by A. W. Gray
Not as disappointed as she’s going to be when she finds out what I’ve gotten you into, I thought. I swallowed some of my own drink, took a deep breath, and told her. All of it, the indictment, everything. She listened calmly, her expression a mask, her gaze level. She sipped from her glass occasionally, and once lit a Virginia Slim, took a couple of puffs, and stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray. When I’d finished she said quietly, “I’ll have to let it sink in for a while. Watch me, I may start screaming and kicking my feet.”
“It’s a lot to take at once,” I said. “I’m sorry, babe. I wish I could’ve given it to you in smaller doses.”
“And this Breaux person. He’s supposed to be your friend and he—God, I thought there was supposed to be honor among thieves.”
“That’s a fairy story,” I said. “The penitentiary’s loaded with guys like Bodie Breaux. I put together a theory around my second year at El Reno: it’s all self. All those guys are interested in is number one. They all give each other a line about how they’re going to be friends for life, and once they get out a lot of them do hang around together. But that’s mainly because nobody else will have anything to do with them, and believe me, if push comes to shove they’ll stick a knife in their buddy in a minute. If I’d just remembered my own theory, then I wouldn’t have trusted Bodie as far as I could throw him and we wouldn’t be in this mess. Another thing you can mark up as being my fault. They used you, too, Donna.”
Her expression changed, slightly inquisitive now, watching me calmly.
“To get me,” I said. “They knew I was the perfect fall guy, in fact that’s probably why Bodie kept in touch from time to time. He was keeping his finger on me so I’d be handy when he needed to screw me. They knew if you called I’d come running.”
“How would they know that?” she said. “I don’t think Jack would have told Fred Cassel or anyone else that I’d known you before—”
“Jack wouldn’t have to tell anyone. Bodie already knew about you and me. This probably won’t make you feel like Betty Grable on a World War II bomber, babe, but you were quite a hit up at El Reno. That picture of us, the one at Las Colinas? I had it in my cell, and Bodie saw you every day. He’d have recognized you from that photo. Don’t worry, he saw Jack’s wife even if you didn’t know him. That would be taking care of business to Breaux. Even if I hadn’t looked him up to help me with Skeezix, he’d have accidentally on purpose bumped into me in the next day or so.”
She reached out and pushed a gray lock of hair away from my forehead. Her hand was cool and dry. She said, “You kept that picture? You’re a mystery man if I ever. First you give me the gate, now you tell me you had my picture hanging up in your cell. Rick, you broke my heart half in two, and I think you knew it. I only started in with Jack to spite you. Not that I didn’t care for him later. God, that’s a shameful admission for a new widow to be making.”
I stood and paced the room, forcing myself not to look at her. “Not now, Donna. We just don’t have the time. We’re going to have to stay loose and on the move. I guess you’d better call your mother.” On the bed, Jacqueline stirred. She rolled from her back onto her side with a tiny sigh.
“Sure,” Donna said, reaching for the telephone. “It’s good there’s an hour’s difference. Mom turns in with the chickens these days.”
I sat down and fidgeted, listened in a daze while Donna called her mother. Mrs. Morley used to sit Buddy and me down and give us lectures, and her chocolate chip cookies were so delicious that we always listened. Donna would sneak in to steal one of the cookies occasionally, and though we wouldn’t tell Mrs. Morley on her, we always made it a point to give Donna hell afterward. Donna’s phone conversation didn’t take but a few minutes; Mrs. Morley was the kind of mom who would understand that her little girl needed her, and that would be all there was to it. I caught enough of the conversation to know that Mrs. Morley had heard about the indictments, and that she didn’t believe a word of them. I felt pretty good about that.
Donna hung up, called and checked the airline schedules, then briefly talked to her mom again.
When she hung up a second time, Donna said to me, “She’s got to change planes in Dallas. The earliest she can get here is around two, on American. I think it’s the same flight you came in on today.”
I nodded. “It is. We’ll have to watch ourselves until then.”
From over within the bed, Jacqueline said, “Were you talking to Grandma?” She sat up and rubbed her eyes.
Donna and I glanced at each other. Finally Donna said, “Yes. You’re going to stay with her a while.”
