Lala kissed him, her lips insistent. Those warm, pouting lips. His lips pulled on her lower lip, the one that always pouted its challenge. Her lips pouted, nibbled, and overwhelmed the memory of the thin cold of the champagne glass. He needed to stop. He shook his head no, but that made her pouting lips caress his even more.
Her lips were even softer than he imagined. And warmer. How could some girl's lips be warmer and softer? They should be all the same. Wasn't everybody's temperature supposed to be something like ninety-eight? It was his imagination, that's all.
He had to stop kissing her. He had to get up from the couch.
He ordered his face to turn away, his lips to harden in protest, his hands to withdraw from her breasts. He had to get off the couch. He tensed his legs, legs strengthened by heavy squats and dead lifts. They should easily push him up from the couch, but the couch fabric was still at the back of his neck, feeling rough. He'd always thought of it as smooth. But the couch was rough and her lips were smooth - and soft and warm, so warm.
***
The next morning, Waltz tried not to think about what he did. But it went through his mind over and over. He went to bed with his brother's wife. That was bad enough, but he did it in his brother's house, in his brother's bed, while his brother was dying.
He found himself at Rachel's apartment. She was crying. What was wrong with her?
"Oh, Waltz. How could you do such a thing? Can't you see what she is? She's selfish and greedy. She uses sex to get what she wants. She wants control of the studio. She's probably afraid Jazz left you his share."
He must've confessed to Rachel. He hadn't intended to do that. "No. She's wonderful. I've known her since I was a kid. It was my fault. I took advantage of her when she was upset."
"You've got to stay away from her. Guilt is going to eat you up."
"Don't tell anyone at the studio, please." He tapped out a cigarette, put it in his lips, and lit it. The package crackled. Smoke bit his nostrils. He stared at the pack. He'd bought cigarettes. He didn't realize it.
He spat out the cigarette. It skidded across the floor. He scrambled off the couch and snatched it up before it could singe Rachel's rug.
He scurried to the kitchen sink. He stuck the cigarette into the stream of water. It gave a satisfying hiss. He let it soak under the water. He turned on the disposal. He dropped the cigarette into it. It ground away, emitting an agreeable whirr. Waltz pictured the tiny bits of tobacco and paper draining into the sewer. He ripped open the pack and pulled out another. He soaked it in the water and dropped it in the disposal.
Rachel cheered. "Yea, Waltz. Way to go. Grind them to shreds. Jazz will be proud."
Waltz did another cigarette. Then another. He ground them all up, one by one, and sent them to hell. He wadded up the empty package and slammed it into the trash.
He ran the water a while. That was that, for ever and ever, he promised Jazz.
"I've got to make it up to him. I'm going to quit smoking this time. And I'm going to stay away from Lala, except for business."
Rachel cheered again. She pumped her fist.
"And I'm going to hire that detective and find out who poisoned Jazz. I'm going to make sure the guy gets what he deserves for what he did to Jazz." He paused. "She's hard to hire. I'm going to trick her. Will you help me?"
***
Later that morning, in a trailer park on the outskirts of town, Waltz approached a single wide, painted burnt orange and trimmed in white, University of Texas colors, flying a Longhorn pennant. Large white letters snaked the length of the trailer, proclaiming Hook 'Em Horns. He fought the urge to jump away from the side of the trailer, like he was about to be sideswiped by the team bus.
The door, latched open to the side of the trailer, revealed a sign, Ring Bell. He pushed the button. A cow lowed - no, not a cow, a Longhorn.
A voice roared. "Door's open."
Waltz took out his mirror and comb and arranged his hair. He started up the steps. Wind whipped down the side of the trailer, tearing into the wave. He held his hands over his hair until he stepped into the trailer, out of the gust.
Should he get out his mirror and check? Not in front of a proven wiseass. He combed his hair with his fingers, smoothing it down and reforming the wave.
Hook 'Em Harns tipped her white cowboy hat. Her blond hair swooped into a bun on top of her head. She held up her fists, palms facing forward, forefingers and little fingers extended. "Hook 'Em, Horns! Be right with you." Her burnt-orange T-shirt repeated the mantra, Hook 'Em, Horns.
