Love or Honor (28 page)

The guy was huge—like Hercules, Chris thought, all muscle. Chris was strong, but in a taut, wiry way. He felt he was no match for this monster.

“You talking to me?” Chris called.

The man was growling and snarling, making animal sounds. He was flailing his arms in the air. Chris began to back up, even as he was remembering what he'd just been told at the Academy: Never back up. Never retreat.

“Listen, pal,” Chris shouted. “Stay where you are! Stop right there! I don't want to hurt you!”

The man kept coming. About ten feet in front of Chris, he stopped. He began moving very slowly forward, inching toward Chris, as though in a horror movie. He was still growling, his arms raised like enormous clubs. Chris could feel the smash of those arms on his head.

Chris had been holding his nightstick in his right hand. He switched it to his left and put his right hand on his gun in its holster.

“I don't understand, do you have a problem?” Chris asked. He realized how ludicrous that sounded, but he didn't know what else to say.

The man stopped for a moment, glaring. Small globs of thin, whitish foam dripped from the sides of his mouth. Oh God, why me, why me, why me? Chris thought wildly.

“I'm warning you!” he yelled. “Take one more step and I'll kill you! I'll put one in your head! I'm telling you right now, STOP!”

He pulled his gun and pointed it at the man's chest. Bits and pieces of the firearms lectures at the Academy were spiraling through his head. The toughest decision you will ever have to make. Split-second. Must be necessary. Must be certain … your life in danger. Someone else's life. Must be necessary. Absolutely. No choice. Then shoot. To protect yourself and public. Shoot!

Chris had backed up as far as he could go. He was bumping against the building. He was afraid that the guy would wrest the gun from him and shoot him with it, or run with it and shoot somebody else. He was just saying to himself, “Shoot! You have to shoot this guy!” when he heard frantic yells.

“Don't shoot! Don't shoot, Officer!”

Two men came racing up behind the hulking fellow and pushed him away.

The men were his brothers.

“Listen, he just goes off the handle once in a while,” one of them told Chris. “Sorry.”

Rudy wasn't slowing down. He was still driving fast on these dark, deserted streets, making conversation.

“How's the piece you got from me?” Rudy asked.

“It's good. It's okay,” Chris said.

“You got it with you?” Rudy asked casually.

“No, I keep it at my house,” Chris said.

He thought it worked to his advantage to say he was unarmed. If Rudy thought he was armed he might not hesitate, just shoot. Boom! That was the edge the bad guys had; they knew what they had in mind. The good guy—the cop—couldn't be sure when it was time to shoot, but the other guy always was. If Rudy thought Chris was unarmed, he might not be in a hurry to shoot. He could take his time, wait for the perfect spot, the right moment.

Rudy made a sharp turn. Chris thought he couldn't wait, then, for him to slow down, or to make some obvious move. He would have to shoot now. He would have to shoot first. Shoot to kill. He could feel the index finger of his hand on the trigger. The finger felt detached and isolated, as though it didn't belong to the rest of his hand. For the first time in his life, Chris was prepared to shoot someone just on the basis of what he was thinking.

“The hell with it,” Rudy said suddenly. “Let's go back to your place. Where's the fucking parkway?”

He braked sharply. The tires shrieked. He made a U-turn on the empty street and got back on the parkway. They were back within the hour.

“Surprise,” Marty said. “My parents have gone out. I'm making dinner for just the two of us.”

“Well, okay, fine,” Chris said, as he came inside. He was indeed surprised; he'd never been in the house without Anna and John around. When Marty had asked him out for dinner, he'd had no reason to think it was anything but a normal night.

“You look wonderful,” he said. “But how can you cook in that outfit?” Marty was wearing a long white dress in some thin, silky material that he could see right through.

Marty laughed. “You'd be surprised what I can do,” she said.

She took him into the living room, where there was a small table set up, with candles and wine glasses and one rose in the center of the table. A bottle of champagne was nestled in an ice bucket. Marty opened it with only a slight pop! skillfully, and poured for them both.

