I began to float, and I grew warm. Even comfy. I sank deeper into my cot. It felt like a feather bed. Or more accurately, a bed of feathers, completely cushioned and completely conforming to my body. No matter which way I turned or settled I was equally, infinitely comfortable. I felt my eyelids closing, drooping really, to slits against the now brightseeming light.
"You are feeling good, now?" asked Jacquie. I nodded agreeably.
I smelled her perfume again. Her nails gently started a corner of the tape away from my mouth and snicked it, carefully and painlessly, all the way off. I didn't look up, but I bet she was smiling.
"Do you have any questions for us first?" she said sweetly into my ear.
They were going to let me ask questions. That was very considerate.
"Yes," I said honestly. "What kind of perfume are you wearing?"
They both laughed. Her laugh was closer and rose above his, like the clinking of fine crystal glasses over dinner conversation. I hadn't heard female Vietnamese laughter in a long time.
I felt marvelous. I was pleasing them.
"You are wonderful man," she said, stroking my eyelids and brow with the tips of her nails. It gave me goosebumps. "Now, what did Lieutenant Sachs tell you when you talk with him?"
I reported my conversation with Al as carefully as I could. I wasn't getting it quite right, and I apologized to her.
"That's O.K.," she said, soothingly, "that's 0.K. Keep telling me."
I finished with Al. I told them all about the visit to the morgue, and I started to cry. She dried my tears with a handkerchief and gave me a little kiss on the cheek. Right away, I felt much better.
She asked me what I told the police. I filled them in on my talks with Murphy and my return visit to Al's hotel. I tried to tell them the names of the clerks, but I couldn't remember and she said that was O.K., they didn't need them. I started to tell them about the Coopers and started to cry again, but she used her hankie and brushed her lips over mine and said to forget about the Coopers, so I did.
We never reached Nancy Meagher or Marco or any of that. She asked about Al's family, and I told them all about my visit to Pittsburgh, Martha and Al Junior, and Kenny and Dale and Larry and Carol. Then she asked me what I told them about Al's death. I related the concerns in my talk with Carol and my promise to Martha to get the insurance payment. Jacquie praised me for my efforts on my friend's behalf. She emphasized how much loyalty like mine meant to her. She slid her hand inside my shirt again. It gave me bigger goosebumps.
"You talk with Colonel Kivens, too?"
"Oh, yes," I said.
"Tell me."
I told her.
"How you make the list?"
"The list?"
"The names. On the list in your pocket. How you choose the names?"
"Oh," I said, "from the records that J.T. gave me. Excuse me, that he let me look at. The records from Vietnam, when Al was there. The list are people he knew, or arrested, or whatever. He . . ." I stopped for a minute. Thinking.
"Go on."
I was silent.
"Why you stop?"
A photograph materialized in my mind's eye. "I just remembered. That's where I saw your husband. That's why he looked so familiar. He was in one of the photographs. Smiling."
She seemed to turn away for a moment, then came back to me. "Oh," she said, nuzzling her face against my cheek. "That very good. Very good. You make me very happy now." She kissed my eyelid, licked my ear lobe with the tip of her tongue.
I was happy that she was happy. I was gloriously happy—
"Where is the list?" I asked.
"Don't worry about list," she said. "List gone."
I stopped worrying about the list. About everything.
"Did you call anyone about list?" she said.
"Call? No, no, I didn't."
Ricker said something. She hushed him.
She asked, "Did you tell anyone about list?"
"No one. No one but you."
"Ahh," she moaned into my ear. "That is perfec'. Just right."
Her nails pinched my right nipple, hard but exquisitely pleasurably. Her fingers trembled a little. She withdrew her hand and left my side.
I heard some noise but nobody talked with me anymore. I fell asleep.
EIGHTEEN
-•-
MY EYES OPENED. I WAS SHIVERING, MY TEETH CHATTERING inside the tape over my mouth. I clamped down on my jaws, but that just made my whole head shake, and it hurt enough as it was. My mouth was desert dry, like from a wine hangover. It was dark in the basement. Whether still dark or again dark, I didn't know.
