“Not at all,” I said, and did.
She smiled some more, as she noted my lack of hardware. Then the face momentarily disappeared as she opened the door wide and gestured sweepingly with a plump hand on the end of a plump, stubby arm.
I stepped inside. Just beyond the entryway where we were standing was a large living room, where a pastel- green mohair sofa with floral cushions shared the central space with several pastel-green lounge chairs, on a parquet floor somewhat covered by a fringed rug with a pastel-green-and-orange geometric design. Against one wall was a fireplace with a mirror with ivory-and-orange flowers superimposed on it. The apartment must’ve come furnished; this plump Ozark granny hadn’t decorated it. The place must’ve looked about the same when Jimmy Lawrence lived here.
There were touches of the current tenant, however. In front of the straighter backed of the two lounge chairs was a card table on which a jigsaw puzzle was perhaps two-thirds completed: a country church on a fall afternoon, orange and red leaves, blue sky with fluffy clouds—a bunch of the sky was yet to be filled in. In front of the sofa was a round glass-top coffee table with a fat scrapbook on it; clippings stuck out of it like clothes from a hastily shut suitcase. Against one wall in a standing cabinet was a combination radio and phonograph, the cabinet lid propped up and open; the radio was on and a hillbilly song was blaring out.
The fat little woman—she couldn’t have been over five feet two but must’ve tipped the scales at 170—moved gracelessly across the room and turned the hillbilly music down, but not off. She turned and smiled apologetically, girlishly. She took off her gold-rim glasses and tucked them away in a pocket. Her dress was a floral tent but she had what appeared to be a string of real pearls about her neck. Her stomach protruded enough to make the hem of her dress ride up and reveal the rolled tops of her stockings. She was a cross between an old flapper and a new tank.
She gestured for me to sit on the couch and I sat. She sat next to me. She had lipstick on and smelled of lilac water and too much face powder. The oddest thing about her was, despite the false teeth and the jowly face and pointed features and absurd Shirley Temple curls, how nice a smile she had.
“Can I get you some coffee?” she asked. The place was air-conditioned, so the request didn’t seem absurd, despite the August heat outside.
“That’s generous of you, Mrs. Hunter, but no thanks.”
She waved at the air and turned her head coquettishly. “That name’s just for outsiders.”
“We’ll make it ‘Mrs. Barker,’ then.”
She was looking off absently. “Though I
“Pardon?”
She touched her massive bosom with a splayed hand; her fingernails, though short (possibly through biting), were painted red as her lipsticked mouth. “Isn’t that the most awful name? Arizona? Who can picture callin’ a little girl that!”
In the background somebody—Gene Autry?—was singing plaintively about his horse.
“I like ‘Kate’ better,” I said.
“So do I. But you can call me Ma. All the boys call me Ma.”
I suppose I should’ve been honored or at least flattered at being admitted to the club so easily, so rapidly; but all I felt was a little queasy.
I said, “You’re too kind…Ma. And why don’t you call me Jimmy?”
“Jimmy. That’s a good name. I like it.”
“I’m glad.”
“Well, Jimmy. How can ol’ Ma be of help?” One of her plump arms was brushing against me.
“I wonder if you could put me in touch with Doc Moran—a mutual friend of ours has requested I find him, and bring him back.”
She pursed her lips in what was meant to be a facial shrug but came off more like a grimace. She said, “Might be I could take a message for you.”
“Are you going to be seeing the doctor?”
“Might be. If I can find me a ride.”
“A ride?”
“The doctor’s with my boys Freddie and Arthur right now. They’re with that nice boy Alvin Karpis. Do you know Alvin?”
“Never had the pleasure.”
“He’s a right nice boy. Anyway, I got to get to ’em, soon as I can.” Her fleshy face tightened. “They
“You’re in regular touch with them?”
She shrugged again, with her shoulders this time; the earth moved. “They don’t have a phone where they’s stayin’. But they call from in town now and then.”
That sounded like they were in the country somewhere.
“And you’re planning to join them, soon?” I asked.
She nodded, said, “But I don’t drive. I have to find me a driver.”
You never know when opportunity’s going to knock; it might even knock in the form of a fat little old lady from the Ozarks…Gene Autry, if that’s who that was, was suddenly singing something more upbeat, about the prairie.
