Jackson Parks: The Pearly Gates

"I ain't the one with a gun pointed at my gut. You are."

"You can kill me, but there are hundreds more, just like me, waiting to connect up with you."

Denver Jones must have seen the truth in that because his smirk disappeared. "Hurry up, Libby," he yelled over his shoulder, and then focused on Jackson once again. "You beagles couldn't find a pile of shit unless your foot stepped in it," he said. "You didn't find me before, and you won't find the two of us later."

Libby came back into the kitchen with a white towel draped across her arm like she was waitressing. "You want me to cut it up, Denver? Or maybe find some rope?" she asked.

"No. Give it here. I want to wad it around the end of this pistol. The damn thing makes too much noise." He grabbed the towel and wrapped it around the pistol, never taking his eyes off of Jackson. "You want to see me shoot him, Libby?"

"Huh?"

"Stand over there, far away from him in case this gets messy."

"His blood's gonna get on everything in my kitchen?"

"Probably. I might have shot him clean-like in the head, but I seen him wanking off underneath the maple yesterday morning while he was peeking through your window. Any man usingmy woman deserves to suffer a little more."

Color – scarlet red – rushed up over Libby's neck and face. She glanced at Jackson and then dropped her gaze to the floor.

"Don't tell me you like the idea of him watching you, Libs."

"No, no...I"

"Forget it baby, I know I ain't took care of your needs in a while. Daddy knows you got an itch. We'll get to that later when we kiss this hell-hole goodbye."

The scarlet drained from Libby's face as her hand fluttered again at her throat. "Do we have to leave a mess, Denver?" she asked. "We just painted this room in April. Remember?"

"Oh, I remember. We fucked right there on that table whilst we waited for the first coat to dry. You always were a tiger, baby." Denver stared at Jackson. "I can see why you'd want her. She's got a great set of titties, don't she? And that pearly gate of hers, all shaven and clean, just like I like it. It is still clean, ain't it Libby?"

Libby refused to look up. She only nodded.

"Give us a look-see, Libby. I ain't seen it in awhile, and this poor sucker might as well get one last peek at what he'll be missing." When Jones cackled this time, it sounded wet, like a man with a mouth full of spit.

"No, Denver, please."

"Do it, honey, or daddy might start ruminating over how much his little girl seemed to like kissin' the copper here." He spoke quietly, but the sinister undertow of his words pulled at Jackson's gut.

Libby didn't hesitate. She yanked down her pants and spread her legs.

"Mm-mm. Ain't nothing like a shaved pussy. Pull your flappers apart, Libby, so's I can see the pink."

Like a stringed marionette, she reached with both hands and spread her labia. Pearlescent beads of moisture clung to her inner folds. Jackson knew he should have looked away, saved her dignity, but he couldn't help himself. He stared at her pink pussy and wondered, was she wet because of Denver? Or was she wet because of the kiss she had shared with Jackson? His cock twitched in his pants.

"I'll get me a taste of that real soon, Libby, but for now, that's enough," Denver said in that cool, low voice.

Sweat dribbled down Jackson's ribs. His mouth was dry and a low hum buzzed in his ears. Some of it was genuine fear. More of it was anger and frustration that he'd been taken so easily. He looked at Libby. She'd pulled her pants back up and stood with her hands crossed over her chest.

"Do you have to kill him in the kitchen, Denver?"

"You got no more use for this shack, baby. If you don't want to watch then go in the next room. We got to get a move on."

"They'll never give up if you kill me, Jones. The Bureau takes care of their own debts," Jackson said, despising the tremble that crept into his voice.

"They don't scare me, especially not after seeing how easy coming back here was." Jones tightened the towel around the barrel of the gun and steadied his aim.

"Denver," Libby said. "Wait a minute. Let me get my stuff together before you kill him. It'll make noise, and I don't want to run for it without my things."

"Forget it baby, I'll buy you all new things. Where we're going, all you'll need is a swimsuit, anyways."

"After we get married?"

Denver Jones frowned. "Baby, there ain't time for weddings. You'll get the new stuff anyway."

