Mona by Jesse Binger

from The One That Got Away: a Pistol Jim Press series

Mona by Jesse Binger

Mona.

The one that got away.

Old photograph in my hand, and it buries me.

Homecoming dance, Junior year. Stolen kisses under the bleachers. Sipping Schnapps and staring at the stars from the top of my dad’s Saturn.

The Prom. Seger’s We’ve Got Tonight serenading us. First I love you with soul behind it. The first time sex feels like more than a hobby.

Then comes graduation. Promises of forever.

Then she’s gone.

A booze cruise. Mona disappears. Eventually the cops give up. Her family, too.

But not me.

Six years now since high school, and what do I have to show for it? A failed stint at Rutgers, a shitty studio above a Chinese restaurant, and a dead heart that never healed.

I’m a private dick now. Unlicensed because, well, licenses cost money. And fuck the bureaucracy and all that.

I’m usually sitting in my Altima, parked behind some trees, taking photos and listening to dull conversations. But adultery pays the bills. And for a black heart like me, it makes fucked-up sense in this fucked-up world.

So I decide to go on a whim. Fly to San Diego. Drive down to Tijuana. Last place the cops tried before they quit on her.

Rent a place in some forgotten barrio. Guy like me stands out like a broken finger. I get stares at the coffee shop. I write words in a tiny notebook so I look like I’m doing something real. Not just stealing time.

The photo I have—prom night. Me in that sappy powder-blue tux, Mona like a vision in gold. I show it to every roughneck I meet. Always the same reaction.

Hands up. Shooing me away like a pest. No hablo ingles.

But I don’t give up.

There’s a shitty lounge in town where the hardliners hang out. I go a couple nights. Drink a few Coronas. Chat with some ladies.

Third night, I notice the big man. Enough gaudy gold on to know he’s not selling coffee beans. He leaves alone so I follow him. Only two blocks before he’s waiting behind a barrel. Grabs me and locks me in some submission hold ‘til I raise my hand, gasping like I’m about to heave up cheap tequila.

So he releases me. He’s just shaking his head like he’s scolding some stupid kid. I rip out the photo, stick it in his face, and he smiles.

That’s when I know.

***

I spend another few weeks there, but this time I’m smarter. A new place to stay every two days. Baseball cap and sunglasses. I meet people. Farmers, valet, hotel clerks. Talk to anyone I can. Ask the dumb questions before the smart ones. Make them feel like I’m the muck.

This girl. Lucia. Caramel skin, raven hair, long and lithe like a tall glass of iced coffee.

She’s coy at first.

“Who’s paying you? Her familia?”

“No one.”

She laughs. “No one does things for free.”

“I have no choice.”

She looks at me like she’s sizing me up.

“We always have choices.”

She takes me somewhere. Part of the neighborhood I haven’t seen. Desolate. Dark. A nearly-falling down brick building. Shades shut tight like a fortress.

I point at the picture again.

She just nods and walks away.

Now it’s 2 am. Only a small knife in my pocket. So what do I do?

I break a window on the first floor and crawl in.

Half-asleep goon comes at me hard. Baseball bat in his hand, but I stick him first and he crumples. Red blooming from his chest but I pay him no mind.

I’m up the stairs in a flash.

Locked bedroom but a hard shoulder takes it down.

Then I see her. In the bed. It’s Mona, but it’s not Mona. Like when you’re looking at one of those blurry old photographs. I can make out a semblance, but most of what I remember is gone.

She looks at me with dead eyes. I swoop her into my arms, find some flimsy robe in the closet, throw it over her.

And we out.

***

Back in Jersey. Studio above Chan’s.

The first six months are magic. Like those kids in the photograph – blue and gold, heart and soul. But then she starts to drift. She burns the chicken one day and I fly into a rage.

“Should have left you there,” but I don’t mean it.

Doesn’t matter much.

A few days later, Mona’s gone.

And this time for good.

Bio

Jesse Binger is a writer from New Jersey whose work explores broken people, moral compromise, and quiet acts of redemption. He is currently seeking publication for his debut novel The Penitent Hours. His stories are published or forthcoming in Bending Genres, Bristol Noir, Close to the Bone, Yellow Mama, and Literary Garage.