coffee, shot of noir

 
(every story runs into trouble in these, my tales of noir,  
 in the voluptuous panic of black & white.)  
 
I stood right up to her & kissed her; she’s a tall girl, so I stretched  
to make my point.  
 
a little earlier, I’d been leaning on the lamppost outside Bogart’s, & watched  
her walking toward me. she needed quarters for the bus, she said, & asked  
me to break a C-note. even in the dim light I could tell the bill was counterfeit,  
& badly done. Franklin looked like Shirley Temple with a receding hairline.  
 
when I blew her charade, she came up close to me & parlayed her killer eyes  
& her sweet smell into a dance across my heart. the old song about how I look  
decent, & won’t I help a girl out. she opened her lips just a little, like her tongue  
was lonely, so I sent mine in to reconnoiter.  
 
it was a very good kiss all by itself. it didn’t need a moon, or Harry James playing Perfidia, or fancy poetry. I fell hard, yet floated in the bubble of her cruelty.  
 
I needed to sit & figure things, so we went to the all night diner. the place was  
empty, just us & the counter clerk. the coffee was good, but it needed a kick.  
she pulled a flask of good scotch out of her bag & laced our mugs.  
 
she held my hand tight as she laid out her story. as a call girl for the mob, she’d  
been descending further & further into the ugliness & misery of a beaten &  
raped whore. one night she stole a bag of money from a mafioso’s penthouse  
& ran, not realizing the bills were fake.  
 
then a couple thugs walked in, & we knew it was bad. as they reached for their shoulder holsters, I pulled out my Glock & got off 2 shots.  
2 seconds  –  2 dead stromtroopers.  
 
we ran & made our way to Union Station. as the train thundered into the  
desolate night, I held her close. she cried & I wanted her to stop. her tears
smeared my face & they burned. we kissed as if it were the only thing that
mattered, knowing that these, these timorous kisses that proclaimed our love,
would be our last.
 
I could feel every inch of her beneath her clothes, naked as our illicit passion;  
I knew she was beautiful all the way through. & the story should end here,  
but it doesn't:  
 
absolute zero, that was the sum of our luck & our money. the cops & the outlaws  
would chase us as far as we could run. maybe the train would climb a golden track that ran fantastically toward heaven, till it ran out of sky & stars.  
 
but if it did not, we would find an old wooden bridge, & go to sleep at the bottom  
of a moody river…  
 
 
(Art: BlackWatch)