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Last Tear for Laura

George Wilhite

I hadn’t seen Laura in more than 17 years when I spotted her across an auditorium at a junior college conference in Houston. She’d cut her hair, bobbed it, like those 1920s flapper girls. The black leather skirt was halfway up her thighs, and she had an almost see-through white tux shirt open to the waist that allowed the black leather corset underneath to show. Her skin was as beautiful and healthy and white as it had ever been, and it stood out dramatically against the black leather and white fabric.

She wore black, back-seamed stockings and a pair of patent leather 4-inch stiletto heels. A 3-inch black, V-shaped leather collar encircled her neck, with an ornate, engraved silver O-ring attached to the front. She was gorgeous, and she flicked those pool-green eyes over to me as I approached.

“Lank!” she practically squealed my name. “Lank Crawford, I haven’t seen you in, what, 15 years?”

She held a greenish martini in her right hand out to the side as she pulled me to her for a hug. She was soft and firm in the right places and memories came flooding back. The college years. The engagement. The sexual experimentation we both had wanted. My failure to handle it. Our breakup.

“You’re too … nice, Lank,” she’d said. “Too considerate.

“Whip me, beat me, if you have to. Make me be a good girl,” she’d said, tears in her eyes. “Please, Lank, MAKE me be good to you.”

I’d see the lust building in her eyes as she’d told me.

“I can’t, Laura,” I’d said, holding her, my own tears starting. “I wasn’t raised that way. I just can’t.”

There’d been a deep pleading in her eyes that asked for understanding, but understanding was more than I could give. The memories retreated but didn’t fade as my mind brought me back to the conference. 

When she released me and stepped back an arm’s length to look at me, I felt all the old feelings trying to break past all the walls—huge, thick, impenetrable walls—I’d built over the years.

And then Chuck Cox stepped up and put a hand around her waist, a bourbon on the rocks in his left hand.

“Hello, Lank. Long time, no see.”

I’m not sure what the feelings were that flooded over me just then. Dread, hate, concern, repulsion. Chuck had a smile on his face, but I knew what was in his heart. Chuck Cox hated me. He’d been a cop, like me.

No, no, not like me. Totally opposite. I’d made Internal Affairs in Dallas because I’d been a cop that played it straight. No bribes, no favoritism. I played by the book. I tried my best to protect the innocent from the depraved, the weak from the strong, the poor from the powerful. I’d made Internal Affairs because of it, and I’d busted Chuck because he’d been the worst of the worst.

At 40, he still had an athlete’s body, although the effects of excess were beginning to show around his eyes and his neck. He was handsome with an overdone tan and a bleached-blond crew cut, strong neck and chin, and huge hands that could—damnit to hell, had—crushed the life out of a person. A charming smile, a padded bank account from years of graft and dirty work, and a well-paid lawyer had gotten him off with just losing his job. If it had been up to me, he’d have gone to jail—or better yet, the chair.

I nodded to Chuck and was about to excuse myself when Laura spoke up.

“Chuck, dear, I didn’t know you knew Lank?”

He chuckled.

“Lank and I go way back. We were on the force together in Dallas.”

She turned to me.

“So, you did go on to become a cop? How wonderful. I’m teaching psychology at North Harris here in Houston. You teaching?”

I nodded and wished I had a drink.

“Yeah, in Waco at the police academy there, part of the local junior college.”

Chuck interrupted.

“So, how do you two know each other?”

“Just barely, from college years ago …” I started, but Laura interrupted.

“Oh, don’t let him fool you, Chuck. Lank and I were an item in college. Three years. Almost got married …”

She paused ever so slightly and glanced at me.

“… but we had some differences we couldn’t reconcile.”

Was that a wisp of remorse in her eyes as she said it? But she ducked her head, eyes blinking, and turned her face away from me. Damn, Laura, why’d you have to do that? Now he knows. He’ll use that. Somehow, some way. Damn you, woman, he’s evil. Then she was facing me again, a smile—phony as hell—on her red-painted lips.

“Why don’t you join Chuck and me for supper, Lank? I’d love to play catch up.”

“Uh … I don’t know. I …”

“Sure, Lank, join us. We can talk about our days on the force.”

