Stand By Your Man mr-2

by Nancy Bartholomew

  Tony Carlucci's black hair gleamed in the candlelight. His strong shoulders rippled as he moved a heavy white bowl to the center of the table. His hands were a roughened contrast to the smooth white surface of the dish he held. I wondered about him for a moment. Who was he underneath that tough exterior? Where had he lived before he'd arrived in Greensboro? Who had he left behind? Did she miss him?

  He looked up when I entered, then back down at the table.

  "This is a recipe handed down from my great-grandmother, on to my grandma, to my mother, and now to me. Don't even try asking for the ingredients or anything else, because if I told you, I would be forced…"

  He broke off, not wanting to finish the phrase, to kill you. I looked at my plate and back at him.

  "Well, whatever you did, it smells wonderful. I'm starving." I smiled and made a big show of digging in, but all I could do was think. The events of the past few days ran through my head like a slide show. Vernell turning back up should've been the release I needed, but it only made matters worse, because as sure as I sat there eating lemon-cream pasta, I knew he'd be charged with murder by daybreak. That's just the way Vernell lives. If a storm is gonna come up, Vernell's gonna be stuck smack in the eye of the hurricane.

  I looked back at Carlucci and found him watching me, his smoky eyes dark and impossible to read. When he reached for the pepper I found myself watching the muscles in his arms. I wondered what it would feel like to have them wrapped around me. Just as quickly, I shook the image off and swallowed. What in the world was I doing thinking like that?

  As if he read my mind, Carlucci smiled.

  "You should wear that robe to dinner more often," he said. "And let your hair go like that, so it just goes all curly. You ever think about not fixing it up, just leaving it be?"

  "You know," I said, laying my fork down on my plate, "you and my ex-husband would get along."

  "And how's that?" he asked.

  I stared right back at him. "Whenever Vernell doesn't want to deal with something, he starts complimenting me. Here you are, in my house again, without my permission, making yourself at home, and I'm supposed to just take it and go on."

  Carlucci licked his lips. "Exactly."

  "Why?"

  "Because you'll get yourself killed if I don't stick around. Besides," he added, "I think we've got some unfinished business."

  I could feel my face flame up under his gaze, the heat spreading down my neck and into my chest. What did he mean, unfinished business? Who was I kidding? I knew exactly what unfinished business he meant.

  I tossed my hair back over my shoulders and looked at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  Carlucci laughed. "You most certainly do. I can see it in the way you squirm when I look at you."

  I jumped up, pushing my chair back behind me. I didn't want him to see it in my face, to read what we both knew I felt. I didn't want to deal with him. I couldn't face what I felt. Not now, maybe not even later. "I'm late. I've got to get ready."

  Carlucci just stared at me, his eyes roving down the V of my robe, taking his time. "You do that, Maggie Reid, you get ready."

  I turned away from him and stalked off to my room, closing the door and locking it behind me. Who did he think he was?

  Chapter Eighteen

  I left Tony Carlucci and a pile of dirty dishes, headed for the Golden Stallion. If there was one cure for trouble, it was music. It didn't matter how bad things got, or how screwed up my love life was, music was the cure. All I had to do was hear Sparks slide into the intro with his silky pedal steel guitar, and I was transported away from every worry I'd ever known.

  The Golden Stallion club is my home away from home. It sits in a pitted gravel parking lot looking like a derelict, A-framed warehouse just back off busy High Point Road. It isn't a thing to look at, inside or out, but it's where I feel the most like myself of anywhere next to my house or Mama's.

  Of course, just stepping through the doorway makes me sick. The stage fright overwhelms me, right up until the band starts playing my song and I run up the steps, out onto the stage and take the mike in my hands. It was no different tonight than it is any other night. I stepped into the front door, hugged Cletus, the bull-necked bouncer, and ran for the ladies' room.

  But as soon as Sparks launched into "Your Cheatin' Heart," I was out the door and walking up on stage, my heart pounding, my palms sweating, and a huge smile on my face.

  Sparks looked up from the pedal steel, his huge white cowboy hat sparkling under the lights. His mustache takes up half of his face, and when he smiles, he'll melt your heart, but Sparks doesn't give himself away easy. He holds on to that smile and only lets it out when he's assured that he's in charge and things are going his way. I figure it's on account of him being short. He has to set the tone with you, let you know his bite is just as strong as his bark. Tonight he wasn't smiling. I'd missed early rehearsal. I hadn't even remembered it, until I saw the scowl. Oh well, this was just not the day for perfection.

