by Joan Hess
Mackenzie Cutting was still on the telephone, speaking in a low, urgent voice. Wondering if he was ordering fruit baskets for everyone on the eighth floor, I sat down across from him and glared until he replaced the receiver.
"Why on earth did you pull that shit?" I said angrily. "Didn't it occur to you that Estelle might have been hurt-or me, for that matter? What if his gun had gone off as he fell? The situation could have been resolved peacefully if you hadn't blundered in like that!"
"It seemed like the quickest and quietest way to handle it."
"To shoot him?" I said, raising my eyebrows. "If you develop a hangnail, are you going to cut off your finger or your whole arm?"
Mackenzie glanced up as the paramedics wheeled the gurney out the door. "Be sure and take the service elevator," he said to them, then looked at me. "My primary concern is the well-being of our guests. I perceived one of them to be in danger. The man had a gun, Miss Hanks. Should I have invited him to join me in the bar for cocktails and counseling?"
"No," I said, "I suppose not."
"What did you mean when you mentioned all these bags? Do you have a reason to think someone from C'Mon Tours has brought an illegal substance into the hotel? If so, you need to tell me where it is right now. We don't want any hint of scandal at The Luck of the Draw. We rely on our reputation to renew our gaming license each year."
Estelle came out of the bathroom, her lipstick applied by a noticeably unsteady hand. "Arly," she said as she sat down next to me, "that was a brave thing you did-talking to that terrible man like he was nothing but a backwoods Buchanon. You risked your life, and I appreciate it." She glowered at Mackenzie. "You, on the other hand, made a real mess of it, didn't you? Arly here had everything under control, but you had to come charging through the door like a professional wrestler. You're darn lucky no one else got hurt."
"What is going on in here?" demanded Mrs. Jim Bob as she came into the room. "There are all sorts of wild stories being repeated out in the hall. I must say, Estelle, that these stories seem to imply that you're involved with the wrong sort of people. I have enough to worry about without being exposed to a procession of gangsters all night long. Perhaps it might be better if you moved your things to another room, preferably not on this floor."
Chief Sanderson cleared his throat. "Even though we all saw what happened, Japonica is going to have to get signed statements. It can wait till morning, long as nobody's planning to leave town anytime soon. Any problem with that?"
No one, including Japonica, seemed inclined to argue. Chief Sanderson jammed his hat on his head and left the room. Japonica and Mackenzie followed him.
"Well?" said Mrs. Jim Bob. "Is someone going to explain why my bag has been emptied on the floor? If you wanted to borrow toothpaste, you should have asked instead of just pawing through-through my things and making such a mess." Tears began to slide down her cheeks. "Would that have been too much to ask?"
16
Estelle opened her purse and handed Mrs. Jim Bob a tissue. "You're tuckered out from the long drive. You just sit down and I'll gather up your things."
"Thank you," Mrs. Jim Bob said as she dabbed her nose. "This has been a trying day. First, Jim Bob goes and gets himself arrested like a common criminal, and then has the audacity to-" She took a deep breath. "You do believe he's innocent, don't you?"
"Yes," I said, "I know he is. I just wish he'd sat tight until I could convince Chief Sanderson and Japonica. Anyway, you don't need to worry. Everything will be straightened out by morning."
She tried unsuccessfully to suppress the dribble of tears down her pale cheeks. "I just feel so confused. It's obvious Jim Bob came here for reasons I can't bring myself to consider. I don't know what to do."
Holding her hand did not appeal. "Is Brother Verber still in the bar? I can try to find him for you."
"Brother Verber is in his room. He assured me that he felt the need to read the Bible and pray in solitude for the redemption of Jim Bob's soul, which appears to be in need of all the assistance it can get." She took a final swipe at her eyes. "It is well past my bedtime. I'm sure the Good Lord will not begrudge me a few hours of rest." She took her bag and went into the bathroom.
"I need to go downstairs," I said to Estelle, "but first, I want you to tell me every last thing that happened from the moment you and Ruby Bee climbed on the van."
