I didn’t say anything.
“You wanna save her or just be with her again?”
I looked at her, my eyes narrowing in anger.
“If you could,” she said, “I mean when you can again—I know you’ll be able to—would you want it to be her?”
I didn’t want to think about any of that, didn’t want to dissect what was really wrong with me—what was physical and what was psychological.
I glanced down at my watch. “I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t be sore, soldier. Suppose I didn’t ask the difficult questions? What then? No one else in your life will.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’m . . . I know how it makes you feel, but I meant it as a . . . you really do seem like a . . . it just fits you, fella.”
I didn’t say anything.
“It wasn’t a crack. Don’t let it distract from the real issue.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I said. “Everything’ll be fine. After this, she’ll be out of my life for good.”
“Well,” she said, her voice filled with an underlying gravity, “sounds like you’re convinced.”
“It won’t be like before. Before . . . I carried a torch for her. I was a sap before. I can handle it now. Now, I’m nobody’s sap.”
Chapter 7
I was dreaming about her when she knocked on my door.
I was in my room in the Cove Hotel at Wilson Avenue and Cherry Street. It was a two-story Spanish-style hotel, surrounded by an Edenic landscaping of trees and flowers, with a dock and dive platform out into the bay. My room, which I could not have afforded otherwise, was part of my pay for being the house detective.
In the dream, we were lying in between sand dunes looking up at the stars, listening to the unseen waves of the Gulf caress the shore. Beneath us, the sand was cool, above us, the sky was dark and clear and dotted with stars, and around us, the beach was empty for miles.
Harry was at his weekly poker game, and we were whiling away the time as if we had it in such abundance we could never exhaust our endless supply.
Things were too good, too intense, and I needed her too much not to try to sabotage it all somehow.
“How long you think this’ll last?” I asked.
“Don’t,” she said. “Not tonight.”
“Every affair ends.”
“I’m not going to let you spoil this. It’s too perfect.”
“I’m not trying to spoil it. I just—”
“Listen, soldier,” she said. She called me Solider before I was wounded and everyone began assuming I was. “This is the big love for me. I’ll never love another man. Not ever. This won’t end for me—even if you end it. I’ll still love you the way I’ve never loved anyone in my whole entire life.”
“But—”
“Shut up,” she said, placing her hand over my mouth, “and make love to me again.”
The soft, incessant knock on the door brought me up out of the underworld, but as I stumbled toward the door, part of me remained submerged.
When I opened the door, Lauren rushed inside and closed it behind her.
In my groggy, half-conscious condition, I took her in my arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. At first she resisted, but then kissed me back, her body going limp into mine, my body responding to hers.
It wasn’t until she pulled away that I became fully aware of the waking world I was in now, and realized that I didn’t have two arms to wrap her up in and that my body couldn’t respond to hers.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”
My shirt was off, my right shoulder and upper arm exposed. She stared at it, then at the other gunshot wound scars on my upper body.
I felt as exposed and as ugly as I ever had, but before I could make a move to get a shirt on, she took what was left of my arm in her hands and gently kissed it with her full, soft lips.
As she did, I felt my body responding to hers again, and realized that maybe it hadn’t just been part of the dream. What was going on? How could I be . . .
The only time I had experienced anything like this before was last year while I was working a case for a woman who reminded me of Lauren. Like then, I wondered if this were some sort of phantom response, the way I could feel my right hand itching sometimes, or if I were experiencing the first faint flutterings of—what? Hope?
She looked down at the wrinkled mess of bed, at the books lining the spot where she used to lay after we made love, her moist body spent and emanating warmth.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s late. I shouldn’t have come, but someone’s following me again and I didn’t think you’d be here.”
I stepped over to the chair beside my bed and wrestled my t-shirt back on, the heat of embarrassment like the sting from a slap on my face, realizing she was seeing how difficult this simple act was for me.
“You thought I’d be following you?”
“No,” she said. “Maybe. I don’t know what I thought. I was scared and I didn’t know what else to do. I’m supposed to meet a man tonight to recover something of mine that was misplaced, but as I was leaving, I got the sense someone was following me.”
“Recover something you misplaced?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Who’re you tryin’ to kid, kid?”
“What?”
“You’re forgetting who you’re talking to,” I said. “Reshuffle and deal again.”
“You’re right,” she said. “The truth is, it was stolen and I’m paying to get it back.”
“That’s a little better, but not much. Go ahead, you can do it. Say the ugly little word.”
“What?”
“Try the whole truth. It won’t hurt as bad as you think.”
“I’m tired, Jimmy. And I’m scared. I’m sorry I busted in on you like this, but I don’t feel like fighting with you. I couldn’t keep up.”
“Who’s blackmailing you, Lauren?”
“I’m going now. I’m glad it’s not you who’s following me. I really am. I actually thought you might still hate me so much that—”
“I don’t blame you for what happened to me.”
