One Door From Heaven

huh?"
        "See, there’s that anger again."
        Noah finished his beer. "Guys like you and the congressman used to hide behind Jesus. Now it's psychology and self-esteem."
        "Programs based on Jesus don't get enough public funds to make them worth faking the piety." He slid out of the booth and rose to his feet. "You wouldn't do something stupid like take the money and then not deliver, would you? You're really going to shaft his wife?"
        Noah shrugged. "I never liked her anyway."
        "She's a juiceless bitch, isn't she?"
        "Dry as a cracker."
        "But she sure does give the man major class and respectability. Now you go out there and do the right thing, okay?"
        Noah raised his eyebrows. "What? You mean… you want me to give this bag of money to the cops and press charges against the congressman?"
        This time, the pacifist didn't smile. "Guess I should have said do the smart thing."
        "Just clarifying," Noah assured him.
        "You could clarify yourself right into a casket."
        With the coils of his soul exposed for all to see, the bagman, sans bag, swaggered toward the front of the tavern.
        On their barstools and chairs, the cowboys turned, and with their glares they herded him toward the door. If they had been genuine riders of the purple sage instead of computer-networking specialists or real-estate salesmen, one of them might have whupped his ass just as a matter of principle.
        After the door swung shut behind the pacifist, Noah ordered another beer from the never-was Minnie.
        When she returned with a dew-beaded bottle of Dos Equis, the waitress said, "Was that guy a stoolie or something?"
        "Something."
        "And you're a cop."
        "Used to be. Is it that obvious?"
        "Yeah. And you're wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Plainclothes cops like Hawaiian shirts, 'cause you can hide a gun under them."
        "Well," he lied, "I'm not hiding anything under this one except a yellowed undershirt I should've thrown away five years ago." "My dad liked Hawaiian shirts."
        "Your dad's a cop?"
        "Till they killed him."
        "Sorry to hear that."
        "I'm Francene, named after the ZZ Top song."
        "Why do a lot of cops from back then like ZZ Top?" he wondered.
        "Maybe it was an antidote to all that crap the Eagles sang."
        He smiled. "I think you've got something there, Francene." "My shift's over at eleven."
        "You're a temptation," he admitted. "But I'm married." Glancing at his hands, seeing no rings, she said, "Married to what?"
        "Now that's a hard question."
        "Maybe not so hard if you're honest with yourself." Noah had been so taken with her body and her beauty that until now he hadn't seen the kindness in her eyes. "Could be self-pity," he said, naming his bride. "Not you," she disagreed, as though she knew him well. "Anger's more like it."
        "What's the name of this bar-Firewater and Philosophy?" "After you listen to country music all day, every day, you start seeing everyone as a three-minute story."
        Sincerely, he said, "Damn, you would have been a funny Minnie." "You're probably just like my dad. You have this kind of pride. Honor, he called it. But these days, honor is for suckers, and that makes you angry."
        He stared up at her, searching for a reply and finding none. In addition to her kindness, he had become aware of a melancholy in her that he couldn't bear to see. "That guy over there's signaling for a waitress."
        She continued to hold Noah's gaze as she said, "Well, if you ever get divorced, you know where I work."
        He watched her walk away. Then between long swallows, he studied his beer as though it meant something.
        Later, when he had only an empty bottle to study, Noah left Francene a tip larger than the total of his two-beer check.
        Outside, an upwash of urban glow overlaid a yellow stain on the blackness of the lower sky. High above, unsullied, hung a polished-silver moon. In the deep pure black above the lunar curve, a few stars looked clean, so far from Earth.
        He walked eastward, through the warm gusts of wind stirred by traffic, alert for any indication that he was under surveillance. No one followed him, not even at a distance.
        Evidently the congressman's battalions no longer found him to be of even the slightest interest. His apparent cowardice and