Read Online The Joy of Killing by Harry MacLean - Free Book Online Page A

and pretty out of character for me. Particularly since their cheating had never really bothered me. Was I really that articulate? Was the look on the bride’s face as ghastly frozen as I see it now? Did I really slam the champagne and march happily off the stage? I should have felt bad, of course—Julie, the bride, had done nothing to me—but I didn’t. A funny thing was, my former wife came to my room a few hours later in her underwear, drunk, and demanded that I fuck her. Ithink I did, for old times’ sake, or to get a final laugh on David, but I couldn’t swear to it.
    I TRY TO refocus on the page in front of me, the round keys with the letters on them, but the distractions are beginning to take over; I’m losing the girl on the train; and time is thinning out. The stars surrounding the moon now have grown sharper, like there is fire on the edges. The wind ticks a small branch against the window, and it plays against the rattling and scraping noises from down below. The whole night is a concert, a play, of beauty and spirit. It’s like this at the end, I think. A purple haze drifts across the face of the moon. Or perhaps it’s always been like this, I just haven’t seen it.
    I see the problem now. The rods of the “t” and “h” keys have collided in mid-stroke and are stuck together. I stand and wobble a little. I reach in, twist the rods apart, and they fall easily back into place. I glance at the ribbon. It seems fat enough on the spool. The paper on the left is still stacked high. I punch a capital “T” for train. The conductor wears the same wire-rimmed spectacles as the second detective, the one with the still eyes and small ears. He massages the edge of the wallett like some sort of talisman. He addresses me, but I can’t hear his voice, only feel his eyes. It will go on, until I talk. But why are they here, if David didn’t send them? Maybe the weasel Willie ratted us out. I get it. They found David’s wallett in Willie’s room. But then, why aren’t they talking to David? I reach for my Luckies on the edge of the table, but the first detective flops a fat finger on the pack, pinning it down. Our eyes lock. He wins.
    I punch a key again. If I’m not more attentive, the girl will leave. I need her here with me until the stars begin to fade and I proceed to finish the long corrugated story of my life. The train, I remember, hurtled through the blackness like it could jump the tracks and shoot over the curvature of the earth. Inside it, with me, was this girl, her head on my chest, and beyond this there was nothing.
    She sat up. I slipped my hand from beneath her sweater. I began twisting my pants around and fumbling for the zipper, when she said, “I’ll be right back.” She straightened her clothes and ran her fingers through her hair. She patted my cheek, stood, and stepped into the aisle.
    I watched her walk toward the light at the end of the car, her hips swaying provocatively. The guys at school will never believe me, not that I would tell them. I glanced out the window. We were passing under a tall bridge, and the cars on it looked like they were magnets stuck in the sky. In spite of what the girl said, I feared she’d come back all fixed up with a new attitude. We’d talk, and eventually she would nod off, and there I’d sit basically alone, wide awake, until the train pulled into the Chicago station in the early light. Then there’d be a few words of affection, a brief kiss, and the story would be over. I could finish it in my mind and let that version become the truth. I was thinking that might not be such a bad ending, really, when suddenly the clickety-clack took on a slightly hollow sound. I looked out the window and realized we were on a high bridge, crossing over a wide river. Below us in the water were long thin dark shapes with red lights at either end. The whistle blew two long cries,