Meanwhile, Boyd had stepped out and taken a shot at the younger guy, from several feet. The kid had sensed something coming, and ducked out of the way, which gave the bullet a right rear window to puncture and spider-web. The kid must not have had a gun on him, because he rushed Boyd, who let go with one, two, three rounds, all body shots, kind of a panicky reaction, frankly, since a head shot would’ve stopped him.
But the kid tackled him and took him down, revealing three bloody gaping exit wounds, and when I got to them, Boyd was pinned under the dead kid, missionary position, and was screaming, “Get him off of me!”
“Shut up,” I said, and did.
I glanced around, figuring somebody must have heard or seen something, but nobody was in sight and no sound of reaction could be heard. Directly across from us were boutiques, after hours, no clubs or restaurants, which was luck.
Boyd had some smears of blood on his shirt and suitcoat, but not drenched or anything. I helped him into the rider’s side of the Mustang and we were out of there within seconds.
Back at the crash pad, I helped Boyd in and up the stairs like he was the one shot, not that dead kid back there. But my partner’s legs were rubbery and he was moaning. Not crying, exactly, but close.
“Take a shower,” I advised him, and he did.
I didn’t have any blood on me or my clothes, but while Boyd was in the shower, I threw water on my face and brushed my teeth, generally trying to feel human again.
After the shower, Boyd got himself into some fresh clothes — another leisure suit, another paisley shirt — and said, “I don’t think I could sleep. Too wired. Maybe could eat. Maybe.”
I shrugged. “Let’s try.”
The restaurant announced itself as the oldest in Memphis, a tan brick building on the corner of South Main Street perched there like a ship’s prow coming in, a green neon arcade riding a red neon RESTAURANT sign. It was so early we were damn near alone. But the sun was up.
We took an aqua-and-white booth and ordered breakfast from a pretty little brunette waitress in an aqua-and-white uniform — coffee and French toast for Boyd, coffee and eggs/bacon/hash browns for me. Orange juice for both.
“Jesus,” Boyd said. “That was something.”
“Something, all right.”
“Did I fuck up, Quarry?”
Borderline.
“Not at all,” I said.
“It just freaked me out. It was like we were killing ourselves.”
“Not really.”
“No?”
“No, we’re partners but not lovers. I mean, when you fuck me in the ass, it’s just a figure of speech.”
He started to laugh. He laughed so hard he started crying. The waitress gave me a look as she delivered the food and I gave her back one that said, Don’t worry, he’s fine.
“And this job,” Boyd said, just crying now, no laughter, “this goddamn job, it’s not even finished.”
“It’s close to finished,” I said.
“You think you know who hired those two?”
“Pretty good idea. Look, I’ll handle this from here. All right?
You’ve done your job, a lot more than your job. Nothing passive about the last two nights.”
His expression was so earnest it hurt to look at. “You okay with that, Quarry? You’re sure you’re okay?”
“You bet. You clear out of here, as soon as you’re up to it. Catch some sleep first, or get the first plane out and sleep there. I’ll take it from here.”
He smiled and seemed suddenly relaxed. “Thank you, Quarry.”
“You bet, pal.”
He dug into his breakfast and I dug into mine.
How many more jobs did this guy have left in him? I wondered.
Thirteen
The Sunday matinee at the Memphian Theater on Overton Square — a few minutes away from the Lafayette where last night’s festivities had begun — was showing something called The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Apparently the grand old theater was a kind of art house now, and this oddball attraction might be expected to draw a sizeable college-age counterculture crowd.
But Corrie Colman and I were among the less than a dozen spectators who sat in stunned silence watching a drag queen right out of George’s Truck Stop and Drag Bar try to seduce both halves of a young couple whose car had broken down at his/her spooky mansion in the rain. Of this select group, we were the only ones in the balcony, having sneaked past the closed sign for some privacy.
Before the show started, we shared a small popcorn and sipped our respective Cokes and chatted.
“Just how tense are things between you and your father?” I asked her, knowing that nothing loosens up a date better and faster than asking her about her parents.
“Tense enough. I don’t see him all that often. He lives in Collierville.”
“Where’s that?”
“Pricey suburb, past Germantown, and I don’t get out there much. And you know where he works.”
“You do drop by there from time to time,” I reminded her. “With a few of your girlfriends.”
She smiled a little at that, then shrugged. “He’s too busy for me.”
“Why’s that?”
“The new woman in his life. Well, not that ‘new’ — it’s been going on for a good six months. I’ll tell you how close my father and I are — I haven’t even met the woman. I don’t even know who she is.”
The previews came on. Something called Female Trouble with yet another drag queen was the next attraction. Either I was sensing a trend at the Memphian or, after last night, God was displaying the sick side of His sense of humor.
She was giggling over our popcorn.
“What?” I whispered.
She whispered back. “Reminds me of your bad joke yesterday.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“ ‘Female trouble’?”
“Oh.”
She shifted in her seat a little. Still whispering, she said, “Listen, uh... reminds me. Female trouble is right. Time of the month, I mean. So we’re kind of limited today. I mean, after the other night, you might expect... but I can’t... some people do, some girls, but I never have, during my, you know... and... well, I’m sorry.”
“We’re in the balcony, aren’t we? Maybe we’ll think of something.”
The movie was lively anyway, with some catchy rock ‘n’ roll. The drag queen had a familiar sneer, and maybe that’s what prompted Corrie to lean over and say, “You know, this is Elvis’ favorite theater.”
He was a local boy.
I said, “No kidding?”
“Yeah. He rents it out and brings all his crew in to see his and other people’s movies, and party. They go all night, I hear.”
She was leaning very close, to share this crucial piece of Memphis history with me, and I kissed her on the mouth. No lip gloss today on those pouty (but not pouting) lips, just the ghost of butter topping. She kissed me back and her tongue tickled mine and we necked for a while. I put a hand on her tube top and traveled from one soft round mound to another and then tugged the top down and kissed her breasts, nuzzled her soft nipples till they got hard. I was getting hard, too. I wondered idly if the projectionist up there was enjoying the show.
“Touch-a, Touch-a, Touch-a Touch Me,” a blonde on screen was singing.
When the song ended, Corrie, breathing hard, tugged her tube top back up rather discreetly and I thought that was the end of it. But instead she unzipped me and fished me out and began working me with her hand. Now and then she dipped down and put me in her mouth, just a little ways, kind of tentatively, clearly a girl who had limited experience in this area but was doing just fine for a beginner.