“We’ll take mine. How much have you had to drink?”
“Three shooters. It’s mostly shock.” He looked across the street, pointed at his van. “Will they tow it?”
“Not until it’s been there a couple days.” She opened the passenger door to a baby blue, beat up Toyota.
Horace got in.
Two minutes and two blocks later she parked in front of a single family house on Bennett Avenue. The house was sandwiched between a duplex and an apartment building. The apartments looked new. The Shore was crowded, parking was at a premium.
“How’d they get the zoning?” Horace said as she put on the parking brake.
“Owner’s brother knows somebody on the city council.” She got out of the car.
“Figures,” Horace muttered. He got out too, followed her up the walk.
The house was built in the ’30s. The furniture looked like it was from the same period, from the sofa and the wing chairs to the baby blue, flower print carpet. Horace shook his head. The rug was the same color as the car. She turned toward him, smiled. Her eyes, too.
“What happened to you?” She wasn’t accusing, just inquisitive.
“I was shot.”
She gasped. “Did you call the police?”
“I can’t. It was a cop that did it.”
She gasped again.
“It’s not what you think. I was working for his wife, trying to catch him with a hooker in one of those motels downtown. You know the type, they play dirty movies, have mirrored ceilings and waterbeds. Anyway,” Horace continued with the bullshit, “I bribed the desk clerk for the key. I figured to open the door, get a couple of shots with my Nikon and be out of there before he had a chance to get his pants on. But it didn’t work out the way I planned.”
“What happened?” She was all ears now.
“He started shooting the second I pushed the door open. Got me twice, the forehead and a grace across my side. If I wouldn’t a started back peddling so fast, I’d a been a dead man.”
“I used to be a nurse. Let me see.”
Horace shed his shirt and submitted himself to her care. She re-bandaged and dressed the wounds.
“You are an awful lucky man. You’re going to have a scar on your forehead if you don’t get stitches, but the wound in your side will heal nicely without them.
“Really?”
“Really,” she said.
“I’ve always been lucky.” Horace didn’t know what else to say. He’d never been good with women. Besides, they usually didn’t like him. This one apparently did.
She gave him a smile. “You wanna mess around?” She was wearing a baby-blue T-shirt, same as the eyes, carpet and car. She pulled it over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
“It’s never happened for me like this.” He felt like the PI he’d said he was. No, like James Bond, he felt like James Bond. A secret agent man who couldn’t take his eyes off her tits. Not big, but not small either. He forced his eyes up to her face. She wasn’t as young as he’d thought and she looked a little road weary, thin and a bit hard, like maybe she did speed. But hell, he was no angel himself.
“Let’s go into the bedroom,” she said as she kicked off loosely tied, black high top tennis shoes. “I mean, if you want.” She pushed down her jeans. She wasn’t wearing panties either.
On the bed she pulled off his shoes and socks. Then his pants. She left the light on and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He lay on his back as she mounted him and watched her pupils dilate as she moaned her pleasure. But his own pleasure was dulled by thoughts of what he was going to do to the Kenyon-Nesbitt woman tomorrow night.
He wished he really was a private investigator, wished he’d never met Striker. But then he thought of the payoff Striker promised as she rocked him to completion.
He moaned himself.
Tomorrow was the last time. He had to do it because he needed the money. Then he’d take Sadie with him somewhere far away, maybe the Caribbean like Striker said. Maybe they’d get a boat, sail the seas. He’d never done that, but how hard could it be?
“What’cha thinking, sweetie?” She was maybe forty-five or so, but every line on her face lit up with her smile.
“You wanna learn how to sail?” he said. Then he fell asleep.
Chapter Seventeen
“Mom!” Jasmine shook Maggie’s shoulder. “There’s a man sleeping on the sofa.”
Maggie opened her eyes. Bright sun streamed in the bedroom window. She squinted at the clock. Eight- fifteen.
“Who is it?” Sonya asked.
“Yeah, who is it?” Jasmine echoed.
“His name’s Gordon. He’s a friend of mine and he’s pretty tired, so please don’t wake him.”
“We’re gonna be late for school,” Jasmine said. She’d spent the night with Sonya. Maggie was supposed to pick her up when she got back from the police station, but she didn’t get home till after midnight, so she decided to let it wait till morning. She hoped Gay didn’t mind.
“Where’s your mother?” Maggie said to Sonya.
“She had to go into the beauty shop. They have to get the books ready for the tax man, ’coz he’s gonna do an audit. My mom hates taxes,” Sonya said.
“Everybody hates taxes, right, Mom?” Jasmine said.
“Yeah, they do. Look, why don’t you guys go out to the kitchen and get yourselves something to eat while I get up.”
“We already ate,” Jasmine said. “Besides, Sonya has to leave right away or she’s gonna miss the school bus, so come on, get up or I’ll be late.”
“How come I have to drive you when there’s a bus?”
“Is this another one of those things you don’t remember?” Jasmine said.
“Yeah, it is.”
“You don’t like me riding the bus.”
“And why’s that?”
“You were in a bus accident when you were a little girl. A bunch of kids were killed. That’s why.”
“Ah,” Maggie said. “You must have thought I was pretty paranoid.”
“What’s that mean?” Jasmine said.
“It means you’re always afraid of stuff that’s not gonna happen,” Sonya said. “My mom used to be like that all the time, but she’s getting better.”
“So, now it’s okay? You know, if I take the bus with Sonya?” Jasmine said.
“I think so.”
“Cool.”
“You’re gonna love it,” Sonya said to Jasmine as they scampered out of the room.
Horace rolled out of bed, padded into the bathroom nude, raised the toilet seat and pissed. Finished, he lowered the seat. Ma was always real sticky about that. Light eased in the bathroom window and made the pink shower curtains glow. Pink bathroom rug too. It was something Horace wasn’t used to, a feminine place.
He stuck his head out the door. Sadie was still asleep. He wondered would it be okay to use the shower. He raised an arm, sniffed. Yeah, it’d be okay. He pulled the curtain aside, adjusted the water to warm, got in, used her soap under his arms, between his legs.
