Read Shop Talk Online

Authors: Carolyn Haines

Shop Talk (9 page)

“They’ll like it.” Driskell looked back down at the wires. “You don’t mind if I work, do you?”

“Not at all.” She settled onto a stool beside the counter and watched his long fingers. They were like gulls, the way they dove into the tangle of wires and came up with just the right one.

“Lucille, I have some questions I must ask you.” “Good.” Lucille felt a tingle of excitement. “I have some for you.”

If he was to accomplish his mission, Driskell had to find a way to get closer to Lucille. This was a good start, but he had to play it carefully. There was also the story in the newspaper he had to ask her about. “Ladies first, Lucille. You ask me.”

“Driskell, why are your lips so red?” She’d been dying to know.

Of all the questions she might have asked, that one took him aback. “Are they too red?”

The pain in his voice momentarily confused her. She hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings. “Maybe it’s just that your teeth are so white.” Lucille found herself staring at his mouth.

“Yes, my teeth are very white.” He put the tangle of wires down on the counter, then eased his hands below to find the newspaper he’d tucked there. “My lips are a result of my lonely childhood and a kind grandmother. Nothing more.”

Lucille heard the sorrow in his voice and chose to back away. “Your eyes, Driskell, they’re almost black.” “The better to see you with, my dear.” Lucille laughed. “I’m no little Red Riding Hood.” “And I’m no … wolf.”

“Oh, Driskell.” Lucille blushed and looked down at the floor. “I do believe you’re flirting with me.”

Driskell saw the blood rise up beneath her pale skin. “I do believe I am,” he said, his voice hoarser than normal, and he found that he was gripping the work table. This was not his assignment. Although Roger had urged him to do “whatever was necessary” to learn about the Har\es, Driskell had not expected to feel such stirrings for Lucille. He had to get hold of himself.

The moment was electric, and Lucille felt both compelled and unusually cautious. Driskell was an anti-hero. He was not a man of brawn, yet his effect on her was more pronounced than any flesh and blood man she’d ever met.

A limo swished past, catching her attention and breaking the tension between them. The glide of the big car blended with another movement, something outside the window.

Driskell opened the newspaper. “This was the man who brought the television into the shop last night.” He pushed the article toward her.

She glanced at the picture. The man did look familiar, though she hadn’t paid much attention to the man who’d come in the shop. Driskell had repaired his antique black and white television in a matter of moments and sent him on his way.

“He was apparently abducted after he left here.” Driskell waited for her reaction.

“They must have taken the television, too. Who would want a black and white television?”

“Lucille, he’s a famous scientist.”

She read a few paragraphs of the story that detailed Robert Beaudreaux’s top secret work with Keesler Air Force Base. “So he is,” she answered.

“You know nothing about him?”

She thought back, trying to establish a memory. She’d heard his name. He’d been on some magazine cover, because everyone at the bank talked about it for days. But she never read newspapers or magazines. “Why are you so interested?” she asked. Driskell’s intense scrutiny, his obsession with Robert Beaudreaux, unnerved her. “I have to be going.”

Driskell blocked her access to the door. “Are you sure you don’t know that man? Think, Lucille, this could be important.”

Marvin Lovelace tapped the steel tip of his cane lightly against the broken concrete. The hour was late, and it was dangerous for him to stand about on poorly lit streets. With the disappearance of Robert Beaudreaux, the cops were on the prowl. The heat was on to find the scientist. Not that they ever would. But the kidnapping of Beaudreaux, though necessary, had made Marvin’s job even more delicate.

At the whisper of an approaching car, Marvin slipped into the small alley beside Bo’s Electronics. He could not afford to be picked up by the local cops. Their inept questioning would not reveal anything about him. His past had vanished, a fact accomplished through the wonders of modern technology and an old Colt.45. It wasn’t the most efficient weapon he’d ever used, but it was one of the most beautiful. The only rival was the twenty-four-inch machete he’d had in Panama. The handle had been made from a human tibia, and it was indeed a work of art. It was in ‘73 he’d lost the machete, along with Hermanas, his little Latino assistant. Hermanas was a loss, but like all people, he was ultimately replaceable. The machete was not. Sometimes at night, Marvin awoke with his hand curled in the shape of the fine bone handle of the knife, his thin frame tensed with a surge of adrenaline, ready to fight. He’d never held a weapon more perfectly balanced. More impressively deadly. To this day, he still regretted the loss.

