The Last Good Kiss (38 page)
pretending to wave his empty glass at the bartender,
"I've got some friends, some business associates actual-
lOS
ly, who sometimes make movies. Just for fun, you
know."
Stacy sneered. "Fun and profit."
"You got it, kid."
"And I guess you'd like to check my moves before
you put me in touch with these friends of yours, right?"
"Why not?"
"Right." She snorted. "Hit the road, man. You want
a free sample, call the Avon lady."
"I, ah, don't mind paying," Jackson said cautiously.
"A hundred for a half and half," Stacy said quickly.
"You look like the kind of john who'll need it. "
" A hundred!" he said so loudly that the bartender
and most of the patrons looked around.
"If you can't afford the merchandise, man, get out of
the store," she said, then became very interested in her
drink. I don't know how Stacy knew to play him tough
instead of giving him the hooker's usual honey and
promises, but it worked like a charm.
"Sure," Jackson said. "Sure, that's fine. Let's do it. "
"Let's see the bread," Stacy said without looking at
him.
The poor bastard had to cash a check and endure the
bartender's sly grin when he brought the bills. He
handed the money to Stacy and chugged his third
martini.
"You hold it," she told him. "I just wanted to see it. "
"My car's right out front," he said, falling over
himself trying to be casual.
"My motel room's at the airport," Stacy said. "Let's
hit it."
"Right," Jackson said, then turned to his hired
friend. "Hey, man, let's go."
"Who the fuck's that?" Stacy asked, holding back
against Jackson's hand.
"My driver," he answered loftily.
"Is he going to hold your dick, man?" she said.
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"I'll be back," Jackson said, and his friend sat back
down quickly and ordered another drink.
I brushed the curly-haired wig out of my eyes and
followed them outside. This was the only part where I
had told Stacy what to say. I didn't want her in
Jackson's car.
"Hey, man," she said, "I got a rented car right there.
Why don't you follow me?"
"I'll bring you back," he offered grandly.
"What if I don't want to come back here?'' she
asked.
"When I get through with you, honey, you'll follow
me anywhere," Jackson insisted, ushering her into his
Cougar.
I stood on the curb and watched them drive away,
wondering where the hell Trahearne was with the other
rented Ford. I kicked myself for trusting the old man to
wait outside, for not having another ignition key for
Stacy's rental unit. Five minutes later, Trahearne
finally showed up, his big face flushed, a sorry smile
twisting his lips.
"They took off, huh?" he muttered as I opened the
door and shoved him from behind the wheel.
"Where the hell have you been?" I asked as I gunned
the car down the street and made the corner in a
four-wheel drift.
"Listen, son, we left the whiskey in the other car," he
said, waving a pint of vodka at me, "and I knew we'd
need a drink. We're too old to do this kind of crap
without a drink. So I went around the block to buy a
bottle. What the hell difference does it make?"
"He wouldn't follow her," I said as I slipped through
a yellow light ahead of a bus. "She's in his car, and if
they're not at the motel when we get there, if he took
her home or someplace else, I'm gonna have your ass,
old man, and have it good."
"Goddammit, C.W. , I didn't know," he whined,
207
then he changed his approach with the sort of clumsy
grace drunks think of as quick-witted. "What the hell,
boy , that little lady can take care of herself. You can be
damn certain of that." Then he slapped me on the
shoulder again, hard enough to start th� bleeding from
torn stitches. I jerked the wig off and threw it on the
floor at his feet. He picked it up and laughed, holding it
out like a prize beaver pelt. "You looked like shit in
this, you know," he said, then sat it on his head like a
hat. "Of course, I look like a million dollars," he said,
then laughed again. He reached over and ripped the
phony mustache off and stuck it crookedly on his upper
lip. "How's that?" he asked, grinning. When I didn't
answer, he said, "Aw hell, come on, don't be so
damned serious. Have a little drink and try to relax."
He nudged me with the pint, and there didn't seem to
be anything else to do. "They got my Melinda, boy, and
I don't know what to do," he said as I handed the bottle
back. "I don't know what to do."
"Try doing just exactly what I tell you to do," I said.
"For a change."
"You're in charge," he said, "but it better come out
right."
"Wonderful," I said, as I turned off Colorado onto
32nd through a service station.
When we got to the motel, the plum Cougar was
parked in front of Stacy's room. I left Trahearne in the
car, told him to wait, then went in through the other
room and the connecting door. Jackson was already in
the saddle. Stacy's eyes were pleading over his fat,
pimpled shoulder. Before I could .get his attention by
sticking a silenced .22 in his ear, he grunted and
moaned, trembling, and Stacy's eyes filled with tears. I
clubbed him on the back of the neck with the automatic's butt, then jerked him off her onto the floor and kicked him in the stomach hard enough to twist my
208
ankle. I started to kick him again, but Stacy jumped out
of bed and grabbed my arm.
"It's all right," she said, "it's all right. It doesn't
matter." Then she shook my arm hard. "It doesn't
matter. Really."
"I'm sorry we were late," I said.
"It doesn't matter," she said again.
"It does to me," I said.
"My fault entirely," Traheame apologized grandly as
he came through the connecting door, "all my fault,
honey, but it couldn't be helped."
Stacy took one glance at Trahearne, then one step,
and she slapped him so hard she nearly knocked him
down. "You drunken piss-ant," she whispered, then
slapped him again.
"What did I say?" he wondered as she raced past him
into the other room. Then he saw Jackson naked on the
floor. "Lemme get my hands on that son of a bitch," he
roared as he moved toward Jackson. I hit him on the
point of the shoulder with the butt and he sat down on
the bed. "Jesus Christ," he muttered.
"Just sit there and shut up," I said.
"Goddamn it, it's my wife they took, you son of a
bitch, it's my wife," he said.
"If you don't shut up," I told him, "it's going to be
your widow. I thought I told you to stay in the car."
"It's my wife," was all he answered, then he made
himself comfortable on the bed, sighing, "I always fuck
it up."
I took a roll of strapping tape and bound Jackson at
the ankles, knees, wrists, and elbows, then I stuffed his
dirty sock in his mouth and locked it there with a loop
of tape around his neck. As I worked, I heard the
sound of Stacy brushing her teeth and showering in the
other room's bath. The noise of her toilet went on long
enough to get Trahearne's attention.
"I never do anything right," he whined.
209
"I told you to shut up," I said. "Get off your ass and
give a hand with this piece of shit."
"Yes, sir," he said, then giggled, covering his mouth
with a finger. It was like trying to deal with a
two-hundred-fifty-pound fifty-seven-year-old baby. I
couldn't understand how Catherine or Melinda found
the patience or energy. Hell, I couldn't even understand how Traheame found the energy to be such a bastard. At least he got off the bed, grabbed Jackson
under the anns, and before I could help, carried him
into the bathroom and deposited him in the tub. "Was
that okay, sir?" he said with a Gary Cooper smile
somehow fitted on his moon face. Schizophrenia-that
was the word I had left out. Trahearne sober and
during certain stages of drunkenness was a sad old man
with a hell of a load of character, but during other
stages of his drunks, he was a two-hundred-fifty-pound
fifty-seven-year-old schizophrenic child.
" ust get the hell out of here, okay?" I said.
"I'm all -ight now, he said. "I know I've been a fool
and an idiot but I'm all right now. We've got business to
tend to, I know, and I'll slow the drinking down, drink
myself sober. I've done it before. So have you. You
know what I'm talking about."
"Just stay out of the way, then," I said.
"Of course," he said, sounding as sober as Oliver