Jacqueline sniffled. “I don’t want to. I want to go to Disney World.”
Donna went over and sat beside her, and anyone who didn’t think that Donna was a first-rate mother, maternal instincts and all, just had to read the expression of concern on her lovely face. “You’ve been to Disney World, darling. Mommy has some things she has to do, and Grandma is going to take care of you. You know you like going to Grandma’s house.”
Jacqueline began to cry. “You promised me, Mommy. You promised.”
I probably shouldn’t have gotten involved, but watching little girls cry affects me even more than seeing big girls turn on the tears. Which is quite a bit. I said to Donna, “I suppose we could take her in the morning. The plane’s not coming in until two.”
Donna, cradling her daughter’s head against her chest, gave me a sharp glance, then nodded. “How about that? You can go see Mickey Mouse in the morning and tell him good-bye, and get to go to Grandma’s.”
Jacqueline looked up and for just an instant a look of cunning crossed her face. If all—and I mean one hundred percent of all—children have anything in common, it’s the ability to know when they’ve got adults by the throat and can get their way. Jacqueline said, “And can I watch TV right now?”
Donna rolled her eyes. “I suppose, for just a little while.”
Jacqueline looked at me, now with a growing look of little-girl excitement. “And will you take me on the Space Mountain ride? Mommy’s afraid to.”
Donna looked to me, winked, and said, “Yeah, Mommy’s a big chicken.”
I shrugged. “Well . . . sure. Yeah, okay, I’ll take you.” I bent over and switched on the TV. The set made a tiny sizzling noise, then came on. And there I was, my picture in living color right there in the middle of the screen. I said quickly to Donna, “Get her.”
Donna glanced at the picture, then snapped to. She bent her head to block Jacqueline’s view in a hurry. “And for a really big treat, I think the man in the coffee shop has ice cream.” Jacqueline squealed and clapped her hands. Donna picked her up and carried her quickly to the door, the little girl still in her shorts and Care Bear T-shirt. Donna scooped Jacqueline’s shoes up in one hand, said quickly to me, “We’ll be in the coffee shop,” and left.
So we were now national news, Donna and I. I had to admit, the television pictures were about as much as I could have hoped for. The photo of me was a twelve-year-old football shot, with me in a silver and metallic blue uniform, wearing pads and about fifty pounds heavier than I was now. Also, my hair in the news release was merely salt-and-pepper instead of its current silver gray. They used Donna’s picture from the wall alongside the staircase in her house: the semi-cheesecake photo taken on the deck of the yacht, with her posing with the marlin. Just sensational for the viewing audience, but I doubted whether anybody was going to recognize either of us from our TV pictures.
I increased the volume and listened to the news blurb—there was really nothing new, just a rehash of the same things I’d heard earlier on the local Dallas radio broadcast—waited until our story was followed by a picture of Oliver North with Fawn Hall, his leggy secretary, in an insert photo in the upper right corner of the screen, then switched off the set, and went downstairs. Before I left, I stowed the Siebrig .38 in a drawer and tucked Donna’s pearl-handled derringer into my back pocket. No way was I going unarmed again. I paused outside the suite, locked
the door, and rattled the handle.
Outside, halfway around the hotel building in the direction of the coffee shop, I paused and looked around. A three-quarter moon was just above the horizon and the Little Dipper twinkled directly overhead. There was no one wandering around in the parking lot; on the main thoroughfare the traffic had thinned to practically nothing. Breaux couldn’t possibly know where we were. But he was out there somewhere, searching and waiting and watching. Sooner or later I was going to see him. I patted the handle of the derringer and went on my way.
The coffee shop had five customers besides us, a Mr.-Hobbs-takes-a-vacation type along with a pudgy wife and two pudgy kids, and an overweight woman in a wraparound flowered dress who sat alone at the counter, drinking coffee. Jacqueline put away two chocolate sundaes—she asked for the second one rather coquettishly, and when the waitress set the second mountain of whipped cream, crushed nuts, and maraschino cherries at her elbow Jacqueline’s eyes got round as saucers—while Donna and I had one scoop of vanilla apiece. On the way back to the room, on the stairs leading up to the second floor, Donna told Jacqueline that it was bedtime and that she’d changed her mind about the TV watching.