Estelle seemed to enjoy her few minutes in the limelight. We went through hairstyling, tuna-salad sandwiches, and so many petty squabbles that I myself would have preferred to take a swim in the muddy Mississippi than put up with the pilgrims.
Once she'd run out of steam, I said, "Can I trust you to stay here?"
"Never in all my days have I broken my word when it mattered. I think I'd rather wait in your room, though. Mrs. Jim Bob doesn't sound like she's in the mood to order sandwiches from room service and watch movies. Besides, I'd like to have a word with Cherri Lucinda."
I gave her my key. "Put the chain on the door, and don't open it for plumbers, hotel security, other people on the tour, cops, room service, anybody. Got that?"
Estelle nodded. I took the elevator down to the lobby, wondering if there was any way to find Baggins in the Saturday night chaos of the casino. As I pushed open the doors, I came close to recoiling. The music was louder, the voices more strident, and slot machines cacophonic in their desire to assure all players that fortunes awaited those who risked one last coin. The shouts from the direction of the craps tables brought to mind a pack of hyenas closing in on a wounded gazelle.
I wound my way toward the roulette tables. A dozen were active, ringed with optimists wearing everything from T-shirts to minks. As before, Baggins had one of the few dark faces. I grabbed his arm and literally dragged him to the relative calm of the bar.
"What's your problem?" he said sulkily.
I pushed him down into a chair and waved off a waitress. "Why did the itinerary change?"
"You need to ask Miss Vetchling. I'm nothing but the hired help. I do what I'm told."
"Not good enough."
"Sweet Jesus, why don't you go on over to the hospital and worry about your mama? Here she is, sick as a dog, and all you can do is-"
"Yesterday at noon you announced that the tour would not be staying the night in Tupelo as promised in the flyer. Why?"
Baggins sank back and rubbed his forehead. "Miss Vetchling got a call from this lady in Little Rock who'd caught wind that her son was eloping. It seems him and Taylor ran into someone on Beale Street who spilled the beans. The lady insisted that the tour not stay the night in Tupelo, but instead come on over here. Miss Vetchling agreed."
"For a sum, I suppose."
"She ain't the patron-saint of travel agents. I felt real bad about disappointing Taylor, but I didn't have any choice. The motel in Tupelo wasn't much fancier than the Starbright, anyway. At least you get clean sheets and cable here."
"When were you informed of the change in the plans?" I asked.
"While everybody was at Graceland. Soon as I got off the phone, Todd staggered out of the men's room and damn near barfed on me. Taylor and I hauled him back to the van. The rest of them showed up within a few minutes and we left. Do you mind if I get back to my game?"
"Go on," I said, taking his seat. Baggins would never admit he'd discussed the itinerary with the thugs in the motel parking lot in Memphis -but his information that night had been wrong. The tour had not stayed in Tupelo the previous night.
Interesting.
"Miss Hanks," said Rex Malanac as he sat down beside me, "are you ready for that margarita I promised you earlier? Frozen or on the rocks?"
I bit back an annoyed response and looked at him. His face was mottled. Sweat beaded on his earlobes like pearl earrings. His hair resembled a rigid cap of carbon.
Before I could reply, he grabbed my hand and said, "I was wondering if you could do a minor favor for me. There's been a most embarrassing mix-up with my credit card. If you loan me a few hundred dollars, I'll
pay you back later tonight. My luck has to change; I can feel it in my bones. I've studied the fine art of blackjack and I know how to play the percentages. Anyone can have a momentary bad run. A couple of lucky hits and I'll be where I started, and then some. Why, I can even give you a small fee for the use of your funds for an hour. Ten percent, shall we say?"
"I don't have a few hundred dollars in my checking account," I said, "and my credit cards are maxed out."
"Then whatever you've got."
"Let me ask you something, Rex. If you're such a well-known authority on Elvis, why did you come on this tour? I'd think you've been to Graceland and Tupelo more times than you can count."
"Well, yes, I have been to those places in the past." He found a paper napkin on the next table and wiped his forehead. "I just thought it might be refreshing to stand beside someone viewing them for the first time. A neophyte might see something that we popular scholars have overlooked all these years, or at least offer an amusingly naive interpretation. I brought along a notebook to record such observations."
