End Credits

Nine pm. Damn. They’d been in that IHOP almost three hours. He’d hated the feeling, having been finished with his meal for over an hour and sitting there with nothing to do but tear at his napkin and listen to her. She hadn’t shut up, weighing the pros and cons aloud. Did she or didn’t she want him to do this? She did, she’d decided, finally, because now he was here, alone in the parking lot outside the movie theater.

Cheskov sat on the hood of his car and thought about what she’d said. “Okay, okay, you have to do it. I want you to. I’m sure. You have to.” The whole time she kept looking around, out the window, at the door, even towards the kitchen, as if Clive might be listening in from any direction.

“You have to be really sure it’s what you want,” Cheskov had said, and he’d meant it. “Because I’m not totally comfortable doing this. I can only base my opinion off this guy from what you’ve told me about him.”

“And you don’t believe me?” she asked indignantly.

“No—yes, I do, but, look, this is going to be big for both of us. We’ve been talking about it for a while, I know, but are you really sure it’s what you want.”

He remembered how she’d leaned in across the table and appealed to him like a doe-eyed movie starlet: “God, yes, more sure now than ever.” It was funny, really. He would have laughed had any other woman said something like that to him. But he couldn’t laugh at her.

Cheskov gazed up at the lamps shining down on him and his car. He loved fluorescent lighting. It was good for the head. And now it brought new clarity to his situation. He loved her.

He went inside and bought a ticket for the 9:30 showing of In Memoriam. Theater ten on his left. He walked cautiously, afraid he might encounter them in the lobby. But she had said if he timed this correctly he’d be there before them.

Cheskov thought about buying popcorn, just so he’d have something to occupy himself with while he waited. But what if they came in while he was ordering? He just went into the theater and looked for the spot she’d told him to sit in. Top row, close to the exact middle.

He found it and…Christ, that whole section was taken by a group of college students, some joking back and forth, others engaged in serious conversation, probably about this film’s merits.

Cheskov approached them and said, “Excuse me, I need to sit there.”

They all looked incredulously at him. “There are plenty of open seats here, man,” said a big guy with curly red hair.

“No, but this is my row.”

“Well,” a skinny kid said, trying to stifle his laughter, “there are some open places on the ends of this row.”

“I need the middle.”

“Come on,” Skinny said, holding out his hands. “Look around. You can sit anywhere.”

“Look,” Cheskov said, growing impatient. “My…cousin is going to be here tonight with her new boyfriend. She doesn’t know I’m here, but I need to sit here and keep an eye on them.”

A pudgy girl laughed loudly. “Really? Well how do you know where they’re going to sit?”

He shrugged. “Because I know.” The kids didn’t move. “Okay,” Cheskov said, digging into his wallet. “I’ll give each of you five bucks to move your asses to a different seat. Five bucks. Just for moving. And you’re going to move.” He held out the money for them to take.

“All right,” the red-head said, snatching the bill from Cheskov’s hand. “Go ahead.” The others took their money and relocated to seats a few rows down.

Cheskov sat and waited.

The theater darkened, the previews began, and they came in. Cheskov avoided eye contact with her, focusing instead on Clive, his target, who, from what he could see in the dark, was a short but powerfully built man with a broad face and snatches of silver streaking his hair.

As planned, she led Clive to the seat directly in front of Cheskov. “Good?” he heard her say.

Grinning, Clive nodded and began kissing her neck. She allowed it, and when he’d had his fill she placed one firmly and without passion on his lips. Then they turned away from each other and watched the previews.

Cheskov felt a renewed obligation to her. He had to save her from this man. Hunched over, he shut his eyes and breathed deeply.

Cheskov counted slowly to three, and then sprang up in his seat, reaching into his jacket for the handgun with its silencer. Without hesitation, he put the gun to Clive’s head and fired. The man slumped over. Cheskov grabbed her hand and quickly ushered her out of the theater, just as the trailer for a movie featuring celebrity voice talents was ending.

Cheskov opened his eyes. The opening titles faded in and out over a black screen, accompanied by a full orchestral score. In Memoriam…Directed by Vincent Oslin…Starring…

He touched the weapon hibernating in his jacket, wrapped his fingers around its nose. Why hadn’t he done it yet? They’d made an agreement. Quick, easy. The sooner the better.

He knew why: he didn’t owe her this. She’d come to him and started this whole affair. Really, he’d always been just the unsuspecting victim. But God, surely she didn’t see him that way. And, based on everything she’d told him about this bastard, Cheskov was resigning her to a rough future. Even so, he didn’t owe her this. A part of him knew the whole time he was never going to go through with it.

Cheskov thought about sitting through the whole movie, just to get his money’s worth—he’d read good reviews, too. But it would have been too cruel to make her wait, knowing full well he sat back there with a gun, set to blow her husband’s head off at any moment. Instead, Cheskov stood and headed for the exit. He looked back at her to make sure she saw him. She did. Her face was a sour mix of confusion and rising anger.

Realizing suddenly how completely he’d failed her and that she might never want to see him again, Cheskov blew her a kiss and mouthed, ‘Sorry.’ And he truly meant it.