The World's Finest Mystery Part 51

"Hal?" one of his friends asked.

"Let's go," Hal said. "Burgers in this place stink, anyway."

They backed away a few steps, then turned and shuffled out the door, Hal pus.h.i.+ng them from behind.

He felt her hand on his shoulder and then he turned and faced her. She was taller than his wife, who had dark hair and dark skin and brown eyes. This girl was all pale and golden, and took his breath away.

"My hero," she said. "Thanks."

"No problem," he said. "I was kind of mad he got my shake."

"Go sit down and I'll bring you another one- on the house."

"Thanks."

He went back to his booth and started on his burger, not really tasting it. He was coming down from the rush of facing those three punks without a gun and badge, but was still high from the girl.

"Cop?"

He looked up at her standing there with another shake, smiling down at him.

"What?"

"I asked, are you a cop?" She put the shake down, this time without bending over.

"Why did you ask that?"

She shrugged. "Because you act like one."

"Well," he said, "it's a long story, but yes I am- I was..."

"Hey," she said, waving her hands in front of her, "none of my business. I'm sorry I asked. How's the burger?"

"It's fine."

"Look," she said, "I just want to warn you about those guys..."

"They didn't seem so tough."

"Well, you were facing them," she said. "Just be careful, okay? And really..." She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned over to kiss his cheek. She was so plush that for a moment he was blinded by the paleness of her skin. "Thank you," she said. "It's been a long time since anyone stood up for me." He couldn't understand that, at all.

4.After the last of the customers left she came over and sat opposite him in his booth.

"Close up for me, Liz?" the boss called out.

"Don't worry, Lenny," she said. "I'll lock everything."

The boss left and she leaned forward, a move which pressed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against the table so that they swelled, threatening to spill out of her blouse. And there were those blue eyes, that full, soft mouth.

"Give me a quarter," she said.

"A quarter?"

"For a song."

He reached into his pocket and handed her one. She went to the jukebox and punched in the number she wanted. Then turned and walked slowly toward him while the song started. Once again he heard Dusty Springfield's "You Don't Have To Say You Love Me."

"Dance with me?" she asked, ample hips already swaying.

He pushed away his partially eaten burger and got up. She came into his arms and pressed against him. He forgot about everything- his wife, the baby, Internal Affairs, his badge... everything. Nothing else existed except her in his arms. He knew he should be feeling guilty. After all, his wife was at home taking care of their new daughter, his career was on the line, and here he was dancing with a woman he'd only just met, but wished he could stay with forever.

"You're married, aren't you?" she asked. Her head was on his shoulder, her mouth near his ear.

"Yes."

"The good ones always are."

They danced until the song ended and then he didn't want to let her go. They stepped away and looked into each other's eyes.

"I know this is crazy," she said, "but would you like to come home with me tonight?"

"More than anything else in the world."

"No strings," she said. "Just tonight."

"No strings."

"I don't want to break up a marriage," she said, "but I feel like if I don't take this chance I'll always wonder... you know?"

He nodded. "I know."

"I'll lock up," she said, and began to scurry about, turning off burners, and lights, and locking doors, until finally they were going out the front door together.

They were on him like a pack of wild dogs.

Her arm was linked with his so that when they pulled him from the steps she went sprawling into the sand as well, away from the action. They rained down punches and kicks on him. He tried to give back as good as he got, but it was three against one and they had caught him unprepared. He had no doubt that it was the three punks from earlier in the evening. In fact, one of them still smelled sweetly of the shake Elizabeth had poured over his head.

She finally got back to her feet and decided to join the fray rather than call fruitlessly for help. She jumped on the back of one of the men and began to pummel him.

"Get her off me!" he shouted.

"Stop it!" she cried. "You're killing him!"

The other two stopped kicking Tru long enough to pry Elizabeth off the third man's back, sending her into the sand again.

"We're not gonna kill him, Lizzie" Hal said. "We're just teachin' him a lesson."

"Yeah," one of the others said, "No big city a.s.shole better come here and mess with our women."

"What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?" she demanded. "You losers don't have any women."

The three men exchanged glances, wondering how to respond to that.

"Besides," she said, before they could make up their minds, "you're really in trouble now."

