Scratch Fever

by Collins, Max Allan

  At five they went back to Darlene’s. It was misting out; it was dark already. The red pickup was gone; but her rusting green Maverick was there. And so, presumably, was Darlene.

  As soon as they got out of the car, they could hear it: a loud buzzing sound coming from within the trailer. Nolan and the girl exchanged glances, the girl shrugging, indicating that she had no idea what the sound was, either.

  Nolan went up and knocked on the door, Toni at his side. He had a Bible in his right hand, supplied by the Gideons to the motel room and by the motel room to him. In his left hand, held at the moment under his jacket, was the 9 mm.

  He kept knocking till the buzzing stopped.

  She opened the door about halfway, looking down at Nolan (it was three steps up to the door of the trailer) with sultry, suspicious, and heavily made-up eyes. Her hair was piled high and tousled, in a calculated way, and she had on a black T-shirt with white lettering that said “STIFF RECORDS” curved over the smaller “WORLD TOUR,” curved in turn over a globe, underneath which it said: “WE CAME, WE SAW, WE LEFT.”

  “What do you want?” she said. Her voice was flat, disinterested, her expression a bored smirk.

  “We’re with the Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Nolan said, showing her the gun in his left hand, which was hidden from view from any passersby by the Bible in his right hand.

  She tried to shut the door, but Toni hopped up the steps and pushed against it with a shoulder and held it where it was, smiling at Darlene, who immediately recognized her and, after a moment, retreated into the trailer. Toni went in first and Nolan came after, shutting the door and locking it behind him.

  Nolan kept his gun in hand, but tossed the Bible over on the counter in the kitchenette, which was off to the right, where a pile of unwashed dishes and beer cans and such indicated that a slob lived here. The living room was barely furnished at all: just a couch against the facing wall, a component stereo spread out on the floor over at the left, with a few big, brightly colored pillows scattered around as if the place had been ransacked. There were LP’s scattered, too, and rock group posters taped to the walls. Nolan didn’t recognize any of the groups; they were just so many sullen faces staring out at him. The only poster he recognized was a country performer, Willie Nelson.

  In the middle of the floor, standing on newspapers, was a gray poodle; at the poodle’s feet were clumps of its hair, and a clipper on a long black cord lay on the papers nearby, as well. That explained the buzzing: Darlene had been giving her poodle a haircut.

  And the poodle was going nuts, barking, yapping.

  Nolan walked over to it, pointed a finger at it, and it sat and shut up and looked up at him and whimpered.

  “Some watchdog,” Darlene said, sitting on the couch, trying to be sullen, like the faces on the posters around her. But her fear was showing. There was a pack of cigarettes on the couch next to her, and she lit up.

  “You’re the bitch that sings with the Nodes,” Darlene said between puffs, “that much I know. Who’s the guy with the gun and the Bible? And what’s it all about, Alfie?”

  Toni went over and grabbed a bunch of the front of Darlene’s T-shirt and pushed her back against the wall. Darlene, startled, dropped her cigarette and her sullen pose; the fear in her wide, mascara-thick eyes was as apparent as the whimpering dog’s.

  “You’re the bitch,” Toni said. “The bitch who set Jon up.”

  Toni let go of her, and Darlene slid back down onto the couch, where she fumbled for her cigarette—and her pose—and said, “Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

  “Tell me about last night,” Toni said. “Tell me about Jon and the van.”

  Darlene found a nasty little smile somewhere. “Will the Jehovah’s Witness get embarrassed if I said I gave the kid a blow job, and sent him on his way?”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Toni swung a small, sharp fist at Darlene and sent her sprawling across the couch. Darlene, on her side, felt her mouth.

  “I’m bleeding,” she said.

  “Maybe it’s just that time of the month,” Toni said. She had a much more convincingly nasty smile than Darlene had mustered. Toni, taking the lead, amused and pleased Nolan.

  “You fuckin’ assholes,” Darlene said, sitting up, trying to act mad but coming off scared. “I don’t know what the fuck this is about, but you better get your asses outa here. My boyfriend’s gonna be back any minute.”

  Toni and Nolan exchanged glances. Nolan shook his head no.

