No response.
She fought to keep her eyes open. “You’re pretty good with people in duress. I mean, you didn’t lose your cool when a lot of others would.” She was asking how, not stating a fact.
“I’ve had some practice.”
“What, being cool or handling stressful situations?”
“Well, both.”
Her tone changed. “Is that why you carry a gun on your ankle and one on your hip?”
I shrugged. “I’m from Texas.”
“You a cop?”
“Do I look like a cop?”
She eyed me. “Not really.”
Unimpressed, she studied my truck. “What do you do?”
“I’m retired.”
“You don’t look retired.”
“What’s it look like?”
“Knee-high socks, Sansabelt slacks, pudgy belly.”
“I’m not that kind of retired.”
“What’d you used to do?”
“I worked for the DPS.”
“DPS?”
“Department of Public Safety.”
“What, you drive a bus or something?”
I laughed. “Something like that.”
Her words were slow, even slurred. “You have a name?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Tyler. Most folks either call me Ty or Cowboy.”
She chuckled. “Are you?”
I nodded. “I’ve done some cowboying.”
“That gun you gave me… would it stop him?”
I nodded.
“How do you know?”
I rubbed my thigh. “Well…” I smiled. “It stopped me.”
“What happened?”
I shook my head and shrugged. “Wrong person got a hold of it.”
I watched her in the rearview. The whites of her eyes shone in the glow of the dash. A pause. She squinted, looked away. “My name’s not… whatever I told you.”
I smiled. “Virginia.”
She nodded. “Right.”
“Didn’t really think so.”
“It’s Samantha, or”—a shrug—“Sam.” She scratched her head. “This is Hope.”
My father once told me that the truth will eventually find its way to the surface if you don’t muddy the water. “Nice to meet you.”
A longer pause. I’m not sure the whisper was meant for me. “I doubt it.”
She drifted off. I heard some strange scurrying behind me so I flashed my light into the cage where I saw a fat rat-looking thing covered in brown and white hair. Enter, Turbo.
I glanced in the rearview. Under the passing streetlights, I saw the journal tucked beneath the girl’s arm. The paperback lay next to her leg. I looked closer. It was a dictionary. I reached back and picked it up, held it beneath the light. The “A”s were missing. A word was circled. It read, “bedraggled.”
Fitting.
After an hour or so, it struck me that the girl hadn’t coughed since she’d climbed into this truck. But that wasn’t the thought that was bugging me. The thought I couldn’t shake was wondering if Mr. Tattoo-SWAT-Hulk-man knew about the sister’s house. Then I thought the thought that stayed with me all the way to New Orleans, which was: What was I going to do if she wasn’t there?
CHAPTER SEVEN
They slept to the city limits. I was humming a Don Williams tune when she stirred. She muttered, “Yeah, I hope this day is good, too,” then dozed again. It wasn’t until the truck came to a stop at a gas station that Sam jerked. She sat up, sleep heavy on her face, and stared at me. I was standing at the pump, topping it off. I could tell she was waiting for her brain to assemble the pieces. I tipped my hat back so she could see my face. I registered somewhere in her brain and she let out a shallow breath.
There was a McDonald’s tied to the station. I opened the door and spoke first, moving slowly so she wouldn’t recoil. “You hungry?”
Hope was staring at me from under the covers. I said, “Hi.” A hand appeared and she waved but said nothing. I pulled the Tinker Bell stickers out of my shirt pocket and laid them on the seat. “Thought you might like these.” She waited for me to step back, then slid her hand out, grabbed the packet, and returned to the safety of the blanket.
They stepped out looking rather haggard. I didn’t really notice until now just how dirty they both were. Sam glanced at the rubber bands hanging from my gearshift. “You mind?”
“Help yourself.”
She pulled her hair back, and did that thing that women do with their hair and a rubber band. Then she helped Hope do the same. I reached in the back and handed her a box of baby wipes and a clean towel. Sam looked through the side window of the topper into the back of the truck. “You don’t happen to have a hot shower back there, do you?”
