“You mean that fucking madman, the one running off with fucking heads?” The boy shivered involuntarily.
“Yeah, that’s the one. I bet the street’s alive with speculation on that joker.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. How come you askin’, man?” The boy licked his lips and looked around the crowded lobby.
“I’ll tell you something, Stevie.”
“Yeah, you tell me, man. I got a feeling you don’t even do ’ludes and maybe all of a sudden I’m real busy and better move on, huh?”
“Wait a minute. Calm down. I ain’t the heat, what the fuck’s wrong with you?” Jack thought fast. “I’ll tell you what I am, though. You know that woman that got killed? That one in the apartment?”
“Down on Richmond?”
“That’s the one. Well, that woman, she was a friend of mine. A real good friend of mine, okay? And you know the fucking cops. They don’t know shinola.” He managed to sound both angry and disgusted.
“They don’t know from nigger bitching.”
“That’s right, and I figure, I tell myself, there’s somebody out here might know this motherfucker. Somebody might know the crazy sonovabitch.”
“Me?” Stevie fidgeted on the stool. “I don’t know goose shit. I sell a little smoke, man; I don’t know the fucker.”
Jack lit a cigarette and took his time drawing in the smoke and letting it trail out in a thin, languid stream.
Dead end, Goddamn dead end everywhere he went, everywhere.
“A guy I know at work now…” Stevie said. He thought of the mean Nick Ringer.
Jack turned to him to show his interest.
“This guy, he’s really sick, you know? He’s been talking. Every fuckin’ time I have to ride with him to do a job he’s talking shit.”
“Like what?” Jack felt his skin prickle.
“Well, like how it don’t bother him none this fucker’s going around stealing heads, maybe they deserved stealing. You know—shit like that. Sick, this guy’s real sick, know what I mean?” Stevie pointed to his head and made a circle with his finger.
“What else does he say?”
“Oh man, just sick stuff like what he did in Nam, how he killed three gooks single-handed, like he’s some big hero. Then he gets into what he thinks the guy’s doing with the heads. Real sicko.” Stevie looked around the lobby for potential customers.
Jack patiently smoked his cigarette and stared at the boy, silently urging him to talk.
“You know what he said last week?” Stevie asked suddenly.
Jack shook his head.
“He said maybe the killer’s shrinking the heads like with voodoo or something. I mean, shee-it, this guy I work with makes my balls crawl up my be1ly.”
“Maybe I could talk to him. What’s his name? Where do you work?”
“You tell that motherfucker I sent you to him and he’ll skin me alive, man.” Stevie drew away from Jack and looked ready to flee.
“I ain’t telling nobody nothing. I’m doing this for Marjorie, you understand? You won’t be involved,” Jack said, quickly reassuring the young man.
“He’s a bad dude, man, I’m warning ya.”
“Name?”
“Nick. Nick Ringer. Apex Alarm. But if you let on you know me…”
The boy hushed as Jack took out his wallet. He handed Stevie another twenty and slid off the stool. “See ya, kid. Thanks. You hear anything else you tell me when I come back by.”
Outside the bus station a drunk walked by, talking to God. The wizard shot Jack an angry look and turned his back. A hack driver yawned and looked at his watch.
Jack flipped the butt of his cigarette into the gutter and strode across the street to his car.
It’s nothing, he told himself.
It’s all you’ve got in weeks, he argued back to himself.
This Nick is nothing but a degenerate, a waste of time.
But it’s all you’ve got.
One thing that Stevie had said stayed with Jack as he drove home. “Maybe they deserved stealing…”
Who said shit like that? Nick Ringer. Apex Alarm. And he had been in Vietnam. Please God, Jack prayed, let this be the break I need.
CHAPTER 23
EILEEN MCKENNA pulled her blue fox jacket closer around her shivering body. Ever since she had heard about the River Oaks’ murder on the six o’clock news she had felt chilled. A general malaise settled over her as she prepared for her appointment later that evening with a client in the River Oaks’ district. It was her first job since she and Jack had made love after Willie’s death, and she realized her hesitancy to keep the appointment involved more than a reluctance to be near the scene of a brutal murder. She did not want to go to another man’s bed out of an unreasonable feeling that it would be a betrayal of Jack.
Could this be the beginning of a new morality, she wondered? Anyone who knew her would have laughed.
Since when did Eileen McKenna believe in sexual devotion to one man, in monogamy? There was no precedent for this sudden urge of fidelity on the part of Houston’s most sought-after call girl. It was utter foolishness.
The doorman of her apartment house watched enviously as a chauffeur opened the rear door of a beautifully kept 1975 Silver Cloud Rolls Royce for her. Hal Winifred’s style extended even to his paid companions, Eileen thought uncharitably as she got in. When you were a middle-aged bachelor who owned a large interest in Astro-world and the Houston Oilers football team, you could afford to send one of your Rolls to pick up a gorgeous redhead in a blue fox coat. That you also were expected to pay highly for the services of this woman did not matter.
I’m being mean and petty, Eileen thought, but could not manage to throw off her uneasiness. She felt like sulking, and when she was in such a mood her professional manner took over. There was an unwritten law that prostitutes kept their private lives private.
The chauffeur, an old man with pure white hair, did not spare his passenger a single glance, much less the benefit of a friendly word. This made Eileen even more irritable. The unspoken message was painfully clear. They were both employees of Hal Winifred. They need not waste one another’s time engaging in the social amenities. He drove the car and she rented out her body. She might as well be a basket of flowers or a sack of groceries.
“Turn around,” she commanded abruptly.
The chauffeur flinched and the back of his neck reddened. “Madame?”
“I said turn this car around and take me back to the St. John.”
“But Mr. Winifred is expecting you.” To the chauffeur this clearly settled the matter.
“Mr. Winifred will have to be disappointed. I don’t feel well and I wish to be taken home immediately.” For the first time since picking her up, the chauffeur twisted his head around to look at her. “But Mr. Winifred sent me—”
“You will simply have to convey my apology to your employer,” Eileen interrupted. “I’m sure you’re well-trained in that regard.”
The utter contempt in her voice was not lost on the chauffeur. “Yes, madam. Whatever you say.” Eileen relaxed against the soft leather seat and formulated a plan in her mind. All she had been able to think about for the past weeks was Jack DeShane. It was time to be honest with herself. She loved him and she no longer liked her life as a woman surviving on her looks and sexual skills. She knew her recent sleeplessness and irritability were caused by a refusal to admit she was in love. She had been needed before by various men for various reasons, but never had she been needed as a total woman, accepted as a total person, unconditionally. Jack needed her and loved her. She had tried to deny that she needed and loved him the same way.
It would mean taking a chance on another person, opening herself to hurt, relinquishing the lifestyle she had so studiously created. The safety of the cold, empty place she had put herself in would be gone. Love meant risking the emotional stability that came from non-commitment. After all these years, could she respond warmly and honestly to true love—and return it?