Lifting the cane, he stepped back to the window and pointed it, pressing the small button that was disguised as a lion’s eye in the knob. The cane was an affectation, but one he rather liked. He could have used a pocket camera as easily, and probably with better results. But the cane allowed him to walk the streets late at night, an older gentleman unable to sleep, and certainly harmless. The image would be paid for in grainy photos that required special processing. But Marvin Lovelace had not lived through three public wars and uncountable secret acts of aggression without building a tight network of sources that could provide the best in support services. The irony of the film development made him smile. His source was a local undercover narcotics agent who happened to be a photography shutterbug. Bug being the operative word.

Marvin’s ramble of thoughts had given him a moment’s pleasure, but as he aimed his cane for a second series of photos, all the warm tingle of his memories disappeared. Lucille Hare was leaning her elbows on the work counter where that freak of nature was playing with the wiring of a VCR. Marvin was acutely aware of the Hare woman’s body language. Even a loutish KGB agent could see her sexual interest in Driskell LaMont.

Marvin clicked off a few more shots, wanting a good one of LaMont. His sources had been unable to turn up a thing on the television technician other than that he was from a small New Jersey town, and that he’d left that state after crashing through six toll booths without paying the fare. Marvin had no particular love of toll highways, or anything else that might come from New Jersey, but he did understand the need for an obedient citizenry. Those who hadn’t the balls to lead should follow without complaint, and without creating scenes. There was a remedy for trouble-makers like LaMont. Had he been the token taker, he would have whipped out the AK-47 he always kept close when he was doing enforcement work and blasted Driskell LaMont into the heaven-bound traffic lane. Thus the problem that now faced him would never have existed. Driskell LaMont, an odious creature with strange lips, would have been eliminated months prior. Now he was complicating the matter of the Hares.

Angry at LaMont for showing up in Biloxi just when he was ready to make his move, Marvin failed to catch Lucille as she strolled toward him. It wasn’t until she registered his image outside the glare of the window that he felt her hazel gaze upon him. He looked into her eyes long enough to notice, with astonishment, that the skin around her eyes was exactly the shade of gray-green of her irises. Exactly. How was it possible for a woman to match colors so perfectly? Especially one who didn’t have sense enough to get to work on time? He drew back just as Lucille’s lips parted, and he could almost feel the little expulsion of surprise that spun Driskell around to face the window.

Chapter Nine

“Driskell!” Lucille whispered his name but in a tone so urgent he whipped around to face her. “What?” he demanded.

“Someone is spying on us!” The malice in the face that stared in at her made her voice quiver.

Marvin had a last image of Lucille as a fish gaffed and gasping in the bottom of a boat. Cursing under his breath, he turned and fled down the alley beside the shop. He ran everyday. Eight miles. Up and down hills on his friend’s beefalo ranch up near Saucier. He ran for the discipline, and also for such a moment in time as this when his entire future depended on his ability to escape. Sean Connery could eat his heart out. Marvin Lovelace was seventy-six, and in better shape that most men in their forties.

He ran around the back corner of the building, skirting past Bo’s silver Mazda truck. Iris’ gleaming red Mazda 626 beckoned. Marvin had a fleeting thought of the small little.38 Iris kept in her glove compartment. But if he killed Driskell, even though the painted-homo-wimp might deserve a bullet, his entire plan would be screwed.

And he had waited far too long, and plotted way too hard, to throw it all away on the simple urge to step on a roach just for the pleasure of the crunch. Driskell could wait. Once the Hares had been dealt with, Marvin knew he would have plenty of time to enjoy the extermination of the painted one. He gave the side of Iris’ car a vicious thunk with the cane. The satisfying sound of destruction gave him a new spurt of energy as he bounded through the back yard and out toward a sidestreet that led to the Pussycat Club, the perfect hideout.

It was the use of the word
spy
that sent Driskell scurrying out the front door and into the night. From beneath the folds of his cape he withdrew a deadly looking weapon.

