A Crying Shame (73 page)

I'll get the camera,” Joe said.
I guess you're gonna cover this up, too.” It was not a question.

While you're doing that,” Mike said, securing the boat to the dock with the bow line,
I'll call Sundra.”

Joe muttered something about beasts of the devil walking upright on the earth.

I'm tired of hearing that crap, Joe,” Mike warned him.

Joe nodded.
I'll pray for you,” he said.

 

Katie Chapell stepped from the bathtub and dried herself, dropping damp towels on the floor of the steamy bathroom and more towels on the floor of the hall as she moved to her bedroom. Katie was not the world's neatest housekeeper.

She looked at the clock on the dresser. She was running a little late; Guy would be here before long. She giggled as an idea sprang into her head: she would greet him at the door, surprise him. She would be ... what was it the French said? ... yeah . . .
au naturel.
And then they would . . . damn! She had struggled so hard to remember that French line some of her Cajun friends had so patiently taught her. What was it? Every time she and Johnny used to make it together he'd holler that. Yeah!
Laissez le
bon temps
rouler.
Let the good time roll. Right! They'd damned sure do that tonight. Right on the carpet; right there on the floor. Then the next time that dumb bastard she was married to accused her of making out in
their bed,” she could look him slap in the eye and not be telling a lie when she said no.

She got her blow-dryer and sat naked at her dresser, doing her hair, getting it just right, just the way Guy liked it. She watched her nipples get hard and stiff in the mirror as she thought of Guy's big pecker; the way it just seemed to fill her up when he got it all in. She couldn't get enough of it. It hurt, at first, but sweet Jesus Christ! it felt good. Her husband was built okay, and so were most of the other men she'd made it with in her many bump-and-run affairs; but Guy was her main squeeze. True, Guy didn't have much upstairs—kinda dumb; no, that really wasn't it; he was a space cadet, and a real airhead—but goddamn what a cock! Couldn't even get it in her mouth when it got all swollen up. All she could do was lick around on it.

Hot Popsicle.” She giggled.

She cupped her breasts and gently fondled them as her juices wet her thighs. She groaned in heat.

She heard a car pull into the drive just as she dabbed a little perfume behind her cute little ears. She padded naked into the den and turned on the stereo, records already stacked on the spindle. Country music filled the room. Cheatin' songs, baby. Honky-tonkin' songs, man. Songs about motel rooms and smoky beer joints and back-street fuckin'.

She waited for Guy's knock on the door.

At first Katie hadn't liked it when they'd moved way to hell and gone out in the parish, not too far from that big old spooky swamp. But that was before she started really messin' around, in a frantic search for the
ultimate cock.” Now, with her shithead husband gone most of the time, peddlin' all them stupid farm chemicals, the place was perfect. And she had Guy, and his
ultimate cock.”

She giggled once more. Yeah . . . the place was really all right. Nearest neighbor better than a mile down the road. So she could holler and scream all she wanted when Guy really rammed it in to the hilt; wasn't no worry ‘bout disturbin' the neighbors. She planned to holler a lot tonight when it started gettin' good and Guy really began strokin' her, gettin' into his stride. Son of a bitch had the stayin' power of a long-distance runner. Guy liked to hear her holler, her long painted fingernails raking his back.

Ride, Cowboy, ride,” she would scream.