Chapter Four---I Am A Cool Guy
So she was two bourbons down now. It was okay. Not that it mattered. She was going to die. Maybe if she drove drunk, Vincent wouldn't be able to use her anymore. Maybe they would get pulled over and she'd be arrested for drunk driving. It was a possibility.
Then, the horrific thought of Vincent shooting a couple of innocent cops to keep himself from getting dragged into the mess was unbearable.
She glanced over at him. It had been a while. She had a faint buzz going from the alcohol, nothing major, but smooth and mellow. He looked back at her as the set wound down.
"So," he said, leaning forward, close to her, as if they were having a private conversation. "Did you last boyfriend take you to places like this?"
Mute, she shook her head.
He shrugged. "Maybe if he had, you wouldn't have broken up with him?" His look was nearly flirtatious, held back only by the fact that his eyes were still roving the room, taking in everyone. Watching, always watching. "What was he like, your ex?"
"I never said I had an ex," she replied, clinking the last bits of mostly-melted ice in her glass.
"Well, if you had previous boyfriends that you don't have anymore, technically, they're exes."
She looked at him, leaning her chin on her hand. "What about you? Don't you have someone?"
"Didn't we already cover that?" He sipped his water, noticing how the waitress went over to Daniel, telling him that a particular table wanted to buy him a drink.
"Not really. Not to my satisfaction. If you want to know about my love life, it's only fair I know yours."
He gave her a brief smile. "Well, probably not the best conversation to be having right now, anyway."
She laughed a little, glanced out toward the floor to where the musicians were cleaning up. A thought struck her and slid out of her mouth before she could stop it. "I'm going to be alone forever."
"Why?" he seemed perplexed by her statement.
She sighed, shook her head. "Because I'm a complete and total fucking idiot." She sighed again, letting the breath slip out of her lungs. If only she didn't have to put it back.
"Well, maybe occasionally, but not as a general rule, I'm sure," he said, sounding mildly consoling.
"You don't know," she muttered.
"Try me. Since you seem to want to talk about it so badly."
She looked at him. "There's this guy now, nice guy, likes me a lot. We have coffee, dinner on occasion. He hasn't even held my hand yet because I'm not ready for that."
"So...what's wrong, no spark?"
"Nope, not a one. And I know he's interested in me. I got so uncomfortable that after only our third or fourth conversation, I called the guy and nailed the poor bastard with the 'I want to be your friend first' speech. I was lucky he ever talked to me again."
"Ouch. But is he still talking to you?"
"Yes. But still no spark."
She realized he was leaning closer to her. His hand hovered next to hers, ready to take it. "Don't worry about it," he said. "You did the right thing. Honesty is always the best. You had to give it to him straight, you did. Relationships are always better if people make their intentions known up front. No stupid games. Anyway, if he's still talking to you, you haven't wrecked it."
She nodded, feeling mildly comforted by the thought. "Someone told me once that if it's meant to be, you can't screw it up."
Vincent let out a low, sarcastic laugh. "I don't know if I'd go that far. I mean, millions of people in this city alone, billions on the planet. How can anyone believe that there's only one person out there for them? That there's some kind of predestination that will bring those two people together? That's a little far-fetched."
"Well, that doesn't surprise me, coming from you," she said, sipping the remains of the water in her glass. She looked at him, caught how his cheek muscles twitch.
"Exactly why?" he asked, still casual, curious.
"Well, that would imply faith in something bigger than yourself," she replied. "You don't have beliefs like that and then become a hit man."
He cocked an eyebrow. "Miss Criminology Major is attempting to psychoanalyze me," he said dryly. "What makes you think I'm a hit-man, anyway?"
"What are you, a nihilist?" she asked. "God is dead, all that noise?"
"You've had a bit too much to drink."
"Only enough to make me say stupid things. Don't worry, I can still drive, and I'm not drunk enough to try and run away from you again."
His hand finally closed over hers. "Good. Because I would hate to have to hurt you, but I would if you made me."
