‘You could outdo Pete Hubble on the annoying-your-relatives scale if you do your Oedipus impersonation, Whitman.’
‘Jesus, Gooch, you’re a crank. I’m finding a place to live right after the campaign…’
‘Ah, yes. The campaign. Waging a fierce one, aren’t you? I particularly enjoyed your interview on Face the Nation.’
‘Are you done?’
‘Whit, please campaign today. The thought of Buddy Beere at the bench makes me want to move to a judicially sound country. Like Cuba.’
Whit’s cell phone buzzed. ‘Hello?’
‘Whit? It’s Faith.’ She sounded crisper this morning, less frayed with shock.
‘How are you?’
‘We’re holding up. Lucinda finally slept last night; Sam slept with me. To just get his dad back and then… it’s a hard thing for a kid.’
‘I need to talk to y’all. For the inquest.’
‘Would this afternoon work for you?’
‘Yeah. How about four?’
‘Fine.’ Her voice lowered. ‘I wish I could see you… just us. I could use a hug. Or something stronger.’
He didn’t flirt back, watching a gull alight on the bow of Real Shame. ‘How’s Sam handling this?’
‘My son is a tightly controlled mass of nerves. He’s upset but he doesn’t want to show that he is. His father did matter to him, even a lousy SOB like Pete.’ Her tone turned bitter. ‘A father always would.’
‘What can I do to help?’
He meant to help Sam, but Faith took the inches and made them miles. ‘Please just… hurry us through all this legal rigmarole. Don’t drag it out with a public inquest hearing. Help me protect Lucinda and Sam from what is sure to be unpleasantness, Whit. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?’ Her tone, usually cool, even in wriggles of heat, took on a slightly cajoling tone.
‘I’ll do what I can.’
The quiet stretched. But she finally said, ‘I appreciate it. I’ll see you at the house later.’
Whit clicked off his phone. Gooch studied a tidal chart and yawned.
‘I must have a gift certificate for unwanted advice. Do this, do that. Rule it’s suicide. Don’t hold a formal inquest.’
Gooch raised a crooked brown eyebrow. ‘Rule how you please. Judge, and screw ’em if they can’t take a joke.’
13
Velvet came awake suddenly, in the bright haze from the motel windows. She rubbed her eyes and thought: So now starts the rest of your life, babe. What are you going to do?
Sleep remained impossible after that priss-assed cop dropped her off at the motel. She lay awake, listening to the hum of the air conditioner as it chilled the room, and the gentle bump of her heart as she hugged a goose- feather pillow close to her body.
Pete dead. And only yesterday he’d said to her: I’m not gonna do another flick with you until all this with my brother is settled, understand? You can help me or you can fly your ass back to California, but I’m not leaving now.
She’d pouted, furious. Well, if you loved me you would.
He’d set his lips tight and turned away from her. I guess I don’t love you, then, Velvet.
And now, even though she was sure Pete hadn’t meant it – the words could not be undone, loved away, erased, made into meaningless wisps.
Velvet thought about Lucinda Hubble and Faith Hubble, and a hot cinder formed in her heart. Hatred was too polite a word for what she felt. She thought of young Sam Hubble and her throat tightened, for Sam and Pete and what could never be. If God were merciful, Pete strutted in heaven now, and her own mother might be meeting him at the pearly gates, smiling at him with all the love she’d once lavished on Velvet, taking him by the hand, introducing him to the other souls flitting from cloud to cloud.
That image made her cry. Like you believe in that shit anymore, girl. Pete was probably frying in hell and scooting over in the bubbling oil to make room for her.
The cry did her good. Velvet dried her tears on the pillowcase. Enough weepiness, it was time for action. She needed a Plan B. The Hubbles clearly wielded influence here. The local powers-that-be, she suspected, would treat her as Pete’s embarrassing girlfriend if it was suicide and a possible suspect if it was murder.
And she had zero intention of sitting like a lump and letting her ass be moved around the political chessboard.
She decided Claudia Salazar would be useless, but Whit Mosley wouldn’t. She reviewed the mental picture she’d formed of him: nicely tall, trim, full blondish hair, tan but not from idling on a beach, face a little too boyish for his years, kindness in the smile. Smart but not snotty, a beach bum grown up, perhaps only recently. Average teeth, firm legs and butt, terrific hands – the checklist of how she typically evaluated the rookie male talent for her movies on initial meeting, before the pants dropped. She liked a man with strong hands. The hands were seen more in the movies than you would think – cupping breasts, running fingers through hair, holding faces for a kiss. And Whit might be putty to a woman with her talent and charms and persuasive skills.
At nine in the morning she called her production company’s lawyers in Van Nuys and a few friends, ignoring the time difference between the Texas coast and California, breaking the sad news about Pete. She left a voice mail for the lawyers to find her some legal representation in Corpus Christi, a big-city attorney hardened enough to deal with pissing-mad senators and provincial police.
Then she took a bath, relaxing herself in the soapy hot water, and only when a stray thought crossed her mind did she sit upright in a panic.
What if whoever killed Pete thought she knew what Pete knew?
She didn’t. He’d kept his research about Corey tight to his chest, just telling her all was going well. He had discussed none of the screenplay with her.
The killer might not believe that. She dried off, combed her hair, and sat naked as she leafed through the Coastal Bend yellow pages, researching pawnshops and gun dealers.
The images played across the television, the screen the only light in the cabin, and the Blade sat and watched as Big Pete Majors took Velvet Mojo from behind, both of them grunting like animals, she tilting her head to keep her wraparound sunglasses on during the pounding encounter. They moaned so much it sounded like they had intestinal disorders. Pete did not offer a range of theatrical nuance. He just knelt behind her, ramming with his hips while Velvet pleaded with him to go stronger and faster, more like a testy coach than a lover. Pete’s face was as blank as the boys the Blade remembered from the mental home. He watched the tape twice before he finally fell asleep in his recliner.
He awoke in a sour mood because he had dreamed not of Velvet but of Whit Mosley, laughing at him. You? She’s gonna pick you over me? What reality does that happen in, fat ass? The Blade had watched Whit in public and women smiled at him, whereas women suddenly recalled other appointments and hurried on their way when the Blade tried long conversations. Hating Whit was easy. The Blade imagined Whit dead, hollowed out, and himself stepping into Whit’s skin, pulling the pallid skulllness face over his own like a mask, fitting his fingers into Whit’s fingers like gory gloves.
Why not kill Mosley as well as take Velvet? He considered. Dismemberment held a certain appeal, as did evisceration, although they certainly cut short the fun. He considered decapitation overrated; heads seemed mocking without bodies attached. The Blade had learned that truth the hard way.
He’d never wanted to kill a man particularly before, but it promised an interesting difference – like fries after a solid week of potato chips. He daydreamed about Whit dying from a slow, careful series of cuts, and a slow whisper filtered into his ears. He stared at the ceiling and its whirring fan. The fan, spinning, resembled a dark eye. Mama’s eyes. He stared, barely breathing, only hearing Mama’s voice telling him what he must do.
