Jimmy joined her on the bed, nuzzled her neck. "You believed me," he whispered.
Holt unbuttoned his shirt and slid a hand against his bare chest, pinching his nipple hard enough that he jumped. "I was curious, that's all." She undid his jeans. Mr. Up and Ready. "You've actually been right once or twice before. I thought you might be due."
"I'm overdue." Jimmy eased his hand up her skirt and played with the lace of her panties, higher now, caressing her. "I'm right about Walsh, Jane." He kissed her as he gently slipped two fingers inside her. His hands were strong, but his touch-it was silk. "I'm right, and you know it."
"Shut up while you're ahead," gasped Holt, and Jimmy did as he was told. This time, anyway. She never knew what he was going to do the next time. She rocked gently against his grip for a long time, just long enough, then eased away, kicking off her panties, unhooking her skirt. She watched as Jimmy peeled off his shirt, then helped him out of his jeans, the two of them moving faster now, all bare arms and legs, kisses and bites.
"Be right back," said Jimmy, getting up and crossing the room, his white ass stark against his deep tan. He turned the photo of Elvis to the wall and slid back into bed beside her.
Holt bounded over to the dresser and turned the photo back so the King could get a good view, his pompadour and knowing smirk lending just the right tone to the action. A couple of bad boys and a bad, bad girl. She took her time returning to bed, giving Jimmy a little show as he lolled on the sheets, enjoying his reaction. "I was never a big fan of Elvis," she said, straddling him, "but I just know I'm about to change my mind."
Chapter 16
The radio exploded in static, the crowd at the arena cheering so hard it must have felt like an earthquake inside the building. Laker girls bouncing, balloons and confetti drifting down from the rafters… the Butcher switched it off in the middle of the echoing victory chant. The Lakers had won in double overtime by eleven points, but it felt anticlimactic. Houston had just given up and played loser-ball, letting the Lakers run the court, destroying the poetry and ferocity of the game. The Butcher stared through the rain-spattered windshield, his long legs cramping in the tight confines of the Geo Metro. The Lakers might be champions, but he hadn't won anything.
He shifted in his seat. The lady was still up in Jimmy Gage's apartment. Some four-eyes had stumbled out about fifteen minutes ago, looking around before he scampered down the stairs like a rabbit. The lady though-she was probably making a night of it.
Must be nice writing for that fancy magazine, getting your pussy home-delivered, and fucking with people's lives for fun and profit. The Butcher had been shadowing Jimmy Gage off and on for a few weeks, still not sure what he was going to do when he cornered him. This morning the Butcher had waited near the exit of the SLAP security garage, waited for hours until Jimmy had driven past in his black Saab. The Butcher remembered the car from the first time they met, but of course big-shot Jimmy Gage didn't recognize the Geo Metro with the dented door. He didn't know what the Butcher drove. Didn't care either. The Butcher had followed the Saab, but lost it on the freeway. Fucking Geo.
The Butcher turned the key in the ignition, listening to the starter grind, cursing it, threatening it, until the engine finally turned over. It sounded like a coffee grinder, metal clanging against metal. Yeah, life was fair. The Butcher got to drive through the rain to his nowhere job on the graveyard shift, hoping that the Geo didn't throw a rod on the freeway or the bald tires didn't blow. Meanwhile, Jimmy Gage got to bone the lady with the nice calves.
The Butcher slipped it into first gear and pulled away from the curb. He turned on the wipers and bent forward, trying to see as the old rubber blades left streaks across the windshield. He wiped at the condensation on the inside of the glass. It was almost the last fucking straw.
Chapter 17
"Twenty-eight bucks for a room; same rate for an hour or for a night." The man in the wheelchair didn't even look at Jimmy, his attention on the television.
Jimmy rapped on the thick glass that separated them. "I don't want a room."
The man in the wheelchair glanced over at him, then went back to the TV. Paperback books were haphazardly stacked on the counter of the tiny office, next to an open liter bottle of Evian. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray shaped like a tiny tire, smoke wafting through the air like nicotine incense.
"I called you a couple days ago. I asked you about a… guest you might have had."
"A guest?" The man in the wheelchair cackled, then choked, spit into a wastebasket. "I remember you now."
"Harlen Shafer." Jimmy slid the photo of Shafer through the security slot of the window.
The man in the wheelchair made no move to retrieve it. "Pleased to meet you, I'm Christopher Reeve."
Jimmy looked around the tiny lobby of the Starlight Arms Motel, the orange carpet stiff with years of street grime, pintoed with undetermined stains. Fly-specked publicity photos of dead movie stars were taped next to the door. The wall next to the pay phone was dotted with tacked-up business cards, most of them dog-eared and greasy: cards for bail bondsmen, taxi companies, escort services, take-out Chinese food and pizza, drug and alcohol counseling services.
"You're blocking my doorway," said the man in the wheelchair, eyes on the television. He was probably in his forties, thin-faced, his hair shot with gray, pulled back into a ponytail, his legs lost in desert-pattern surplus cammies. He was oddly dapper in a white shirt and clip-on tie, but his upper body was caving in on itself, the tie falling to one side. His hands were in half-gloves, his fingers wiggling. "Take a hike. You're killing my walk-in trade."
Jimmy shifted closer to the window, curious to know what the man was watching. The small color set showed a man standing at a podium with a screen behind him showing an operation in throbbing pinks and reds. Jimmy took a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and pressed it against the glass. "Twenty bucks for an honest answer." No response. "Would bumping it up to fifty make a difference?"
The man in the wheelchair kept watching the TV, his fingers stitching along with the surgeon on screen. "What do you want with him?"
"Is he here?"
The man in the wheelchair looked over at Jimmy. "Are you Harlen's supplier?"
Jimmy shook his head.
"Harlen peddled painkillers and other pharmaceuticals. Real sweet stuff too. He wasn't averse to passing out samples once in a while. How about you? You feeling generous?"
"I can't help you."
The man in the wheelchair scooted over to the glass. "That's good, mister, because they don't make dope that helps what ails me. I just wanted to make sure you weren't coming by to collect from him."
"So he skipped out?"
The man in the wheelchair picked up the photograph Jimmy had left on the counter, smiled at the mug shot. "That's right, Harlen is no longer a guest." He grinned at Jimmy. His teeth were too big for his emaciated face. "What do you really want with him?"
"A man named Garrett Walsh made at least five phone calls to your office in the last couple of months. He probably left messages for Shafer. The two of them were in prison together." Jimmy glanced around the shabby office and checked the street. "I'm sure you remember the calls. Short-term place like this, no luggage required- anyone staying for weeks at a time would have to feel comfortable here."
The man in the wheelchair started coughing, arched a gob of phlegm into the wastebasket, and shook a cigarette out of the pack on the counter. He narrowed his eyes at Jimmy as he lit up, taking shallow drags.
"I'm not looking to hurt Shafer. I just want to talk with him." Jimmy slid his business card through the slot in the window. Added fifty dollars. "Have him call me. There's another hundred in it for you. A hundred in it for him too, just for calling."