A Kiss Gone Bad wm-1

by Jeff Abbott

  She finished her Pop-Tart then studied the pastry’s box to see if the phrase was trademarked – not a bad name for a movie. Pop-Tarts. Could play up pop music, could play up oversweet breakfast treats. Damn. Trademarked. Oh, well. She folded the money – twenty thousand – into the bottom of her suitcase, hiding it inside a light wind-breaker.

  She showered, considering her next move. Shooting Faith would have been a bad idea and she doubted that she could have pulled the trigger. But she had loaded the gun and stuck it in the bottom of her purse as Faith knocked on the door, just in case.

  Just in case the crazy bitch tried to kill her.

  But Faith had not had murder on her mind. Listen, Velvet, you know and I know that Pete killed himself. You saying anything else is just a ploy for publicity.

  You mean a ploy for justice.

  No, Publicity. I did a little checking, sweetie. Pete tried to kill himself four years ago, swallowing pills. I got the hospital records from Van Nuys. I’m giving them to the police and to Whit Mosley.

  It doesn’t mean anything.

  You know what else I found out, sweetie? Your last five movies have bombed. You tried to get all artsy instead of just delivering the smut, and no one cares what you’re doing now. You’re broke. Velvet.

  Get the hell out of here.

  And Faith, instead of getting mad, gave her that superior little smirk. So mature. Don’t you know I can help you? Get you back on your feet so you can – the smirk again – get back off them right away. And you and I can both be happy.

  Velvet rinsed her hair clean of lather, turned off the shower, reached for a towel. She felt better than she had yesterday, when the knots and rocks in her gut shifted with every breath. She stepped out of the shower, wondering if Pete was looking down or up at her, and whether he hated her now.

  Don’t hate me, Pete, I promise you I’m not done with them yet, and Faith Hubble’s going to fry, fry, fry. She would have to launder the money the Hubbles would be steering toward her, polish it with a veneer of respectability, before she called the papers in Dallas and Houston and Austin. It shouldn’t, she figured, take very long.

  She got dressed and checked the gun again, at the bottom of her purse. It fit in perfectly next to the handheld tape recorder. Faith’s voice on that tape – cajoling, begging, offering bribes for silence over Pete’s still secret career – was better than any bullet. A bullet meant only a moment’s suffering.

  Suffering. She thought of Sam, Faith’s pleas that he be protected from all the pain about Pete’s career, and she remembered Sam and Pete sitting on the prow of Real Shame, Pete drinking a bottled beer, Sam sipping a Coke, awkwardly talking, settling finally on a discussion of baseball. Pete liked the Padres, Sam the Rangers, and she shamelessly eavesdropped, hearing them warm to each other, talking about trades and homers and a mutual loathing of the Yankees. Sam had finally laughed at one point. Warm tears had welled in her eyes and she thought, Who the hell are you, June Cleaver? Maybe she should say nothing forever, let Sam think his father just made industrial films. Pete wouldn’t want Sam to be ashamed, to bear the brunt of his sins. Or she could take the money, throw it at Sam, say. Here’s what your mama wanted to pay me for silence, hon. Know who you’re living with.

  She dug the creased business card out of her purse, smoothed it out, then dialed Whit’s number.

  *

  At ten after nine Wednesday morning, Claudia drove past an elaborately painted sign that read JABEZ JONES MINISTRIES. Above the logo was a gold cross etched over a pair of gargantuan biceps.

  ‘Did you know that Jesus did not work out on a regular basis?’ Whit slurped a cup of hot coffee he’d snagged at Irina’s cafe.

  ‘Judas was flabby, too,’ Claudia said. The road leading to the compound was surrounded by a dense growth of bent oaks and lined by hardy palm trees. They drove past another sign that read SALVATION AHEAD -FEEL THE BURN BURN.

  ‘So what happens if you go to hell? Don’t you still feel the burn?’ Claudia asked. She didn’t feel the burn, but she felt the tension in the car. She and Whit hadn’t talked since she’d seen Faith at Whit’s place. Whit had seemed tired when she picked him up at the courthouse. He updated her about his talk with Junior Deloache and Anson Todd. Another angle for her to present to Delford, although she fretted her boss would welcome news of Pete’s friendship with hoods no more than theories of murder. ‘Do you think he’s this corny on purpose?’

