Reasonable Regret

I’d like to be happy. I really would. But, instead, I pull into the vacant lot across the street from the establishment known as the Lounge in downtown Utica and sit quietly inside of my car.

It is 1:50 p.m. Carl will be here at two.

The Lounge is located in the downtown section of Utica, a dull and lifeless city situated in the southernmost section of upstate New York, about fifty miles east of Syracuse. Riddled with urban decay, the city’s streets are deserted, downright departed and the perfect breeding ground for the indigent and criminals alike. Instinctively, my fingers fumble through my giant red bag until I am certain that my envelope is still safe. I look around the empty streets. Once certain that I’m positively alone, I open the envelope and count what’s inside for what must be the fiftieth time. It’s all here, my life savings: ten thousand dollars, all in twenties.

I roll down the window and look around again. The air is thick with summer rain but still no one is watching so I carefully tuck the envelope back inside my bag and begin wondering if what they say about heaven is true. Will I ever see my son, Spencer, again? Although I have never been a religious woman, today I hold on to hope that my dreams will come true. I will once again wrap my arms around him and kiss his puffy cheeks. When I close my eyes I can still picture his young face, before the cancer took away his smile and his amber eyes. Wolf eyes, the doctors called them. So gold and shinny you would think they were made of glass, so full of hope and love they could break your heart. Even when he was so utterly fatigued and lightheaded, he would tell me not to worry. My little man, all grown up at the age of twelve. “Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll be fine,” he’d say. “I’ll be in remission soon. You’ll see. I’ll be fine.”

So, for Spencer, I pretended not to worry. Even after his weight loss and the seizures. Even after the rashes and the slurred speech, even after the life support – even after he died. Then I pretended for my family. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” I told them. “God only gives you what you can handle,” and all of that shit. Sure. I was fine. Adele Hamilton is always fine.

I look down at my watch, 1:58 p.m.

I swing my legs out of the car and my feet hit the pavement just as the rain magically stops and turns into a frayed and raveling mist. Taking it as a definite sign from above, I cross the street and enter the Lounge, all alone, on a gray and dismal Thursday afternoon.

The smell of stale beer and burnt popcorn wafts up to my nose, and I immediately feel my pulse begin to quicken. The soles of my shoes stick to the grimy, mocha-colored carpet that covers the floor with each step I take. As I approach the bar, I notice several neon beer signs: Coors, Miller Lite, Budweiser and Utica Club, thankfully, I think, allowing my eyes to finally acclimate to the darkened room.

Walnut-colored, faux wood paneling, buckled and littered with tiny holes the size of misguided darts, entirely encapsulates the small space. Several cracked, black vinyl bar stools line the L-shaped bar. Before taking a seat, I notice a pool table--dusty green felt--seemingly aching for patrons in the back of the room. I quickly look away and take my seat.

“What will it be, miss?”

The man behind the bar isn’t entirely unpleasant looking. He stands about five-seven, about the same height as I, and wears a pre-symbol Prince tee -shirt, circa 1984. When he speaks, he runs his fingers through his blond handle-bar mustache revealing a very large skull tattoo on his right forearm. I snap to attention. “I’ll have a gin and tonic with two limes, please.” I sound so obedient.

“You got it,” he says, adding a wink.

At this point, I want to disappear but quickly remember I’m here for a reason and let it go. When my drink arrives, there are two lemon wedges floating around the top of my glass. I hate lemon. “Excuse me, but don’t you have any limes?”

“No, sorry ’bout that, beautiful – it was margarita night last night and they wiped me out.”

I fish the two lemon wedges out of my glass just as a man enters the bar. The room receives a quick shot of light and then quickly disappears as the door swings closed behind.

“Hi, Carl,” the bartender says. “The usual?”

“Yeah, Dixon,” the man says as he takes a seat next to me and looks me over. “Are you Adele?” he asks in a hoarse, cracked voice.