“Driskell, you’re armed!” Lucille thrilled at the sight. Driskell LaMont was more hero than she’d suspected. He was indeed a man of action.

A sudden movement by the dark alley caught Driskell’s attention and he ran in that direction. He was too late. Whoever had been watching them was moving with the speed of a jungle cat. Lucille joined him, her hand at her throat as she breathed rapidly in and out.

“Stay here,” Driskell commanded as he went to the corner of the building to make sure there was no accomplice. Now he knew for certain that Dr. Robert Beaudreaux’s abduction was somehow connected to the Hares. But how?

The night yielded nothing, and he turned back to find Lucille backlit in the doorway of the shop. He hurried to her, his first duty to protect her.

“My goodness,” she said as she stepped inside and watched Driskell lock the door. “He was looking right at me with this horrible expression, as if he was going to have me for lunch.”

“What did he look like?” Driskell tried to sound casual.

“He was old, like in his sixties or seventies.”

Driskell hadn’t anticipated old. Maybe it was only one of the patients from the VA hospital nearby. “We should wake Bo.”

“Absolutely not!” Lucille knew her brother would rescind his decision to allow WOMB to meet if she did a single thing to disturb him. “I’m going home.” She felt the coming of morning with a singular dread. She would be exhausted at work, and she’d wanted to be fresh and bright and smart for the writers’ meeting. She swallowed before she spoke, the peeping tom already forgotten in the larger issue of WOMB. “Remember, we’re meeting tomorrow. Would you mind leaving tomorrow night, just for the first meeting?” He would be too big a distraction to her.

“Not at all.” It would be the perfect opportunity to search her apartment. “If you promise to tell no one about my gun.”

Lucille felt a ripple of excitement at the memory of him standing outside the door, crouched for action, ready to defend her. Bo would absolutely stroke out at the idea of his employee with a gun. She waved a dismissive hand. “I won’t tell a soul. You have my word of honor.”

Chapter Ten

Iris craned her neck through the open door to the shop and watched for the first set of headlights to pull into the parking lot. She put the last snippet of parsley on the cucumber cream cheese crackers and patted her hands on the full skirt of her pale blue dress. The narrow waist accentuated her high breasts, and the turned up collar made her neck longer. Under her breath she hummed the theme music to
My Little Margie.
She was definitely in a Gale Storm mood with the mission of bonding Lucille with the group of writers. The transfer of Lucille’s leech-like attachment away from Bo to other human hosts was paramount in her mind. It was the only thing that would ease her husband’s feelings of responsibility and guilt for his younger sibling. If Lucille could find a place with the women of WOMB, no matter how bizarre they were, that would be the first step. WOMB was not necessarily the place Iris would have wanted to be nurtured, but if it worked for Lucille … She hummed with a little more force as Bo stepped out of the bedroom. He’d showered, shaved and put on a pair of khakis and a polo shirt.

Taking in his wife’s hair-do and outfit, Bo grinned. “I do believe it’s Margie Albright.” He gave her a kiss on her cheek.

Iris lifted the tray with perky energy. “I’ve whipped up a few snacks for Lucille’s guests.”

“Those look good. So do you.” Bo nuzzled her neck, moving ever closer to the tray of crackers. He was glad Iris had chosen a wholesome old TV show for their nocturnal fantasy play.
Mandingo
was his favorite, but it took so much out of him. And it bordered on kinky. “I love those old black and white shows. They had a sense of morality, of the link between family members. They didn’t rely on jiggle and cheap sexual innuendo to get a laugh.” He popped a whole cracker into his mouth.

“And they had better furniture. None of that cheap plastic shit you see on television today.”

“Look at you.” Bo took her shoulders in his hands and stepped back from her, turning her left, then right. “Simple elegance with a hint of pixie humor. That’s what’s missing from television today.” He stepped forward and hugged her, while at the same time reaching behind her back and stealing another cracker.

“Touch another one and not even the laugh track will be able to cover up your scream of anguish.” Iris stepped out of his arms and held up a warning finger as she struck a sassy pose.

“Since I know you aren’t making those delicious little crackers out of a love for cooking, what’s on your mind?”