  ‘Absolutely. It’s sort of like asking if pro wrestlers consider themselves athletes,’ Whit said. ‘Do you remember Jabez Jones from school?’

  ‘Vaguely. Geeky, glasses, the kind of preacher’s kid you felt bad for because you just knew he never got to have one lick of fun,’ Claudia said.

  ‘I remember seeing him wrestling on TV. Joltin’ Jabez Jones. I nearly didn’t recognize him. Especially in gold tights.’

  ‘God knows my father considers pro wrestling a religion.’

  ‘God doesn’t have much to do with his appeal,’ Whit said. ‘He’s just like those TV specials on pets that attack or cops’ greatest chases or us all watching a president get caught with his pants down. Everything is entertainment now. He’s just making local evangelism another genre.’

  They turned into an asphalt parking lot. Jabez’s compound was the original odd folly of a Fort Worth oil baron who had built a television studio outside Port Leo, part of an ill-conceived plan for a fishing network. The few shows he produced bombed and the compound stayed shuttered for a few years until Jabez Jones defected from the pro wrestling ring to start his church and show. Holy Cross-Training. It had found a shaky home on stations serving rural markets with low-powered religious programming.

  The squat cabins were painted a glossy white. A game of women’s volleyball, played in modest shorts and T-shirts adorned with gold crosses, was under way in a sand pit. A couple of men stood by, watching, attempting unsuccessfully to look pious while ogling the bouncing breasts.

  ‘He’s Hugh Hefner with a Bible,’ Whit said.

  Whit and Claudia were barely out of the car when the welcoming committee arrived. She was six feet tall, well muscled, and wore her platinum-blond hair closely cropped. She wore a tight white T-shirt with a gold cross emblazoned on the chest and cargo pants bulky enough to conceal an armory. Whit remembered what Ernesto had told him about one of Pete’s visitors: like a man with titties. It was a crude, unkind, but effective description.

  ‘Hi. I’m Judge Whit Mosley and this is Detective Claudia Salazar from the Port Leo police. We have an appointment with Jabez,’ Whit said.

  ‘Regarding?’

  ‘He wanted to share some information with us regarding a case,’ Claudia said.

  ‘Follow me. But if he’s not done with his taping, you’ll just have to wait.’

  Claudia and Whit followed the Amazon along a crushed-oyster-shell path that led down from the main complex toward a finger of the bay.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ Whit said.

  ‘Mary Magdalene.’

  Whit shot Claudia a look. If Mary Magdalene was this tough, Whit thought, God only knew how butch Esther and Ruth were. Eve could probably kick major ass, too.

  ‘This is an impressive setup.’ Claudia gave Whit a frown that said. Don’t you dare laugh,

  Mary Magdalene nodded. ‘Oh, yes, the Lord has smiled on Jabez.’

  ‘He’s smiling on that volleyball court,’ Whit said.

  ‘Jabez says exercise is a way of paying homage to what the Lord has created, in making man and woman. Building muscles is worship.’ She flexed her own thickened arms.

  ‘I’ve always believed our bodies are temples,’ Whit offered. Mary Magdalene gave him a quick scrutiny, then apparently dismissed his temple as one devoted to a lesser god.

  The volleyball bounced into the grass near them. One of the comely disciples chased it. She scooped the ball up, and Whit thought: Do I know her? But the young woman turned and sashayed back to the game.

 
‘Jabez doesn’t have much trouble getting a date, does he?’ Whit observed in what he considered to be a completely friendly tone. Claudia withered him with a glare.

  ‘Jabez doesn’t date,’ Mary Magdalene spat out the last word. ‘He doesn’t care a whit for the temptations of this physical world.’ Her voice hardened. ‘The temptations of the flesh are the seed of all evil.’

  Whit surveyed the immaculately kept buildings, the sand-rumped girls playing volleyball, the new Cadillac parked right by the administration building door with JABEZ on the plate. ‘He’s a real Francis of Assisi,’ Whit said to Claudia, his voice lowered.

  ‘Sissy?’ Mary Magdalene had misheard.

  ‘No, sassy,’ Whit answered. ‘He sasses that old devil, don’t he?’

  Mary Magdalene raised one platinum eyebrow. ‘Jabez could kick the devil’s ass, and don’t you forget it.’

