Chapter 26
"Nice dress ... shows off the freckles," Shank said, sliding across from her into the booth. Rickie mentally congratulated herself for choosing a simple emerald slip dress that accented her red hair and pale features.
"Thanks, Shank. After I nearly killed myself, I thought it might be nice to wear something besides jeans."
"You really know how to pick up a compliment. You smell incredible."
"Emeraude. I was feeling nostalgic tonight. I used to wear it when I was going with Jesse Edwin's father ... no offense. You smell pretty decent yourself."
By the time he'd arrived, Rickie was on her third White Russian and feeling no pain. Shank's dark pin stripe suit, a Lauren, perfectly pressed and accessorized with subtle but eye-catching matching gold cufflinks, tie tack, and tasteful Rolex, was slightly damp from the fresh drizzle outside. The man inside the suit, carefully scented, her best guess was Old Spice (did they still wear that stuff?), sipped gratefully from his coffee cup, the fine china in his slender-fingered smooth hands a poor substitute for the tall Starbucks paper cups he normally favored.
She noticed the silence while he sipped. Not a man to spend time on the customary chitchat.
"Talk," she said. "The silence is killing me."
They were interrupted by the server, a new one, female, with plenty of the right stuff to attract any male eye. Rickie watched Shank's face, expecting to catch him in a quick visual scan of the server's pronounced attractions. To her surprise, his eyes remained dead ahead. The server proffered menus.
"Never mind those," Shank said. "Bring me a couple of lobster tails, the big ones, with plenty of butter, and a hunk of iceberg lettuce with a gob of Thousand Island. I'd love a Gibson to go with that, but unfortunately, I'm on the wagon today."
"Do you want the Gibson, sir?"
"Nah, just keep the coffee coming ... Rickie? Rickie are you okay? You went two shades paler."
"It's nothing. I once had a bad experience with lobsters."
"Server, please cancel my order. Burn me a filet mignon instead."
"Shank! It's nothing! Miss, bring him the lobsters."
"Lobsters for the gentleman," the server said. "And what can I bring you, ma'am?"
"Coconut cream pie," Rickie replied. "A double slice drizzled with your hot cinnamon sauce. And another White Russian."
After the waitress left, Shank sidled up close to her, not bothering to say a word, taking her face in his two hands before closing his eyes and placing his lips carefully over hers. A simple kiss, direct and focused, with no awkward patting or ragged breathing. He leaned back, crossing his arms, surveying her for the result.
"I should have expected that," she said. "A charity kiss. It's what I deserve for making myself as unattractive as possible. I know I look hideous in this green rag; it makes my skin look like Martha Stewart's parchment paper. I won't push myself on you ever again, Shank, I promise. I appreciate your effort to straighten me out."
"You've got it wrong. The truth is, you scare me to death and I don't know what to do about it. I've gone for the past ten years without a woman in my life and the next thing I know, a long, leggy, red-headed, married broad is inside my head and I can't turn it off. If I kissed you the way I really want to, they'd throw us out of this joint."
"Oh Shank. Get back on your side of the booth. I have no idea why I'm feeling so open to you, but it's all wrong. In the first place, I'm a mess. I tried to shoot my husband this morning and he had a coronary. I punished myself with a suicide attempt at the beach and now I'm here trying to find out why it is I feel so safe with you beside me. Why I trust you when I know I shouldn't. Look, you may as well know Hirschfeld told me you killed somebody back in your days as a mobster front man."
"Rickie, I used to drive drunk. One night in a blackout, I killed a child. A hit and run. They sent me to Soledad for three years."
A moment passed while his statement exploded into flames, searing the psychic space between them.
"It's why I don't drink anymore, or drive a car."
"And why you haven't been with a woman."
"I'll be going," he said. "It wasn't fair of me to keep it from you. I'm sorry."
Rickie suddenly realized she was caught in a moment which would never come again, a moment where the rest of her life hung on what she would say next. She looked at the man before her and saw the truth, saw the despair behind his eyes, the ragged, fearful creature crouching inside the expensive suit. He stood up and she grabbed his sleeve with all her strength, pulling him down with such force they slid from the booth onto the floor. Her lips found his and she pressed hard until their very teeth locked together. By the time she was finished, his face was covered with her tears and they'd drawn every staring eye in the place. She released him and they stood up together to scattered applause and not a few frowns.
"It's going to be rough," she said. "We only have right now. There's no telling about tomorrow. The odds are completely against us. We both know it's wrong. If you walk away from me now, I'll understand."
The server awkwardly approached and set up the tray with the lobsters and the pie. Shank fumbled in his pocket and came up with a couple of C notes, dropping them on the tray before waving her off, tray and all, his hands shaking badly.
"You're bleeding," he said, touching her lower lip and coming away with a red-smeared fingertip.
"Shank, I need your answer."
His chest was heaving and his face flushed, his gaze inwardly focused on some distant place where his soul no doubt resided. Coming out of it, he searched her face, taking his time, oblivious to their surroundings or the passage of time. He placed his finger between his lips and tasted of her blood.
When he finally spoke, it was the in the high, sweet voice of a child. "So help me God, Rickie," he said. "I can't walk away from you."