Like Holiday—the thought crept into my head. Holiday needed what damn few men would be able to give her.
Then there was “gifting”—Ma’s word, and a concept I was having trouble assimilating into my worldview. Gifting was—what, exactly, if not loaning or sharing? No doubt something subtle, which put it well out of my reach.
“You about done there?” Ma asked.
I stared at my plate. Yep, clean. “Guess so, unless we want to order up another round of steaks.”
She tossed three twenties on the table. “Let’s go.”
“Hey, I can get it.”
“Don’t know why, since it’s paid for already. What you can do is drive me to a grocery store where I can get some cigarettes and a six-pack, pick up a book. I’ll be damned if I’ll watch television, all that mind-sucking ‘reality’ horseshit, not even as real as hobbits.”
My thoughts exactly.
At a Safeway she bought John Sandford’s latest Virgil Flowers novel, a six-pack of Coors, and a carton of Camels, all of which ended up costing more than our steaks. But I was quick on the draw this time, so I paid.
“You ain’t paying for my smokes, boyo,” she said. “I buy my own cancer.”
“Too late, Ma. And you’ll live to be a hundred.”
She looked away. “Last thing I want is to live to see a hundred.”
I didn’t say anything. There was that depression again. Maybe it was a nighttime thing, a shadow that falls over the soul when the day is done. A line of burnt orange showed above the hills and a few stars were out in the east. No moon. It would be a dark night.
We went to our rooms at Motel 6. She unlocked her door, then looked at me. “Be careful with that chickadee, Mort.” She was in the room, door closed, before I could respond.
“Yeah,” I said to the night. “I’ll . . . do that.”
Next on my bucket list, I’m gonna replace Leno.
The chickadee came in at ten fifteen wearing shiny red calf-length boots, a black leather miniskirt and a black leather halter top, bare midriff showing, fresh lipstick, liner, and eye shadow, shiny black hair four inches below her shoulders, a red flower in her hair.
Whoa.
She had perfect brown skin. She was a bit stocky, but it all looked solid and ready. Her hips were wide, arms strong, legs good all the way up into that short skirt. Her breasts cantilevered out from good shoulders, full, erumpent, majestic. That Cascade Lodge shirt had hid more than I’d suspected. I guessed her waist at thirty inches, which isn’t slender but isn’t bad, either. Tucked beneath that impressive chest, her waist looked almost small.
She sauntered up and kissed my cheek. “Hi, Steve.”
Steve, right. Gotta remember that. I’d blanked on my name at the sight of her. She was looking like a handful, and all I wanted was to find out about the lady in the SUV. Tonight looked like it was going to be one of those personal sacrifices we gumshoes make when the going gets rough.
“Evening, Sophie. Uh . . . nice outfit.”
She managed to push her tits out another improbable half inch without tipping over. Lipstick made her mouth look ripe, somehow reminding me of strawberries and cream. “Glad you like it. I change at where I work, come right over, see you. So, what you drinkin’?”
“Moose drool.”
She made a face. “Drool from the moose?”
I smiled. “Good stuff. What can I get you?”
The same bartender was still on duty. Sophie said to her, “I like a pink lady, not so much gin please, and double grenadine.” Then to me she said, “We go sit in the booth, okay?”
“Perfect.” I got off the stool and looked at the booths, none of which were occupied. “Let’s take the one over there with my two buddies, Hammer and Spade.”
She stopped dead. “No one there, Steve.”
“Sometimes I hallucinate. But don’t worry, it’s fun.”
She frowned. “What is this ’lucinate?”
“Never mind.” I headed toward a booth, but she took my hand and led me to the farthest booth from the door. I got her seated then sat across the table from her where I could keep an eye on the front door, a safety measure that’s right there in the PI manual.
She frowned again. “Why you sittin’ over there?”
“So I can see you better.”
A glow appeared in her eyes, then faded. “You should sit next to me. You can see everythin’ okay.”
“I’m good.”
“Okay, I sit over there.” Which she did. Bumping me with a sturdy hip, she shoved me farther into the booth.
The bartender came over, set the pink lady in front of Sophie, then went back behind the bar. One old guy was at the far end of the bar, drinking shots. Two women in their forties were at a table twenty feet away, heads together, talking earnestly in low tones. Just those three people.
Sophie put a hand on my thigh, which gave me choices. I could remove it and reduce the odds of having a meaningful discussion about the SUV lady, or I could leave it where it was and maybe give the chickadee the wrong impression.
I left it there. It was warm and a bit high, so I thought I’d better get the ball rolling before this gumshoe-girl thing kicked itself into a higher gear.
“That lady I mentioned earlier,” I said. “Did you see her? She might have been in a blue dress.”
The hand on my thigh crept an inch higher. “We have to talk ’bout her now?”
“Yes, now. She might have come into your motel and gotten a room last week, Wednesday or Thursday.”
Sophie pouted. “She not your wife, girlfriend?”
“Nope.”
“Why she so important?”
“I think maybe she’s a bad woman, Sophie. I’m trying to find out.”
“What kind of bad woman? What she do?” Her hand started making little circles an inch or so from my crotch.
I cleared my throat. “I don’t know. Mail fraud, maybe.”
The circles slowed for a moment, then