“I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . . Why would you? How could I have—”
“It’s nothing. Doesn’t matter. Still loopy. Half asleep.”
“No,” she said. “I want to know. Have you forgotten I’m the injured party?”
“Interesting choice of words.”
She shook her head. “I’ve got to go.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait. You better let me tag along. Blackmailers really are the lowest sort.”
Chapter 8
Lauren was right. Someone was following her. And he was very good. I became aware of him when we walked out.
“Go back to my room and lock the door,” I whispered, then bolted after him.
He had been standing in a dark corner of the yard where the hedge met a group of palms, but by the time I reached it, he was gone.
I ran along the lit path around the hotel, guessing at the direction he was most likely to go but stopped when I heard a car starting from beyond the tall, thick hedge row. I dove through the bushes, coming out the other side as he was racing away, and got a quick look at him before he disappeared into the night.
I was surprised at what I saw.
The man following Lauren wasn’t a man at all, but a boy—at least he looked like one.
I retrieved Lauren, and we drove out to Panama City Beach toward the Barn Dance, a popular country and western dance hall, with our lights on low—a requirement during the war years.
I didn’t ask her how she had enough fuel for the trip with the gas rations going on. There were only a few ways and I didn’t want to hear about any of them—not about her husband’s money or position, the way the rules for the rest of us didn’t apply to them. Or worse, that she traded on her own assets in order to keep it from him. I really couldn’t stomach a remark about her r
esourcefulness.
I looked over at her. “There is somebody following you.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Well, you were right.”
She turned in her seat and looked out the back window.
“Is he behind us now?”
I shook my head.
“He was outside the Cove.”
“Thanks for coming,” she said.
“Thanks for asking me,” I said with a smile.
She laughed.
We were quiet a moment.
“I’ve missed you,” she said.
I felt those same stirrings I had in my room.
“You realize what a mistake it was to leave me yet?” I asked.
She didn’t say anything.
“I’m still not clear on why you did,” I said.
She still didn’t respond, and I regretted saying anything.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “We knew it would end eventually. I’m just sore I wasn’t the one who got to fade first.”
Built by local entertainer, Neal McCormick, a radio performer who on occasion sang with Hank Williams, the Barn Dance was a wooden structure on Panama City Beach that resembled its name. It had regular Thursday and Saturday night dances and a separate restaurant and lounge that served food and drink.
When we pulled up in front of the vacant structure, my headlights illuminated the wagon wheels hanging on its wall and the painted sign that read: Barn Dance. Beneath it a smaller sign read: Cold Beer - Whiskey - Wine.
I fumbled in my coat for my small revolver.
“Who’s blackmailing you and why?” I asked.
“Jimmy, I told you—”
“I need to know who we’re dealing with. How dangerous they are.”
“I’m supposed to go around back,” she said, grabbing an envelope out of her purse and opening her door. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
“Sure, darling, I don’t mind. I’m just the driver.”
I cut the engine and got out, slipping my hand and the gun into the left pocket of my overcoat.
“I told you to—” she began.
“You’ve told me lots of things,” I said. “And some of them actually turned out to be true, but Mrs. Riley didn’t raise her sons to abandon ladies in desperate circumstances, no matter the kind of lady.”
“Gee, but you’ve got a swell opinion of me,” she said.
“Who you think gave me that?”
“If you only knew . . .”
“Only knew what?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
“I’ll never be able to convince you, but I’m not the monster you think I am.”
I thought about what she had said, but didn’t respond.
We walked around the side of the wide wooden structure to the moonlit beach beyond, the sounds of the incoming tide and the shifting wind all I could hear.
It was dark and desolate, nothing but sand dunes and sea for as far as I could see.
“He a cop?”
I turned to see a kid stepping out from behind the opposite side of the barn, my eyes widening as I realized he was the same kid I’d just chased at the Cove. He was thin and boyish, and couldn’t have stood more than about five and a half feet. He had wavy blond hair, pale, pubescent skin, and looked about fifteen, though he was probably nineteen or twenty. He held a large envelope in his small hand.
“He’s not a cop,” Lauren said.
His voice trembled a bit and his small body shook, but he seemed to relax a little when he saw I was missing an arm.
“What’s he doing here?” he said.
“What were you doing outside the Cove half an hour ago?” I asked.
Lauren looked over at me, then back to him.
“You following me, Freddy?” she asked.
“Just to make sure you’re okay.”
“Then why’d you run?” I asked.
“’Cause someone was chasing me, mister,” he said.
“Cute.”
“I ain’t no tough guy.”
“Glad you cleared that up,” I said. “Here I was thinkin’ you were.”
“Who is this guy, Mrs. Lewis?”
“He gave me a ride,” she said. “That’s all.”
“And I wasn’t the first or the last to do so, but I think I’m the one got taken for a ride.”
“I meant out here. He drove me out here.”
“Makes me a chauffeur,” I said.
“Okay, Mrs. Lewis, I trust you,” he said, “but don’t make me sorry for doin’ a good turn.”
