“Well, I’m not. I have no reason to be.”
“So, you think Elvis is still alive.”
“I’m pretty sure of it.”
“Maybe he is. Who knows, ’ey?”
“Even if he wasn’t, I’d still like to go down there.”
“What else? Would you like it if I killed Richie?”
“Oh, my Lord,” Donna said. “Would I.”
“What will you give me?”
They heard the back door open and slam closed.
Richie came in through the kitchen, saw them on the couch with the TV off, Donna’s glasses off, what’s this? They weren’t playing Yahtzee or looking at Elvis pictures. Richie stopped chewing his bubble gum. What’s going on here? In some kind of serious conversation that could be about him. Or else the Indian was getting ready to dive into her muff. Either way, Richie didn’t like the looks of it. But lightened up his manner saying, “Goddamn it, Bird, I do all the work and you have all the fun. Did I mention that before? I don’t like to repeat myself. Donna, go take a leak or something, the Bird and I want to be alone.”
Look at that. Now she was staring at the Bird, like it was up to him, or he’d give her permission, those big bald eyes of hers trying like hell to focus.
“Donna, you hear me?”
“He don’t like to repeat himself,” the Bird said to her and motioned with his head, go on.
She still took her sweet time getting up, straightening her robe, walking out, head of gold held high, retired queen of the cons—never had it so good and never would again. Richie stepped over to give Donna a pat on the behind. He looked at the Bird, who looked back at him, but waited, chewing his gum, till he heard a door close.
“You ready?”
“For what?”
“I call the woman, okay? She starts in bitching at me, her back’s killing her and it’s my fault.”
“Am I ready for what?”
The Bird trying to act cool.
“I ask her,” Richie said, “did she ever get hold of her daughter and Wayne. She goes, ‘Yeah, and you don’t have to send the check now, they’re coming home.’ ”
That hooked the Bird.
“You kidding me. When?”
“They already left. She says her daughter’s coming to take care of her, on account of she’s in terrible pain and can’t move.” Richie watched the Indian, waiting for him to catch on. “They’re coming ’cause I gave the woman a treatment. You hear what I’m saying?
The Bird looked like he was still trying to figure it out. “She’s going to her mother’s house.”
“That’s right.”
“What about the guy?”
“The guy, he’ll go with her, or he’ll stay home. Or they’ll both stop home first, I bet you anything, ’cause it’s on the way. We go to their house right now, tonight, and wait. They don’t come by, we go to the mom’s house.”
“Maybe,” the Bird said. “I’ll think about it.”
Fucking Indian.
Ten feet away. Take one step, hop on the other foot and kick him right in the face. Uh, what did you say, Bird? There’s nothing to think about, man. You want to know everything’s gonna happen? There’s no way in the fucking world you can know everything. You don’t even
No more partners, man, that was for sure. He should never have brought the Indian into this deal. That caused his mind to pause and think, Wait a minute. What deal? There wasn’t a dime to be made off it, unless he called up that real estate man sometime. Just then the Bird said, “Okay, we go to their house.”
And they were back together again, Richie grinning at him, anxious to tell more, but blew a bubble, popped it and was chewing again before saying, “Bird? Guess what? I even got us provisions. We spend the night there we’re gonna be hungry. I got us some pizza you put in the oven, I got us a bunch of different kinds of like frozen din-dins, I got us some potato chips, candy bars . . . Hey, I picked up a magazine at the checkout, I’m waiting there? Bird, it shows a picture of a guy weighs twelve hundred pounds. You ever hear of anybody that big in your life?”
“Twelve hundred pounds?” the Bird was squinting at him. “Three horses don’t weigh twelve hundred pounds.”
“I got the magazine out’n the car.”
“What’s the guy eat?”
“You won’t believe it,” Richie said.
Armand, holding a bottle of Canadian whiskey in a paper bag, looked into Donna’s bedroom. He said, “We’re leaving now. See you tomorrow.”
She was over by her dresser, still wearing the robe. It hung open and she left it that way turning to look at him, one hand on her hip, showing him everything she owned. Donna didn’t say anything. What could she?
So Armand said, “I don’t know what time I’ll be back.” She was scared but still didn’t say anything. He took another look at her, that white body with the dark place showing, and closed the door. He waited in the hall for Richie to come out of the bathroom.
“You ready?”
Richie looked surprised to see him standing there. He said, “Yeah, let’s go.”
They went through the kitchen and out the back to the Dodge parked in the narrow drive. Armand had to edge past a tangle of bushes to open the door and get in his side. Richie was already behind the wheel starting the car. He got it going and sat there a moment.
Armand thinking, He forgot something.
Richie looked at him, giving him a glance, no more than that, and opened the door.
“I forgot something.”
“What?”
“I want to bring some booze.”
“I got it right here.”
“Not what I drink, you don’t.”
Armand didn’t say anything else. He waited as Richie got out of the car and went back into the house. Armand turned off the engine and sat listening. He saw Donna the way he had looked in the bedroom at her naked beneath her robe. He sat listening, thinking that Richie would use his gun if he was going to do it. He sat listening not wanting to hear that sound or have Richie come out and tell him he did it some other way, if that’s what he was doing. He sat listening until Richie opened the door and got in, handed him the bottle of Southern Comfort and started the car. They backed out and drove away from the house, lights showing in the living room. Armand didn’t say anything and neither did Richie.
20
ELEVEN-THIRTY THAT EVENING Carmen stopped at a Kountry Kitchen south of Gary, Indiana, tired and hungry, halfway home.
The hardest part of the trip was getting out of Cape Girardeau, crossing the river and following county roads east to find I-57. After that there was nothing to it. Turn left and drive straight up through almost the entire state of Illinois. Turn right on I-94 and cut across a corner of Indiana, where she was now. She’d have something to eat, get back on 94 and it would take her all the way across southern Michigan, through Detroit and to within twenty miles or so of home. Mom could wait.
Carmen was anxious to walk into her own house again, that drafty old barn with its cramped kitchen, its foyer bigger than the living room, its creaks and groans, the steam pipes making a racket in the winter. The house would be cold, it didn’t matter. She wanted to see it, make sure it was still there after more than eighty years, look out the kitchen window at the woods and the brush field and Wayne’s Chickenshit Inn. She’d call him when she got home, which would be about six-thirty in the morning if she could stay awake and drive straight through. Find out