I looked up. His eyes locked on mine. I could hear the mental challenge. She’s mine now, Crawford. And I’ll do whatever I want with her. Fuck with me and I’ll make sure you see it, too. If I didn’t eat with them, God only knows what bullshit he’d feed her about me, but why did it matter? She was long out of my life anyway.

“Sure,” I said before I even knew it.

We excused ourselves from the welcome reception and walked to the restaurant on the second floor, overlooking the pool. Chuck slipped the maitre d’ a hundred. He seated us away from everyone else, with a perfect view of the pool down below. Big bill for a … what? I’d assumed Chuck was teaching or something, since he was here.

“So, Chuck, what are you doing now?”

He and Laura looked at each other, smiled. She answered for him.

“Remember I was starting to study deviant behavior when we split up?”

I nodded and pasted on as good a smile as I could under the circumstances.

“So, you’re studying Chuck?”

She laughed; he smiled a fake smile and glared at me.

“No,” she said, “I finished my PhD, taught at the University of Houston for about 10 years, and then moved over to head up the psychology department at the junior college. Chuck is one of the instructors there in my department.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering how the hell a junior college psychology instructor had enough money to afford a hundred smackers just for a good seat in a restaurant. Maybe I ought to find out.

“So, Chuck, you teach deviant behavior?”

The smile. The one he’d used in the courtroom when he knew, no matter how much evidence I had, he’d walk.

“Only to those who need to be taught.”

The smile slid into a mocking grin as he put his hand over Laura’s.

“Some people don’t need instruction in deviant behavior.”

Laura’s already white skin paled a tone. She looked away for a second, then back. The remorse had flickered there for a second but was now gone. Or was it? She caught my eye and pasted her smile back on again. But it was slipping a little.

“Chuck makes a joke out of everything,” she said, as she tried, as imperceptibly as possible, to pull her hand out from under Chuck’s. His knuckles whitened as he held her more tightly, preventing her hand from escaping.

We ate, had drinks. I watched the interplay between the two. I was pretty sure he was dominating her, like she’d said she wanted so long ago. Now, I got the idea that she didn’t want that anymore. That maybe she’d had too much deviant behavior. But was that true? Or was my own emotion prejudicing me to see it that way?

Be a cop, damnit. You teach it. Observe objectively. Let the facts speak. But I couldn’t. Not with Laura. Damn, somewhere deep down in there I still loved her. And it was moving closer to the surface each minute I stayed here. I shoved my seat back roughly and stood up.

“I … I’ve got to go. Early presentation in the morning. Need to sleep at my age.”

I smiled unconvincingly. Chuck rose and pulled Laura up with him.

“Night’s still young, Crawford. Laura and I have some festivities planned. Why don’t you join us?”

Sorry son of a bitch! The thought exploded in my mind. The son of a bitch knows! He was a sick, twisted bastard, but he was smart. He’d seen the connection between us and figured out the differences we hadn’t been able to reconcile. Obviously, he knew about Laura’s tastes. He knew about my record. He’d put two and two together. Now he was playing it. It took more will power than anything I’d ever done, but I turned on my heel and left.

I was out the restaurant door and headed for my room when a hand on my shoulder stopped me. I whirled, ready to punch Chuck, only to come eye to eye with Laura. Her eyes searched mine.

“Lank,” she whispered, more air than words, “I loved you so much.”

Tears started out of both eyes. She leaned over and kissed me, gently, on the cheek.

“I still love you. Forgive me. I didn’t know what kind of fire I was playing with.”

I reached a hand up to her face, touched her cheek, felt the softness under the makeup. Over her shoulder, I saw Chuck stalking out of the restaurant, stuffing bills back in his pocket. We had only seconds.

“I still love you, too. Leave with me now.”

Hope flared briefly in her eyes.

“Make me … please.”

I shook my head.

“No, I can’t make you. Your own free will or nothing. That’s my offer.”

Chuck caught up with us. Smirked.

“Well, she convince you to join us?” he asked, slipping a hand over Laura’s shoulder and running it down her chest until it disappeared into her corset and fondled her breast.

“No,” I said, ignoring him and looking into Laura’s green, tear-filled eyes. “And you Laura? What’s your answer?”

The hope was gone, replaced by what I read as despair.

“No, Lank, I … I can’t.”

I dropped my hand from her face and walked away.