  Whit and Claudia reflected on this platitude in silence. Claudia pinched Whit on the meaty part of his arm to ensure he wouldn’t comment.

  Mary Magdalene escorted them to a small stretch of beach full of cameras, portable sound booms, and spandex-clad missionaries. Sparkling white sand, cleaner-looking than the grayish beige grit on most Texas beaches, had been spread over the native soil.

  Whit and Claudia stood back to watch the spectacle. Jabez Jones, well over six feet tall, two hundred thirty pounds of muscle with less body fat than a moth, lay on his side, scissoring his tree-trunk legs into the air, counting off reps while providing a little insight into the Book of Luke. Behind him two women (one svelte, one heavy for the dieting viewers to bond with) and a less beefy man mirrored his exercises, all beaming like angels.

  ‘Now, hold the lift until the Scripture is done,’ Jabez boomed. ‘“I tell thee, thou shalt not depart thence till thou hast paid the very… last… mite.”… There! Amen! Bless us all, did you feel the Holy Spirit invigorating your limbs? I know I did. I’m just coursing with the Holy Spirit right now. You keep doing those leg lifts and the devil himself won’t be able to catch you. Now let’s start our cool-down, and our Scripture for that is one of the more relaxing Psalms, a personal favorite of mine, number sixty-one.’

  Whit resisted the urge to lead a cheer.

  Cool-down completed, Jabez jumped to his feet, did a hand clap, reminded viewers about his I -888 number and Web site to place requests with Jabez’s Prayer Workout Chain or to order his fitness-theology tapes. ‘Remember, your donations make all the difference in fighting flab… and sin! Praise God! Call now!’

  God – who, in Whit’s mind, represented the infinite beauty of the universe – as a weight-loss shuckster.

  Finally a nasal-voiced director called, ‘That’s a wrap. Beautiful, Jabez.’ Jabez gave a weary sigh and wiped the sand off his oiled legs. The crew began their cleanup.

  ‘I’m curious, Mary Magdalene,’ Whit said. ‘Where does all the money come from to pay for this wonderful spread? Jabez’s wrestling career must’ve been lucrative in that worldly goods way.’

  ‘The Lord provides,’ Mary Magdalene intoned.

  ‘The Lord must provide on a real regular basis,’ Whit said. Claudia shot him a look: Quit antagonizing this woman. Whit moved to the left a couple of feet to avoid another pinch.

  Jabez Jones trotted over, smiling. ‘Hello, Detective Salazar. Judge Mosley. Bless you.’

  ‘Hello, Reverend.’ Claudia nodded. ‘We had an appointment?’

  ‘Of course. Thank you for escorting them here, Mary. We can talk here along the beach, it’s quiet and peaceful.’ He gestured with his oak-tree arm down a stretch of beach away from the camera crew.

  ‘Jabez?’ Mary Magdalene clearly didn’t want to leave his presence. ‘I can stay-’

  ‘Go. It’s fine,’ Jabez said.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Mary Magdalene said, ‘I have the Lord’s work to do.’ She uttered this with a mysterious air, as though this activity involved Navy SEALs, Russian microfilm, and Jimmy Hoffa.

  They followed Jabez. The morning had turned shiny, the sky cloudless. A wheel of gulls cawed above their heads, swerved as one, and dived for food in the lapping surf. Shriveled husks of two dead Portuguese man-of-war jellyfish lay on the sand.

  ‘Mary Magdalene seems real sweet,’ Whit said.

  ‘She’s very devoted. I rescued Mary Magdalene from the streets of Houston. She was homeless, hopeless, strung out on dope, not strong. I made her strong,’ Jabez said.

  ‘You and Jesus,’ Whit said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Jabez agreed, as though he and the Lord made an awesome tag team. ‘So, Whit. You’re a JP now. How very… rewarding for you.’

  ‘I like it,’ Whit said.

  ‘I surely hope you’re reelected,’ Jabez said. ‘I mean, running that restaurant and that delivery service just didn’t seem to be your calling.’ The comment was topped with such a dollop of theocratic sugar that it might not be an insult. Jabez smiled in the light of his expensive muscles and his expensive compound and his expensive television crew.

  ‘Gosh, Jabez, thanks. And I pray on a near-constant basis that you get picked up by a TV station that actually serves a metropolitan area.’