"I'll hurry, I promise. Don't shoot him yet. I want to see it, Denver. I've never seen a man get shot before." She smiled, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. She tipped up on her toes and kissed Denver on his scruffy cheek before hurrying off toward her bedroom.

"Make it fast, baby," Denver growled.

Denver stood, whistling an old Charlie Pride tune, the muzzle, shrouded in the white towel, steady as a boulder. Jackson made his plan, the best plan he could come up with. The magnum was still on the table—a clumsy mistake. Two steps and Jackson would have it in his hand. He just needed to watch Denver's eyes. They might flick over to Libby when she came back into the kitchen. If they did, Jackson would throw himself to the left and snatch the magnum as he fell. He'd get at least one good shot.

Jackson heard Libby's quick footsteps. She appeared in the kitchen doorway, almost ethereal-looking. She lifted a pistol and the full blast at short range caught Denver Jones in the back of his skull. Denver's eyes widened in surprise, just before they quit moving altogether. He stumbled forward and fell, crashing to the floor, his face smashing against the worn-woven rug.

Jackson jumped, almost too late, to get his foot out of the way of the falling body. He was stunned. Moments ago, she'd acted as if she was scared to death to touch Jackson's gun, and now she'd, almost expertly, held a pistol and calmly took Denver Jones's life.

Libby Doyle laid her pistol neatly next to Jones's Colt, facing both barrels in the same direction—away from Denver Jones.

Jackson bent and picked up the guns. There was no doubt that Jones was dead. Blood pooled in his opened eyes, changing the whites to crimson. Libby knelt beside the body. She clasped Denver's dead hand to her chest and sat back on her heels. A low sad tune spilled from someplace deep inside her.

"You really did love him," Jackson said.

"I loved my old Denver. The one I used to know. This wasn't him."

"Why'd you kill him, Libby? Because he was going to kill me?"

She turned her head slowly and looked at the wall behind Jackson. Her eyes were distant, and her voice reedy. "You see that white wall? Last April, I wanted to fix this place up. We'd been here almost two whole months. A record for me and Denver. He bought the paint, and we painted it. And just like Denver said, whilst we were waiting, we fucked on that table." She glanced at the wooden legs and the checkerboard cloth of the kitchen table. "Only it wasn't like fucking that time. At least, not the fucking Denver and I was used to. That time he used the cleaned paint brush. He dipped the brush into water, pretending it was paint. He called me his Mona Lisa and brushed the water all over my body. I was so wet, dripping from water and my own cream. He brushed my pussy like he was painting a masterpiece—long strokes and little short dabs. 'Now this is art,' he said. When he climbed up on me, he swirled the soft bristles over my titties, gentle-like. He pushed his pecker inside of me, and jammed the bristles harder against my nipples. When we was finished, he painted my belly with his soft lollipop. I expected Denver to shove the paint brush up inside me, but instead he said, 'We should get married,' and I believed him. We was gonna live here, you know."

She still coddled Denver's lifeless hand against her chest. Black, curly hair poked from under his shirt sleeve and drifted up over his colorless knuckles. A Rolex knockoff showed the time to be six-twenty-two. The last half-hour had seemed like an eternity.

"You didn't want my blood to mess up the wall?"

"It didn't mean nothing to him, not a damn thing."

Jackson shifted uneasily. "Well, no matter why you did it, I owe you." But she wasn't listening. She'd started that toneless crooning again, a forgotten lullaby.

He walked toward the counter, her feathery words stopping him. "Did you say something Miss. Doyle?"

"I can buy a new rug, can't I, 007? But the walls, they would never have been the same."

He reached for the phone, careful not to disturb her canister set lined neatly against the wall—flour, sugar, tea, and coffee all spaced evenly apart. The cordless phone stuck in its cradle and he had to rock it to release it. He'd work out the details of his phrasing later, when he wrote his report, but for now he needed to tell Dixon that Jones was dead. He dialed the number. The low rings reminded him of a lifeguard's whistle at the county pool. He hated when things weren't what they seemed.

"Yeah?" the sleepy voice said.

"This is Parks," he said. "I've got news."

"What's up, Jackson?"

"No need to bring a lunch when you come today, Dixon. The long wait is over."