Wednesday morning, 6:00am
The FBI building was deserted at six a.m., except for a
few security guards patrolling the corridors, two bored cleaners listlessly
vacuuming, and Jack Malone sitting at his desk, feigning deep interest in
paperwork.
He ticked boxes, signed his name, and wrote concise,
meaningless sentences in appropriate places, but his mind was far, far away
from incident reports and expense reckonings.
Samantha Spade. Chocolate ice cream. Sweat and laughter in
a sunny suburban park. Why hadn’t he known that she liked ice-cream cones? Why hadn’t he ever jogged with her or kissed
her in public with simple disregard for what anyone else might do or say?
He put his pen down and rubbed his eyes. How could he have
known she liked ice cream cones? She’d never told him and he’d never thought to
ask. Why would he have jogged with her? He hated jogging with company - bad
enough to jog to keep fit, but who wanted to do it with someone else to witness
the misery? And, of course, he’d never kissed her in public because there were
so very many reasons why he couldn’t.
It wasn’t fair.
He picked up his pen, grabbed another form, and continued
writing. Maybe, he thought, it wasn’t
too late. What could a woman like Samantha see in Martin - a good agent, but
surely the blandest of men? Maybe, if he pulled himself together, he
could salvage things. Make it all right
again. Find something positive in everything that had happened since Maria left
for Chicago.
He found himself getting excited, starting off into space
instead of working. He could take Samantha away for a weekend, away from prying
eyes, to a place he could be whoever she wanted him to be with no fear of
discovery. Maybe....
The bubble lasted exactly one hour and forty seven
minutes. Until, that his, the object of his desire arrived, clearly not
dreaming of a steamy weekend with him in Hawaii or Aspen or anywhere else for
that matter. She walked in beside Martin, smiling at him.
And with painful honesty, Jack had to admit that she had
never smiled like that for him.
Tuesday evening, 8:00pm
Sam arrived at Martin’s apartment two hours after telling
him she wanted to be alone that evening. She walked in, unannounced and
unexpected, knowing deep down that she would be welcome. That he would greet
her gladly and listen when she told him the secret that was burning in her
belly, desperate to be shared.
He rose from the sofa as the door opened, and smiled
broadly. ‘Hey. I thought you couldn’t make it tonight.’
‘I’m not here for sex, Martin.’ She hadn’t meant to be so
blunt, but it had to be said.
His smile didn’t falter, though he did cock his head to
the side and look at her with some curiousity. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ he said.
‘You want something to drink?’
It would have been a diversion, but she didn’t want that. ‘I
need to tell you something, Martin. Something that this case...that this case
has been making me think about a lot.’
‘Okay.’ As simple as that. He took her hand, and sat with
her on the sofa, and his willingness made her more uncomfortable than questions
would have.
‘When I was seventeen, I let a boy sweet-talk me into the
back seat of his daddy’s Buick,’ she said, wryly. ‘Joey Hurley. I knew better,
but I thought I loved him, and I was too stupid to realise he never loved me.
The next thing I knew, I was pregnant.’
That surprised him, but it only showed in his
raised eyebrows. He said nothing, and she ploughed on. ‘I convinced him to
marry me. I thought that would make it better. Make it right. But my parents
hated the idea, and I found myself alone with him in a trailer park. Poor. Pregnant. I finished high school, but
that was all. The only accomplishment I had to my name. Then I realised that
Joey drank too much. Far too much.’
‘You divorced him.’
She nodded. ‘I was young and stupid, but not that stupid.
I wasn’t going to raise my baby with an alcoholic. Joey didn’t care. He didn’t
want the baby anyway. My parents approved of the divorce, but they hadn’t
forgiven me for getting into this mess in the first place. It was too late for
an abortion, but they thought I should give the baby up for adoption.’
She pulled away from Martin, and stood up, restlessly. ‘I
couldn’t do it, Martin. I’d felt this baby inside me, felt her move. I
couldn’t give her up. So I kept her. Her name was Jessica Rose. We lived together
in a dingy little apartment, and I scrimped and saved and managed.’ She turned
back to him, watched him watching her with unreadable eyes as she told him of
bearing another man’s child. ‘She was my joy,’ she said, softly.
He stood up and came over to her. ‘What happened?’
She took a deep breath and told him the rest. ‘When Jessie
was nearly fourteen months old, she was asleep in her stroller while we waited
for a bus. Some drunk college kid lost control, swerved up onto the pavement.’
Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, and she stared sightlessly across
the room. ‘She never stood a chance. Three weeks after the funeral, I moved to
New York. Applied to college. Joined the FBI. The rest you know.’
‘Sam.’ He stroked her hair. ‘I’m sorry.’
She knew he meant it. He was that kind of man. She let him
slide his arms around her, and cried on his shoulder while he rubbed her back
and murmured words she neither understood nor needed to.
She stayed with him that night, too tired to go back to
her apartment and too wrung out to want to be alone. If he’d touched her, if
he’d reached for her, she might have welcome the simple physical release of
sex. But all he did was offer her a sweatshirt to sleep in, and lie beside her
in his big bed, listening as she told him stories about Jessie.
It was the first time she stayed with him just to be with
him.
It was surprisingly comforting to wake up beside him,
watching him turn his face into his pillow in silent resistance to the alarm.
She laughed out loud at his sleepy eyes, kissed him on the cheek, and went to
make him coffee.
It was wet and grey outside, and they had to get to work
soon, but Sam Spade had a feeling that today might just be a good one.
End.