“Give me a few minutes and I can probably rig one up.”
They walked to the bathroom while I ordered breakfast. They were in there a while. I had a feeling they hadn’t eaten much in a few days so I ordered five egg McMuffins, two orders of pancakes, three OJs, and two large coffees to go.
Then I pulled out my cell phone and dialed home.
Dumps answered. “You all right?”
“Yeah… long story. How’s Brodie?”
“Sleeping.” I could hear the percolator chugging in the background. “You want me to wake him?”
“No, let him sleep.”
A pause followed. “You got an answer to his question?”
“Which one?”
“Any of them.”
“Not yet.”
He laughed. “When will you be here?”
I watched Sam and Hope walk out of the McDonald’s. “I’m making a bit of a detour.”
“Where?”
“New Orleans.”
“Some detour.”
“It’s part of that long story.”
“You in trouble?”
“Not yet.”
“She pretty?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Which one you’re talking about.”
I heard him smack his thigh. “ ’Bout time you jumped back in with both spurs.”
“It ain’t that. Got to go. I’ll call later.”
I was right. They hadn’t eaten.
I drove, ate one egg McMuffin and drank a coffee. They ate the rest. All of it. Midway through breakfast, Hope pulled Turbo from his cage, set him on her lap, and began feeding him pieces of grass she pulled from her pocket along with little pieces of pancake and hash brown that he mostly sniffed and licked.
“What is that?” I asked.
Sam answered. “A guinea pig.”
“Oh.” While they were gaunt and perhaps skinnier than they should’ve been, he seemed rather plump. “What you been feeding him?”
Sam rubbed his head between the ears and smiled. “Just about everything.”
She put him on the console where he promptly started making funny faces, walking in slow circles, and dropping little black turds.
Sam pointed our way through town, which got us lost so I pulled over and unfolded the map. To her credit, she was close. A few streets off. We ended up on the outskirts of the Garden District. While Hope had not coughed, she also hadn’t spoken. She had a journal she wrote in a few times, but I’d not heard her speak since she’d shouted “Turbo,” in the parking lot. The only thing she’d done to let me know she was in the car was scratch her arms and legs. A lot.
We pulled up in front of the house. “This is it?” Sam nodded. I admit, I was impressed. Her sister kept a tight ship. A beautiful two-story with manicured shrubs and blooming flowers everywhere. Fresh paint. Wrought-iron railings. Wraparound porch. The grass was mowed in straight strips angled toward the road. Polished brass lion’s head door knocker. Even the weather vane atop one of the three chimneys had been polished and turned without squeaking.
Sam sat staring at the front door. Hope, shrouded in her dirty blanket, said not a word. I asked, “You want me to knock
?”
She shook her head, stepped out, then stepped back in and sat down, nodded once and looked straight ahead.
I pulled on my hat. “What’s her name?”
“Mercy.”
“What’s her last name?”
“DuVane, I think. She’s… changed it a few times.”
I walked to the door and knocked. The maid answered. I tipped my hat. “Ma’am, my name’s Tyler Steele. Does a Ms. Mercy DuVane live here?”
She shook her head and inched the door closed. “No.”
I had a feeling that was coming. I showed her my ID to make her more comfortable. She read it and handed it back. “Do you know if she used to?”
“Sir, I work for the McTinneys. They bought this house about a year or so ago.” She leaned forward and whispered, “They bought it at auction.” Her eyes darted left, then right. “Off the courthouse steps.”
I stepped back. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. Thank you for your time.” She nodded and shut the door.
I pulled down my hat and walked back to the truck. When I got there, Samantha’s eyes were watery and her knee was bouncing up and down. I opened the door as she was pulling Hope out. She grabbed Turbo, never looked at me and said, “We’ll be going. I’m sorry. I’ve got—We, we’re going…” She chewed on her lip, then looked left, then right. “This way.” And began walking left. Hope carried Turbo and looked over her shoulder, dragging her blanket. I followed them about a block in the truck. She was frantic but what I knew about women—which wasn’t much and was usually wrong—told me she needed to get whatever this was, out. After two blocks, she stopped, walked to the curb, crumpled, and hung her head in her hands. I put it in park and left it running. Hope stood holding the cage looking at me. I knelt in front of Samantha.
