The searchlight aimed at the corpses provided just the right mood for sketching, Marla hovering over them like an outraged Goddess – a perfect cover for the poems and stories I’d write about her and us and this night. I’d use the five grand to self-publish if I had to but I was sure she’d take care getting it done legit from the other side. Then it hit me that I’d better create a getaway and alibi. In the tropical heat that had proved so useful, melting the accessory candle wax on the sill, I limped away in my clearance sale sneakers that dead-as-bricks, fancy shoes Mel Jenks would have laughed to tears at. I couldn’t stifle my eyes from welling over as I limped away. I said a prayer for my three dead and all the brick climbers I’d ever known. I prayed for my vengeful, murdering soul. I grieved for that broken bottle of Colt .45.
I started to congratulate myself on my bulletproof luck, but Marla was the one who didn’t believe I had the five-pound collection after she’d raved about a poem I’d written about making love to her. I’d had the extra weight to show as proof my next visit that never happened but I kept it in my backpack for grieving purposes and it stopped Mel’s bullets. It seemed as though she was pulling the strings, me saved, Mel and Marky dead. Would she yank the strings from now on? Should I take the five-thousand to the track to test her power? When you’re hot, you’re hot. I’d said that to Marla once. She’d put my hand on her thigh and said, “Jocko, here’s what’s hot.”
I unhooked my searchlight from my belt, sat with my back against the warm bricks and aimed the beam at the bodies. Removing my backpack, I lifted out the wet five-pound stack of poetry and short story rejection slips. I almost cut myself on the broken Colt .45 bottle. While propping up my ankle I saw the bullet holes. They had traveled halfway through, stopped at the Mickey Spillane Mystery Magazine form rejection slip. The odds on that were large since I’d only submitted once.
I limped over to Mel. Jesus, the five grand I’d demanded was in his pocket. What had his plan been? The jerk had on fancy shoes like the ones I’d found, tassels, Goddamned tassels. I took the money, set Marky’s dope pouch on his forehead and then dragged Marky close to him. I don’t know where I got the strength. My ankle was a living anvil.
I was in shock. For all I knew, I was nearly dead, having sweet death’s door hallucinations. Breathing deeply, I pulled myself together. I glanced up at the stars and every candle Marla ever lit invaded my mind. That was it! Marla had emptied many a candle jar’s excess wax on the sill. The lumps had softened from the August dog-day heat. She got him! Marla got the no-good bastard. The spikes must have gotten Marky past Marla’s inadvertent trap, saved him for my greased flashing. I was as happy as a Project kid burglarizing a candy warehouse. Was I alive? Please Marla, let me be alive! I made my way to my feet to get the verdict. My ankle was pounding with a pain that would welcome amputation!
Mel gazed up at the heavens before heading down. Then the son of a bitch swung himself to Marla’s windowsill. He slipped and did the same dive as Marky. The king of Project brick climbers gave up his crown the hard way.
I slowly moved my head. Mel was still on the roof with his arms at his sides as if a weary warrior counting the dead. Christ, I was a goner. I could play possum but he’d surely check before leaving. Was I hit or not? Mel couldn’t have missed. The bastard was good at everything. I tried to find some prayer words, no luck, no regrets either. What the hell,
it was better to be dead than live with the guilt of causing Marla’s death. I would have stopped my once-a-week visits. I was positive my weekly hours with Marla had caused the argument that led to her butchering his prized shoes and consequent death. I planned to die as bravely as she must have, no weeping. I was going to be with Marla, a forever lover, not just Thursdays.
I’d never run so fast in my life. Just when I thought I might be clear, Mel opened fire. I went down hard. Was I hit or had I just tripped? My ankle was throbbing. I was wet, piss, blood? I could smell Colt .45. The bottle must have broken. Was I dying? I didn’t taste blood, maybe a good sign. People shot in the movies usually have blood trickling out of their mouths. I didn’t yell for my mother as they say dying men do. My life wasn’t flashing by.
