The microwave began that annoying beeping to indicate that his leftover Chinese food was warmed, and Elliott Keeth moved quickly across the kitchen to hit the button that would end it. He removed the plate, lightly touching the rice to make sure it was warm enough, before padding out of the kitchen into the livingroom, and settling his bulk onto the sofa.
He put his feet up on the coffee table, and balancing his plate on his left hand, reached for the television converter with his right. He flicked rapidly from channel to channel, knowing that after midnight there was usually little to watch that was really intriguing. He passed the home shopping network where two blondes were hawking fake diamond jewellry, past infommercials trying to interest him in a home gym, a get-rich-quick real estate plan, a dehydrator, or some acne cream.
He paused for a moment when scantily clad, nubile young female bodies writhed around the screen, claiming that hot, lonely women were just waiting for his call at the opposite end of a 1-900 number. He watched them cavort, appreciating their firm, lithe forms, and their artifically enhanced busts. Sure, he was old enough to be their grandfather technically, but that didn't mean that he didn't like to look. He was getting older, but he wasn't dead. He grinned salaciously as he thought momentarily of a line from a country song that he'd heard on the car radio today. 'I'm not as good as I once was, but I'm as good once, as I ever was.'
Dana could attest to that. If she'd been here, of course. He sighed aloud. God knew he loved the woman, and truth was most of the time she was right about things, but so often they found themselves at odds. Dana was balking again at their living together. She was insistent that if they were going to move in with one another, and take their relationship to the next level, that he would have to promise to quit smoking. Or at least promise not to smoke indoors any more.
He understood where she was coming from. And that she wasn't being totally unreasonable, given that just last month he had fallen asleep in this very room, with a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. He glanced guiltily at the empty spot to his left where the Easyboy had formally sat. Dragged out to the curb a few weeks ago for the large item pick up, an unsightly, charred crater marring the armrest.
But he found himself stubbornly resistant to her pleas. He knew what she was feeling. Fear for him. Fear for herself. And that it came out of concern, not out of some need to control. And the truth was that Keeth really wanted to quit smoking. But like he'd said to Jim Brass last month, even though every January first he determined he'd never light up again, no more than a few days later he'd find himself once again cruising down Tobacco Road.
Elliott just didn't like other people telling him what to do. It was a failing of his, and one that he was honest about. It was something that had at times hindered his career. It was one of the main reasons for the breakdowns of his first two marriages. Neither Charlene nor Lynne had been able to deal with what they saw as his total, uncompromising selfishness. Both women had claimed, as they had packed their bags, that they still loved him, but that they couldn't live with him.
His thumb pressed the button and the channels cycled through once again. Ah, here was something that he could vegetate in front of for a while. Miami Vice reruns. Crockett and Tubbs. Keeth loved to watch cop shows. Especially the older, overdone ones. He liked to laugh at how far removed from reality they were.
Some of the newer cop shows though...he didn't like to tune into those. They were a little too real sometimes. The viewing public seemed to eat them up, and there were many cops who did appreciate them. But Elliott felt that when he wanted entertaining, he didn't want to see something that was going to remind him of those parts of his job that he'd rather leave behind, tucked into his locker with his bullet proof vest. The things that he didn't want to think too deeply about.
He set down the convertor, picked up the chopsticks, and lost himself in the Hollywood version of the Miami law enforcement scene, as he finished off the plate of Sesame chicken, egg foo yung, and fried rice. Elliott's thoughts wandered from the programme, and he wondered if he should take a couple of sleeping pills and hit the sack. Or if he'd forgo the pills tonight, and have a couple of shots of whiskey instead.
A few months ago, when his insomnia had gotten so bad that he found himself dozing at work on occasion, Keeth had finally made an appointment with his doctor. The physician hadn't wanted to prescribe the pills initially. He had encouraged Elliott to examine whether or not there was any emotional or psychological reason why he might have trouble sleeping. And to try to determine that first, and possibly assist him through counselling.