“I won’t,” she said. “You won’t be. I promise.”
He held up the envelope and began to move toward us. “Here’s your—”
“I’ve got something for you, too,” she said.
She took a few steps toward him. I stayed where I was, my hand still on the gun in my pocket. As they neared each other, I looked around the dark beach. There didn’t seem to be anyone else around for miles.
“I told you I didn’t want anything,” he said. “What Rainer’s doing to you is . . . I couldn’t stand by and let him—”
“I know Freddy. You’re okay. But this way you won’t have to work for him anymore.”
He handed her the envelope he was holding, but didn’t take the one she was offering.
“Please,” she said, extending it toward him even more. “For me.”
“Okay, Mrs. Lewis,” he said, taking the envelope on offer. “You know I’d do anything for you.”
“Forget it kid,” I said, though he was probably less than ten years younger than us. “She’s way too big for you.”
Lauren turned toward me, and even in the dimness I could see the anger in her eyes.
“Mrs. Riley teach her sons to make cracks like that in front of ladies?” she said.
As she did, Freddy took off, running back behind the side of the building he had emerged from.
I started after him, but she grabbed my arm.
“Take me home,” she said.
I knew I should follow the kid. Maybe if I had, I could’ve kept him from getting himself killed—or at least seen who did so I could say so when I was accused, but as usual I did what Lauren wanted. I always did what Lauren wanted. Well, almost always. There was one exception. I never left her alone. Not for long anyway.
“Sure, Mrs. Lewis,” I said, “you know I’d do anything for you.”
Chapter 9
I was eating breakfast alone in the Lighthouse Café when the two cops walked in.
Standing at the entrance, they scanned the tables until they saw me, then walked over.
“Hi-de-ho, Jimmy,” Pete Mitchell said.
Pete had been my last partner. He was a little younger than me with the clean-cut look of a cop and big bright eyes that appeared to have seen far less than I knew they actually had.
Both men wore black viscose suits, which had shrunk and looked uncomfortable. Viscose, which was made from wood pulp, was used when everything else was seized, limited, rationed, and restricted by the government, and, like rayon, which was also used a lot, was bad about shrinking. As if part of their uniform, they both had gray fedoras with black bands that looked nearly identical.
“Hi ya, Pete,” I said.
He was trailed by an older man with a bit of the brawler about him—dark complexion, stubble, some scar tissue around his eyes, and a nose that had been broken more than once.
“This is my new partner, Butch Rowland,” Pete said. “He just transferred up from Miami.”
I nodded to Butch. He nodded to me. Neither of us said anything.
“Mind if we join you?” Pete asked, though Butch was already straddling a chair.
I swept my hand toward the table in a be-my-guest gesture.
Pete sat down, joining Butch.
“Don’t have to ask what your new partner’s up to,” Pete said. “See the paper this morning?”
I nodded.
Ray was the key witness in th
e Hathaway case. Mrs. Hathaway wanted a divorce and had hired Ray to follow her oft straying husband. Mr. Hathaway hadn’t wanted a divorce—at least not from Mrs. Hathaway’s money, so he killed her.
Butch looked around the room, taking in the small café.
Located on the lower end of Harrison, the Lighthouse looked like a large milk bottle. It was early morning, and the place was hopping. Patrons, men mostly, crowded in around the tables, their coats and hats on the rack by the door. Over half the people in the joint had on uniforms, and everyone seemed to have an appetite.
I was nearly finished with breakfast—a wrecked Adam and Eve on a raft—so I ate the last corner of a piece of toast and pushed the plate away.
“Workin’ anything interesting?” I asked Pete.
“And how. Caught a homicide this morning.”
Almost involuntarily my eyebrows shot up. Even with all the changes the war was bringing to Panama City, there were still relatively few violations of the sixth commandment.
“I wish I had you on it,” he said.
“Then we wouldn’t have to ask you where you was last night,” Butch said.
“Me?” I asked.
“I know it’s screwy pal,” Pete said, “but—”
“Who got rubbed out?”
“Us guys with the guns and badges ask the questions,” Butch said.
“Butch,” Pete said. “I told you. Jimmy’s okay. Hell, he’s a hero. He was one of us a year ago.”
But not anymore, I thought. Was one of us meant I wasn’t any longer. In his attempt to vouch for me, Pete had let me know how things stood. There was cops and there was everybody else, and I was just like everybody else now.
“Then he understands what we gotta do,” Butch said. “How things gotta be.”
“I was in my room,” I said.
At nearby tables, people were still talking about how the Japs had recently executed one hundred American prisoners of war on Wake Island. They were gonna pay for what they done to “our boys,” too, by God. Things would get squared all around.
“Who was killed?”
“Alone?” Butch asked.
“Most of the time,” I said.
Might as well give myself a little maneuvering room. I might need it.
I looked at Pete, my eyes narrowed and intense. “Who was killed?”
MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH Page 54