  Toni said, “You’re bluffing.”

  “Eat it.”

  “You set Jon up. We want to know what really happened last night. We want to know who’s got him and where he is now. And you’re going to tell us.”

  Darlene blew a smoke ring; she seemed to be getting her act together finally.

  Toni motioned to Nolan, and they went over to the kitchenette area, Nolan keeping the gun pointed Darlene’s way. The poodle was sitting in the midst of the papers, staring up at Nolan.

  “I think I can make her talk,” Toni whispered.

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “You don’t mind if I handle this?”

  “No. I’m enjoying myself. I’m not into knocking women around, but I don’t mind watching one knock another one around.”

  “How about tying her up few me?”

  “Fine.”

  Nolan got a kitchen chair and dragged it into the living room area; the poodle scooted away, running down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom to hide.

  Toni pointed at the chair. “Sit in it,” she told Darlene.

  Darlene just sat on the couch and smoked her cigarette.

  Toni grabbed her by one arm and slammed her down in the chair.

  Nolan picked up the cigarette Darlene had just dropped and put it out in an ashtray on the floor near the couch. Then he took the small bundle of clothesline out of his jacket pocket and tied Darlene into the chair, and she swore at him. He ignored her; he sat down on the couch. The poodle skulked back in. It jumped up on the couch and lay next to Nolan and looked up at him pathetically; he scratched it around the collar a few times, and it rested its head on his leg.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” he asked Darlene.

  “Quiche Lorraine,” she said.

  “What kind of name is that?”

  Toni explained. “It’s from a song.” She jabbed a finger at Darlene’s STIFF T-shirt. “Really, Darlene, you should make up your mind. You can’t be into both the B-52’s and Willie Nelson. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  Darlene didn’t respond; she looked nervous. Being tied up didn’t agree with her.

  “I suppose you like to be flexible,” Toni said. “It’s nice to be able to come on to guys in both camps. Shitkickers and rock ’n’ rollers, too. But I really think you should make up your mind, one way or another. I’m going to help you.”

  Toni reached down for the poodle clippers. She hit the switch, and the buzz filled the room.

  “What are you doing?” Darlene shouted.

  “I’m gonna give you a poodle cut,” Toni said.

  “No!”

  “Sure. It’ll be real punk. A skinhead, like in England.”

  “You fuckin’ bitch!”

  Toni grabbed a handful of the shaggy hair on top of Darlene’s head and held her that way as she got behind her and started to shave at the base of her neck.

  “Stop it! Stop it! I’ll tell you what you want to know! Just stop it!”

  Toni switched the clippers off but left the flat, wide nose of them against the base of Darlene’s neck.

  “What happened last night?” she asked.

  “You . . . you know who Ron is?”

  “That dyke you hang around with.”

  “Yeah. She paid me a hundred bucks to get that Jon to come out to the van.”

  “And?”

  “She hit him over the head and put him in the back of her car.”

 
; “A hundred bucks. You helped kidnap somebody for a hundred goddamn bucks?”

  Darlene managed to shrug, despite Toni’s grip on her hair. “It wasn’t kidnapping. She said somebody had it in for the kid and was paying her to rough him up or something. That’s all I know.”

  Toni looked at Nolan, who was still on the couch, the poodle beside him.

  Nolan said, “Can you tell us where this Ron lives?”

  Darlene turned her head, which, tied in the chair as she was, was all she could turn, and looked at Nolan and said, “Sure. Why not.”

  Toni let loose of Darlene’s hair but stood by, clippers in hand, as Darlene gave Nolan directions.

  Then Nolan went to the kitchen, poodle following along after him, and found an unused dishrag in a drawer. He gagged Darlene with it. He made sure the dog had bowls full of food and water, and he and Toni left.

  “That was smart,” Nolan said, getting in the car, behind the wheel.

  “What?”

  “The poodle clippers. How d’you know that’d do the trick?”

  “She’s vain as hell. Didn’t you notice? Sunday afternoon and she’s got her makeup on, to the hilt. What for, just to give her pooch a trim? That’s vain.”

  “Would you have done it?”

