“So he’s a little unpredictable,” I said.
“A little. Christ, it got so I was afraid to open my mouth, I never knew how he was going to react. Look, maybe he had his wife killed, maybe not, I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past him, though. And if he hired someone to kill her, he can hire someone to kill me.”
I silently watched her smoke her cigarette. As she removed the cigarette from between her sticky orange lips, she opened her mouth, almost releasing the ball of smoke, but with a quick intake of air, it was drawn deep into her lungs. I thought about what to say next, then said it.
“Ryan came to see me.”
She sat up straight. “Christ,” she said.
“A couple of times,” I added. “The day after we met in the hotel and again yesterday.” I thought I detected a slight tremor as she raised the cigarette to her mouth and took a hard drag. “He offered me money to help him get you back.”
“And are you?”
“No.”
“Why did you talk to Ginny and Chris and Frank then?”
I shook my head. “I’m beginning to wonder myself.”
She crushed her cigarette out in the coaster. “Poor Tommy,” she said, under control once again. She reached across the coffee table and patted me gently on the cheek. “I’m surprised your house isn’t full of stray dogs and cats.”
Her touch simultaneously heated me and chilled me. I jerked to my feet like a puppet whose strings had been yanked too abruptly.
“How about offering a lady a drink?” she said.
“I would if there were a lady present.”
“Very funny.”
“You still like tequila?” I asked.
“That’s like asking me if I still like fucking,” she said with a wicked smile.
“I’ll take that for a yes,” I said.
I got a lemon from the fridge and occupied myself with slicing it into wedges. I don’t need this, I told myself. My life was complicated enough. Strangely, though, and perhaps stupidly, I wasn’t afraid, although I should have been. If Ryan had had his wife killed and if he truly was trying to kill Carla, I should have been scared stiff. I was stiff, all right, but it wasn’t with fear. What I was, was almost beside myself with desire for Carla.
I put the dish of lemon wedges, a shaker of salt, half a bottle of tequila, and a couple of heavy shot glasses on a tray and carried it to the coffee table. I put it down and sat opposite her. Carla twisted the top off the bottle and filled the shot glasses. Without a word, we performed the ritual of salt, tequila, lemon.
“How is Ginny?” she asked as she filled the glasses.
“She’s fine,” I said. “She wanted me to ask you to call her. If I saw you.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I will.”
“You’ve taken care of your business then?” I said.
She shook her head. “No, not quite. Soon.” She rubbed a lemon wedge on the web of flesh between her thumb and forefinger and sprinkled salt. She licked the salt from her hand, downed a shot of tequila, and chewed the lemon wedge. “Have you got a girlfriend?” she asked.
“No,” I said, reaching for the salt shaker. I tossed the tequila back. It went off like a slow, soft explosion in my gut. I bit down on the lemon, the hinges of my jaw aching from the tartness. I tore the pulp from the rind, chewed, and swallowed. “I can’t afford the insurance rates,” I said.
“You think I took something from Ryan, don’t you, that’s why he’s after me?” She poured more tequila.
“Your track record makes it hard to think otherwise,” I said. “You’re a thief and a liar and god knows what else.” I remembered what Hastings had told me about her past. I discovered that it didn’t matter.
“But you still love me, don’t you?” she said, smiling but perhaps only half joking.
“No, I don’t still love you.”
“You’ll help me, though, won’t you?”
“That depends on what you want.”
“All I need is a bed for the night,” she said. “And a small favour.”
“Haven’t we been through this before? I do you favours, you rip me off. Not exactly a good deal for me.”
“You were willing to help me the other day.”
“That was before I knew your boyfriend was a murder suspect,” I said.
“Yeah, well, what can I tell you?”
“Your pal Frank,” I said. “He seems like the type to do people favours if the price is right.”
“That’s the problem,” she said. “The price.”
“Do you know a man with the two middle fingers of his right hand missing?” I asked.
