A Shade Like Veronica Lake

Now they were alone—solitary, looming—like two schooners out at sea: the private eye and therubia with the sleek, powerful design. Presently she stood and sailed across the open sea of the bar, moored next to him. Quietly, without causing ripples or drawing attention to herself. Very much like a schooner.

“Hi, private eye.” She had a sensual voice: soft, sultry, femininely provocative.

He greeted her. “Hola, Linda. How did you find me?”

She answered without looking at him. “You weren’t home, so I drove on Division St. until I spotted your car.”

“Clever.”

“Yes, wasn’t it? I learned that from you.” After a pause, she said, “Where have you been keeping yourself? I was beginning to think you forgot the way to my apartment. Private eyes have a lousy sense of direction.”

“Not this private eye. I’ve been busy, just busy.”

“Too busy to come by Lake Shore Drive, to see me?”

“Yeah. You might say that. It’s as good a reason as any.”

Linda Pirelli displayed no emotion at such a spiteful remark. He lit the cigarette she had placed between her moistened red lips, and she smoked and stared at his image reflected upon the mirror behind the counter. She smoked with careful, precise puffs. She smoked and didn’t smile, didn’t even blink. Rio watched her smoke, admiring her beauty.

With her head slightly tilted, Linda Pirelli reminded him of Veronica Lake. She had the same platinum blond hair which fell like a curtain over half her face. She had the same pouting full lips and no-holds-barred expression of being able to see through him and into space. She had the same sculpted features, ineffable beauty and film noir charm and style.

Ever since their first encounter, which had occurred over eight months ago, he had admired not only her beauty, which was prodigious, but also her ability, like an actress, to control her emotions.

Even when he behaved like a bastard. Such as now. Offering no excuses. Not even a well-dressed lie.

But he could fix it. Rio could keep his lady content as long as he didn’t do or say anything with an overt intention to hurt or maim or kill. Though he had charmed her once with his unpredictability, his relentless self-absorption, this was no longer the case.

“How about ordering me another piña colada?”

“You got it.” Rio motioned to the barkeep and fancied the cherry the man put in Linda’s drink. Told her so. “That cherry, sure looks good. Like that pantsuit you have on. Sexy.”

“Want the cherry, private eye?”

“Love the cherry.”

She took the cherry, held it and watched as he bit it free from its stem. This attempt at foreplay failed to alter her expression, however. She still loomed like a cool ship out at sea.

Finally, she said, “Are you seeing another woman? If you are, please tell me.”

“I am.”

His frankness goaded her, even though she had asked him to tell her the truth. Her eyes became intense, scintillated.

“Prettier than me?”

“No way,” he said. “You’re Veronica Lake.”

“You’re lying.”

She accused him of this at least once a week. Sometimes more. Rio had gotten used to it.

“You know I never lie to you, darling Linda.”

“Don’t call me darling, you hypocrite!”

Silence. Quiet in the bar. Even the hum of traffic outside (and the beehive-like activity of pedestrians and city workers) failed to inhibit their intense dialogue. A ceiling fan twirled. A single fly crashed against the neon light insect exterminator.

He looked in her direction and said nothing. He enjoyed the intensity in her eyes. He smiled.

Linda didn’t smile. She sipped her drink and said, “Do you love this woman?”

He placed his hand upon her knee. “Hell, no. I like her. She’s my client. That means I work for her. There’s a difference.”

The blonde squeezed her highball glass, using the straw as a swizzle for her drink. “Do you still like, you know, me?”

She waited. When there was no reply, she said, “Well, do you, private eye?”

The question was sincere, of course. But it left her as naked as the day she was born.

Linda had come here on an investigation of her own, to discover what he was up to, if anything,

and—most importantly—for reassurance.

He would answer her, and it would be all right. Their relationship would continue, would endure, maybe even persevere, despite summer squalls, rough gales and acerbic seas.

He wouldn’t hurt her. Not now. Maybe never.