“There's another surprise,” she said, as they sat down. “You probably think I'm making Italian food, but I'm not. I'm cooking Chinese.”

“Well, hey, that's great,” Chris said. He'd hated Chinese food since the night at The Golden Slipper, and he wasn't fond of champagne, for that matter, but what the heck? He would just enjoy it, in this dramatic setting, with Marty sitting there in the candlelight in that see-through dress. To keep his mind from going fuzzy, he asked something about her father.

“Let's don't talk about my father,” Marty said.

“Well, then, how about your mother?” Chris said. “I really like your mother. She's a wonderful person.”

“She thinks a lot of you,” Marty said. “I don't know if you realize that.”

“Well, gee, that's nice,” Chris said. He knew he sounded like some schleppy kid, but he didn't know what to say. “I'm really glad, because I sure do like your mother. She's really nice.”

Marty took another sip of champagne, keeping her eyes on him. “My mother wants to know if we're getting serious.”

“Well,” Chris said. “Well, what did you tell her?”

“I didn't tell her anything,” Marty said. “I don't discuss things like that with my mother.”

“Hey, you should,” Chris said. “She's a very understanding woman. You should talk about things like that with her.”

Marty stood up. “I'm going to make dinner now,” she said. “Come watch.”

In the kitchen, she put on a plaid apron and poured oil into a wok. “Everything's ready,” she said, motioning to little dishes with chopped-up things in them—vegetables, walnuts, green beans, slices of chicken. Chris watched with interest as she poured things into the wok and stirred it so quickly that dinner was ready almost immediately.

Chris had made up his mind to eat the Chinese food, no matter what, and was pleased to find that it was really very good. Marty brought another bottle of champagne from the kitchen, and he found he was enjoying that, too.

Marty carried in the dishes. “Stay where you are,” she commanded. “I'll be right back.”

When she returned, she crossed the room and put a record on the stereo.

“Where did you and Daddy go yesterday?” she asked, not looking around.

“Oh, here and there,” Chris said, as he'd said once before. “No big deal.”

“Here and there, here and there,” Marty said in a mocking tone. She stood looking down at the stereo. “Why do you want to be a tough guy, Christy?”

“Who, me?” Chris said. “I'm not a tough guy. I'm a nice guy. You know that by now, don't you?”

She turned, and held her right hand out, her index finger pointed at him, as though she had a gun.

“The cemeteries are full of tough guys,” she said in a tough, growly voice.

“Why—where did you hear that?” Chris stammered. “That doesn't sound like you. What makes you say that?”

Marty came back to where he was sitting and poured the last of the champagne. But she didn't sit down. She stood looking at him.

“Have you thought any more about opening a music store?” she asked, in her regular voice. “You've got the money, haven't you?”

“Well, yeah,” Chris mumbled. “But right now I'm—I'm doing a couple other things. Maybe someday. A music store or—or a club.”

“Maybe someday,” she mimicked. “When is someday?”

“I don't know,” Chris said.

Marty set her glass down and held out her arms. The music was soft and slow. Her filmy dress swirled as she came toward him. “Hey, I don't dance,” Chris said. “You know I don't dance.”

Marty just held her arms out, swaying and smiling. He got up and stepped into her arms.

“See, you can dance,” Marty murmured, her cheek pressed against his. “I never believed you when you said you couldn't dance. You're a bad liar.”

“This isn't dancing,” Chris said. “This is just moving.”

“Well, whatever it is, it's nice, isn't it?” Marty whispered.

“Oh yes,” Chris said.

Marty took her arm from around his neck and took him by the hand. She led him through the foyer and up the stairs. Chris went in a happy daze, willingly, knowing it was a mistake.

Her bedroom seemed to belong to another house. In contrast to the heavy, dark furniture downstairs, hers was white wicker. An amber light from a small porcelain table lamp gave the room a soft glow. There was a four-poster bed with a canopy in some misty color.

“What color do you call that?” Chris murmured, as they moved toward the bed.

“Champagne,” Marty said. “Hey, you want to talk interior decorating? Or you want to make love?”