"But you didn't go on the Graceland tour."
"I intended to catch up with them as soon as I'd taken a look in the souvenir shops." He wadded up the napkin and dropped it on the table between us. "About that loan…?"
"Did Cherri Lucinda recognize you?" I asked abruptly. "Do you frequent the Dew Drop Inn out by the airport?"
"Why would I do a ludicrous thing like that? I'm a tenured professor at Farber College, not some sleazy miscreant who finds bliss in drinking longneck bottles of beer and listening to atrocious music on a jukebox. I spend my evenings at concerts, poetry readings, and theater productions, or at home in the company of Brahms and Beethoven. I'd never seen Miss Crate until she climbed onto the C'Mon Tours van two days ago."
"You've never utilized the services of a bookie at the Dew Drop Inn? Your name won't be on the list of members?"
Rex stood up. "It most certainly will not. Feel free to confirm this in any way you see fit."
He stalked away. I leaned back and tried to think, despite the sensory overload that was as aggravating as the wind outside the casino. A waitress approached and looked inquiringly at me. I shook my head, further addling my thoughts. What were the odds I was totally and hopelessly wrong?
Three to two, or something like that.
Brother Verber was in the fanciest suite he'd ever seen in his entire life. Not only were there television sets in the sitting room and the bedroom, but there was also a little one in the bathroom, along with two commodes (one without a proper seat) and a telephone.
He dried his hands and went back out to beam at his new friends. "I'm just tickled pink about your enthusiasm," he said, having the tiniest bit of trouble with the syllables of the final word. "I can almost see us marching into the casino and bringing all that sinfulness to a halt."
"Oh, preacher," said a woman with tawny hair and big violet eyes, "so can I-as soon as you teach us the rest of your delightfully prudish song. How about a little something to wet your whistle?"
Brother Verber had always had a weakness for violet eyes. He allowed her to put a glass in his hand, then surveyed the dozen or so young people sprawled around the room. "All right," he said, "the second verse goes like this: 'Lustful thoughts and masturbation and naked breasts; obscenities, promiscuity, queers, and rape; sacrilege and titillatin' bathing suits; unseemly shorts that make a man to gape.'"
"That's divine," drawled a young man who was draped across a chair. "Todd, you must allow us to sing it at your wedding. I can't think when I last heard someone use the word 'queer.' It's so quaint. Your mother will love it."
"Inspired by the Almighty Lord," said Brother Verber. "It all came to me yesterday morning like a bolt of lightning from above. I was so overcome that I bowed my head and offered heartfelt thanks for the blessing."
The tawny-haired woman took the paper out of his hand. "Okay, everybody, listen once more to the lyrics and then we'll take our best shot. If Todd's mother won't let us sing it during the ceremony, we'll do it at the reception at the club."
Brother Verber wanted to give her a hug to express his gratitude, but instead drained the glass and gave her a broad grin. Who said young folks had lost their appreciation for that old-fashioned religion?
Saddam was snoring like a rock-crusher. Joy had staggered into the bedroom half an hour earlier and was currently stretched out across the bed, her feet twitching every now and then like she was a dog dreaming about a coon hunt.
Jim Bob eyed the crumpled bills on the floor next to Saddam's feet. A few of them might solve his problem with paying for a taxi back to the hotel, but might also lead to an unpleasant incident with a chainsaw if Saddam woke up and discovered his loss.
And how the hell did he think he was going to find a taxi, anyway? If there was one in this pissant town, the driver surely had been alerted to watch for the escaped prisoner last seen holding up a convenience store in the company of two of the most disturbing people Jim Bob had ever met.
It was hard to know exactly where he was. He'd seen flat fields on all sides when Joy had careened up the road and slammed on the brakes in front of the sorry excuse for a house. Headlights had flashed on a distant line of trees. He had an idea which direction the highway was, but if he headed that way, Saddam would know where to look for him.