“Maaa-um. You promised. Can’t I just for a teeny bit? I’ll go see what’s on.” Jacqueline quickened her pace, leaving us behind watching her cute knees moving like pistons and her long mahogany hair wiggling from side to side as she bounded out of sight up the stairs.
“Damn all that sugar,” Donna said. “She’s high as a tree, no telling when I’ll get her to sleep. And the TV won’t help, either.”
“Well, she won’t be turning it on just yet,” I said. “I locked the door when I left to meet you. Jesus, you do have your key, don’t you?” I was fumbling in my pockets, picturing my own room key lying on top of the TV as I’d turned off the set. We reached the top step and went down the second-floor hallway toward our room.
“Yes, I’ve got it,” she said. “But you really should be more careful. You could lock yourself—” Donna halted in mid-sentence and stopped in her tracks. Her jaw slackened.
Forty feet down the hall in front of us, Jacqueline stopped in front of our room, turned the knob, banged open the door, and charged on in.
Donna said, “Rick, I thought you said you locked the—”
I was already running, legs churning, hand digging into my back pocket for the derringer, bringing it out, airing back the hammer. My breath whistled between my teeth like a marathoner’s breath as I ran into the room and stopped, pistol ready. Jacqueline was saying in her little-girl voice, “What are you doing?”
She was looking up at a frail woman in a maid’s uniform who stood near the foot of the bed. Donna’s purse was in her hand, and as she looked at me she dropped it. The purse fell on the bedspread, spilling change, car keys, and a round plastic compact. The woman held out her hands, palms out. Her tongue lolled to one side of her mouth. “Lord, mister, don’t shoot me,” she said.
I just stood there holding the gun. Donna came alongside me from out in the hall. She was breathing fast.
The woman sat on the edge of the bed and covered her face with her hands. “Please, sir, my baby’s sick. I never do nothin’ like this before, I swear.”
Jacqueline stepped forward, reached up, and patted the maid on top of the head. “Poor lady,” Jacqueline said. “I got some cookies, you want one?”
After the dumbfounded maid had become the first burglar in history to be rewarded by a twenty-dollar tip from the intended victim, she left. Then Jacqueline got her way. We turned on the TV and sat on the couch, Jacqueline in the middle and Donna and me on either side. The late show was in progress, and it was a great children’s program. The Exorcist, starring Ellen Burstyn.
We’d tuned in on the scene where the demon-possessed child throws her mother to the floor and tries to crush her to death with a mammoth dresser. Donna and I stared at each other in horror. In between us, Jacqueline was giggling.
Donna came to me in the wee hours of the morning. She and Jacqueline had been sleeping in the king-size; I’d sat on the sofa until I’d heard their even breathing, then turned down the daybed, and crawled in myself. I was on my side, only half asleep when something bumped the edge of the bed. I opened one eye.
Donna was standing there in a filmy white nightgown that tied at the throat and extended to just above her knee. In the dimness of the room, she smiled at me.
I said, “Why aren’t you—?”
She reached out and covered my mouth. “Shh,” she said. She undid the bow and slipped the gown over her head; the lacy thing fluttered to the carpet. She stood erect. Two white strips of flesh divided her smooth, even tan. My breath caught in my throat.
She folded back the covers and slid in beside me, bed springs creaking slightly, dark waves of hair spreading out on the pillow. She snuggled close, her arms about my waist, her firm bare thigh sliding between my legs, her lips inches from my chin. The scent of lilac mixed with the faint odor of tobacco.
“Take me,” she said. “Now, dammit. Don’t give me a chance to feel guilty about it.”
We spoke in whispers.
“It’s this act I’m putting on,” Donna said. “Actually I’m petrified. You’ll have to pardon me, I’m new at being on the lam.”
I glanced toward the king-size, where Jacqueline continued to snore little snores. After what I’d just been through, I decided that the kid could sleep through a tornado. I said, “It won’t be for long. First we get Jacqueline safe with your mother, then I put you where they can’t find you. One thing at a time.”
