Squall

chapter ten

Even through her anger Ronnie noticed the sound—the distant buzz of a small aircraft—and thought it odd, someone out flying in weather like this. But the thought was gone as quick as it came and she bent over her coke mirror for the last two lines, cool crystals bracing her nerves through a cocktail straw.

Fucking Dale. Like talking to a wall.

It boggled her mind how she wound up with wimps like him. It was her only weakness, falling for puppy dogs like Dale, little boys who needed their mommies. When she thought about it, which was as little as possible, she guessed it was because stronger men always ended up treating her like property. Dale, at least, showed her respect. Still, she wished he'd show some balls right now. She'd told him a half hour ago to get his shit together, they were leaving, and what does he do? Another hit of smack, then runs himself a bath. Fucking moron.

"You're a waste of skin," Ronnie said, straightening now, her husky voice raised. "You hear me, Dale?"

She looked down the hall at the closed bathroom door, then out through the picture window at the storm that had come up all of a sudden, hard flakes riding in off the lake on a bitter wind. Unbelievable. What in the name of Christ was she doing in a shit hole like this?

"I'm getting out of this deep freeze," she said, shouting now. "You want to sit here and wait for a bullet, be my guest, but I am gone."

She went back to gathering her things—coke mirror, cigarettes, pink Bic lighter, the Colt .380—stuffing it all into her floppy leather bag. It was pointless talking to Dale when he was wasted, but she wanted to sting him, stick it in and break it off. If they'd headed south like she said, not looked back until they hit Miami...

"Ziggy said I could come crib with him," Ronnie said, aiming her words at the bathroom door. "Anytime. Can you picture it, Dale? Ziggy's condo in Palm Beach? Unlimited coke? Ziggy's big black dick—and me. You getting all that in Panavision, you junkie fuckweed?"

She paused, listening, then picked up the gym bag and the briefcase, liking it's heft. She strode down the hall to the front entrance, side-kicking the bathroom door on her way by.

 "Asshole."

In the foyer she set her cargo on the mat and pulled on her coat, not bothering to do it up. She said, "Last chance, Dale. You coming or not?" When she got no reply, she walked back to the bathroom door and shoved it open. She stood in the doorway, looking at the back of Dale's head, all that was visible over the rim of the old claw foot tub. There was a collapsible dinner tray Dale had set up next to the tub with his smokes and lighter on it, his works and a couple of beers from his uncle's fridge. Trang's 9mm Beretta was on there, too.

"You're going to die, Dale," Ronnie said. "If Copeland doesn't do you for ripping him off, you're going to O.D. Either way, you can count me out."

She tugged Dale's engagement ring off her finger and tossed it into the tub. It landed with a soft plip between Dale's splayed legs and sank in lazy arcs to the bottom.

"'Till death do us part," Ronnie said. "Look at you, man. You're already dead."

She watched him a moment longer, still as a statue in the tub, too stoned to see what was happening. Then she picked up the dope and the money and went out the front door into the storm, in her anger barely aware of the small aircraft, closer now, and it's faltering engine.

The truck started on the first try and Ronnie drove out of the yard without looking back.