I tried to shift around and remembered too late the motion sensor Jacquie had mentioned in her first visit. I heard her heels above me and then the cellar door. My mouth grew drier, but not from anticipation. The lights came on, and she came down the stairs. She walked up behind me.
I looked up at her. Her face was upside down and a bit haggard. Her right hand held the knife. No leather sap or other non-lethal weapon this time. A bad sign.
"You alla time so . . . active?" she said softly.
I shook my head.
"My husband go to call man in Boston. Not Curly, different noncom. Ricker no want phone bill to fuck up old Curl." She stroked my brow with her empty hand. "We all alone now."
The only noise I could hear was the faint scratching her nails made on my eyebrows.
"If I take off tape, you promise no yell, no scream?"
I nodded.
She peeled off the tape, gently. She ran her index fingernail around the outline of my lips. I kissed it. She moved it down to my chin.
"Ugh, you need shave."
"The price one pays for virility."
She giggled, but while she got it, I'm not sure she could have explained it.
"You have nice voice," she said. "I like talking with you."
"You made me feel very good with the drug," I said. "And with your fingers, and lips, and tongue."
She licked her lips, giving me just a peek at the tongue.
"Too bad I meet Ricker an' not you in Saigon," she said.
She positioned the knife, cutting edge up, just under my chin. Then she leaned over and kissed me, upside down, tongue thrust hard and often into my mouth. I'd never kissed a woman upside down before, but I did my best to respond.
"Mmmm," she said as she broke off the kiss. "Very nice." She pulled back the knife. Break off kiss, then withdraw knife.
She put the knife down next to my head and reaffixed the tape, testing it thoroughly. Careful woman.
"Yes, very nice. But I must wait for Ricker to get back. He want to watch."
She clacked away and started up the stairs. "You MP, like Ricker. He say he let me be 'double vet'ran' tonight. You know what that mean." She laughed, like glass breaking this time.
A double veteran was in-country slang for a GI who, after having sex with a woman, killed her. She turned off the lights. I could still hear her laughing through the closed door.
* * *
Jacquie was watching something on television. Not enough music (and too much noise with the muffled voices) for radio. I was still shivering, wishing I'd hit her up for a blanket on her last trip. Fat chance. I pushed the cold out of my mind and concentrated on Ricker. He, old Curl, and God knows how many other noncoms were members of a "club." Given the "fraternal customs" I'd seen, the club probably centered around contraband. Black market in Vietnam and elsewhere overseas, maybe drugs on-post here in the States. Far-flung, but tightly knit, with a high gross revenue since noncoms functionally ran almost every operation of any outfit I ever knew. Disciplined, savvy, competent. An impressive international organization, in whose Washington offices I was presently cooling my heels.
I was just about out of options. My bonds were no looser than when I had arrived. Even if I could get loose, my hands and feet were so numb it would be a while before I could move around or act effectively. My body ached, but probably more from the mugging and
my present accommodations than from Ricker's spray can and needle. I couldn't see any way out. I couldn't see even a way to leave J.T. a message. Mindful of the sensor, I arched my back as slowly as I could and rolled up onto my wrestler's neck bridge. I didn't hear Jacquie getting up to check on me. I scanned as much of the room as I could see in the shadow light. Nothing new. No cutting edge, no communications device.
My gaze refocused on my hands. My right hand. My pinkie.
I remembered Jimmy Cagney and A1's little finger. I fought back a cold rush with reason. J .T. knew nothing of the special meaning of 13 Rue Madeleine. Also, since Ricker used Curl to make it appear that I had left D.C., I couldn't imagine my body turning up in the foreseeable future.
I took a few deep breaths. I spoke inside with Beth, getting some advice. I said some prayers. I waited awhile, then said some more.