She seemed puzzled by this statement. "Have you ever had to shoot someone that you liked?" she asked.
"Liked? You mean, how, a woman I was sleeping with?"
She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, that, or someone you were just friends with. Do you have any friends?"
He shook his head.
She shrugged. "Figured that, too. So you only sleep with women, you don't get to know them first? You don't have relationships?""It's hard to have a relationship when you have to travel as much as I do."
"Or live like you do. Do you even have a home?"
His hand squeezed hers a bit. She looked up. Daniel had approached, and now the conversation was over.
For the moment.
Daniel stuck out his hand, shook Vincent's, then kissed Callie's. He told them he would be right back, he just had a little bit of business to take care of. The band was playing something quiet and low, and the club was nearly empty.
Vincent took her hand fully in his, gave it a mild tug. "Well, I promised you a dance," he said. "How about it?"
It was very cool, the way he said it, very casual, confident. She wondered where he got it from. Nearly every guy she'd ever known had always fumbled on that line, even when they were dating her and dancing was expected. She looked at him, unsure. Before they'd been on the verge of fighting. Now, the adrenaline pushed the alcohol through her system, giving her a moment of clarity.
He stood up, taking her with him. She let him lead her to a small section of the floor, and before she knew it, he had one arm around her back, and felt the warmth of his chest inches away from hers. Her hand rested on the shoulder of his suit coat, feeling the polished cotton against her fingertips.
"You didn't answer me before," she said. "Do you have a home?"
"I have a place to lay my head," he said. "Homes are for people with families."
She bit back something sarcastic, like, poor little hit man. Instead, she just let the silence rest, not sure of whatever she wanted to say next. Sometimes, in moments of extreme discomfort, silence was a haven instead of an addition to a difficult situation. She'd always found this to be true on dates - if a guy said something she didn't like, she would let the silence speak for her, finding it easier. As dense as men were, they usually got the message and hastily changed the subject.
Suddenly she realized that Vincent was looking right at her, gazing down into her face. He was only a few inches taller than her, although he was well built, she could sense his muscle frame against her, knew he could most likely snap her in half if he wanted to.
"So, this guy you're seeing...why are you seeing him?"
She was a bit startled by the conversation. "Why not? He's a perfectly nice guy."
"That you don't like. Why not?"
She shifted, uncomfortable. "He makes...insinuations. I don't know if he means to, but they made me uncomfortable."
"Insinuations...you mean sexual?"
She nodded.
"And you're offended by them." A statement, not a question. He seemed to be attempting to understand her, even if he didn't quite grasp it - she could tell by the squint of his eyebrows.
She said, "I'm of the belief that when two people are getting to know each other, the man should be a gentleman. On his best behavior."
"Only depends on what the relationship is for," Vincent pointed out.
She stiffened. "No, it depends on the person you are," she corrected him.
"Really?"
"Yes. You see, in spite of the popular view, that sex is good for recreation, or a natural need, a basic instinct, I believe that it should stay within the confines of marriage."
"You do." Very dead-pan now, nearly amused.
"Yes." She was getting more annoyed by the second.
"Well, maybe that's the problem. Maybe this guy is trying to sleep with you and you just think you should be friends. Hence why he doesn't seem to get the message."
She shrugged. "Doesn't matter." She let out the part that she didn't really believe she was going to live through the night at any rate.
"It does," he insisted, and then she felt herself being pressed up against him. "You see, you're keeping this guy at arm's length because he isn't what you want. If he was, you wouldn't care. If you had a spark, it wouldn't matter." She felt his fingers sliding along her lower back, sending chills up her spine. "Now, someone you're attracted to could do just about anything, and you'd come back for more without a single complaint." He leaned very close to her ear, ticking the delicate hairs there. "Right?"
She turned away, nearly speechless. She felt slightly dizzy, wondering if he was going to do something really stupid, like kiss her.
And hating herself for secretly hoping he would.