Tape held a sign on the wall to the right: Why Support Your Cheating Hubbie When You Can Divorce His Cheating Ass? Another on the left said, Don't Let Your Badder Half Get Your Trailer Repossessed. Another dangled on two strings from the ceiling. Tired of Paying Child Support? I Can Prove They're Not Yours.
A Zen tranquility garden stood on her desk. Small wooden crosses filled part of it. She removed a spoon of sand and placed a toy wedding ring in the hole. She picked up a cross from the desk, stuck it through the ring, and refilled the hole. The cross said Johnson Marriage.
She grabbed a harmonica off the desk. She stood at attention and put her right hand over her breast. She patted it and nodded at Waltz.
He gaped. Did she want him to fondle her boob? He stepped forward.
She stamped her foot. She nodded and patted.
Oh. He snapped to attention and placed his hand on his heart.
She stuck the harp deep in her mouth, lips pouting around it. "Taps" sighed through it, wailing heartbreak. Tears surged down her cheeks but a smile interrupted their journey.
As he listened, tears filled his eyes. They came from the cry of the harp. He didn't know the Johnsons. He wished he'd met them during their happier days. Now that they were apart, he hoped they'd find their true loves.
Hook 'Em's files would be a great source of dance students. He'd have to tell Lala.
Hook 'Em remained at attention, holding the harp with her left hand, her right hand on her heart. Her hand left her breast to cup the harmonica, closing and then opening to produce a vibrato as she wrung out the last wail of "Taps." She gave the Hook 'Em sign. She nodded at Waltz. He gave the sign.
She waved. "Bye-bye, Mister Johnson. Your cheating heart can kiss my ass. Another marriage dead and buried. Another wife freed of her womanizing husband. Hook 'Em Harns strikes again."
She gave the Hook 'Em sign. She nodded at Waltz. He gave the sign back at her.
She began to play "Taps" again. "Sing."
Waltz sang.
Taps turned from forlorn to bluesy. Hook 'Em danced a jig as she played. Waltz sang to the blues rhythm and danced kick ball chains. They danced apart but they were a couple - in sync.
Hook 'Em cupped the harp with her hands and made a wah wah sound. She nodded at him.
Waltz put his hands around his mouth like hers. "Wah wah."
She went, "Wah wah."
Waltz returned her wah wah.
She slapped the harp on her jean-clad thigh and put it on her desk. "Enough wah wahing, much as I love it. It's good for you, but only in moderation."
She placed the garden on a bookshelf. Next to it stood another bookshelf full of gardens packed with crosses, miniature graveyards that commemorated her success in the divorce business.
She plopped into her chair and propped her feet on the desk. The cowboy boots completed the orange and white motif.
He imagined going to bed with her. Would she leave her boots on? The idea excited him, though he didn't care what she wore to bed. He'd leap into her bed any day.
Her Texas drawl was so slow and deep he thought she was putting him on. "Sit down. Put your feet up. Get comfortable." She was still in her twenties, but her voice was low and husky, like she'd been drinking whiskey and sucking cigs for a hundred years.
Waltz swung his feet up on her desk, noting a placard tacked to it proclaiming Marriages Sundered. "I admire your signs."
"Thanks. I make them up myself. I put
them in the Yellow Pages and on the Internet. It gets me a lot of business. I'm thinking of sending them out as spam, you know, like Viagra ads."
"You do them yourself?"
"They come to me. It amazes my friends."
"It amazes me too." Waltz could barely see her. He never realized how big his feet were. Maybe he needed a better angle. He stretched his neck to look around them. "Do you do domestic investigations?"
"Does a hound dog scratch and bark?" She panted and scratched. She barked. She smiled, teeth straight and white.
Waltz spread his feet so he could see between them. "I think my wife is running around on me."
"I'm sorry to hear that, honey. Don't feel bad. They all do sooner or later. I'll catch her cheating ass for you."
Waltz started to speak.
She held up her hand. "Don't worry about a thing. I'll get you full custody of the kids."
She played a ta-DA on her harp. "It's the best investment you'll ever make. Freedom. It's wonderful. Three hundred dollars a day plus expenses."
Waltz leaned forward and pulled some bills out of his back pocket. "I've only got six hundred dollars."
She leaned forward to receive the cash.
