Leather Maiden by Joe R. Lansdale Read Free Book Online Page B

caught some business, and some buddies of mine caught it too, killing two of them. I was injured, but saved.
    Booger, he just got blown skyward, like some kind of goddamn circus act, and he did a few rolls and came up wearing smoking clothes, still had his piece in his hand, and baby, he let it rock. Rocked and rolled all over that street. I don’t know if he shot anyone, had anything to do with anything, but he rocked it and bopped it and bullets tore this way and that, and when it was over there was meat all over the place, pieces of cloth, disconnected Iraqi souls colliding together into a rising smudge of thick, dark smoke.
    I was saved. Booger did it. And saved for what, if not to go home to Gabby, to make a life with her? I could imagine her with her long brown hair brushed until it was so lustrous it glowed like wet chocolate, and I could see her in one of the outfits she wore, a blue suit jacket with wide lapels and white pinstripes, and a skirt to match, and I could remember the way her high heels made her legs look, long and muscular in dark stockings, the way her eyes flashed and the way she smiled, her teeth perfect. And in my imaginings we would come together and kiss. I would be the conquering hero. We would go to her place, and I would slowly take her out of that suit and pull her boots off and gently guide her stockings off her legs, and we would make love, slowly and happily, like we had always done, but this time, it would be even more wonderful, because it would be a new beginning, and soon we would marry, and the sunlight would always be warm and the moonlight would always be romantic, and our days would be full of fine moments and even the rain would be gentle and sweet to the nose and rhythmic to the ears as it splashed to the ground.
    Such are dreams.
    It was a hard pill to swallow, even now, and to make it go down good, I drove out to a little bar that didn’t belong to my boss’s husband. When I got inside it was cool and dark as if it were hours later. The place had that peculiar smell bars have that is a mixture of spilt liquor and cigarette smoke, sweat and shit-filled dreams.
    There was a pretty good-looking woman on one of the bar stools wearing a dark blouse and a short blue jean skirt and some oversized white shoes. I could tell from the way she sat there, smoking her cigarette, her legs crossed, one foot bobbing a shoe, the near empty glass on the counter in front of her, that she was as regular here as the rising and the setting of the sun.
    I sat on the stool next to her and looked at her and showed her the smile my mother always said was electric. I said, “Can I buy you a drink?”
    â€œActually,” she said, “I’d rather just have the money.”
    â€œThat’s funny,” I said, but from the way she looked at me, I suspected that my electric smile was short of wattage today.
    I reached in my pocket and got out five dollars and put it on the bar, and said, “Okay. There’s your money.”
    She turned her head without moving her body, said, “Francis, this fuck is bothering me.”
    A guy about the size of three guys came out of the back: The bartender. The bouncer. The owner.
    He said, “You giving some trouble?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” I said. “I just offered to buy the lady a drink.”
    â€œAnd I don’t want it,” she said.
    â€œShe don’t want it,” he said.
    â€œOkay,” I said, and picked up my five and went out. I went to a liquor store and bought a lot of beer and some Wild Turkey, drove around thinking about all sorts of things and none of them good.
    I had a licensed conceal-carry pistol in the glove box of my car, and I remembered when I was in Iraq a soldier friend told me he thought about his piece all the time. Said he had read where Hemingway had called death a gift. I told him, if it is, you won’t have time to open that little present, it’ll happen so fast.