She pulled it out of her purse. Slowly, cautiously, always looking around, making sure I was the only one who could see it. She said it was a .32. I believed her. Just as quickly as she showed it to me, she shoved it back in between a plastic bundle of tissues and what appeared to be a thin red wallet.

"That's why I'm drinking like this, mister." She chased her words with a shot of whiskey. Her fifth, by my count.

"You aiming that at anyone in particular?" I asked.

Her face, which had not lost the angelic glow a naturally beautiful woman carries to her grave, twisted up.

"Boyfriend?"

"Husband."

"Lied to you?"

"That's certainly on the list." She smacked the bar, gestured for the thin man pouring drinks to fill her glass again.

"Ain't you had enough, little lady?" The bartender, it appeared, was not aware of the gun in her purse.

"Just do your job," she said.

He shrugged and dropped another shot in front of her.

"What'd your old man do?"

She gave me a long look. Up and down. Then she shrugged. She had already showed me the gun, she supposed, might as well staple a story to it. "He wanted five kids," she said, "I've given him three. You have any idea what it takes to raise one?"

I nodded. I had two and ran out on the mother when the bills got to be too much. These days I sent her a little money here and there, but to a lousy thief like myself, putting bread on my own table was a task and a half. It's not that I wanted to hurt my old lady. I just had no choice. "Children can take a lot out of you," I said.

She didn't like my siding with her. "That's puttin' it mildly, mister," she said, "I went from being the most desirable woman in the world to one of those worn out mamas dragging critters through the mall in search of diapers and socks and lunch boxes and crayons." She stopped herself long enough to have another shot.

"Sometimes men don't notice the sacrifices women make." I realized I should probably have kept my mouth shut.

The young woman laughed. "If they were giving out prizes for understatements, mister, you would have it." She raised her empty glass for an imaginary toast.

Correctly, the bartender got the idea that she needed more to drink. He set the bottle in front of her and walked away.

I smiled. "I've never won a damn thing in my life."

"What do you do for a living?" she asked.

I could tell she just wanted to sidetrack my interest in the .32. Since she had been so honest with me, I returned the favor. "I'm a professional thief. Gas stations and liquor stores. Nothing too glamorous."

She nodded her head in a sort of positive acknowledgment. Soon, she seemed to be saying, we'll be on the same side of the law.

I didn't want that. "Ever been to prison?" I asked her.

"Of course not."

"If you think life is rough now, just wait 'till they throw you over the wall."

Scooting her chair closer, she put her face right up to my ear and spoke in a curt voice seething through clenched teeth. "Try juggling three jobs, three children, and a man that sleeps with anything that'll give him the time of day. Comes home to me, passes on two, not one, two diseases you can only get from lovin', the kind that don't kill you, just linger there, waiting for the moment you meet someone you might like, and then, pop!, sores all over your mouth. Marked. And I didn't do nothing wrong. I didn't do a thing to deserve that kind of punishment."

"Ever heard of divorce? Makes these situations a lot easier to deal with."

"That sonofabitch'd never go for it. Says I belong to him. We passed on our blood together and he'll be goddamned to let me be. I tell him he can keep the damn kids if that's his issue. No, he says, he loves me too much. What about them other bitches? I ask. He just shrugs. I don't love them, he says."

She took another shot.

"I wish you'd think about this," I told her. "You're still just as pretty as can be, even if you don't feel it or recognize it, on the count of how tough your life has been. All you need is a lawyer, get this situation into the legal system, the right way, that is."

She softened up a bit. "I appreciate your trying to help, mister, but I can't get away from him. I've tried. He hunts me down, smacks me just hard enough to make an impression folks can't see on the outside."

I sighed. In my own way, I had been terrible to the woman who had done right by me. I sure as hell was in no position to judge anyone.

"Well," she stumbled off her bar stool, "time to set things proper." Gathering herself up, she leaned in close once more. "Promise me you won't tell nobody."

I grabbed her arm and pulled her in tighter. "I won't, angel, I just want you to do me a favor. Think real hard about what you're fixed on doing. Think about it as you leave here. If you decide on a more, shall we say, legitimate road towards ridding yourself of the bum, leave the gun in the trash can outside, the green one under the beer sign in the window. I'll take care of it, drop it somewhere they'll never trace back to you."

Maybe she wasn't interested in being saved, maybe I reminded her of her father, or worse, her husband. She yanked herself away quickly and rushed out the door.

I didn't watch her go. I ordered a drink. Then another. I quietly hoped she would do the right thing. Then I settled up, put on my coat and headed for the door.

Outside the bar I saw that the lid on the green trash can had been moved slightly. My heart beat a little faster. I opened the can and looked inside.

The gun wasn't there.

Pulling my coat in tighter, I walked into the night looking for a liquor store to knock over. I got the register at the Bottle Stop on 49th Street. The idiot clerk honestly didn't know how to open the safe. I let it ride.

I counted the money as I entered a Western Union a few blocks to the north. It was just under three hundred dollars. I gave the clerk on duty my wife's address and shoved all the dough across the counter. I used some spare change in my pocket to pay the delivery fee.

-END-

Copyright © 2009 by Alec Cizak