Hell, Linda must really be head-over-heels in love, he thought, desperate, or both. Maybe, since he had been absent for so long, he had undermined her sense of conquest, her feminine ego; and this because he hadn’t called or shown up or sent flowers or made love to her or anything else during the past week. The usual stuff, which—except for having sex—Linda expected, and he rarely gave her.

Nada, nothing.

“Well?” she asked, brushing back a lock of hair from her face.

He smiled in his usual way: lips spread without the teeth showing. “You know I do, lo sabes.”

“Prove it.” It was a point-blank demand.

“Why should I?”

He loved when Linda asserted herself. Her eyes widened, became inflamed and intense. She pressed her lips vice-tight. He was assertive, but she wasn’t about to let him have the last word.

“You …” She didn’t finish, her mouth still taught but her face flushing a wholesome, glowing red. She leaned in his direction and whispered: “Now listen to me, you Puerto Rican

Mike Hammer. I missed an afternoon of work, looking for you, which means you had better make it up to me. Capische?”

He clutched her wrist. The suddenness of his action surprised her. “What is it you want, sweetheart?”

“You know what I want, Rio.” She tried to extricate her hand from his grip. “I want, I need. . . you.”

He held her wrist tighter. “You know you have me. I’ll always be there for you. Qué pasa entonces?”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said, frowning, turning in desperation. “I wish you wouldn’t treat me like a whore, one of your floosies.”

“Forgive me, chula. I love it when you get mad. Your eyes flash. You become a totally different person. No jive.” He kissed her, handing her a key. “My place in fifteen minutes. And leave the door open. You got that?”

“Okay.” She took the key, and he let go of her hand. “But don’t stand me up. I’m armed this time. I’m packing a thirty-eight in my purse. A Saturday night special.”

“I always thought you carried that thing in your chest.”

“Smart ass.” She stood and said, “Ciao, lover. Come to me, soon.”

Rio kept his date with Linda. He just made her wait thirty minutes, not the fifteen he had said. When he arrived, she was already in bed, naked. She saw him enter the bedroom and stood on her knees, legs tucked, holding a white sheet over her breasts.

On her face her expression was of someone waiting for her date to show, except for her knitted brows.

“You kept me waiting,” she said.

“Already you’re complaining.”

“Well, you said fif—”

“I know what I said, dammit. Shut up!”

“Oooh!” she wailed. “Rio Blanco, you can be such a bastard at times. Know that? A real pain-in-the-behind ex-cop.”

“I know what you mean. But that’s me, Rio. Learn to live with it. Because—if you pay, you play; if you don’t, you won’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, private eye?”

“Hell, if I know. It sounds cool, doesn’t it? And I like saying it. Get used to it.”

She frowned. And he sat on the bed next to her.

Linda released the sheet, threw her arms around his neck and smothered his lips with a roughness that almost bruised them. “It looks as if I’m going to have to, Rio. Know why? Trying to change you is like trying to get the Chicago Cubs to win another pennant.”

“It’ll happen. I mean, I won’t change but the Cubs will win. Trust me on this. Chicago Cubs, even if it takes forever.”

“Know what I wish? I wish you would change. For the better.”

“Wishful thinking,” he said. “Now, how ‘bout releasing that strangle hold. My bladder feels like I haven’t emptied it in a week. No lie.”

Again, Linda frowned. “That doesn’t sound very romantic, Rio.”

“Mira, you want romance, check out the soaps. That’s me, Rio talking.” He patted her side. “Keep it warm for me. I’ll be back, beautiful lady.”

He left the bedroom. She could hear him in the shower, then shaving. The razor made a sharp tap-tack as it repeatedly struck the washbowl. He returned, showered and shaved, wearing a terry cloth robe of dark blue which contrasted nicely with the golden brown of his eyes.

He wore nothing else, not even after-shave.

“Are you coming to bed now?” she inquired.

“Is it warm?”

“Steaming.”

“Then I’m coming to bed.”