“I want to meet the writers and get to know a little bit about them. I thought some snacks might be the ticket.” She lightly slapped his hand as he took another cracker. “Leave some for the women, Bo. That Coco person looks like she could stand some solid food. Of course, if something caloric actually hit her bloodstream, she might rocket through the roof, and then we’d have to fix the skylight again.” Another, darker image struck Iris. She lifted one eyebrow. “Mona was looking at you like she wanted to make dessert out of you.”

Bo laughed. “Rest easy, Iris. I see Mona as a possible mate for Dennis Hopper, not Bo Hare.”

Iris’ dark eyes softened. “You sure know how to sweet talk a woman, baby.” She picked up a cracker and put it in his mouth. As he bit down there was a loud knock on the glass door.

“They’re here,” Iris said.

“Poltergeist,
1982, and I hope that isn’t a hint on how the night is going to go. Although that tunnel they traveled through in the movie was pretty vaginal looking, which would, of course, lead to …”

“Womb.” Iris laughed as she peered through the shop. “It’s Lucille, on time. By the way, where’s Driskell tonight?”

“He had something to do. Some research or something. He’ll be in after midnight. Surely those women will be gone by then.”

“If they’re not, we’ll let Driskell handle them.”

Bo picked up another cracker as he looked into the shop and hesitated. Lucille was at the front door. She’d given up knocking and was pressing herself against the glass as if she could transport herself through it by will alone.

“Bo, baby, your sister …”

“I’m going.” Bo sighed. “Why do I feel like I’m opening the door to something worse than the plague?”

Iris gave him a little push. “Go on. You’ve got to help her set up the table and chairs. The others will be here in twenty minutes and I want you safely back here in the apartment when Mona arrives.”

Jazz turned the lock at the library and went to the check-out counter to retrieve her book bag, raincoat, bonnet, galoshes, and umbrella. It hadn’t rained in three days, but it was April. The sky was unruly, and she liked to be prepared.

Checking her watch she saw that it was five minutes after six. She was running late again, thanks to library patrons. The night before it had been some tall guy in a cape. Tonight she’d had to run a cranky old man out. At the door he’d turned on her like a rabid dog. She’d actually seen foam at the corners of his mouth. As if she should keep the library open simply because it was something he wanted. “Dang.” She remembered she hadn’t put away the stack of books he’d been examining. It was her rule that no one left the library until all the books had been re-shelved. “Dang it.” She dropped her belongings and hurried back to the secluded table he’d selected. The texts were spread out, along with half a dozen periodicals.

Jazz loaded her left arm with books and began moving up and down the aisles like a shark. The Dewey decimal system was part of her subconscious, like the multiplication tables and the alphabet. As she paced the bookshelves, her hand darted out here and there, inserting books in spaces that seemed always too small. Jazz had not earned her masters in library science for nothing. Book space was the commodity that made or broke a library, and she knew how to get the most out of hers.

She went back for more books, aware that even as fast as she worked, time was slipping away. She could always come back to the library after the writers’ meeting. She had research of her own to do. That would be better than going home. Almost anything was better than going home. Especially since she’d found the steel-toed work boot on her trailer step.

Or what was left of it.

The brown leather was mangled and gnawed, as if some giant hound had systematically chewed it. It had also been run-over a few times.

It was possible that a dog had found it somewhere and brought it to her steps. Except there were no large dogs in the trailer park.

And why her trailer? The sun beat down mercilessly on the cement blocks that served as steps. The only thing that seemed to thrive in the trailer park were the tufts of bahia grass that shot out the holes in the cement blocks like hair out of an old man’s ears. No dog would leave anything on her steps.

Mac had left the boot as his calling card. He wasn’t the kind of man who would leave a piece of paper with a written message when a gnawed boot would serve as well. The boot was a graphic manifesto, a signal of his further intentions. As the months of their marriage had progressed, his scorn for books and her writing had grown with each passing day. At first it had been only verbal. Then physical changes had begun–the thickening of his brow, the growth of hair on his knuckles and out the base of his skull into a Billy Ray Cyrus fringe. The lengthening of his four fingers as his eyes narrowed. Bodily change had turned to action. One night when she’d sleepily taken out the garbage she’d found book pages tucked into an empty toilet tissue roll. Each page contained a signature, and had been sliced with a razor from her collection of first edition books. Mac was a devious bastard. He was capable of the boot.