Their feet on the desk, a cowboy Yogi and her student exchanged the cash, the Two-Pelicans-Share-Catch Posture.
She leaned back and counted the money. "Let's hope I get the goods on her in two days."
"So you'll take the case?"
"Sign this. It's a standard private-eye contract."
He scribbled his signature.
Rachel minced in. "By the display of marriage graves behind you, I can see that you are the great Hook 'Em Harns, divorce investigator extraordinaire. I know I don't have a chance against you. Here. I confess." She tossed a manila envelope into Hook 'Em's lap.
Hook 'Em regarded Rachel a moment. She plucked the envelope from her lap, pulled the documents out of it, and examined them. "This is a signed affidavit admitting your affair-with pictures of you in bed with another man." She gaped at Rachel. Her gaze went to Waltz. "Damn."
Damn had three syllables when she said it.
She continued to stare at Waltz. "I got the bitch for you." She thrust her arms toward the ceiling, flashing the Hook 'Em sign. "Hook 'Em! I've solved another case." She cupped her hand like a mic and spoke like a sports announcer. "Harns shoots the gap and crushes the ball carrier."
She paused, pensive. "I don't even remember solving this case. I must've gone into a trance, an inspired trance. This proves it. As I've long suspected, I'm a creative genius. I didn't even leave my chair. I've become an armchair detective, like... like... what was that guy's name?"
Waltz always wondered if private detectives read mystery novels. It looked like they did. "Nero Wolfe."
"No. No, pay attention. I'm talking about a detective, not the firebug fiddler. The guy on TV, in a wheelchair... oh, yeah, Ironsides. I've matured as a private detective. I now solve all my cases while lounging in an armchair. No more long boring stake outs. No more tailing suspects in the middle of the night."
Waltz cupped his hand like a mic and spoke like the color commentator to Hook 'Em's announcer. "It's only the second quarter and that's the fourth unassisted tackle for Harns this game - in an armchair, Longhorn fans. Yes, you heard me right. Harns is playing in an armchair. This is a great moment in Longhorn football and you are there. Rumors abound that Harns will play in a recliner next season."
Hook 'Em regarded him for a moment, unamused. "Right." She waved the envelope. "Anyway, I got her ass for you. I told you I would." She turned to Rachel. "Crime does not pay."
She rose, performed a series of karate kicks, turned sideways, swept her arm in a circle as she bent her knees, and cheered. "Yea, Harns!" She pumped her arm. "Recline! I mean - go!" She pumped her arm again. "I mean - stop!" She fell into her chair. "You've got me as confused as a dung beetle rolling a gumball."
Waltz lifted his feet from her desk and placed them on the floor. "I'm quite pleased with your work, so far. Since I have you on retainer, I want you to investigate another matter - the poisoning of my brother, Jazz."
"Jazz Charleston? That's your brother? You're the wiseass that keeps calling me about the dog?" She stared at him, as though memorizing his features in hopes of avoiding some future encounter. "I only do domestic investigations. That means - " She paused dramatically, picked up her harp and tooted a ta-DA, and spelled - "D-I-V-O-R-C-E."
"But - "
"Look at the signs. You don't see one saying, Did Snake Snade gun down your brother? Don't bother taking the stage to Tombstone. I'll get him for you. Do you?"
Waltz held up his hand, the standard private-eye contract dangling from his forefinger and thumb. "I have a standard private-eye contract." He waved it. "Don't you have an ethical responsibility to help your clients, once you accept them?"
"I admire your scam. You had me going. But I do domestic investigations. I don't do poisons or murders. The cops are all over this. I'm not getting mixed up in - "
"I have a contract."
"Don't you see? I've got clients in serious trouble. They're married to cheaters who carry on their nasty little affairs as casually as a dung beetle rolls around his ball of shit. Do you know what that does to people? It gnaws away at them. They want out. It's my job to help them. I have to stay on it. I have to keep the divorces coming."
She paused and took a deep breath. "Think what would happen if married people were forced to stay married. Our culture would be doomed. The Republicans' family values platform would be meaningless. The two-party system would be no more. Some dictator, sensing a vacuum, would take over. The sole democracy left would be Iraq."