“Uh? No,” she replied, finding her cigarette pack and taking out another cigarette. “Why?”
“It isn’t important.” The thought came unbidden and made my blood run cold despite the flames fed by the tequila. “You didn’t have anything to do with Ryan’s wife’s death, did you?”
She didn’t have to answer. The look on her face was enough. A mixture of shock and horror and disbelief. And something else. Disappointment. It was ironic, I thought, that she should be disappointed in me.
I felt I should apologize, but didn’t.
She poured more tequila into the glasses, carefully filling them to the brim, then capped the bottle and looked at me. Her indigo eyes were unreadable.
“You’re right, Tommy,” she said. “I am a thief and a liar and god knows what else. It sort of came with the territory. Maybe someday I’ll tell you all about it, the long sad story of the life of Carla Bergman, whoever the hell she is. But not tonight. I’m absolutely beat.
“I’ll tell you this, though. I’ve done things I’m not proud of, but cold-blooded murder isn’t one of them. I met her once, when I first started working for Vince. Things had already started to go bad between them, but you could see that it was painful for her. She was nice, sweet and sort of innocent. She reminded me a little of – ” She paused, shook her head, then went on. “If the son of a bitch had her killed, he’s crazier than I think he is. But I didn’t have anything to do with it, you have to believe me.” A tear spilled from the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek.
“How did you do that?” I asked.
“I must have got some cigarette smoke in my eye,” she said, wiping her cheek with the knuckles of her left hand. With her right hand she reached out and touched the rim of one of the shot glasses with a fingertip, breaking the surface tension of the tequila. The liquor flowed over the rim of the glass onto the table.
“You can stay the night,” I said, reaching for the salt.
Chapter 24
“Noooo,” cried a voice in my head.
“Yessss,” crowed another.
My left brain, wherein supposedly dwelled whatever logic and reason I possessed, was arguing with the more self-indulgent right half of my brain. Or perhaps it was a mammalian forebrain versus reptilian hind-brain thing. Whatever, I was seriously conflicted. I felt like that cartoon character from my childhood, a pious little angel droning “good” advice into his right ear and an impish little red devil whispering “bad” advice into the other. Or maybe it was just glandular overload.
“If there is even the remotest possibility of getting fucked,” my ex-wife had once told me, “men will forget whatever good sense they possess, which isn’t a whole lot to begin with, and listen only to the roar of testosterone.”
I tossed back the tequila.
“That’s nice of you, Tommy,” Carla said. “But then, you always were a nice guy, weren’t you? Tommy McCall, the last of the nice guys.”
“That’s me,” I said, dropping a chewed strip of lemon peel onto the dish. The tequila made my head buzz gently and my arms and legs feel loose. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, but I knew it could lead me into bad trouble if I wasn’t careful, which I tended not to be when I mixed alcohol and hormones. “I think I need assertiveness training,” I added.
“What?”
“Never mind.” I stood up, a little s
urprised I didn’t stagger. “You can sleep on the sofa,” I said.
“Are you sure you want me to stay?” Carla asked.
“Hell, yes, I’m sure,” I said. “I don’t want you to stay.”
When she’d puzzled that out she said, “If you don’t want me to stay, why offer?”
“Fucked if I know,” I replied.
“Ah,” she said, nodding.
“Indeed,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
I went upstairs, got some bedding from the linen closet, and went back downstairs. Carla was sprawled languidly on the sofa. She’d taken her boots and socks off and refilled the shot glasses.
“No more for me, thanks,” I said, dropping the bedding onto the end of the sofa at her feet.
“Oh, c’mon, Tommy. One more for old time’s sake.”
“One more and you’ll have to put me to bed,” I said, immediately regretting my choice of words.
“Getting you into bed was never much of a problem,” she replied with a smile that made me think of Beatrix. Lifting a long leg, she rubbed her bare foot against my thigh. I moved away and she pouted. “I guess I was wrong,” she said. “I thought you were glad to see me, but that must be a salami in your pocket after all.”
