The Black Path of Fear

She moved on, passed from view. A little cigar smoke came drifting back past the vacant doorway.

I looked at Acosta. He was surreptitiously mopping his brow and trying to pretend that he wasn’t. Then he took a blotter and touched it lightly to the document that had jumped before. “Close that door,” he barked. “I don’t want her back in here again.”

I caught up with her outside on the street a couple of moments later. She was walking along slow, taking her time, not afraid of anyone, cop or civilian, making them get out of her way. I called to her and went chasing after her.

“Well, it’s over, Midnight,” I said, falling into step beside her.

“It’s over, guapo,” she agreed.

There didn’t seem to be anything more to say about it, so we didn’t say it.

We walked over in the general direction of Sloppy’s. We stopped when we got to the corner below.

“I’d like to ask you in for a drink,” I said, “but—”

“I know. There’s someone waiting for you in there. Flowers on a grave.”

She dusted off my sleeve with a comradely flick of her hand, and that was our way of saying good-by, I guess.

Two ships that pass in the night; two paths that cross in the dark.

I watched her for a moment, then I turned. She went her way, and I went in.

I stood there with a daiquiri, right where we’d stood that night. Her dying words came back to me. “Let me know how that picture we took together turns out.”

“It turned out okay, darling,” I said softly. “It turned out okay.” I held up my glass to her, wherever she was. Then I snapped it against the bar.

It was lonely standing there by myself at the bar like that.