl away with a tiny belch.

  “Ambrosia, Crockett, goddammed ambrosia. I never tasted anything like it. Bet it goes straight to my thighs.”

  “An appealing thought, but not true. Crockett’s famous potato-brie sludge never gets past the heart. That’s why I hardly ever make it.”

  “To the terrace, Raoul, and breathe. I’ll be right there.”

  Crockett walked out through the sliding glass doors and flopped on her patio couch. Night was coming on and the air was beginning to cool. He looked at the Kansas City lights reflected off low cloud cover and rolled Ruby over in his mind. As always, she remained an enigma. During the infrequent occasions when they spent time together, he was never sure if it was therapy or social. The only thing he was sure about, was that it would never escalate into anything romantic.

  A minute later Ruby came out, handed Crockett a short scotch, and reclined on the remainder of the couch. Unable to resist teasing him, she draped her calves across his lap. As usual, Crockett did his best to remain casual.

  “Twenty-five year old, single malt,” she said, then reached into the pocket of her shirt and removed two cigars. She clipped the ends off both, lit one for him, the other for herself. Smoke wafting slowly from her lips, she grinned.

  “Macanudo Maduros and good scotch, Pal. This is surely better than either of us deserve.”

  Lightly rubbing her calves, Crockett said, “What’s going on, Ruby?”

  “Could be seduction,” she said.

  “As I recall, you don’t sleep with men.”

  “I don’t fuck men.”

  “So, is this therapy?” he said.

  “Crockett, every minute I spend with your tired old ass is therapy for me.”

  Crockett leered, drawing his finger lightly along the bottom of her foot. “Think how therapeutic it could be if I really tried,” he said.

  Ruby shivered, stood up, leaned over, and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  “I’ll be back with more scotch and a quilt,” she said. “Don’t move.”

  When she’d settled in again, Ruby asked, “What about Rachael?”

  “That is a very troubled woman,” Crockett said.

  “You have no idea how troubled. I suspect that I don’t either.”

  “She’s pretty cute,” he said. “Nice bod. So I’ve decided to gain her confidence, have my manly way with her, and cast her cruelly aside. It’s a guy thing. Like football.”

  Ruby flipped a cigar ash in his general direction. “When do you see her again?”

  “I’ve got an early recording session at Airbourn Studios in the morning, then I’m meeting her for breakfast at the IHOP by I-35, then we’re going to the Bull’s-Eye and blaze away.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “See? Now there you go,” Crockett said. “I didn’t go to all the trouble of building my potato masterpiece just to let you pick my brain. Why can’t we just get along?”

  “Fess up. How do you feel about that?”

  “Well, Doctor LaCost,” Crockett whined, wringing his hands, “I feel that my feelings are feeling that they feel a feeling that feels full of feelings. Can you feel how full that feels?”

  “C’mon, Asshole.”

  Crockett thought for a moment.

  “All right,” he said. “Rachael has a lot of snakes crawling just below the surface, but I think she’ll be okay. I’m a little worried about how I should deal with her.”

  “You’ll deal with her fine,” Ruby said. “It’s instinctive with you. Don’t concern yourself. You’re not here because I’m worried about Rachael. You’re here because we have been too long apart and this was a perfect excuse to spend time with you. Christ, Crockett, the Classic Cup was the first time I’d seen you in forever. You spend more time with Uma than you do with me.”

  “Yeah, but I like Uma.”

  “Fickle bitch that you are.”

  “And I’ve got a better chance of scoring with Uma than I do with you.”

  “When’s the last time you fired a gun?” Ruby asked.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit. You know. You know exactly. C’mon, Crockett.”

  “The night I got shot, I guess.”

  “The night Paul Case was killed.”

  “Yeah. The night I got shot,” Crockett said, feeling an all too familiar flutter in his chest.

  Relentless, Ruby kept after him.

  “That would be the night Paul died, right?”

  Cold emptiness surged behind Crockett’s heart and the taste of metal leaked into his mouth.

  “Yes,” he said. “The night my partner and friend, Paul Case, was shot to death, Doctor LaCost. March third, nineteen eighty-four. The night that Margie became a widow, the night that Clifford and Janet didn’t have a daddy anymore, the night a useless piece of shit named Clevant Pelmore took it upon himself to shoot me and kill my partner. The night that I popped a cap on that same useless piece of shit and sent his dog-ass into the cold hard ground. That shot, Doctor LaCost, is the last time I fired a gun!”

  Shoulders sagging, Crockett lurched to his feet. Ruby reached for him, but he brushed her hand away and stalked off through the apartment. The sound of the slamming door was flat and final.

  Fog had formed at ground level and Crockett surged through it on the way to his truck, the pale vapor swirling behind him. He got in and put the key in the ignition before the cold behind his heart overtook him. Fingernails digging into his palms, he rested his forehead on the unyielding steering wheel and let the tears come.