The Third Victim by Collin Wilcox Page B

the free-spending tourists and the affluent citizens for whom the Santa Barbara lifestyle was fashioned.
    Why had he chosen this bar, then?
    The answer was obvious. He’d come here because this bar lay on a direct line between his present home and his former home—between Cathy on the north and Joanna on the south.
    He’d gone three blocks before he’d realized that he was walking headlong toward home. Joanna’s home. And the realization had brought him up short. He’d stood alone on the sidewalk, blinking, hearing the wine buzzing in his head. He’d been momentarily immobilized, defeated. Finally, though, he’d made a strategic withdrawal to his present position: seated on a red plastic bar stool, staring into a pink-tinted mirror. But here he was stuck. He couldn’t advance, couldn’t retreat.
    Except that, for years, he’d been retreating.
    For six years, his course had been one long, zigzag retreat.
    How long would it take before the retreat became a rout—a disaster? How long did it take for defeat to become chronic? How long would it be before despair showed in the uncertain movements of his eyes and hands, and in the falseness of his laughter? Were there years allotted for winning, and others allotted for losing? If that were so, then these years would have a meaning—a purpose. Someday, he could write a tragedy.
    But who made the allotments?
    Who decided when the time for losing had ended and the time for winning would begin? Would Mephistopheles, disguised as a greasy-fingered laborer, sit down beside him, on a companion red plastic bar stool, and outline the proposition—
    “Got a match, by any chance?”
    Blinking, he glanced up into the rose-colored mirror. A blowzy, bleary-eyed blonde sat beside him, smiling grotesquely.
    He shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t smoke.” Without looking at her, he finished the bourbon and water.
    “Did you quit, or just never start?” She still held the unlit cigarette poised between her stubby, nicotine-stained fingers.
    “I quit. Three years ago.” Unconsciously, he’d taken a dollar bill out of his pocket—his last dollar. Beside him, the blowzy blonde shifted expectantly. Plainly, she hoped he’d offer her a drink. Then, perhaps, another drink. And then—who could tell—perhaps they’d share a night of love.
    It was something he’d never done. He’d never picked up a woman at a bar. It had never been necessary. Girls—jobs—favorable reviews for his play—he’d had them all.
    Until now. Here. Tonight.
    At this improbable place, with a flat-faced blonde sitting where moments before he’d imagined Mephistopheles toying with his beer and contemplating some Faustian bargain that would trade success for a small piece of his soul, he’d finally come face to face with himself. The wine, doubtless, had helped—and the pot. And the three bourbons. And the pink mirror, and the fat bartender. And the blonde, still with the cigarette clamped in her pudgy fingers.
    “Here…” He dropped the last dollar on the bar as he turned to the blonde. “Buy yourself a drink. I’d join you, except that I’ve got an appointment.” He turned his back on her exclamations of virtuously surprised protest and walked out into the night.
    For as far as he could see, the sidewalks were deserted. The bar was part of a modest mom-and-pop shopping community that served a quiet residential neighborhood: small houses built under large trees. In this neighborhood, most citizens sat before their TVs, watching a late movie or the eleven-o’clock news. Soon they would go to bed. Twenty-five percent, perhaps, would make love.
    Would he make love that night? Would Cathy accept him tonight—literally accept him? Would apologies be necessary—an elaborately orchestrated recital of contrition? What price would Cathy exact in exchange for forgiveness and acceptance? Cathy was a smart girl with an instinct for life’s constantly changing ledger of emotional debits and credits. What