***

The hotel phone by my bed rang just before 2 a.m. It didn’t wake me up. I hadn’t been able to go to sleep. I’d been thinking  and drinking… and crying. I cried for Laura and the mess she’d gotten into and couldn’t get out of. I cried for the wife I’d lost. I cried because, despite my belief in honor and courage and goodness and love, life seemed to hand the best stuff to the shitheads. I cried because I felt like a fool. I cried because I still loved Laura but I couldn’t love her enough to get past the lifestyle she’d chosen.

The phone rang again. I snuffled and sniffed a couple of times before answering it. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to tell.

“Mr. Crawford?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Usher. I’m the night manager. There’s been … a problem …  in Room 315. A Laura Dodson asked I contact you and ask you to get here immediately. You might want to hurry, sir. It’s pretty urgent. I…I’ve called the ambulance but …”

Even in my state, I could hear the stress in his voice. The ambulance was just a formality.

“I’m on my way.”

Fortunately, I hadn’t undressed, only taken my sports coat off, loosened my tie, and dumped the .45 in its Kydex paddle holster onto the nightstand. I slipped the holster into the small of my back again and pulled on my jacket. I made it from my sixth-floor room down to 315 in less than two minutes, taking the stairwell steps four or five at a time.

Hotel security was there. A guy I suppose was Usher stood nervously wringing his hands in the doorway. I shouldered past him.

Laura was lying on the bed, a sheet up to her neck. She was barely breathing. I rushed to her side. Weakly she lifted her right hand to my cheek, smiled.

“You … were … right; I … was … wrong. I … made a … bad …choice. Then … and … tonight.”

The words were spaced out, shallow breaths between each one. I reached for her, cupped her frail cheek in my rough, heavy hand.

“Doesn’t matter … “ I started. She put a finger to my lips.

“Yes, it … does. Love you. He’s … evil. You’re right. My place … Number 9 Bayview Condos … bedroom closet … safe.”

And she died. Second woman in my life I’d lost because of Chuck Cox. Last one. I caressed her cheek one last time and then closed her eyelids gently before standing up and looking for Usher. He came immediately.

“You call the cops, Usher?”

He shook, literally.

“No, sir, Mr. Crawford. She said you were one.”

I swore under my breath.

“Call 9-1-1, tell ‘em there’s been a murder here. I’m out of my jurisdiction and off duty.”

He nodded and pointed one of the security guards toward the phone. I grabbed Usher by the lapel of his suit and pulled him close to my stubbly face, close enough that he could smell the cheap Scotch I’d been swilling since leaving Laura and Chuck after dinner.

“And where the hell are the Bayview Condos?”

***

Usher’s directions had been easy to follow. Take the Beltway a few miles around the city to Bellaire, exit, turn under the highway, follow it until you pass Loop 610, look for the first set of fancy condos and townhomes on your left. Took me 10 minutes. I didn’t have an EZ Tag to avoid the toll booths, but I figured they’d mail me the tickets, so I used the express lanes. Besides, it’s hard to slow down for a toll booth when you’re doing 110. I ran four cars off the road when I skidded onto Bellaire.

The gated communities of Houston may be safe from someone who cares about their car, but my four-year-old Ford truck didn’t mean a lot to me right then. The brush guard on the front parted the gates easily at 50 miles an hour and I sideswiped two cars after bouncing over the speed bump before I found Number 9.

I saw the lights on in the living room and one room upstairs before I booted the door open with two kicks that would have moved an elephant. I heard Cox upstairs and I was nearly at the head of the stairs before he appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, unarmed as far as I could tell.

“Stop right there, Crawford. I’m getting out of here and you’re not going to stop me.”

Even like this, he was smug, a smile on his face.

“What makes you think so?” I asked, raising my Springfield .45 and laying the front sight on the middle of his chest.

The son of a bitch laughed.

“Because you won’t, Mr. Goody Two Shoes. Just like when you arrested me in Dallas. I told you I’d get off. If you could stop me here, I’d get off. What do you think I’ve been doing since I left the force?