Then he pulled away, looked down at her, and smiled, wickedly. "Isn't it nice, though, when two people feel the same way?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "I've never been there."
His smile widened, and he gently let her go. They went back to their seat, as Daniel had returned and the waitress had brought their drinks.
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"That was the way Miles was, though," Daniel was saying, his drink half-watered down in front of him, totally engrossed in conversation with Vincent. "When he was in his musical headspace? Fierce."
Callie listened, her eyes going back and forth like at a tennis match. Vincent had metamorphosised (sp). He'd gone from being cunning and wicked to being friendly and polite and downright interesting. His admiration for Daniel was clear. She didn't think she would ever see something like this in a man like him, but the second they started talking about Miles Davis, it was like a spell had been cast.
Until then, Vincent had been idly reaching for her hand ever now and again, to give the impression that they were together. Careful not to piss him off, she'd played along, although coolly, not wanting to seem too submissive. Now, he was completely into whatever Daniel was saying, leaning back in his seat, hands on his thighs....
And funny thing. He'd started looking around the room again.
At first, she'd had a moment of unwelcome jealousy when she simply thought he was checking out the waitress, like he had before. But now, she was starting to wonder...
"But did you get to talk to him?" Vincent asked. Daniel had been telling them all about a night in 1964 when Miles Davis had come into this club while Daniel was a mere busboy, just wanting to be around the music of the jazz scene. She could picture him, that young. She could imagine what it felt like, just wanting to be around something you admired so much. There had been times when she'd snuck away for weekends to various writer's conventions just to be around the brilliant minds she would meet there, chance at a meeting with a favorite of hers.
"Better. I got to play for twenty minutes," Daniel said, as if dropping the punchline of a brilliant joke.
"Man," Vincent breathed, playing it cool but still amazed, "had to be..."
"Oh, it was," Daniel replied, as if they could finish each other's thoughts.
"How did you do?" she heard herself asking.
He laughed, smiled at her, showing her the respect that a mildly interested girlfriend deserved. "Well, you're really not much when you're playing next to Miles Davis, but he carried me," he replied, watching his mouth, being respectful to her because she was a woman. She found she really liked that. If she'd been a guy he would have used a lot more swear words, but he was a real gentleman. She wished there were more like him the world.
"What did he say?" Vincent asked, still being cool but interested.
"He said one word. Cool." The word 'cool' was spoken in a husky whisper, and she could imagine it perfectly.
"Cool?" Vincent said, much sharper, quicker, without the special effects.
"Cool," Daniel affirmed. "It meant good, but not ready. It meant, look me up when you are."
"Did you?"
"No, I got drafted, and then there were...other things..." he shot Callie an uncomfortable look. "By the time I came back to it, the season had passed."
Vincent sighed, as if feeling a deep sense of empathy. "The crowds aren't here, now," he said.
"Well, jazz ain't the draw that it used to be. You know, I was born in 1945, but that night was the night of my conception."
Vincent smiled, shook his head. "Wow. That's a great story."
"Yeah," Callie agreed, "really." She glanced at Vincent, and felt a real familiar feeling between her legs. "I'll be right back," she said, standing up slowly.
Vincent's eyes shot to her.
"Bathroom," she said softly, pointing. He nodded, and watched her all the way there. She could feel his eyes drilling holes into her back. But it was for real this time, and she actually used the toilet, took a moment to fix her hair, and headed out again.
Only to find Vincent coming toward her.
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Vincent watched Callie walk away. It was perfect, really. And even if she tried to leave, she wouldn't get far, as he had her keys in his pocket. He turned back to Daniel, who was smiling, pleased at the enthusiastic response he'd gotten for his story, raising his glass to take a drink.
Vincent said, "I'll have to tell the guys in Cartajena and Kublikhan that story."
Then Daniel's smile vanished. The world changed to black and white. Vincent sat his target, watched him lower his glass. "You know the guys from Cartajena and Kublikhan?"
"Afraid so."