Donna’s hands were clasped behind her head, her long, fine legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles, her firm breasts rising and falling as she breathed. The thin blanket was on the floor in a twisted heap, the sheets rumpled and damp in spots. “Sounds wonderful,” she said. “Where is it that I’m going to hole up?”
I was beside her on my naked belly, raised up on my elbows. “I’ve got a friend in Tampa—I don’t think that’s over sixty or seventy miles from here. The guy’s name is Tyson. Good Plates Tyson. I’m not sure about his real first name, but I’ve got his phone number. We keep in touch, he’s somebody I can count on.”
“Good Plates? What is he, a dishwasher?”
“Not exactly. He’s a guy I knew in El Reno. They call him Good Plates because he makes good plates. You know, like in counterfeiting.”
Her chin moved upward a bit. “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”
“We’re in trouble, Donna, you want me to call the FBI? Plates will take care of you while I try and get us out of this. I’m going to have to go to Dallas and see some people. I think I can clear this up if I can stay out of jail long enough. One guy I have to see is a cop. You’ll be glad to hear that.”
She snickered. “A crooked cop, I guess.”
“Honest as the day. Detective Atchley, Dallas County. He’ll want to arrest me on sight, but I think he’ll listen to me. Unless I’ve got him completely wrong, he’s pretty good at putting two and two together.”
“Are you sure he won’t listen to you after he’s locked you up? And then agree with you while he’s throwing away the key?”
“I’m . . . well, I just can’t let that happen,” I said. “I’ll probably have to talk to him over the phone if I want to keep breathing the free.” I avoided looking directly at her. I had some things in mind in connection with talking to Atchley, but Donna had enough to worry about.
“I wonder if this will ever end,” she said. “All of it, it’s like I should be waking up soon. God, not a month ago I was ...”
She rolled onto her side, her supple body twisting. The lump in my throat wouldn’t go down no matter how hard I tried to swallow it. I couldn’t undo any of the things that had happened, but I made a silent promise to myself that Donna wasn’t going to get hurt any more. Not while I had breath left in me.
I put my arm around her and she nestled against me. In seconds my shoulder was wet with her tears.
14
The jiggling and rocking of the bed woke me up, and for a crazy instant I thought I was in an earthquake. I rolled onto my back to watch Ernie and Bert—a cartoon of the two fighting over a big green toothbrush—go up and down, up and down on the front of Jacqueline’s T-shirt. Her feet were bare and she was doing her damnedest to transform the daybed into a trampoline.
“Time to get uh-up,” she said. “Space Mountain today. Spa-a-ace Mountain. You promised, you promised.” Her chanting was a little too loud and a little too cheery and cute as the devil. I sat groggily up and looked around.
I had a sudden flash of panic and patted the mattress beside me. If her daughter discovered the two of us in bed together, Donna was going straight up the wall. But Donna was gone, leaving only rumpled sheets and a faint lilac scent to remember her by. I still was naked; with a slight flush of my cheeks I bunched the covers around my waist. Bright sunlight was filtering into the room around the edges of the closed drapes.
I said to Jacqueline, “You’re one kid that never runs down. Where’s your mother?”
She halted her bouncing, steadied herself on the mattress, and wrinkled her nose at me. “She went out. She told me not to ‘sturb you till you woke up.”
“Well,” I said, “is this your idea of not ‘sturbing me?” Donna’s derringer lay on the floor, where I’d placed it last night in arm’s reach. I pushed it gently underneath the edge of the bed. Jacqueline didn’t seem to notice.
She giggled like a munchkin. “I’m not ‘sturbing you. I’m playing.”
The hallway door rattled, a key turned, and Donna backed carefully in carrying a plastic shopping bag under each arm. She wore blue Jamaican shorts and a white sleeveless knit shirt along with blue sunglasses with big Elton John lenses perched above her forehead, riding a crest of mahogany hair. She said, “Jacqueline, I told you not to ... Gosh, Rick, I’m so sorry. I guess I should’ve taken her along.”
“No sweat,” I said, sitting up straighter and holding the blanket around me. “I was already awake. I told her to show me some tricks, that’s all.”