Holding his breath, Jim Bob turned the knob and eased open the door. There was no sudden bellow from behind him. He stepped down on the cement block that served as a porch, pulled the door closed with only the faintest grate, then sprinted around the corner of the house and ducked behind a tool shed.
He made himself stay down until he'd counted to a hundred. What moonlight there was was filtered though clouds, but he could make out trees not more than a hundred yards away. Even if Saddam woke up, he might figure Jim Bob had stepped outside to piss. In a couple of minutes, though, he would realize what was happening.
Jim Bob wasted a second considering the wisdom of his actions, then began to zigzag across the field, grazing his knuckles on the jagged stalks and praying he didn't make a decent target. Chainsaws demanded proximity; guns didn't.
The field was a mess of mud and icy puddles, and it wasn't nearly as level as it had looked. Jim Bob lurched across endless rows, tripping and sprawling every third step or so, trying his best not to imagine a gun aimed at the middle of his back. If he'd ever wondered where his hackles were, he was damn sure he knew now.
When he reached the line of trees, he was gasping so raggedly that he could see blotches of light inside his head. He threw himself down and rolled under what proved to be a patch of briers. The stench of decay was nearly overwhelming, but he burrowed deeper until he was sure no flashlight could penetrate the branches.
He wasn't technically a fugitive from a chain gang, he thought with a sigh, but there were some noticeable similarities.
Martha Hitebred studied her reflection in the mirror. Changing clothes in the church was not only difficult in the dark, but a bone-chilling ordeal as well. Now, with her father down there, most likely hunkered on his desk like a turkey vulture, she could take her sweet time adjusting her skirt and combing out her hair. She didn't quite have the nerve to smoke a cigarette in the house, but she put one between her lips and pretended she was a slinky torch singer in a nightclub thousands of miles away.
"Anton," she murmured to an invisible suitor, frowning ever so slightly, "how presumptuous to think I'll share a bottle of champagne with you this evening. I am leaving for Paris at midnight. Go away."
Anton obediently faded. Martha pinched her cheeks until they pinkened, turned out the lights (her father seemed to equate the electric bill with the national debt), and went out to her car. She couldn't trust the old fart to stay at the church all night, but she figured she was safe for several hours. Even if he came home, he'd assume she was at the homeless shelter, as she claimed to be several nights a week, spreading the gospel.
Close enough.
17
> I brooded long enough to hatch an illusionary egg or two, then went back into the hotel and down the hall to the private offices in the netherworld behind the registration area. Mackenzie was seated at his desk, scribbling what was apt to be a vaguely worded press release to explain away a teeny disturbance on the eighth floor.
"I have a question about security," I said as I sat down and propped my feet on the corner of his desk. The posture wasn't as comfortable as in my personal domain in Maggody, but it was not time to be picky.
"Shoot," he said, then winced. "Poor choice of words. What's your question?"
"Let's say I arrive at the hotel in search of my great-aunt, who's eloped with her hairdresser. I don't want her to know I'm on her trail. If I slip the desk clerk twenty bucks, will he tell me her room number?"
"Absolutely not. It's grounds for immediate dismissal. The only jobs in this region are in the hotels and casinos, and all of us crosscheck references very thoroughly. Nobody with enough wits to determine the room number would dare give it out."
"That's what I figured," I said, frowning. "I wonder how he knew which room Stormy was in."
Mackenzie sighed. "Is this an obscure reference to this enigmatic bald man? Give it up, Miss Hanks. The police have the killer in custody. Twelve witnesses have sworn that no one else could have been in the hotel room."
"I ran into the ladies earlier, and I have to agree that they seemed reasonably sharp."
"Well, then, if you don't mind, I need to continue working on my report of the incident." He picked up a pen and began to shuffle his notes.
Politely overlooking his hint that I make myself scarce, I said, "Actually, there were thirteen witnesses. The ladies from Tuscaloosa and the guy from room service. Did you talk to him about it?"
Mackenzie slapped down the pen. "No, I did not. I have no idea if Chief Sanderson or Deputy Jones bothered with him. I hope not. The food service employees are an edgy group; the presence of a uniformed officer in the kitchen area would have caused a major stir."