Keeping the G-string in place.
A red lacquered fingernail gently scratched my cheek. "Wake up, honey. We got places to go."
177
VIRGIL WAS HOME from work, sitting at the kitchen table drinking a beer, Virginia standing next to him, one hand on his shoulder.
"Where's my hero?" Blossom asked.
"Out in the back, playing catch with Junior."
Blossom went out to get him. I sat down, caught Virgil's eye.
"Virginia…"
"I know. Go practice my piano."
He gave her a kiss. She flounced out.
I told Virgil what Blossom had in mind. He sipped his beer, thinking it through. Nodded.
"Reba!"
She came in from the back of the house, scarf tied around her head, flushed from doing some kind of work.
"What is it, Virgil? Afternoon, Burke."
"We're going out for a bit. We'll get supper out. Be back after dark."
"Okay. Is Lloyd going?"
"Yeah."
"I'll let Virginia watch Junior. Be careful."
178
VIRGIL DROVE THE Lincoln over to Calumet City, me next to him, Blossom and Lloyd in the back seat. Talking low.
"Here it is," she said. A neat white frame house, dark green trim around the windows, driveway along the side.
I knocked on the back door. A panel about half the size of a man's face slid back. Blossom pushed past me. "We've got an appointment," she said. "With Crystal."
The panel slid closed. Door opened. A slim man wearing a black-and-white-striped shirt with red suspenders led us into a formal parlor. Matching love seats, easy chairs, all done up in a light blue pattern, dark blue Oriental rug on the polished hardwood floor.
We took seats. A woman came in, tall, subtle makeup burying her age, black hair done up in a beehive. Blossom got up, put out her hand. "Miz Joyce, I'm Blossom Lynch. My mother was Tessie Mae Lynch, from Weirton, West Virginia. She spoke of you often— I'm pleased to meet you."
The tall woman took her hand, bowed her head slightly, smiled. They walked off together.
Virgil looked around, shrugged.
"What'd you expect, pal?" the man in the striped shirt said. "A red light over the door?"
I laughed. It felt good.
Lloyd looked straight ahead.
Blossom and the madam came back with a curvy young woman, her small face almost buried under a toss of strawberry-blonde curls.
"Lloyd," Blossom said, "this is my friend Crystal. The girl I told you about."
"Pleased to meet you," Lloyd mumbled, his face scarlet.
We sat down in the parlor to wait.
After a while, Lloyd came downstairs, a goofy grin on his face. His chest was too big for his shirt.
179
TEN-THIRTY THAT NIGHT. I sat on the bed, smoking, watching Blossom dress, fresh from her shower. She stepped into a pair of tiny black panties, snapped on a matching bra. Looked at herself in the mirror. Took the bra off, tossed it on the bed. Slipped a soft pink sweater-dress over her head. It came down to mid-thigh. She checked the mirror again. Hiked up the skirt to her waist, pulled a sheer stocking over each leg, fastening each one with an elastic garter. A dab of perfume behind each ear, generous splash of fire-engine-red lipstick. Tied a black scarf around her waist for a belt.
"Those won't do," she said.
"What?"
"Those gangster clothes of yours. We're going parking, you can't wear a suit. Put on a pair of jeans, you can borrow a leather jacket from Virgil."
180
THE INSIDE OF the 'Cuda smelled like Blossom. We talked softly, Blossom bragging about how she'd pulled it off with Lloyd.
"I figure, I owed him that one."
"You see his face? Anything you ever owed him in life, you paid off."
Her smile flashed. She leaned over, kissed me on the cheek.
Swamp darkness. The kind that rises from the ground.
Blossom bounced in her seat. "Come on."
"Come on, what?"
She turned so she was on her knees, leaned across the shift lever into me, tongue stabbing into my mouth, making her sounds. My hands on her back, stroking her.
"Pull it up," she whispered into my mouth.
"What?"
"My skirt, honey. Let go, let him feel it. Let him feel what lovers do. Let him bring his hate— have it out. Come on, baby."
Her skirt slid over the nylon, my thumbs hooking the waistband of her panties, pulling them down to her knees. She reached back, pulled them all the way down, leaving the black silk hooked around one ankle. Then she crawled into my lap, facing me, reaching underneath her for my zipper, her coppery estrogen smell almost choking me. She pulled me free. "This is mine," she hissed. "Give me what's mine," fitting herself over me, her neck arched against my face.
I felt her magnetic wetness. "Come…come…" she whisper-moaned against my face. A machine-gun burst ripped open the night, devil's raindrops splattering against the windshield. Instinct threw her down against me as I frantically tried to turn, get my back between Blossom and the sniper fire.
High harmonic crack of the sniper's assault rifle. Virgil's carbine boomed out an answer. Bullets slammed into the car, rocking it on its tires. Spotlights beamed across the rise, bullhorn crackled:
"Police!"
I shoved Blossom away from me, clawing for my pistol. Found the door handle. "Get outta here. Back to Virgil's. Go!"
And I was out the door, crouched behind the car, pulling up my zipper, pulling it together.
The gunfire stopped. Sounds of men thrashing around in the dark wood. I took off to my right, running hard.
181
I COVERED THE length of the blacktop, crouching low. All the way to the end, watching the night above me, praying for the hunter's moon to show.
Plunged into the woods, over the fence. Grabbed a breath, belly-crawled my way up the rise toward the railroad tracks. Far to my left, the cops were still beating the bushes. I stopped at the top, shallow-breathing, feeling the ground against my cheek.
The guns were quiet. I stood up, worked my way over the tracks to the far side of the woods. I backed against a tree, antenna out.
The distinctive rumble of the 'Cuda's exhaust, growling along in low gear, somewhere behind me.
Something moving. To my right. Clumsy-sloppy, blundering. Fear-booted. I took off, feeling his trail, following the blood spoor.
A sapling branch lashed my face, warning me. I dropped to one knee, listening.
I felt the panic, heard him crashing down the back side of the hill, heading for the slough where he'd been born. Where it started. I stumbled onto a dog path through the brush. A black plastic sniper rifle lay discarded on the path, the night scope a blind eye now.
Sirens to my left, homing in, surrounding.
The only fear I felt was his. Then: a stick figure in camouflage gear, running, arms pumping, hands empty. I leveled the pistol, sighted in.
Wesley's voice: Make Sure.
I lowered the .38, took off after him.
He flew around a corner just as I reached the street. Sprinted up a dirt alley a block from the water, coat flapping behind him. I closed the gap. Did he have a mail-order killing knife strapped to his boot?
Kill-lust driving me at him, not mine.
Wesley's chill in me, patient.
I heard the 'Cuda again, its stump-puller engine throttled down.
A dog yapped fearfully.
My eyes picked up an image of movement. It disappeared. I stood, scanning, the pistol down at my side. The closest shelter was an aluminum house trailer sitting like a bloated mushroom in an overgrown patch of jungle, no lights in the windows. A high-pitched moan rode the air as he charged across my path, right for the trailer, never breaking stride.