"And why's that?" Hal asked.

"Because he's a cop," she said. "You three dimwits just a.s.saulted a cop."

"A cop?" Hal said.

"Jesus," one of the others said. "We didn't know."

"A cop, Hal," the third one said. "We gotta get outta here."

"Lizzie-" Hal started.

"Just get out of here," she said, cutting him off, "and don't call me that."

"He started it," Hal said. "He stuck his nose-"

"I can keep him from reporting this if you'll just get out of here!" she said, urgently.

"Come on, Hal," one of the others said, grabbing his arm. "Let's go."

Hal gave one last look at Tru, lying in the sand, b.l.o.o.d.y and battered, and then allowed his friends to pull him away.

"Jesus," Elizabeth said, and dropped to her knees next to him. "Are you all right?"

"I- I think so," he said, spitting blood from a split lip.

"You're not dead, or anything?"

He laughed, then hissed because that split his lips even more.

"No," he said, "I'm not dead."

"Do you have a place around here?"

"Just up the beach."

"Well," she said, "I guess we better go there so I can look after you. Can you get up?"

"Yeah," he said, his head clearing somewhat. "Where did they go?"

"They ran off when I told them you were a cop." She helped him to his feet.

"You don't want to go after them or anything, do you?"

"No," he said, "I just want to forget the whole thing."

"Well then, lean on me," she said. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind, but I guess I'll have to play Florence Nightingale."

"Not what I had in mind, either."

She tended to his wounds, which were more annoying than serious, and then helped him into bed. She'd kissed his forehead then his mouth and said, "You're not in shape for much more than this," which he later thought had probably been for the best.

She'd walked to the door then, turned and said to him, "I'm not leaving my number."

He nodded. "I understand."

"Too bad," she'd said, "Mr. Cop."

She left, the taste of her on his lips, and he'd never even told her his name.

The Present...

He took the tea cup back into the house and put it in the sink. Then locked all the doors, going out the back and walking down the deck steps to the sand. He started down the beach, then turned and frowned at the house. He hadn't noticed it before, but it was apparently on the same lot his Uncle's house had been on. He'd thought it a coincidence that a house on Seven Mile Beach had become available for sitting, but not this much of a coincidence. He continued down the beach as dusk came and seemed to bleach the color out of everything. The sand was white, the water was getting dark. He wondered if the small cafe would still be there, and if it was she couldn't possibly still be working there as a waitress, could she?

When he finally came to the end of the beach he saw it. Only one wall still stood, but it was the one with the front door in it. He walked to the steps that the three men had pulled him down from. He'd gone home the next day, hugged his wife and baby, told her that he'd come home early because he'd gotten mugged- and because he missed them. That Monday he found out that I.A.D. had cleared him and his career would continue.

He'd thought about Elizabeth over the years once in a while, especially when he heard that Dusty Springfield song. He'd recall how they talked, how their eyes met, how they'd danced in the cafe and what they had almost done- and would have done- if the three punks hadn't jumped him outside. He'd felt guilt all these years because of how good he'd felt just dancing with her. How bad would it had felt if he'd spent that night with her?

He'd never cheated on his wife in all the years they'd been together and had always considered the cafe the place where he'd come the closest. As a younger man he'd felt that even the dance had been a betrayal, but now, thinking back, he knew it hadn't been. It had simply been a cleansing time for him, a few moments respite from a life that had suddenly become filled with turmoil.

There was no harm in that.

Robert Barnard.

Nothing to Lose.

INTERNATIONALLY RECOGNIZED as one of the masters of the mystery form, Robert Barnard has worked in a wide variety of styles, voices and forms over the years. He is one of the few writers certain to survive his time. Most of his novels have the feel of true cla.s.sics. One of his most compelling quotes is that he never draws directly from life because, "People can be so much nastier, can act so much meaner, than they are usually allowed to do in books." In "Nothing to Lose," he is once again at the top of his game. This fine tale first appeared in the anthology Malice Domestic 9.

Nothing to Lose.

Robert Barnard.

When Emily Mortmain finally consented to go into an old people's home, her relatives predicted a spate of suicides by the other residents before her first week was over. If other possible outcomes of the move occurred to them, they did not speak of them openly.