I grinned despite my discomfort. “I won’t deny you still have an effect on me,” I said. I lowered myself into the easy chair facing the sofa across the coffee table.
She pointed a painted toe at the tequila. “C’mon, drink up.” She kicked the bedding onto the floor. “And don’t sit way over there. It’s not friendly.”
“No, but it’s safer,” I said.
“What’s to be afraid of?”
“You. Me.”
“Me?”
“Don’t be coy,” I said.
She stood up, stepped over the coffee table, and dropped into my lap. Her mouth fastened on mine, lips soft and hot, and her tongue probed between my teeth. I heard a low moaning, but didn’t know whether it was her or me. Putting my hands on her shoulders, I pushed gently, trying to detach her, but her arms went around my neck and she held on.
“Goddamnit, Carla,” I said against her mouth. Her tongue darted between my teeth.
I bit down, not too hard, though, not wanting to hurt, but she only probed deeper. She tasted of citrus, tequila and tobacco. I reached behind my head, grasped her wrists and unwound her arms. She whimpered petulantly against my mouth, sucking greedily at my lower lip, trying to hang on. She twisted her wrists and broke my grip. I placed my hands against her chest and pushed her away. Pain flared as she bit my lip.
“Shit, Carla,” I said, wiping the blood from my mouth.
She stood up.
“Serves you right,” she said. She unsnapped her jeans, slid out of them, and stood in front of me in pale pink bikini panties. It was obvious she wasn’t a natural blonde.
I ignored the need to squirm and pull at the crotch of my jeans to ease my discomfort. What if Hilly came downstairs? The noise wouldn’t waken her — she took her hearing aids out at night – but Beatrix, the Hearing Ear Ferret, was on the job.
“Will you please go sit down,” I said.
She picked up her jeans, returned to the sofa, and sat down. Her stomach was hard and flat and beneath the thin fabric of her T-shirt her breasts were high and firm, dark nipples erect and standing out sharply. I looked away, but the image seemed burned into my retinas. Despite the blood in my mouth, I could still taste her and my hands ached to touch her.
“There wouldn’t be any strings,” she said.
“Yes, there would,” I said.
“Have it your way,” she said. “There won’t be another offer.”
“Fine,” I said.
She picked up a lemon wedge, rubbed it against her hand, and applied salt. Raising the glass in a toast, she sucked the salt off her hand, downed the tequila and threw the shot glass at my head. It glanced off my right cheekbone.
“Son of a bitch,” I said, pressing my fingertips against the bruised spot just below my eye. “Why the hell did you do that?”
“Just to get your attention,” she said.
“Christ, you could’ve put out my eye.”
“Oh, stop whining, for god’s sake.”
I picked up the glass and put it on the tray, picked up the tray and took it to the bar. Turning to her, I said, “I should throw your ass out of here.”
“But you won’t, will you?” she said, a challenge in her voice and in her eyes.
“No,” I said. “I said you could stay the night and you can. But that’s it. You’re out of here in the morning. And don’t even think about trying to rip anything off. Do and the first thing I’ll do is call the police.”
“And the second thing?”
“I’ll call Ryan.” I tightened the cap of the tequila bottle and put it on the shelf, then picked up the tray. “You know where the light switches are,” I said as I took the tray into the kitchen.
I dreamed about her. At least I think it was her, but it could have been Francine. Or my ex-wife for that matter. It was one of those sweaty, hormone-induced dreams that brought me to the edge of orgasm before waking me, achingly stiff and unable to get back to sleep. On my back, staring into the darkness, waiting for sleep, I listened to the sounds of the night, the gentle creaking of the house as it moved with the tide, the lap of water outside my window, the distant whine of traffic, land and water, a dog barking somewhere, an angry drunken shout, sirens, and what sounded like a far-off gunshot, probably a backfire. Sleep came eventually, but some time around three I was awakened by the sound of someone coming into my bedroom.