The boot was a size twelve. Mac’s size. The steel toe was the kind he wore at the shipyard. Mac had been out to LoveHaven trailer park. Was he courting her or threatening her? That was the question.

She grabbed another stack of books and went to work replacing them. A thick, old volume, slid to the floor and spilled open, the thin pages fluttering. As Jazz bent to get it, she saw the note card stuck near the back. Simple curiosity made her look at it, and then check the book. It was a lengthy local history of the Gulf Coast, from the Indians to Hurricane Camille. Jazz knew the book, and knew that it was boringly written and tediously filled with local names. The old codger with the cane hadn’t seemed the type to get off on local history. She looked at the note card again. It was a hand drawn map of Horn Island, the largest of the barrier islands off the Mississippi coastline. She wasn’t any cartographer, but the detail looked studied, and carefully done. Someone had even gone to the trouble to use calligraphy to name various points and landmarks. Strange names. Zone Destiny. Holding Pen. Incinerator. Ominous names.

There were circles and X’s on the map, which she found interesting since there was nothing except a ranger base and a wildlife sanctuary on the island. It belonged to the government. They’d taken it over some time during the last world war.

The island drew a lot of tourists, artists, and campers. Jazz tapped the card against the table. Instead of putting it back in the book, she took it over to her purse. If the old dude came in and asked for it, she’d give it to him. But if he didn’t, she might frame it and hang it in the trailer.

Jazz picked up her belongings and locked the door as she hurried to the first meeting of WOMB at Bo’s Electronics.

“What are they doing now?” Bo tried to maneuver up to the crack in the door, but Iris refused to budge.

“Shush! The fancy one is getting up from the table and going over to get the … bowl of hard candy.” There was awe in Iris’ voice. “Baby, they ate everything. They’re worse than roaches.”

“The crackers were gone in thirteen seconds. I counted.” Bo managed to find a place above Iris.

“Then I took in that block of cheese.”

“I think the skinny one put it in her purse. She kept smelling her fingers. But look at Lucille. She’s … radiant.” Bo watched his sister as she picked up a page, spoke, smiled, nodding around the table. “She never had a high school friend.” Bo took a deep breath. “It does me good to see her like this. Maybe it isn’t so bad that they’re going to meet up here.”

“After the cheese, I took in the caramel corn. Bo, that was a five pound can.” “Did they eat all that?”

“Look over to the left. The can is on its side. That was the noise we heard. They gobbled it down and flung the can.”

“What about the bean dip and corn chips.” Iris made out the empty tray on the work counter. “Gone.”

“Not to mention the six bottles of wine. That’s one each.” “And the skinny one didn’t drink. She just ate the lemon rinds out of everyone’s iced tea glasses.” “The pretzels?”

“Gone. And those things were so stale the roaches wouldn’t even bother with them.” Iris nudged her husband in the stomach. “They even ate the hot dogs and beans I made last week. Cold.”

Bo sighed, a sound of pleasure. “Hell, baby, we can afford steaks if it means Lucille is going to finally make friends.”

“You’re right.” Iris stood, lifting up into Bo’s arms, which wrapped around her. “It’s eleven fifteen. Let’s call it a night.”

Bo was still watching the front of the shop. “They’re going. They’re all standing and shaking Lucille’s hand. Iris, baby, this is one of the happiest moments of my life.”

“If I weren’t so tired we’d do a little Katherine and Spencer.” She yawned. “But I’m more into Sleeping Beauty, and don’t dare kiss me tonight. I want to save myself for tomorrow.” Beneath her sleepiness a spark of mischief surfaced. “I have a very special surprise planned for you.”

“Gunsmoke?”
Bo’s voice filled with anticipation.

“Come up to my room, Matt,” Iris said, slipping a shoulder free of her shirt and looking over it.

“Oh, Miss Kitty, you can take off my badge any day.”

Iris put her hand on his cheek. “Whatever makes you happy, baby.”

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