Emotional or psychological reason? Hell yeah! Keeth knew exactly why he wasn't sleeping. But there was nothing that sitting in front of some shrink, baring his soul, was going to change or help him with. So he'd lied to the doctor. The truth was that Elliott was a year away from retirement, and he dreaded it. He thought constantly about how his life was going to change, and he couldn't see any silver lining in those gathering storm clouds.
He'd been a cop for almost his entire adult life. It was the only job he'd ever held. It was the one constant that had always given purpose to his life. It was more than a job really, being a cop was who he was. How did they expect a man to just stop being himself one day?
Sure, he knew that he was supposed to look forward to it. That this was his reward for all those years of hard work, and personal endangerment, and proportionately small financial recompensation. These were to be his golden years. When he could just relax and enjoy himself. Play some golf. Lounge around the pool. Visit his kids and grandbaby.
He hadn't seen Jr. and Shanika and baby Kyrie for almost two years now. Heck, 'baby' Kyrie was starting pre-school in the fall. Once he retired, Elliott could travel out to Vermont, and spend weeks at a time, reacquainting himself with his oldest son and his family. Or he could even head to Canada where Tyrone and his new Canadian wife Mara had started their recording business.
There were lots of things that he could do, Elliott knew. But the truth was, that he was afraid. Afraid that when he hung up that bullet proof vest for the last time, when he handed in his badge and turned over his gun, that all six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds of him, would just turn to dust and blow away on a warm Nevada wind.
How many guys had he watched retire, only to see dead within a year or two? It was as though without purpose, there was nothing for them to live for. Keeth felt with every fibre of his being that that would be his fate too. That with nothing to motivate him to get up in the mornings...one morning he just might not get up.
Some of the guys took jobs when they left the force, he knew. There were always places for ex-cops to land. Casino security. Or he could switch sides and become one of those cops that leant his expertise to fighting traffic tickets. He could start his own business, and prey on the fears of homeowners, and sell them expensive equipment to give them a false sense of safety as they locked themselves and their valuables in their big homes. He could man one of those little booths outside the ritzy gated communities. Waving the elite into and out of their mansion drives, while keeping the riff raff out.
Yeah...those were things to look forward to, he thought sarcastically. Keeth got up from the sofa and returned to the kitchen, setting his plate in the sink, and reaching into the cupboard above it for the bottle of Crown Royale. He was surprised to see that there were only a half dozen ounces or so left. He hadn't realized he'd been drinking so much lately. One more thing for Dana to nag him about. He shook his head, his mahogany features contrite. That wasn't fair. Dana wasn't a nag, and she'd never said anything to him about his drinking. Even though he knew that sometimes his intake was a little on the excessive side.
Dana was a good woman, and he was lucky to know her. She was the first white woman that he'd dated seriously. He wasn't prejudiced or anything, it was just the way things had worked out that his first two wives had been Black and bi-racial. Dana was a good-looking woman. Just turned fifty, though she could pass for younger. She kept herself fit and trim. Ate well and excercised regularly. Pampered herself and always looked real nice. Made frequent appointments to get her blonde hair styled and streaked, and to have her fingers and toes painted. And she always smelled so good...like a garden of flowers.
Dana was smart too, and successful in her job. She was a mortgage broker, and had turned her area of expertise into a nice little nest egg for herself. She was always buying, improving and flipping properties for a profit, and was currently sitting on a nice chunk of land outside of Laughlin that she was sure would be zoned for development soon. She wasn't hoity-toity about money either. She didn't care that he really didn't have any, beyond his pension fund and a small cabin that he had in the mountains near Vegas.
They were good together, Elliott knew. They helped one another to relax and to decompress after their high pressure jobs. And they were great in the sack together. He poured a generous measure of the whiskey, smiling to himself at the thought. Her libido matched his, and he couldn't recall a time where she'd ever deflected his interest because of a 'headache'.
He tucked the bottle under his arm, and carrying his glass he returned to the livingroom. He lit up a cigarette, inhaling deeply, filling his lungs. Damn it, he enjoyed smoking. It was getting so that it was a politically incorrect habit though. It had been a few years since he'd been able to light up at his desk at work. Restaurants and such had smoking and non-smoking areas now. Smokers were piriahs who were ostracized, given dirty looks, and banished to the fringes of society.