Last year, I was driving down a dirt road checking on some cows when I came up on a dog. Or, what was left of one. Mange had eaten off most of its hair, every rib stuck out, sores covered it. It was lying in a pile on the side of the road, licking its blistered feet. Its mouth was foamy and a hundred flies were crawling across its muzzle. I stopped and rolled down the window. It was too tired to lift its head so it just raised its eyes. I lifted my .22 and stared at it. Its breathing was slow. Death’s door. No medicine in the world would bring it back. I thought long about it, but I didn’t shoot that dog. I should have—it would have been merciful—but I did not. I left it right there, licking itself. I returned the next day and a buzzard was eating what remained of its eyes. I thought about shooting the buzzard but it wouldn’t bring back the dog. I thought about that dog for several days, wondering what was the turning point. Did someone throw it out? Quit feeding it? Was it a mean dog? What made it mean? How’d it get like that? How in the world did it get like that? That dog wasn’t always like that. It had a tipping point. Where was it?
I studied the cut above her eye and the picture of that dog came to mind. If I left them, would the buzzards circle and start eating tomorrow?
I stood and held out my hand. “Come on.”
She looked at it but didn’t move. I spoke softly. “Ma’am, please let me help you.”
She looked up, disbelief coloring the image of me. “Why?” Hope crowded behind her. “Why would you do that?”
“Let’s just say I watched too many Westerns as a kid.”
She shook her head. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I don’t know that I can.”
She stood, rubbing her hands together, rolling one thumb over the other. She began nodding. She couldn’t see past the next fifteen minutes. “A hotel maybe. To, let us think through things.” She was cracking. I’d seen it before.
I set the overfed rat and his cage in the car, got them buckled in the backseat, and the three of us drove off in search of a hotel.
I had one in mind.
The Big Easy is one of the dirtier cities I’ve ever visited. I’d been there a dozen or so times on business. Years back, I worked for the state and the man that was my boss always stayed in the same place. Hence, I did. I drove straight there: 921 Canal Street. It’d been a few years. Well, okay, more than a few. I wondered if they’d remember me. Funny thing about the Ritz-Carlton, their people have amazing memories.
I drove around back, inside a covered driveway, and left it running. “You two sit tight. I’ll be right back.” Sam’s eyes were big as half dollars. Hope’s mouth hung half open.
The doorman held the door, and I made my way to a help desk of sorts—the one with little traffic. I waited until a guest had cleared out and the hall was empty. I wanted to know who was working the desk. She shuffled some papers and scratched her scalp with the tip of a pencil.
Jackpot.
Marleena saw me, screamed, slapped her desktop, and came running, arms wide. Told you they had good memories.
Miss Marleena is about five-foot-five and she’s stacked in there pretty good. She’s got some pretty severe arthritis so she sits behind that desk and does what she can. Which is mostly smile and hug people. She likes to tell people that “she’s a whole lotta woman with a whole lotta love.” She grabbed me, pressed her big bosom to my chest, and pulled me down to her, kissing me on the cheek. “Tyler Steele… Good Lord!” One of the porters pushed a cart toward an elevator. She hollered, “Look who’s here!”
“Let me look at you.” She turned my face, studying my neck. She ran her finger along the scar, the tightened skin, her lips tight. She noted my hearing aid. “I heard about that. We all heard. How you doing?”
I held my hat in my hand. “I feel like my side’s winning.”
She pressed her meaty palms to my cheeks. “I love it when you say that. Always have.”
“Well, I’m better than I deserve. You?”
