She Was Good

  She'd be crying. Oh yeah, huge crocodile tears smearing her dollar-store mascara all down her cakey cheeks. He'd seen it before, and she was good. But now, he was wishing she wasn't so good. They'd be cutting her a deal. It's never the bitch's fault. Oh no. She couldn't possibly be the mastermind. That'd have to be him, the dude they'd arrested along with her. "Tell us what he made you do. Just tell the truth. They'll go easy on you if you talk. He's the one we really want." So she'd be in there for hours sobbing some bullshit story to the investigators about how he dragged her all across the state, forcing her to seduce all those innocent bastards so he could off 'em and steal their wheels.

Who could blame 'em? She was good. She'd play her "I'm so innocent, I'm so gullible, I didn't know any better," role flawlessly. Pin it all on him, that'd been her plan from the start. Oh yeah, she liked him 'cause he was big, scary. He could intimidate those middle-aged assholes into handing over their keys. Just in case her libidinal ruse failed. Which it never did. But really, she liked him 'cause he was big, scary... just like the kind of creep who'd get his rocks off pullin' that sort of shit.

And even though his body hadn't finished filtering out last night's bottle of Crown knock-off, he could still picture her there straddling some horny Joe in the front seat of a car. Stroking his cheek, biting his ear. Running her fingers through his hair one second, the rope around his neck the next. Locking her doey eyes on his, promising him he could have her for the rest of his life. If he only knew. From his clandestine post in the ditch he watched her constrict the cord, the poor bastard's eyes bulging, the capillaries bursting. His sweaty palm would twitch nervously on the trigger of the gun, just incase she was overpowered or her sexual ploy failed. Which it never did. Once she'd squeezed the last ounce of life out of the unsuspecting man's lungs, he'd help her drag the deadweight into the ditch. He'd pick the pockets, adding the cash, cards, keys, and cigarettes to their steadily growing stash. They'd load up. He always drove, smashed or not, 'cause she was always too high from the kill to steer straight.
And just as readily as he could recall her past exploits, he could envision her now, with her pouty lips spouting her bullshit. Those quivering, too-big, lipstick-smeared lips he'd seen her seduce countless men with; he included. She'd draw up her shoulders, making herself small, meek. So harmless, this poor little girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Nothing more than a product of nurture, 'cause nothing could possibly be wrong with her nature.

The four cinderblock walls began to close in on him. Their white fading into the white of the cold linoleum. The fluorescents crackled above him, interrupting the steady tick, tick, tick of the generic wall clock. He cracked his knuckles. Two hours. The clock told him he'd been sitting in this colorless box for two hours. His head swam. Not from the whiskey, but from the fact that he wasn't gettin' out of there. He buried his face in his hands. He'd been in tight spots before, kind of just came with the lifestyle. But he'd never been in this tight. He'd been part of a perpetrating team before. But not like this, not killin'. Caught between a rock and hard place, maybe, but never between a rock and nowhere.

Click, click, click. The detective's shoes gave away his approach. Guess it was his turn. The lock clicked and the door swung inward. He stood. Followed the man down the narrow hallway. More white walls, more white floors, more fluorescents. The lawman entered another room, beckoning him to sit. White. Small metal table, two chairs, tape recorder. Shit. He took a seat, the detective sat across from him and clicked on the recorder. This was one of those many times in his life he knew his word was shit before he even opened his mouth. Poor little miss sunshine was nothing more than an unsuspecting decoy. He was the lumbering thug flailing the nine mil so those dicks would submit and he could strangle the shit out of 'em. 'Cause he was sick. A sick fuck that belonged in the deepest, darkest shit-hole the state could find. But he wasn't sick. He was poor. He was desperate. And she was good.