I saw the headlights' reflection and heard the gravel crunch and car door sounds again. Ricker's truck was the only vehicle sound I could remember hearing. He had said it was a deserted neighborhood this time of year, yet both of them seemed real careful about making noise. Knife over gun, taped mouth, promises and all. I had pretty well figured that Jacquie would remove the tape during her first efforts. I decided my last act (I couldn't quite characterize it as a hope) would be the best hollers for help I had left. I heard their combined footsteps above. The door opened, and they descended the stairs, Ricker in the lead.
"Well, now," he said as he pulled up the chair, "I understand my bride here has sort of given away the rest of tonight's program." He smiled and raised his eyebrows.
I just stared at him.
He frowned. "Oh, come on, now, Lootenant, be a sport, huh? You realize how many guys go out a lot less happy than that? You forget how many grunts got killed on perimeter guard, floggin' their dogs when they should have been lookin' front?" Ricker spat on the floor. "Not to mention the insult you imply toward my wife's attraction level."
I looked up at Jacquie. She was a little unsteady. Drinks or drugs. A little slip by the careful lady? "Anyway, there's nothin' you can do about it. I just talked to old Curl. He got into Boston and took a cab to your place. He used the keys you had to open your apartment—he said you don't have near enough security devices on your premises, by the by. He dropped off your suitcase and unpacked your stuff. He said he didn't have to mess up your covers none. Says you live like a slob. He opened your mail and put it on your desk." Ricker chuckled. "He even ripped up your junkmail and tossed it in the wastebasket. That Curl, he's a caution. I told ya, he don't miss a trick."
Ricker pulled a .38-caliber revolver from behind his back. He dug into his jacket pocket and took out a silencer. He screwed the three-inch muffler into place, then leveled the weapon at me.
"Take off the tape, honey."
She moved behind me, her hips rippling under the jeans. She peeled back the tape a little less gently and steadily than before. I puckered and bit on my lips to work the sting away.
"Well," prompted Ricker.
I just stared at him.
He arched an eyebrow. "Y'all gonna talk or what?"
I eyed Jacquie. "Maybe I'm just saving my tongue for your bride."
Jacquie stiffened a bit, as though only her husband could talk about her that way. Ricker just laughed, a low, throaty laugh.
"Lootenant, you're a better sport than I thought. You're tryin' to make me mad, so's I'll do something stupid." He shook his head, still smiling. "Good tactics, but what with you all trussed up like that, kinda bad strategy."
I smiled back. "Did old Curl happen to mention whether he played back my tape?"
"Tape?" said Ricker and immediately cursed, then laughed again. "You'da made a good boxer there, Lootenant. You had me alookin' at your right hand, and then caught me with your left." He made a tsk-tsk sound, then said, "Nope, old Curl never did mention any tape, and I shouldn't have let you know that, should I? Well," he paused for effect as he cocked the revolver and aimed it more specifically at my face, "maybe you'd best tell me about that tape."
I looked at the gun, then back up at him. "I think I'd prefer the truth serum."
"Five seconds," said Ricker, not smiling.
I waited three. "I have a tape machine attached to my telephone. It records all my messages. I've been gone since Thursday, the twenty-fifth. If your boy went through my mail but not my messages, it's going to be obvious to the police that I never got home." Ricker closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. "It was late when you got in, too late to call anybody back."
I shook my head, slowly. "First, some of the people trying to reach me are clients who would want to be called back at any time. Second, some of the other people trying to reach me are, ah, romantic interests who I would want to call back at any time. Lastly, the machine shows a little red light when a call has been received. It goes out only when the tape is played back. When the cops eventually get to my place, they'll see that red light, play back those old messages, and realize somebody tried to fake my return."
Ricker closed his eyes a little longer this time. "Darn." He snorted and slowly stood up. "Well, I guess old Curl will have to do a little more visitin' in Boston. Damned gadgetry."
Ricker looked down into my face. "If there's no machine attached to that telephone of yours, you'll wish old Alexander G. Bell had never been born."
He turned to Jacquie. "Honey, I'm gonna have to catch Curl in his hotel before he gets too drunk to walk. I'm gonna . . ."
Ricker noticed Jacquie was staring down at me, her breathing shallow and rapid. I didn't think she was paying attention to him, and he didn't either. He slapped her. A snappy, short whack like a carpenter driving a nail.