  Jabez’s smile never dimmed, but one of the balloon-shaped muscles in his arm tensed. The preacher turned to Claudia. ‘I called because I thought I might be able to help you with your inquiries.’

  ‘We understand you’d been to see Pete recently.’

  ‘Yes. I offered him spiritual counsel. He and I have known each other for a long time. He was going through some difficult times.’ He paused and dropped his little bomb. ‘He wanted custody of his son.’

  ‘That we knew,’ Whit said.

  Jabez crossed his bulky arms. Small gold crosses were tattooed on his knuckles. ‘Oh. Well, perhaps I’m not being helpful. The Hubbles were, of course, opposed to him filing. Trying to settle with him. I guess you knew that as well.’

  Whit and Claudia exchanged a quick glance. The Hubbles had consistently claimed no knowledge of Pete wanting custody. If Jabez was being truthful, then they were lying.

  ‘What did he have on them that would have made them even negotiate with him? You only go out-of-court if you’re not sure you can win, and Faith and Lucinda should have been as sure as saints,’ Whit said. ‘What leverage did Pete have?’

  Jabez shook his head. ‘Don’t know… Your Honor. Pete kept that private.’ But there was a flicker of an amused smile behind his solemnity, and Whit wondered.

  ‘I understand you and he fought. Argued,’ Whit said.

  ‘Ah. Velvet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She misunderstood. Pete wanted me to be a character witness for him. I was willing, because I do think everyone can change, and Pete seemed sincere in wanting to improve his lot. But I told him he would need to accept God in his life, and he got mad at me then. There were no other arguments.’

  ‘So did Pete discuss any other aspects of his life with you?’ Claudia asked.

  A pained look crossed Jabez’s gladiator-handsome face. ‘When I was in wrestling… well, some of my colleagues were attracted to women of dubious morality. Some of them worked in adult films, and I heard, through them, about Pete. I actually saw him at a dinner party a few years ago, hosted by a wrestling promoter. He looked terrible. He asked me not to tell anyone back here about his… career. I’ve kept my word. Gossip is the devil’s venom poured in an ear. So do you suspect the Hubbles.?’

  So much for the evils of gossip, Whit thought.

  ‘We have no suspects at the moment. We’re not even sure it’s a homicide,’ Claudia said. ‘Judge Mosley will be conducting the inquest in the next couple of days.’

  ‘Would suicide surprise you?’ Whit asked.

  ‘I don’t quite understand why he would come home and work on getting close to his son, then kill himself.’

  Whit changed topics. ‘Did he mention that he was working on a film?’

  Jabez’s mouth gave a cautious twitch. ‘I prayed he would not resume his caree
r.’

  ‘No. A documentary about his brother Corey. He says on a tape we found that you refused to cooperate with him.’

  The mouth twitched again and a muscle flexed under the cross-laden T-shirt. ‘That’s not so. I just couldn’t be of much help to him. He had called me… when he came back to town. That’s how we got to talking. He did ask me to tell him about the day Corey vanished.’

  ‘And you said what?’ Claudia asked.

  Jabez paled under the store-bought tan. ‘Well, I was one of the last to see Corey before he was reported missing. Pete asked me to restate what I remembered. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help to him.’ He stared out at the flat plane of the bay, stretching away like green glass.

  ‘You and Corey strike me as unlikely friends,’ Whit said.

  Jabez shrugged. ‘I wanted to help Corey. He was in trouble at school, at home, and sinking further. I thought I could help him reshape his life.’

  ‘So he was like a project,’ Whit said. ‘You could get your Samaritan merit badge by turning him around.’

  ‘That’s a crude way to put it, but yes. If I didn’t think God could turn around lives, I would never bother with a ministry.’

  ‘And Corey was willing to be preached at?’

  ‘You have an admirable ability for oversimplification, Whit,’ Jabez said. ‘It must serve you well in traffic court. No, he wasn’t willing to be preached at. But he was willing to have a friend he could talk to, who didn’t smoke dope, who didn’t want to drag him down. I was a refuge.’

  ‘You were a goody-goody. He was a punk. I’m frankly surprised Corey Hubble would give you the time of day,’ Whit said.

  ‘You just never know about people, do you?’ Jabez said.