I felt her weight on the bed as she slipped under the covers. She was naked and heated, her flesh hot against me. I was instantly rigid and churning with desire. Alarms went off in my head, but the clangour was lost in the thunder of raging hunger. Her hands, cooler than the rest of her, sought me, stroked me. My breath caught as the tight ring of latex encircled me.
“I really did love you, you know,” I said.
“That was stupid,” she said as she straddled me, placed me inside her.
“Don’t I know it.”
Chapter 25
I didn’t remember falling asleep, but I didn’t wake up until it was morning. I could still taste her on my lips, smell her in the sheets, so it hadn’t been another dream after all. I got up, showered, shaved, dressed and went downstairs. The bedding was neatly folded on the sofa. Hilly was in the kitchen eating Cheerios. There was a yellow Post-it note on the refrigerator. It read, “Thanks,” and was signed with a big scrawled C partly encircling a happy face eyes and grinning mouth.
At least she hadn’t taken the stereo.
* * * * *
July 1, Canada Day, almost everyone has the day off and, because they’ve got nothing better to do, they all come to Granville Island. They clog the streets and lanes and boardwalks with their cars and bicycles and skateboards and baby carriages. They fill False Creek with their Zodiacs and Boston Whalers and converted logging tugs. They fight over parking spaces and moorings and restaurant seating. The residents of Sea Village pray for rain. If it weren’t illegal, we’d probably sacrifice a few small animals. Who’d miss a couple of pigeons, a squirrel or two, Mr. Oliphant’s Yorkshire terrier?
Hilly took off early to spend the day with Courtney and the gang from the community centre. I spent the morning puttering around, periodically drifting off into a muzzy trance, wondering if I’d finally seen the last of Carla. Part of me hoped I had. A little voice in the back of my mind, however, when it wasn’t telling me I was a complete idiot, which I already knew, told me I probably hadn’t.
Restless, I went to the studio and tried to do some work. We had a three day shoot in Whistler the following week and there was a lot to do to get ready. I discovered, however, that Bobbi had done most of it already. By four I was back home. The message light on my answering machine was blinking. Blink-blink. Pause. Blink-blink. Pause. Two messages.
“McCall,” Francine�
�s husky voice said. “My group cancelled out on me so I’ll be around this weekend after all. Give me a call if you want.” She rattled off a number.
The second message was from Mary-Alice. There was a desperate urgency in her voice as she said, “Tom, call me, please. We just have to do something to stop Mummy and Daddy from getting a divorce.” Mummy and Daddy. Mary-Alice was retrogressing.
Putting off calling Mary-Alice, I dialled Francine’s number.
“Yo,” a man’s voice answered.
“Ah, is Francine Janes there, please?”
“She’s out for a while. Can I give her a message?”
“Just tell her Tom McCall called.”
“Okee dokee.”
I hung up and got a beer from the refrigerator. I took the cordless phone up to the roof deck. The last thing I wanted to do was talk to Mary-Alice about my parent’s divorce. The next to last thing I wanted to do was talk to my parents about it. But I knew I wasn’t going to be able to avoid either. I punched Mary-Alice’s number into the phone.
* * * * *
I was flaked out on the sofa, listening to disc three of B.B. King’s boxed set, ’69 to ’75, when Hilly and Courtney came banging and squealing into the house, faces and arms and knees red from a day of sun and water. Little Canadian flags fluttered over their heads from elastic headbands. Bouquets of helium-filled balloons floated behind them, bouncing against the ceiling. They pranced into the living room and performed coy little pirouettes in front of me. Both wore sleeveless jerseys and there were big garish tattoos splashed across their shoulders. Courtney sported a bright green and red parrot, Hilly a hooded cobra poised to strike.
If Looks Could Kill Page 17