Promises

From where George sat, the woman in the car was somewhere around 40, though given the hard lines defining her face and the lack of gray hair, she was probably younger. Then he saw the car seat in the back. Definitely younger.

George’s ritual was to sit on this bench every morning with coffee and a cigarette. From this street bench outside the casino, he watched the world come to life. He was a people-watcher. And there’s no better stage than a gambling joint.

He never went inside, where the night never died. It only ebbed as shifts changed, people finally ate breakfast, gamblers gave up, and new ones replaced them. There was a sense of optimism in the early hours. Somebody would hit it big on poker, roulette, boxing, horses, even the dog of the day.

He had seen the woman pull her late model sedan into the No Parking zone at the entrance of the casino. With the car running, he watched her punch numbers into her phone. He wasn’t eavesdropping—no, that was beyond his sensibilities. But he clearly heard her side of the conversation through the open window.

“Mark, it’s Suzanne. But you know that. I’m here. Get out here. Now.”

She lit a cigarette. George wondered what brand she smoked. She looked too hardened for anything mentholated. Maybe Parliaments or Marlboro. Probably not Virginia Slims. Did they even make Virginia Slims anymore? She blew the smoke out the window, presumably to protect the baby.

As she looked around, she twisted her mouth in one direction and then another. Then she glanced over her shoulder, apparently to check on the child. George wondered if it was a boy or a girl.

She seemed fixated on the casino’s front door, the one to George’s right. He followed her gaze. He inhaled sharply when the door opened and a middle-aged man stepped out, squinting into the unexpected sunlight. He yanked on sunglasses. To protect his eyes or his identity, George wondered. Then the man who wasn’t Mark walked off in the opposite direction. As he was wont to do, George constructed a story about him. High-stakes roller, maybe. Federal agent. Recon for a heist. Before he could take his presumptions any further, he heard Suzanne swear.

“Son of a bitch.” She grimaced and pounded the steering wheel. “You promised,” she shouted into her phone. Every few minutes, she repeated the ritual. Call Mark. Swear at him. Slam something in the car. Look around. Check on the baby.

George shifted his fabricated story to Suzanne. Maybe Mark was the baby’s father. Or a loan shark. Or a drug dealer. George hoped it wasn’t that. Because of the baby. But he was sure that Mark was always late.

Suzanne’s voice got louder, more explicit, and more desperate with each call. Diapers, rent, food. Suddenly, she opened the car door and looked directly at George. Instinctively, he averted his eyes. After all, he was an observer, not a participant in his daily practice. But it was too late.

“Sir.” She accosted him with a husky voice and a commanding tone. “Can you keep an eye on my car? For one minute. I have to meet someone.” George didn’t let on that he knew that. He noticed she wore baggy jeans and an old plaid shirt. Definitely a Marlboro girl. “I’ll only be a minute. Don’t let ’em tow the car. Promise?” George barely nodded as Suzanne dashed toward the casino entrance. Shew threw an admonition over her shoulder. “My baby girl’s inside. Please.”

A minute after she disappeared into the never-ending darkness, the door opened. A figure—a man? Mark?—emerged, then receded. With eyes bouncing between the car and the door, George lit another cigarette. Then the door opened again.

Pop. Pop Pop Pop.

Aghast, George realized it was gunfire. Was this a robbery? Some kind of retaliation? Before he could react, a body fell into the doorway, propping it open. It wore jeans. He thought it was Suzanne. More gunfire. George willed his feet to move toward the car. The baby started crying. Sirens started wailing. George started sweating. What to do? Move the car? Grab the baby? But that would mean he’d get involved. Shit. He already was involved.

More gunfire. A bearded guy in neat jeans and a golf shirt sprinted toward the car carrying a duffle bag.

“Get outta the way,” he shouted at George, who responded with hands raised in surrender. The guy jumped into the passenger seat. Just as quickly, he jumped out. “What’d you do with my wife, you …”

“Nothing! Nothing! Some lady—your wife, ran into the casino. Said she was looking for someone.” You, you son of a bitch, is what he wanted to say to the man he deduced was Mark. “Said she’d only be gone a minute. Asked me to look after the car. The baby.”

Mark looked in the back seat. “Shit!”

Racing around to the driver’s side, Mark kicked George to the curb, jumped in the car, revved the engine, and sped away.

As George crawled to his feet, he heard more gunfire. Something stung his arm. And his leg. And his chest. His last thoughts were of the baby. He wished he could tell Suzanne that the little girl wasn’t hurt.