The devil you do know is always better than the devil you don’t know.
Of course, in the Gutter, there ain’t that many angels, either.
Of course, in the Gutter, there ain’t that many angels, either.
Always Something Better by Nikki Palomino
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Always something better than
that which is.
I wiped my hands of the hot
steaming dishwater, glanced at the clock always a beat off from accuracy.
“He’s waiting, Stella.”
As if he needed to remind me,
the fat paternal nephew of the diner owner. He found my blue eyes, long blonde
hair, good looks wasted. I found his red-cheeked baby face and curly hair
misplaced.
“I can help if you’d let me.”
I looked up at him. “You’re
funny as hell, Dax.”
“You’ve got brains.”
“You’ve got the red-head at the
Dairy Queen.”
Dax laughed, his yellow chipped
teeth crammed together in a ledge.
The heat of the kitchen
congealed around me. Sweat ran down under my arms and the back of my legs.
“Twenty to life, Dax.”
“This is practically a one-truck
town. Time the sheriff sobers up, you’ll be in Mexico.”
“Good living takes planning,
hard work and imagination.”
“Mere pittance. Stella, a
lifetime of perfecting childhood tactics to get sympathy and avoid
responsibility—”
“How much fuckin’ money?”
“His mother, my aunt, married
well. She pitied me receiving the brunt of Mom’s bitterness. I was privy to my
aunt’s secrets.”
“How much?”
“Shush.” Dax rushed toward the
back of the kitchen, glanced at him leaning against the streetlamp before
slamming the door shut.
How could I verbalize the words
spinning like planets inside my mind? I breathed in everything Dax had said
over the past month. I pulled off my dirty apron, ran my hand through stringy
hair, stealing the red rouge color for my cheeks from the last swell of steam.
*
“How much longer, Stella?” We
worked in the diner kitchen, our routine unchanged, veins congested from the
standing.
“Dax, I’m no whore.”
“Not talking sex.”
Dax grew more tired with each
narrowing day. I liked the idea.
“Stella, what now?”
I looked outside at the light
grey mist dimming the empty evening. Dax’s beady eyes followed.
“Not feeling well. Home in bed.”
“He’s supposed to be dead.”
“You agreed.”
Dax grabbed the butcher knife. Held
at eye-level. “Quick and simple. You’re not Hitchcock.”
“You agreed.”
Dax spoke in an audible
whisper. His uncle hadn’t left the office. Paydays kept him late. Dax could
barely contain his impatience. To a man like Dax, murder worked like a quickie.
A woman’s ammunition was chiefly psychic and aesthetic. When I left with hardly
enough to cover rent, I brought a container of chicken soup. Dax diminished
behind the block of cheese, a child broken of his tactics that had all but
abated without sympathy.
*
I warmed the soup for Dax’s
cousin. I had no particular plans when I blew through this town. There were
many things I could have done, and much I didn’t. Good looks caused men to lose
sight. I should have been delighted.
He startled me.
“Dax, what are you doing here?”
“Dead yet?”
“Still clinging to life. Doc thinks
it’s viral.”
Dax slammed down a gun on the
wood table.
“I’m not waiting another
minute. I know the safe combo. Auntie never trusted banks. She did trust me
though.”
“Can’t explain away a gunshot
so easily.”
“You’ll be in Mexico by then.”
“Just smother him with a
pillow.”
Dax grinned as he regarded the
idea.
“How do you know poison,
Stella?”
“I don’t. Just found rat poison
in the garage. I add a little more each day to his food before I serve him.”
“Heartless.”
“Gun’s bad news.”
Dax turned on his heels,
grabbed the .38. “Gun’s dead news.”
He left the kitchen and headed
up the winding stairs to his cousin’s room. I cringed when I heard the shot but
just kept stirring the soup on the stove. When he returned, Dax laid the gun on
the table and wrestled with what to do next. He sat at the table, buried his
face in his hands. I’d say he wanted to cry but held his tears in a vise grip.
“Finally over, Stella.”
“You sure?” He nodded. “How
much is my take since I had to sleep with him?”
“Your cut hasn’t changed.”
I ladled some soup into the
porcelain bowl, set it in front of him.
“All my family’s gone except
that good-for-nothing uncle.”
“Eat. Murder whets the
appetite.”
Dax trembled but gripped the
bowl as he swallowed the soup. He glanced at me. “You add poison to the bowl,
right, not the pot?”
I laughed hollowly.
“Dax, I don’t know the combo to
the safe.”
“You need me then.”
“I need cash.”
But Dax couldn’t retort. His
cherub face paled, hands flying to his neck. His dry cough lasted but a few
minutes before his head pitched forward.
I didn’t need to check his
pulse; knew dead. I did need a gun, which I quickly swiped from the wood table
and deposited into my purse.
Like a musical beat, the
kitchen door blew back, and suddenly Dax’s cousin leaned against the frame. He’d
been right about stuffing his bed just so. Dax had taken to the firing range,
pumping shots into the target with startling energy; the perfect birthday gift
from his favorite aunt’s son. Tall and firm, Dax’s cousin tapped the large
envelope against the palm of his hand before I snatched it. He’d impressed me
with his eye for detail and his understanding of human nature.
“Where you headed Stella?”
“I don’t know for sure, maybe
Mexico.”
“You can stay with me. Grown
fond of you.”
“Wanderlust, Sweetie.”
“If you ever decide to come
back—you know.”
But I had already headed out into the wet night, cutting my ties to this one-truck town. It’s never good making a deal with a devil unless you have the nerve to skip.
But I had already headed out into the wet night, cutting my ties to this one-truck town. It’s never good making a deal with a devil unless you have the nerve to skip.