She thumbed over her shoulder. “Seventeen years in that chair and I’m just great. Can’t complain. So long as Katrina don’t come back.” She held my hand in hers. “You back working? You need me to set you up with the same rooms?”
I shook my head. “No, not working. Retired. But I need a favor.”
“Baby, just ask. You got it. I don’t care if I got to kick Bono his’self out of the seventh floor. You name it.”
“I need a room.”
“One or two?”
“Just one. For them. A night. Maybe two. Nothing fancy. Just whatever you got.”
She glanced at the truck. “Done. What else you need?”
“Well, are those girls still working at that clothing store a few doors down? The one with the expensive faded jeans that already got the holes in them?”
She nodded. “Every day.”
“Can you get them to bring a few things upstairs?”
“Just tell me the size and color.”
“And, one last thing, how about that doctor? The one who made room calls?”
“Got him on speed dial.”
“Can you send him up first?”
Her face changed. Game time. “You need help with bags?”
I shook my head. “No, ma’am. They don’t have any.”
“Is the state picking up the tab on this?”
“No, ma’am.”
I walked to the truck, opened the doors, grabbed the cage, and led Sam and Hope back to the desk. Marleena’s face changed again when she saw us coming. She grabbed Hope’s hand and said, “Baby doll, you just come right up here with Momma Marleena and—Good Lord, child!” She studied Hope’s face and arms and then turned to the doorman. “George, run down and get Miss Vicky for me, will you, sweetie? Tell her I’m on the sixth and it’s a rush.” George nodded and disappeared.
Marleena herded us onto the elevator, used her key to get us on the club floor, and started humming. Sam and Hope looked shell-shocked. We exited the elevator and Marleena led us to the end of the hall. She inserted a key card, pushed open the door and said, “You all come right in here.” The door read, TRAVIS SUITE.
Sam walked like she’d just stepped foot on Mars. Hope stopped at the door and ran her finger along
the doorbell. Marleena noticed. “It’s okay, honey. You can ring it.” Hope mashed the button and an electronic version of the first few notes of Canon in D sang out. They walked in and Marleena promptly dialed the phone. “Doc Micheaux, please.” She paused. “This Miss Marleena.” Another pause. “Hey Doc, how you?” She began nodding. “Wondered if you’d make a house call. Yep. How about—” she studied Sam and Hope “an hour. Yes, sir, I’ll meet you at the elevator. Thanks, Doc.” She hung up and turned to Sam and Hope. “You two make yourselves at home. Get cleaned up, I’ll be back in an hour. If you need anything, dial zero and it rings in this phone in my pocket.” Sam and Hope nodded in unison. Marleena disappeared while the two of them walked around the room staring at everything but touching nothing. Marble floors, mahogany furniture, three types of curtains, original oil paintings, a stocked refrigerator, king-size bed, a large flat-screen TV, Bose stereo. After a moment, Hope made it to the bathroom and screamed, “Momma!”
Sam ran to the bathroom and found Hope pointing in the corner. Sam eyed the tub. It was big enough for four people. Sam turned slowly toward me, waving her hand across the suite. “Is this legal?”
I laughed. “Yes. It’s legal.”
“Do you deal drugs?”
Another laugh. “No. I don’t deal drugs. Not yet anyway. Though I have had my opportunities.” I opened the door. Behind me sat a chair in the hall where I’d spent many an hour. “You two get cleaned up and holler if you need me. I’ll be right there. Oh, and hand me your clothes when you step out of them and I’ll get them cleaned.”
She frowned. “You’re going to do my laundry?”
“Well, no. But, I’m going to give it to some people who will wash, dry, and fold it for you and then wrap it in paper and tie it with a little bow.”
“Let me get this straight—the laundry fairy is going to wash my clothes and then wrap them in paper and tie them up with a little bow, just because you ask?”
Her disbelief was palpable. “Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Look, we’re both adults. There’s a price for everything.”
I sat in the chair. “I’ll be sitting right here.”
She shut the door but I don’t think I’d convinced her.
Thunder and Rain Page 4
