His Last Vow

“You have to kill her you know.”

“I know.”

“And that’s why I told you not to get attached.”

“I know.”

“And what did you do?”

Jasper stared away from Parrish’s eyes. The dense glare was incredibly hard to look at. His question even harder to answer. It was an easy one though. A simple yes. But that’s not what Parrish wanted to hear. Telling the truth. He was 25 years old, independent, and worked undercover. He’d only ever learned to lie.

“I got attached. There. It’s not going to change nuthin-”

He was cut short by a mimicking sigh. His recruiting officer was a short man. A clean shaved chin, thick black glasses, and a plaid hat that was too silly to take seriously. But his face was tinged red now, eyebrows burrow, and jaw tight enough for a dead man.

“It’s not going to change nuthin?” Ted Parrish was up and walking around his mahogany desk now, the smoke from his pipe wafting around just enough so Jasper had to sniffle his nose. “It’s going to change everything, Mr. Kent. But let me make on thing clear. You’re still going through with it. Ya’ understand?” Everything was clear as he slammed his hands on the pile of pipers and folders. Jasper gulped, his grey eyes cracking like a storm. He could lie. Runaway even. But red stains would follow him everywhere, ruining his chances for the life he desired. But then again, he’d abandoned those wishes the moment he’d signed the contract.

Jasper stood, fixing the buttons on his trench coat, and retrieving his briefcase from the ground. Babe Ruth had just hit a home run yesterday. America was on it’s feet with tap shoes and pointy heels. The economy was flooding with cash. And Jasper Kent was leaving an office on Mulberry street with a contract in hand. A contract bound to get him killed.

   . . .
“Splendid evening isn’t it?” Anais began. She walked, hand linked with her companion. She hadn’t been this happy in a while, for reasons she had packed away in the past. Just that morning her mom had commented, “It’s so nice to see those dimples again, Annie.” and shooed her away with a picnic basket in hand. Now, the basket was a bit lighter, but the bottle of wine still rolled around at the bottom, waiting to be cracked. In the cool weather they were in, it was bound to happen soon.

Song lyrics filled the air. “All the cards begin to stack up,twisting heartache into fine little pieces…”  Taking Back Sunday was playing in a nearby radio, adding a bit of zest into the city streets. But Jasper had a hard time concentrating on the song when she was talking. It was one or the other.

“It is. It certainly is…” His sentences had been running off into vapor today. She hadn’t noticed. Probably since Jasper was always been lost in some thought or the other since they’d met. He had things to worry about you know. This morning he had lost track of his time, but he’d managed to slick back his chocolate hair and pull on a suit. Now thinking back, he’d had prefered a coat. His favorite black wool. “Shall we stop for the wine? We’ve been walking a while.” He smiled down a couple inches at the slender woman with curled blonde locks of hair.

“I was just going to ask the same.” She said while leading him over to a picnic bench. From here, the Moonlight Cafe was in view. The dancers shimmering around in their signature dresses and feather bands in their tresses. From businessmen to young newspaper boys, they gathered at the sleek place to unbutton their collars and swig a bottle of beer. It was a place to unwind. And let go.

Jasper and Anais talked for much of the evening, up until the sun kissed goodbye and let the moon arrive for its night shift. The air got colder, and Jasper wearing only a suit was chilled to the bone. Anais was tapping the rim of her glass, which for a fact was stained with the red from her lipstick. They had their brief moments of silence spent just accepting each other’s company. Smiling. Sharing a thought. It wasn’t until My Blue Heaven, April Showers, and Ol’ Man River stopped playing in the distance that they got up to leave. They retraced their steps on the cobblestone sidewalks back to where they started. A dim lamp hung in front of Anais’s apartment, and the both of them climbed up the few wobbly steps to reach it.

Jasper sighed, hugging her over her fur coat, chin on top of her head. “Saturday then?”

“Yah, Saturday.”  She took in the minty aroma of his brown suit and closed her eyes for a brief moment. “I can’t wait.”

Jasper looked up over at the moon as he let her go.

                                                                           . . .

He went over the files one last time. There was no doubt about it. The records had too much evidence. The photographs couldn't be denied. Yet he kept staring at the black and white photo, heart twisting when he saw the eyes that stared back. He kept thinking, there had to be a mistake. There had to be.  He’d been thinking that the whole morning. And now as he clicked his briefcase close, he knew that his options were clear. It'd be bad either way.
. . .
They had just left the premiere of Romeo and Juliet. The streets were crowded and the noise of music and singing kept ringing through and through. Jasper held on to Anais’s hand tightly, leading her through the crowd. It seemed like forever, but they finally pushed through the last wave of watchers and reached fresh air.

Silently they walked back to his house, Anais repeatedly asking him what was wrong.

By the time they reached the front door, her face was worry stricken and her lips were cross. He turned to face her with a sunken face.

“I’m so sorry Anais.”

“Good night, good night... parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.”  He whispered, voice cracking, while reciting a line from the play. He closed his eyes.

Anais’s eyes struck black, and skin went pale. She knew what he meant before he did anything. Her past had caught up to her. When she saw the object in his hand, she felt a silent tear leave her eyes. But she was not surprised. Did she really think she would live to be happy?

And there amongst the jazz music and flapper dancers of the 1920s, a gun clicked.

And scored.