The Midnight Road by Tom Piccirilli Page B

about to end each other in
Odds Against Tomorrow.
    She noticed the seams and creases. “And I thought I was obsessive. These are originals?”
    “You are obsessive, and yes, they’re originals.”
    “You must’ve spent a fortune.”
    “Yeah, but they’ve only gotten more rare. I could sell them for twice what I paid. They’re about the only things I ever really cared about. I let my ex have everything else.”
    “Don’t you think at your age you should care about more than movies and fast cars?”
    “It’s only one fast car, and I’m predisposed to noir.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “My old man got me hooked when I was six or seven. I was imprinted with a passion for them. I watch lots of DVDs but I prefer seeing them on the big screen. The Paradigm and a couple other theaters in Greenwich Village have revivals all the time.”
    “I’d love to go with you sometime,” she said, as if responding to a question he’d never asked.
    “Sure.”
    She moved off and looked out the window facing the parking lot. “And that imprinting, your predisposition, your passion…it’s the same thing for your brother Danny’s car.”
    He never wanted to see it that way, but it might be true. “I suppose so.”
    “You sound almost resentful.”
    “Do I?”
    They sat on the couch together. He had nothing to offer. He kept no liquor in the apartment, and he didn’t think he even had any soda. Asking if she wanted a drink of water was just too damn silly. It only served to remind him that he’d never been social and had only gotten worse with age.
    Marianne used to climb out of bed at two in the morning, after they’d finished making love, and stand there watching him for a moment. He’d watch the shimmer of sweat drying on her belly, a light salt drift fading to the right, thinking, What’d I do now? She’d run her hands through her hair and shake her curls out of her eyes, the fire building in them until she’d say, “I want to go out.” He’d look at the clock and she’d go, “Not now, just once in a while.” He always promised he’d take her somewhere nice, whenever she wanted, but the only time she ever seemed to care was at 2 A.M. when she was pissed off at him. It got so he’d get a little tentative about touching her in bed, knowing beforehand how things were bound to end.
    “You’re my unique story,” Jessie Gray said. “The one I need to tell.”
    Her expression seemed carefully conceived. It hit the right amount of self-confidence and dedication. She turned her face and gave him the entire good side. She was trying to work him from both angles—she could tell his story better than anyone, and he should allow her to do so because she was cute. Flynn realized he wasn’t social for a pretty good reason.
    “Actually, it’s my story,” Flynn said. “And I don’t want it told yet.”
    “But why not? You’ve read my work, you know I’m capable of presenting you in an honest, positive light.”
    “You already know the reason,” he said.
    She leaned back and cocked her head, maybe reappraising him. He got a very real sense that she wanted to be a broadcaster one day and was practicing all her moves in front of the camera she imagined was always trained on her. “Because it’s not finished?”
    “Because a woman is dead,” he said. His voice came down harder than he expected, sounding very much like the voice of his father. The voice of Danny when he got upset. He wanted to add,
There’s more murder to come.
    “Don’t you understand? That’s what makes it so
fascinating.”
    “Not to me. I find it infuriating.”
    “Just as I find you, Mr. Flynn!” She’d stepped outside of the lithe, silky facade. He saw the real Jessie Gray there for a second. Miffed but with a hint of respect. Like everybody, she liked the ones she couldn’t run roughshod over. She was interested in the men who gave her a hard time.
    She gave a little-girl huff and tried again. “What’s your personal journey