He’s tall, probably six-two, and middle-aged–48, I’d guess. He’s not a bad-looking man, but it’s obvious from the growl in his throat that he’s been a smoker for many years. And judging by the natural slant of his eyes and the way he carries himself, he has probably seen a lot of shady deals. But that’s what I want, someone who knows how to get things done.

“Yes,” I manage to say, eyeing him warily. What I have gotten myself into?

“All right, then. Why don’t you and I take a seat in a booth, shall we, Adele?”

Although I’m not sure I can go through with my plan, I somehow manage to follow Carl to a booth closest to the pool table in the back of the bar.

We take our seats across from one another as Dixon delivers a shot of whiskey and a beer for Carl. Quickly, I take a sip of my citrus-free drink. A woman emerges from a back room and drops some coins into an ancient jute-box resting in the corner of the room. Soon, a familiar Bob Dylan song, Lay, Lady, Lay, begins to play and my pulse begins to slow, however slightly. Still, I hope I can get through our pending conversation in one piece.

“So, what can I do for you?”

Happy, at least, to learn that Carl wants to get right down to business, I take another quick sip of my drink as the words I’d rehearsed for days begin to form again in my mind. I exhale. “I hear from Steven in Syracuse that you might be able to help me.”

“That depends. What did you have in mind?”

I look around the bar. The woman, having finished selecting her song choices, returns to a back room and once again, besides Dixon standing behind the bar, we are all alone. “I want someone gone, forever.”

Carl pounds back his shot and stares directly into my eyes. “Ah, that’s illegal.” Another long swallow. “And very expensive,” he adds.

Encouraged, “I’m prepared,” I say as I look into Carl’s black eyes and return his cold, twisted smile. Upon closer inspection, Carl reminds me of Lonnie, my ex-husband. Six months after Spencer died, Lonnie announced that he’d never loved me and wanted a divorce. I could keep the house in Bayberry, he said, but he wanted out, so he left. Just like that, two months ago.

But I should have known.

After three years of marriage, Lonnie and I fell into an extraordinary funk. I was working forty hours a week at a job I hated; as a secretary at Carrier Corporation, in Syracuse. I also put in several long hours trying to gain some recognition hawking my jewelry line nights and weekends at local craft fairs and shopping malls. Lonnie worked forty hours per week, more or less, as a toll taker for the New York State Thruway Authority. Ironically, he was stationed in the town of Weedsport, west of Syracuse, about a twenty minute drive from our home. Lonnie spent most of his time getting stoned and listening to acid rock while he smiled and collected the tolls. Eventually, this caught up with him and he was fired. So began his endless succession of dead-end jobs.

“You must not like this person very much,” Carl says, interrupting my daydream. “There’s no turning back on this type of deal you know.”

“I know,” I say. Cool rivulets of sweat drip down the back of my neck as the jute-box song changes.

“It can be done, but, like I said, it will cost you,” Carl reminds me.

“I have ten thousand dollars, no more,” I say, hoping it’s enough. Carl raises his hand and asks Dixon to bring him another shot of Jack Daniels. We wait a few minutes while Dixon delivers the drink and leaves the booth again before we resume our conversation.

“Ten thousand dollars is a good amount, but it’s got to be all in cash.”

I nod, and now Carl looks around the bar, his cold black eyes reduced to slits. “So, Adele, who is the unlucky person? An ex? An obnoxious neighbor? A relative?”

“Before I tell you, I have one stipulation,” I say, somewhat confidently.

“Okay.” A genuine smile suddenly graces his face.

“I would like it done over Labor Day weekend. Any day, I don’t care which, but not until then. I need some...time, is all.”

The Rolling Stones are desperately trying to get some satisfaction in the background while I await his response. After another sip of his beer, Carl raises his left eyebrow and shifts his weight in the booth. “That’s a little odd. Labor Day is more than two months away. Usually these things are done right away.”

“Yes, I figured as much, but this is different...”

“How is it different?”

I lean forward in the booth and return a long-overdue stare of my own. “Because, Carl, the person I want dead is me.”