“Hell, I have 150 or more young fresh minds every semester to warp, And I can because they don’t know shit about psychology when they start my class. I can pick the ones I can manipulate and use them. Drugs, prostitution gambling, stolen cars. Hell, name it. I got so much money, you couldn’t put me away if you had to. I’m the one’s been dating Laura for the last year. I’m the one’s supposed to be here. You’re the intruder. If I killed you, you’d even be giving me an alibi. Oh, and let’s talk about how your ‘code of honor’ wouldn’t allow you to shoot an unarmed man.”

He laughed again.

“You couldn’t even shoot me when I killed your wife in Dallas, and you knew I did it. I told you to back off, leave me alone, but you wouldn’t do it, would you? Left that poor, little sweet thing all alone at home. Too bad some rapist broke in while you were gone. You know, she was just like you. Had the drop on me and couldn’t pull the trigger. I could see it in her eyes. Just like I could see the fear when I took her, raped her, and how it deepened when I closed my hands around her throat while I was still in her. How she shook as she died.”

It hit hard. Right then, he could have taken me … easily. I’d always been pretty sure it had been him or one of his accomplices that had killed Sandy. After her death, I’d pressed the case harder, not having anything else to lose.  But he’d gotten off with a slap on the wrist. The raw, hard truth hurt. And now Laura. I dropped the point of the Springfield toward the floor, but still held it in both hands and ready.

“And Laura?”

He smirked at me and held up the briefcase in his left hand.

“Kinky bitch, wasn’t she? Wow! When I met her, when she took over my department, I could see it in her eyes. It didn’t take long before I found the kind of stuff she liked.”

He shook the case.

“Wanna see? There’s a bunch of tapes and DVDs in here with her in ‘em. All she cared about was the sex, the wilder the better. She didn’t even notice who the men were. Greatest blackmail situation I could have imagined. So much money, I’ll walk. Here, let me give you a tape for old time’s sake, whaddya say?”

I knew he’d have to do it. With me in the way, there’d be a witness to reveal his lies. He had to kill me here, in her apartment. Me, the interloper; him, the justified shooter. He had to make his move.

I teach the young kids at the academy about that trick. Most of them hear the words, but it doesn’t get into their subconscious, doesn’t become a reaction, until they damn near get killed by it.

He moved the briefcase again, his left hand taking it across his body as if to set it down on his right side, but it was really to cover his other hand. He knelt to one knee to unlatch the case and raise the lid. I stepped up one step on the stairs so I could see over the lid. His right hand came from under the jacket where it had gone as he kneeled down. My Springfield came up, front sight centered on his designer tie.

“Don’t,” I said somewhere in my mind but I knew it never got past my lips. To hell with that, I wanted him to pull down on me. I wanted it.

As his right hand came up from his waist, I fired. The .45 slug slammed him back against the wall; the second one pinned him there. The third and fourth joined them—all in a 4-inch group where his heart would have been if he’d had one—and seemed to hold him up for a second before he slid to the carpeted floor, his foot kicking over the briefcase as he slumped. I kept the front sight on him as I kicked the SIG auto out of his hand and felt for a pulse. He was dead.

I felt something under my foot as I stepped away from the body. It was a ledger book amongst all the tapes and DVDs scattered across the floor. I picked it up and flicked through it. Wasn’t even in code, he was so confident. Senators, businessmen, international personalities. Payment amounts. Drug records. Stolen car details. All there. I had enough proof this time, not that it mattered anymore. I put it back on the floor and glanced at the tapes and DVDs. Lurid  titles with Laura’s name on them and other words—gangbang, foursome, girl on girl, senator’s daughter, and a bunch of others I can’t even stomach to repeat. My eyes fell on one old VHS tape as I heard the police cars arriving.

“Laura & Lank” the title said in Laura’s handwriting, the ampersand surrounded by a heart. It was the first videotape we’d ever made. A year before all the kinky stuff started. A year before our differences. I remembered that later we’d watched it and thought how mundane, how astoundingly normal it had been. Too much holding, kissing, and foreplay. Not enough sex; too much love.

Too much love. A tear worked its way out of the inside corner of my eye, across my nose, and off the tip. It hit the title with a splash, smearing “Lank” and the heart-enclosed ampersand, leaving Laura’s name crisp and clean.

I shoved the tape inside my jacket, wiped my eyes, and tugged the badgeholder off my belt for the Houston cops who where starting to swarm into the living room.

Copyright(c) 2007 by George Wilhite

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