The smile was long gone, having dropped from dead-pan into an expression of deep fear and loathing. Daniel had gone from looking at Vincent with the admiration of a fellow enthusiast, to looking at him as if he'd murdered his father.
Vincent saw a tingle of color. He felt the merest pang of guilt. It was unusual for him, and he studied it, wondering where in the hell it had come from, how it could possibly exist.
He'd been killing for years. Only six for private hire, but before that, he was a certified, card-carrying, government-funded assassin. It was part of the reason he'd gone prematurely gray. He'd never regretted a single kill.
"And just when I thought you were a cool guy."
"I am a cool guy," Vincent said, not skipping a beat, "with a job I was contracted to do."
Daniel continued to glare at him, his cheeks having dropped so that they hung like the empty pockets in a squirrel's face.
He sighed, considering. "Okay, listen," he said, doing a quick calculation in his head and knowing he only had a few more minutes to do this without Callie seeing. She'd watched him gun down the guys in the street, but that was defendable, even forgiveable. This, however, would not be, and there'd be no turning back. He'd have to kill her when the night was over.
Strangely, he did not want to do that.
"Yeah?" Daniel breathed.
"I'm going to ask you a question."
"What kind of question?"
"A jazz question," Vincent said, his tone condescending. "If you get it right, we roll." We. As if Callie were involved in this.
"I guarantee you," Daniel said, grasping at the thin line, desperate, "that if I walk out of here tonight, I will go so far away, it'll be just like I was dead. And you tell these people and their rep here, Felix? Tell them I'm sorry. Tell them, I was compelled to give testimony. It was either play ball or go back inside, and I'm not going back inside."
Vincent barely nodded. He moistened his lips, and said, "Where did Miles learn music?"
"I know everything there is to know about Miles Davis," Daniel said.
"Then let's have it."
"His father was a dentist, invested in agriculture, made a lot of money, sent Miles to Julliard, school of music, New York, 1955."
Vincent coolly raised his hand, which now held his gun, and planted three bullets right into Daniel's head. Before the man could fall, Vincent stood up, knocking his chair out from behind him, reaching out with one hand to catch the man's face as he fell.
Gently, so gently, he set him down, as if the man were his son and he were putting him to sleep. Then, just as tenderly, he reached down, pulled up his hand, his left one, and set it beside him on the table.
"Tripped out of Julliard after listening to Charlie Parker, who mentored him for the next three years," Vincent murmured, as if to confirm the truth of the answer to some silent listener.
He closed his eyes. So this was what regret felt like. He didn't like it, it was bitter in his mouth. He closed his eyes, let out his breath, tried to swallow the taste away, but it wouldn't.
Then he heard the bathroom door open. He let go and shoved the gun back into its holster, heading right for her as she stepped out into the hallway.
He managed to block her view, but scared the piss out of her in the process, he could tell from the look on her face. She jumped, pulled back, seemed offended.
"I really was using the bathroom," she said.
"I know," he said. "We have to go."
"But I thought you were talking to Daniel," she said, poking her head around his shoulder. "What happened?"
Vincent tried to pull her back into his shadow, but she had nearly pushed herself into him, and had already gotten a glimpse down the hallway and out into the room.
"What's Daniel got his head down for?" she asked. "Is he sick?"
He almost laughed. The first time he'd ever seen a dead body, he'd asked the same question.
Then she pulled back, turned and looked up at him. The horror slowly registered there.
"We have to go," he said again. He grabbed her wrist and led her through the club, out the back door, and out into the street.
A/N: Quick shout-outs to SYNB and Sargonne, who have both begun their own Collateral fics. Sargonne's is called "Vestige," and SYNB's is called "Music For Serial Killers." Both of them quite excellent and totally unique. I recommend them both highly. I seriously think we HAVE to make put up at Collateral section, we'd totally fill it up! I'm with you, Sargonne! Plus, they really need to open up a Miracle fanfiction section, there are at least a dozen of those fics on the Misc. Movies page! LOL