Okay, rationally he knew that it wasn't good for him. He regarded the slim, white, paper-wrapped tube in his hand, and the red glowing ember at it's tip. Sometimes he did wonder what his lungs looked like on the inside. Was it worth it, really to keep doing this to himself? Wouldn't it be much nicer, in the long run, to be able to come home every day to Dana's feminine softness and honeyed kisses, rather than these cancer sticks?
If Jim Brass could quit, Keeth could too. Hell, he remembered how much Brass had smoked when they had worked together back in Vegas years ago. The man had been a proverbial chimney. A real chain smoker, lighting his next cigarette off the previous one. Maybe Elliott couldn't quit cold turkey the way Brass had done. But he could see about getting that patch. He knew a few guys who'd had success with that. Dana would be ecstatic.
Keeth refilled his glass, then stared at the pack on the side table. Maybe he should just crumple them up now and toss them away. Get the temptation out of the house. The thought panicked him for a moment. No point in resorting to such drastic measure after all of these years. The pack was almost done. A few more wouldn't hurt him. Then when it was finished, he could decide what he wanted to do about that particular albatross around his neck.
Miami Vice had ended and Barney Miller had taken it's place. Now there was a show that Keeth liked. He found the absurdity hilarious. He sipped on his drink while he immersed himself in the episode. Part way through, Keeth found himself battling to keep his eyes open. Strange. He had figured he'd be up for hours yet. He actually dozed for a moment, jerking himself back up out of his slumber, sloshing the amber liquid from his glass onto his jeans.
Well, no point looking a gift horse in the mouth. Elliott decided that he might as well get to his bed before the fatigue passed. It would be nice to lay his head on a pillow and actually drift off right away. First, he'd just give himself a minute. He set the glass on the table, so that he wouldn't spill his drink again, and leaned his head back, touching the wall behind the sofa.
Keeth felt funny. Groggy. His mouth pasty. He knew instinctively that something was wrong. He hadn't had enough to drink that he should be affected like this by the liquor. He struggled against the blackness, feeling as though he was swimming in a thick, lightless void.
He didn't hear the click of the apartment door as it opened, or the firm sound of it closing again in it's frame. It wasn't until he felt the pressure on his shoulders, pushing him into a prone position, that he forced his lids open. His vision was blurry, but he could make out a hazy figure. Dana? He tried to form his lips around the name, but could expell no sound from his throat. He closed his eyes again.
Something was being forced between his slack lips, pressing against his teeth. Keeth parted them, and tried to push the offending object out with his tongue. He could smell the familiar acrid scent of cigarette smoke, as it wafted up through his nostrils and into the cavern of his mouth. He tried to turn his head away, but found that his body rejected his commands.
Keeth thought that he must be dreaming. He felt a smooth pressure on the fingers of his right hand. Someone was manipulating their movements. He felt them close, recognizing the spongy feel of a cigarette filter beneath them. What the devil was going on?
His eyelids flew open again by supreme force of will. Keeth could see that a shadowy form was bent over him. He felt his arm being crooked, and his hand pushed back to nestle between the two overstuffed pillows that made up the sofa's back. This was no dream. Something was very wrong here.
He tried to concentrate on the outline of the other person in the room. Trying to will his foggy head to clear. He could smell something burning, and feel heat near his right hand. As desperately as he tried, he just couldn't move. He tried to call out, but his lips seemed gummed together. Someone had drugged him, Keeth thought with panic. Someone had drugged him, and was in his apartment now. The stench that assailed him now was his sofa, catching light beneath a smoldering cigarette. He had to MOVE! Had to get out of here!
Keeth had a moment of clarity. The letter that had come a couple of weeks ago. The one that he hadn't been able to understand, and how tossed carelessly into the trash. And Denny Martens...the hit-run-accident. Had Denny gotten a letter too?
He felt the darkness pulling him under again, even as his body quaked with anger and fear and tears squeezed out onto his dark cheeks. Ironically, Elliott Keeth could hear his own voice, on his inner ear, as he replayed the words he had said to Jim Brass after they had laid Denny Martens to rest.
"Helluva thing, death. You just never know when your number is gonna be up."