She got up and placed her hand on her heart. "Half our gross national product is made up of child support and alimony. Without them, the economy would collapse. When gays and lesbians start marrying, and they will, the poor simpletons, child support and property settlements will soar. I'll be like Lucy with the candy coming down the assembly line, coming and coming, with no end. I won't be able to cope with it. I'll have to hire a team of assistants. I can't afford to take time out for a case like this."
She gave the Hook 'Em sign. "God bless America. God bless divorce."
She sat down. "This hurts me more than it does you." She pulled a document out of her desk drawer. "Sign this. It's a standard divest-your-private-eye contract. Your copy's the pink one."
Color commentator Waltz spoke to his fist. "Harns is down! Oh, that had to hurt. I've seen that before, the way the leg rest is crazily askew, dangling. That recliner is going back to the factory for a complete overhaul, probably a long period of rehabilitation too. And I don't think we'll see it back on the football field. More than likely, it'll end up in a nursing home. Harns is kicking the recliner! She's thrown down her helmet! She's walking off the field! She's a quitter!"
Hook 'Em held out the form. "Sign this."
"Longhorns don't quit."
"You wiseass asshole." She signed the divest contract, ripped out the pink copy, scribbled out a payment voucher, wrapped the documents around the six hundred dollars, stuffed it all in the envelope, and flung it at him.
She flashed the Hook 'Em Sign. "Slink from my single wide, slime ball."
***
Waltz stopped at a red light. He glanced at Rachel. "Well, that was a wasted trip. Talk about wiseass assholes."
Rachel pivoted in her seat to face him. "She's chosen the right profession. She's really into divorce."
"Yeah. 'Let Me Help You Screw Your Spouse.' That's certainly her motto."
Rachel ran her hand through her long red hair. "I admire her enthusiasm. Her job is to get divorces and she does it. I wonder if she stands up and cheers when she catches somebody's husband in bed with another woman."
"Probably directs the scene." Waltz formed a megaphone with his hand. "You there, Bob, turn toward me so I can get your face. Pull those covers down. Your wife will want to see the action. She's signed a standard private-eye c
ontract. She's paying me three hundred dollars a day plus expenses. I've got to get the goods on you." He laughed. "They ought to call her Un-Hook 'Em."
He turned left toward Rachel's apartment. "What was Jazz thinking? She'd be worthless in a murder case. I'm lucky she turned me down and gave me my money back. I'll hire some other detective."
Rachel chewed her lower lip. "I'm worried."
Waltz rubbed her shoulder. "Jazz will be okay. He's tough. The doctor sold him short."
"Sure, he will. But I meant about you."
"I'm okay."
"I mean, somebody is out to get the studio, or more likely, to get the Charlestons. You might be next. You ought to get a bodyguard."
Waltz made the turn to Rachel's apartment. "I didn't think of that. Somebody may be coming after Lala. I'll have to get her a bodyguard."
Chapter 6
Carefree
At noon, the doorbell rang. Somebody pounded on the door.
Waltz stepped out of the shower and grabbed his towel.
A voice rasped. "Open up. Police."
Waltz rushed to the door and wrenched it open. "Did Jazz die?"
The lieutenant shouldered his way through the door. "No, he's still alive - barely, no thanks to you."
Another man followed the lieutenant.
The lieutenant whipped the towel off Waltz, wadded it, and threw it across the room onto the bed. "Get dressed."
Waltz stared at the lieutenant for a moment, then went to his closet. His bikini briefs were on the top shelf. His shirts hung on the left, his slacks on the right. He wore them in order, as Jazz taught him when he was a small child.
The lieutenant perched on the bed and bounced, as though testing the mattress. "The preliminary report shows that your brother was poisoned by a combination of sleeping pills and alcohol."
Waltz slipped into his shirt. "That's what the doctor said last night. It's exactly what happened to his dog. I hope you're going to catch the guy." He pulled on his slacks.
The lieutenant nodded. "Oh, we're going to get him, all right. You can count on that. Can we take a look around?"
Waltz sat on the bed and jerked on his socks. "You think I poisoned my own brother? Why waste time like that when you could be going after the real killer?"
The lieutenant wore his usual sneer. "The quicker we eliminate you, the quicker we'll be able to check out other suspects. We've already interviewed your sister-in-law. She was cooperative, very cooperative."
Drink, Dance, Divorce Page 8