  “Skin her? With pleasure.”

  They drove out of Gulf Port and down that same tree-lined road they’d been down earlier, to dump Infante. As they drove, Toni filled Nolan in on what little she knew about Ron. Nolan was doing barely forty; the mist was turning to rain, and visibility was poor. As they were coming around a curve, Nolan saw a figure, caught in the glare of his headlights, scurry off toward the side of the road, toward the trees.

  “That’s Jon!” he said.

  He hit his brakes, threw it in park and jumped out.

  “Hey, kid! It’s me.”

  The figure stopped, turned. Across the darkness and through the rain a voice came back uncertainly: “Nolan?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jon ran to him, grabbed him by the forearms.

  “Nolan! Nolan!”

  The kid was in T-shirt and jeans and socks; his face looked bruised, and his clothes were wet and dirty.

  “You look like shit,” Nolan said.

  “You look great!”

  The girl was out of the car now, and had run to Jon. She hugged him, and he hugged her back.

  “Get in the car,” Nolan said, “both of you.”

  They got in the car, Toni in back.

  Quickly, Jon told Nolan what had been happening.

  “You figure Julie passed you on the road here, then?” Nolan said.

  “I didn’t see the car, but it had to be her.”

  “She’s probably headed for the Paddlewheel. To grab some money and run.”

  “I want you to drive down to that farmhouse, Nolan.”

  “Why?”

  “I think I heard a shot. I want to check it out.”

  Nolan glanced at Jon.

  Then he said, “Okay. There’s a gun in the glove box.”

  Jon opened the glove compartment and took out the long-barreled .38. There was a box of shells, too, but the gun was loaded already, and Jon didn’t bother with them.

  Leaning forward from the back seat, her hands on the seat between Nolan and Jon, Toni said, “Let’s leave. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go home.”

  Jon turned and said, “We can’t. If we don’t catch up with Julie now, she’ll just turn up again sometime, and we don’t need that shit.”

  “He’s right,” Nolan said. “We’ll keep you out of it as much as possible.”

  “Gee, thanks,” the girl said.

  There was a gravel driveway leading into a larger gravel area next to the farmhouse; a barn and silo were off to the right. Nolan pulled in. There was only one car around: a vintage fifties Ford. The farmhouse was peeling paint—looked a bit run-down—but it was no hovel. There was a porch. Nolan, gun in hand, walked up the steps, and Jon followed. Toni stayed in the car, behind the wheel, windows up, doors locked.

  The front door was ajar.

  They went in; prowled the bottom floor, found it empty, not touching anything (though Nolan did pocket a ring of keys from a table). There was a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, a barely stocked pantry. Everything was neat, though the furniture was rather old, worn. There were a number of family portraits displayed. Unlike Darlene, Ron wasn’t a slob, at least.

  Upstairs, in the room Jon had been kept in, they found Ron. She was on the floor, in her peasant blouse and jeans, between the bed and the dresser. She was dead.

  There was a gun in her hand, and she had a head wound. In the right temple, out the left.

  “Julie never stops maneuvering, does she?” Nolan said, bending over the body.

  “What?” Jon said. He looked shaken.

  “Faking this as a suicide. I don’t think that’s a close-range wound. I think Julie shot her from the doorway. That’s judging from the angle of it, the powder burns, the entry and exit wounds. But the local people may not figure it out immediately. Hard to say.”

  Nolan rose.

  Jon knelt over the body. He touched the dead woman’s cheek. He closed her eyes.

  “Kid. Let’s go.”

  “Yeah. Okay, Nolan.” He rose, slowly.

  “You might as well put on your shoes.”

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah.”

  His shoes were between the body and the dresser. He got them, then sat on the edge of the bed and put them on. The kid had been through a lot, Nolan thought. Maybe the girl was right; maybe they should just get the hell out. Go home.

  Next to Jon on the bed was a stack of comic books.

  “It never fails,” Nolan laughed. “You always manage to turn up some funny-books, don’t you?”

  Jon looked at them. He picked them up and took them with him as they left the house. He held the comics under his shirt to protect them from the rain, as they went to the car.