She nearly tumbled off her heels. Her hand went up to her face. She rubbed her cheek with her knuckles. He now had her attention.
"Like I said, honey, I have to risk callin' Curl from here to catch him." He stuffed the revolver in her other hand. "You keep a close eye on this trophy, now, you hear?"
She nodded, her eyes downcast, and said, "Yessir."
Ricker leaned over, pecked her on the cheek. He then scampered, no easy effort for a man his size, up the stairs.
She turned to me and licked her lips. There was a rosy blush where he'd hit her. She began to rub the barrel of the silencer slowly up and down one thigh, then the other. She licked her lips again and stared at me. Her eyes were glassy.
"How about a kiss," I said.
She assumed her behind-my-head position. She leaned over and put the business end of the gun in my right ear. Then she smothered me with a wet, tongue driven kiss, moaning throatily. Her breath tasted sweet, like marijuana, but given hours of semiconsciousness, my palate wasn't exactly good litmus paper.
She came up for air. "You know," I said softly, "you could kill him and we could go away together."
She favored me with another kiss, still sloppy but shorter. She broke it. "No, my father promise me to Ricker. Beside," she said, straightening up as we both heard Ricker's footfalls upstairs, "I don't think you let me be double vet'ran like Ricker."
Her husband stomped down the steps. He was seething.
"That fuckin' drunk ain't in his room! Or he ain't answering his phone. And that fleabag he's staying in won't check on him."
"Which one is it?" I said. "Maybe I have some pull with the manager."
Ricker laughed, louder and longer than before.
"My lord, Lootenant, you do have a set of balls. You surely do."
He took the revolver back from Jacquie. "The hell with the machine. If you even got one. The more times Curl goes to your place, the more likely he is to get spotted. Besides, even if he got the machine squared away, he still couldn't very well call your clients and friends and pretend he was you. No, I guess we'll just have to risk it."
He took his seat and nodded to Jacquie. "You be good to my little bride, now, you hear?"
His wife shook off her parka and swayed over to me. She was trembling, but not, I thought, from the
cold. I had stopped shivering and started sweating. Profusely.
Jacquie began undoing the last three buttons on my shirt. "I'd like to take a leak first," I said.
"No," said Ricker.
"Shower and shave then?"
"No!"
"At least a little mouthwash."
"No, Goddamn it," said Ricker, his free hand awkward on his zipper. "Damnation, I never did see a man try so hard not to get laid."
Jacquie finished with the buttons and pushed my shirt tails under my back and behind my neck. She was humming and singing to herself in Vietnamese.
"Jacquie do a lot of this in Vietnam, Ricker?"
He had his own member in his hand, playing with it.
"Yeah," said Ricker. "Lots of guys. Lepers, mostly."
So much for even trying to get him mad.
Jacquie slid my briefs down to my ankles. She backed off half a step. She undid her designer jeans and shoe-horned her hands down between the pants and the rump. She worked her legs and hips alternately up and down until she'd shimmied her way out of them. She kicked off her heels and stepped out of the pants. Her legs were chunkier than the jeans and heels had suggested. There was a six-inch scar on her right thigh.
She smiled at me and reached down to tug up her sweater.
"Put your heels back on first, babe," said Ricker, a crack in his voice.
Jacquie complied. Her legs looked better again, dancerlike.
She pulled her cowl sweater slowly over her head. Her bra and panties were black and lacy. The panties were crotchless.
"You like?" she said to Ricker.
"Perfect," he said.
She turned to me, smiling and licking her lips. Her smile faded, her face darkened.
I had no erection for her. I had been picturing Beth, in her hospital bed and connected to a dozen tubes alternating life and death for her.
"Ricker, he not ready," she said.
"Make him ready, babe."
"Ricker . . ."
"Make him," he said sharply.
She slipped off her bra. Then she daintily plucked at the little bow that held her panties together. Her hand lingered down there a bit longer than necessary.
The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy Page 16