He removed the robe, joining her in bed. And they made love. Softly at first, then with purity and passion only Linda Pirelli could devise.

They embraced with feverish élan, and she responded with eroticism, biting his neck and digging her nails into his haunches, arousing him—and herself. Her thighs worked like sliding fish in his hands. She felt him inside, good and moist and strong and eager. Her desire for him swelled like the ocean, like poetry: unfettered and samite sheeted.

Linda knew Rio loved loving her body. She had spoiled him with it, gorged him with her sweet, powerful sex. He loved her sex with such intensity and desire, it proved difficult, at times impossible, for him to see her as a whole person, as a mind as well as a body—not just the fantasy he imagined as a youth and believed would one day find in a beautiful woman, in this case, Linda. She understood this.

She also knew it was selfish of him not to correspond with his love. But what did it matter if they were together?

Moreover, at the onset of their relationship, when they first lay naked in bed, even before making love, he had impressed upon her the notion that all he could offer as a person was a little of his time, a little of his money, much passion and a cornucopia of good hard sex. He said nothing about falling in love.

Yet darling Linda, through ignorance or caprice or vanity or naiveté or whatever made her tick, kept confusing making love, with being in love. What she wanted he couldn’t give: a man who could lay with her and fall in love in the same manner she had fallen in love with him, honestly and completely.

In other words, a man who would make love with her and not just to her.

But Linda should have known that no man could love her the way he did: without jealousy, without brag, without complicated marital demands. In essence, leaving them both free to find pleasure in each other and in their sex. Free to choose.

Wasn’t that worth as much as love?

After her final quick moans of contentment, Linda unfastened her legs from the arch of his back and rested. Feeling satiated, warm and whole. Eyes closed, she thought about this emotion, as she imagined his seed rushing inside her like salmon upriver. She thought about how lonely the waiting had been, and how right life seemed with him at this moment.

Not only the sex, which was only physical, but also the emotions: those warm and tender moments in bed together. The moments with him were not always thus. But they were all, for the most part, memorable.

At least to her.

She knew she mustn’t feel grateful. If anything, he should feel grateful to her. Not only did she give him her body and her sex, but more importantly, her love.

They faced each other in silence. She asked herself: Why doesn’t this man give his love in return?

No answer, so she said, “How was it?”

He breathed quietly. “Profound.”

“It was for me, too.” She sighed and said, “Rio, doesn’t that tell you something about us?”

“Of course. That we like to screw.”

She frowned. “I bet this new woman in your life doesn’t love you the way I do.”

“Which woman is that?”

“Don’t act so innocent. The woman you’ve been seeing instead of me.”

“I told you. She’s a client.”

They both lay on their side without separating. She watched him. Her hair fell like a curtain over half her face. She swept it back from her face and her eyes shown blue, quick and vulnerable. “Rio, don’t you love me anymore?”

“You don’t have to ask,” he said. “You know I do.”

“You never say it. Why do you never say it?”

“Que carajo importa.”

“Don’t answer me in Spanish,” she said, glowering. “I understand what you’re saying. You’re saying it’s not important. That words aren’t necessary. But they are to me. I want to hear it, at least once, from your own lips.

“Dammit, Linda!”

He released himself from her embrace. And she placed a hand between her legs to keep his seed from staining the bed. He sat on the bed, back to her. Then he stood and put his bathrobe on.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Am I annoying you?”

“Damn right. You’re so sentimental it bugs me. Romantic and old-fashioned to boot.”

“I am not.”

“The hell, you’re not. What do you want me to say: ‘I love you. Let’s get hitched?’”

She opened her mouth to respond but waited. She gathered her thoughts and said, “For your information, marriage isn’t uncommon for two people who love each other. Furthermore, I’m not certain I wish for us to continue like this. I’ve been your lady now for the past nine months.”

He lit a cigarette he found on the nightstand and sat on the bed. “It’s been eight months,” he said. “And you’re confused, woman. I don’t own you. You don’t own me. That was the deal. Any time you wanna call it quits, the door’s open.”