Just one shoe had hit the gravel. Glancing up, I saw someone standing at the roof edge, shoe in one hand. A pistol was in the other. My eyes jumped to the corpse. “ON YOUR MARK” said the gunman. I turned and ran, realizing I’d killed Mel’s flunky, Marky. No wonder the climb had been so slow, poor clumsy bastard. Mel must have climbed up after I’d finished the cleanup.
I considered doing a sketch of the corpse, maybe with the tattered shoes on its chest. Reaching around, I took the Florsheims from the outside pouch of my backpack but changed my mind about drawing, no sense lingering. With one last look at Marla’s handiwork, I tossed the shoes one at a time onto the roof. When I started to walk away, I sensed something was very wrong.
Working quickly, I retrieved the equipment I’d hidden earlier in the bushes. With a grappling hook and a bag full of rags, I set about covering my tracks. In a half hour, the flashing was clean. I descended a couple of apartments away from Marla’s window, too many memories to have ventured too close to hers. I wished somehow I was dreaming and she’d soon caress me awake like she’d done once a week.
I got on my backpack and hurried to the ground. I felt for a pulse, but found none. Mel Jenks was climbing the walls of Hell. I was shaking as I removed his grease-stained gloves. I began to take off his ski mask but decided I didn’t want to face him. My light stopped on his shoes. He wore track spikes instead of sneakers. Man, was Mel going to brag that he was the first to get up that way? In his pockets, I found a switchblade and a pouch that was probably dope. I thought I might find my sketch of the wrecked shoes I’d found sitting on the roof that had lured him here. Mel was shrewd enough not to carry incriminating evidence. I loved to imagine Marla carving up his Florsheims with the super knife she bought off a TV ad. Yeah, Mel cutting her throat with it also. I couldn’t see the U.S. shoe industry embracing the sight of Mel stretching out her window to fling the injured shoes onto the roof.
I gawked, breathless, as an arm stretched for the copper lip. Would he fall or would luck somehow intervene for Mel, as it so often had? I crossed my fingers against it.
He dropped.
His feet hit the windowsill on the way down, spinning him. He looked like a high diver having a bad day. The way he landed, he must have broken his neck. There was no scream.
At ten-forty-five, I killed the light and capped the Colt .45. At exactly eleven, a figure dressed in black walked to Marla’s apartment, stood to the left of the door. I heard a muffled “ON YOUR MARK” before Mel began the ascent. I recalled we’d add on “GRANT” when Mel’s flunky for life Marky Grant would take his turn. At the rate Mel was moving, he wouldn’t set any records. I could have beaten him handily. I guessed the good life was poor training for scaling Project bricks. When he was reaching for the windowsill, a touch of cowardice hit me. I almost shouted for him to stop, but the thought of poor Marla murdered, silenced me.
The temperature was pushing a hundred at nine p.m. sharp when I arrived at Marla’s block in the recently abandoned-for-renovation Federal Housing to grease the copper flashing. After a month of surveillance, I’d learned that the cop’s last patrol was at seven-forty-five. I’d fix Mel’s rope-less brick rappelling ass! That’s what he called our childhood climbing. We depended on clothesline hooks, jutting bricks, windows and sills. I always finished a second or two behind. When I finished, I scaled the block directly opposite Marla’s that would be my witnessing point.
On the rooftop, I packed and lit a corncob with Cherry Blend. Marla loved its aroma. Sipping Colt .45 Malt Lager. I tried to conjure up poetry and stories I’d write about this adventure to dedicate to Marla, the titles at least. I’d known her since childhood but it wasn’t until she became a heavy drinking welfare recipient that I became her lover. Mel had taken her to our high school senior prom. He was a married lawyer and politician wealthy from graft. She was still a looker despite her life slide. He used Marla for casual sex. I loved her. She granted me one visit a week. She argued that her relationship with Mel was a matter of financial practicality.