  Toni climbed in back and Jon got in front on the rider’s side. Nolan took the wheel again. Jon handed the comics back to Toni. “Put those on the floor or something, will you?” he said.

  “Okay,” she said, smiling.

  Both she and Nolan were amused by Jon’s managing to come away from this situation with a stack of old comics.

  “Any of these valuable ones?” the girl asked, kidding him.

  Jon didn’t seem to pick up on the kidding. “Very,” he said.

  “What are you going to do with ’em?” Nolan asked. “Sell ’em?”

  “I wouldn’t sell them. I wouldn’t ever sell them.” Jon opened the glove compartment and took out the box of .38 shells; he stuffed a handful of the shells in his pocket, put the box back.

  “Let’s go find Julie,” he said.

  17

  SHE would have to run.

  There was no other choice. Nolan was here; his breath was on her neck; and this time he wouldn’t go soft and spare her, like that time at the cottage. This time he would kill her.

  She knew that, and she could accept it, and she would eventually deal with it—deal with him—but now she had to run. She didn’t even know where she would go. Mexico, she guessed. Money still went a long way in Mexico. And when some time had passed, she could hire somebody to do Nolan, and Jon, as well. Some other expatriate American, maybe, who could sneak back in the country and get it done.

  Or something. There’d be some way out of it. There always was. Plenty of options.

  But right now, running was the only option she could come up with.

  The Porsche slid going around a curve, and she slowed down; the blacktop was slick with rain. Don’t panic now, she told herself. But the rain and the darkness, crowding her on the narrow blacktop that led to the Paddlewheel, seemed to be on Nolan’s side.

  She had been so sure she was on top of this Nolan situation, it made her smug; so sure she was in control of things, it made her complacent. When she thought about how she’d spent the morning and afternoon, sh
e could kick herself: sleeping till noon, sitting in Harold’s study with a gin and tonic, explaining to him her plans for Nolan, playing down the role of that slug Infante. (In the version she told Harold, Infante would be on hand only as protection, in case Nolan didn’t uphold his end of the swap she would propose.)

  Still, Harold had seemed morose; it was almost as if he had seen through what she told him, that he knew she really intended having Nolan and Jon killed. He had sat in his study all afternoon, listening to an old Beatles album, Revolver, he seemed to enjoy feeling sorry for himself, and the world, his lips moving to the lyrics of “Eleanor Rigby,” for Christ’s sake. What a jerk. She didn’t know why she’d put up with him for so long.

  On the other hand, there was a part of her that liked him and his self-pitying ways. He wasn’t a stupid man—he certainly came in handy at the club, doing the books, handling the staff—and she liked having a big, reasonably competent man around, who depended on her, whom she could mother into submission. She’d always had a knack for finding men who needed a mother in a woman, and having all but raised most of her brothers and sisters, she was used to playing mother—though it occasionally struck her as ironic that she had never spent enough time with her own kid to really qualify in that department.

  So as Harold sat in his study, listening to old Beatle records, she felt a weird mixture of contempt and affection for him—a man his age, sitting there feeling sorry for himself, losing himself in memories of high school. It was fucking pathetic. . . .

  Around three she had called the motel to talk to Infante. She needed to go have a talk with him, alone, without Harold around, to fill Infante in on what her plans really were where Nolan and Jon were concerned. But the woman on the desk said Infante was out. It struck Julie as strange, but not suspicious, particularly, at least not at first. When she called back around quarter to five and got the same response from the desk clerk, she put aside her gin and tonic and her book on refinishing antiques and grabbed her coat. She stuck her little pearl-handled automatic in her purse and told Harold she would be back soon.

  She knocked on Infante’s motel room door and got no answer.

  The woman at the desk, a thin, plain woman about forty, doing the crossword puzzle in the Sunday paper, shrugged without looking up, saying all she knew was the night clerk had left a note saying the man in room 13 had requested not to be disturbed, and that if anyone called, to say he was out. Julie asked to speak to the night clerk, and was told she wouldn’t be on duty till midnight. When Julie insisted, the woman gave her the night clerk’s phone number, and she called her from a booth outside the motel.