“Rio, please. I didn’t mean that.”

“Hell, you’re asking for a letdown.”

“I’m not, Rio. I just want us to be—”

“Tied. That’s how you want us, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say that. Not the way you mean it. You make it sound so negative, like a crime. I’m not getting any younger, you know. I want security, and a home.”

He smoked. “Don’t we all.”

“You know what I mean. What woman doesn’t? It’s not that I’m old-fashioned. I just don’t see what’s so terrible with a couple who love each other being legally married, wed.”

“You just don’t see.”

She looked away, felt like crying but somehow held back the tears. She decided not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

He looked at her. “I’m sorry. Really, Linda, I am. Forget what I just said.”

She didn’t expect to ever hear that coming from him, not from Guarionex Blanco, and wasn’t placated because she knew him too well. He could be lying, his words merely unfelt, a smokescreen, something an ex-cop would invent to deceive and hurt her. For now, she accepted his words for what they were worth.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she said. “I’m in love with you.”

“There you go again,” he protested. “You idealists think you can redeem the world, save humanity, by being in love, carrying a peace sign and signing a peace treaty. You’re dreaming.

Love and marriage is for suckers. I know. I was married once. Know what my ex-wife turned into? A junkie. She was in love, just like you. That didn’t save her. Didn’t do either of us any good.

“What’s the big deal? First thing married people do is give up their freedom. Put a yoke around each other’s necks. You want that for me? For us?”

“Rio, you think I’d take that away from you, your freedom? You think I’d put a yoke around your neck?”

“No question to it. Marriage implies loss of freedom. Headaches. Responsibility. I know what it is. I’m not stupid. That’s why people get hitched. Some do it for sex. Some do it for kicks. Some, like Rudy Cruz, do it to bolster their egos. And most, like you, get married to be tied.”

She sat, almost at attention. “Who’s Rudy Cruz?”

“He’s the murdered brother of the woman for whom I’m working.”

“Oh, then you’re working?”

“It’s the general idea. I have rent to pay, and groceries to buy.”

“You know what I think?”

He grimaced. “Don’t tell me you’ve been thinking?”

She breathed, made a smirk. “I think that if we were to get married, we could share the rent. Share other expenses as well. Isn’t that an excellent idea, Rio?”

“No sirve. Shitty idea.”

“What’s wrong with it? And what’s wrong with being legally tied?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, if you dig that life. I don’t. It would make me feel like a caged tiger. Besides, I can’t give that much. Not now. Maybe never. Can you?”

“Yes, yes, I can,” she answered quickly. “I want to give you everything. My heart, my soul. What else can I give you?”

“Gimme . . . love.”

She pouted. “You’re incorrigible. A genuine thorn in my side.”

Rio winked. “I know the feeling.”

“Bastard,” she said.

He feigned surprise. “You talk nasty, for a dove.”

“If I’m a dove, what does that make you?”

“I’m a tiger, de hecho.” She didn’t comment, so he added: “Don’t believe me? I can tear a man’s heart out, with one hand.”

“How gross!” she exclaimed. “You’re always so aggressive, Rio, so violent. To hear you speak, people would think we live in a jungle.”

“Chicago is a jungle, of asphalt, concrete and steel. Especially down these mean streets.”

She looked serious. “Know what? A healthy dose of peace and love might do you good.”

He shook his head. “Mira, peace doesn’t make it, not in the hood. And love makes it, but not all the time and not with everybody.”

“What do you do then?”

“Me? When in doubt, I kick ass.”

“You are violent,” she informed him, her free hand caressing his face. “But foolish me, I love you that way. I love you, sweet Rio.”

“That’s my lady.” He kissed her.

“Hold me again, close.”

“Aren’t you gonna get cleaned up?” he asked.

“Yes, but not here. In the shower. Join me?”

“You better believe it.”

They both vacated the bed. And as Linda shimmied toward the bathroom, Rio lunged for her flanks, and she screamed.

The End