Because he felt like a schoolboy doing something bad—very, very bad—when his parents weren't home, Chris thought they'd never had such a marvelous time in bed. And he'd never felt so tense, afterward, as he strained to hear the sound of the front door.

“Don't worry,” Marty said. “They won't be home till very late, I know.”

Chris sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I believe you, but still, I better go now.”

Marty pulled her dress back over her head and walked down the stairs with him. She seemed subdued, then.

“What's the matter?” Chris asked, as they stood in the foyer. He put his arms around her and looked into her eyes. “Didn't you like it?”

“Of course I liked it,” Marty said. “I always do. I just wish—oh Christy, I wish you didn't have to leave.”

“I wish I didn't, either,” Chris said. “I'll call you tomorrow.”

She laughed, lightly. “So what should I tell my mother?
Are
we getting serious?”

Chris mumbled something that was unintelligible, even to himself.

“We've known each other over two years, Christy,” Marty said quietly. “Is there going to be something more to this?”

“What do you mean?” Chris asked, stalling.

“You know what I mean,” she said softly. “I mean getting married. Us. Married. That's what I mean.”

“Married,” Chris said. “But didn't you—I thought you wanted a career.”

Marty smiled. “I think I could handle both.”

If only he'd met Marty in another situation. If only he wasn't married. If only he wasn't a cop. If only her father wasn't her father.

It was pointless to keep thinking “if only.” But as he drove away, he couldn't stop. She was the right woman. At the wrong time, in the wrong place, in all the wrong circumstances. But he knew she was the right woman for him. And obviously she thought he was the right man for her. She was everything he'd ever wanted in a woman. Warm and earthy. Intelligent and sophisticated, but not in a cool way. Not in Liz's way.

It was stupid and wrong to compare them, but if he'd met Marty first, he'd have picked her. No, not “picked.” You didn't pick a woman as though she were a piece of merchandise in a shop. And a woman didn't pick a man that way. The right man and the right woman just found each other. Even in the most bizarre circumstances, they found each other, when they finally realized what they were looking for, and what they needed.

At the dinner table, Chris could hardly swallow. The food was perfect, as usual. The chicken cacciatore was thick and gleaming in its sauce, the potato salad chunky and delicious, as usual. But Chris wasn't eating as usual, Anna noticed. “Is something the matter?” she asked, sounding concerned.

“Oh no, nothing's wrong,” Chris said. “Everything is wonderful.”

He picked up a forkful of potato salad and smiled, while still trying to keep his eyes on the man across the table. It was Angelo. Chris had met Angelo the first time he came to the house for Sunday dinner.

Angelo was an informer.

He'd been staring at Angelo ever since he arrived, trying to figure out if the guy was wired. He looked for suspicious bumps. He thought the guy must be wired, because before dinner, when Chris had tried to maneuver close to him, Angelo had moved swiftly aside.

Chris had talked a lot before dinner, much more than usual. He kept hoping that Angelo wouldn't stay long. But Angelo was staying. Angelo wasn't going to give up easily.

There was no business talk at dinner. But when Marty and Anna took the dishes into the kitchen, Angelo turned to John.

“You know what's going on downtown, don't you?” Angelo asked.

John grunted. “Why can't they settle it without me? What do they need me for?”

“Well, because you're the guy, aren't you?” Angelo asked. “Didn't you …”

Chris broke in. “Hey, I was at a great new place the other day,” he said loudly. “Great food! I mean, scampi like you wouldn't believe.”

Angelo glared at him, then turned to John again.

“You know what's going on, don't you?” Angelo continued.

“We could all go down together,” Chris continued enthusiastically. “Take the family, have a good time.” He rambled on, knowing that he sounded noisy and garrulous, not knowing what he was saying, knowing only that he musn't let John commit himself.

Finally Angelo gave up. He left, then Chris left too. He had to get out of the house.

When he kissed Marty goodnight, he felt like Judas. Even worse. Judas had betrayed one man one time. Chris was caught up in multiple betrayals.