  Harmonica Jack saw me and danced across the stage, the harmonica up to his lips and his eyebrows wiggling with the exertion of playing the melody line.

  I strolled up to him, rubbed up against his shoulder and began to sing. Behind me, Sugar Bear, the rhythm guitar player, stood like a massive dark-haired, bearded mountain man.

  Chris, the lead guitar player, picked out a harmony lead and laid it right down under my vocals.

  We were good, my boys and me, and there ain't nothing like a tune well done to draw a crowd out onto the dance floor.

  "When tears fall down, like falling rain," I sang, and looked out at the dancers. For a moment my mind replayed the image of Bess King, standing outside her barn door, watching Weathers lead Vernell away. And in that same instant I realized who Tony Carlucci worked for. It was as plain as the nose on my face. Bess had hired Tony to find Vernell before her husband or anyone else could.

  I was startled to hear Sugar Bear's strong baritone come in behind me, and realized that I'd stopped singing. Sparks was giving me the evil eye and Jack looked plain worried. I shrugged my shoulders and grinned, like maybe I'd suddenly forgotten the words, but nobody seemed fooled. I sang that song every single night, and I'd never messed up, not once.

  "You all right?" Jack murmured, dancing right up to my shoulder.

  "Yeah, fine, just a little distracted." Behind us, Sparks was playing his solo.

  "You staying with me tonight or what?"

  I held the mike down at my side and looked at him. "It might get dangerous, Jack. I don't want to jeopardize your safety. I could never forgive…"

  "Maggie," he interrupted, "I'm younger than you, but I'm not a child. I know what's going on, and I think we can handle it. Now sing, you're up."

  The words came automatically this time, and all the while I was looking at my friend. When everything else went to hell in a handcart, there he was. He didn't try and sweet-talk me or manipulate me or leave me in the dark. No, he was just himself, calm and steady. Just what I needed when my entire world was up in the air.

  Bess King was at the top of my list for tomorrow, along with Vernell Spivey. Between the two of them, I knew I'd find the key to whatever was going on. I all of a sudden had a business to run. If Vernell was arrested or otherwise incapacitated, I had a 49 percent share of a mobile home lot that was going to one day send Sheila to college. I had to find the money Vernell had run off with and square things with the employees before the Mobile Home Kingdom folded. And if anyone was going to prove to Weathers that Sheila's father was not a murderer, it would have to be me. As for Marshall Weathers, well, it was best not to dwell on him. For a second I felt what it was like to let go of him, to know that he wasn't the one, and that was enough for me. All I needed was my music, and to forget.

  I sang and sang. It wasn't until the third set, the last set of the night, that I noticed Tony Carlucci had come in and somehow gotten himself backstage to stand in the wings, watching.

  He mad
e the band nervous. They kept looking over at him, and he made it worse by staring right back, no smile, no give to his expression. He stood with his muscular arms crossed, wearing a black motorcycle jacket, black jeans, and a very black attitude. When I made eye contact, his facial expression remained unchanged. His eyes flickered from me, to the band, to the house. This wasn't a social call. Carlucci was working, or whatever it was that he did.

  Harmonica Jack edged closer. "You see that guy?"

  I frowned at Carlucci. "Don't worry about him. He's an idiot."

  Jack looked at Carlucci and ran the harmonica along his lips, then pulled it away and started talking. "Well, he sure seemed friendly with Cletus. Two of them were just a-laughin' and slappin' each other on the back awhile ago. Maybe he's a new hire."

  I was watching the crowd. A silver-haired man in new jeans and boots was making his way closer to the stage. He looked out of place and ill at ease, like he was slumming.

  "He's a private investigator," I said. "He wants to find Vernell."

  Jack laughed. "Well, he ain't here!"

  "I know. He thinks if he sticks to me like tape, Vernell will show up. Must not know Vernell's down at the jail-house, entertaining a certain detective."

  Jack played a line or two of the break and then danced toward me again. "That ain't necessarily stupid, Maggie." Then he broke off and stared at me. "What do you mean Vernell's in jail?"

  But I was singing, looking at the young cowboys who danced below me and belting out "Feeling Single and Seeing Double." The silver-haired man was staring at me, his ice-blue eyes almost as pale as his hair.

  "I need to talk to you," he mouthed.

  I looked back at Carlucci, saw him watching, and felt covered. Whoever this guy was, he wouldn't get far if he intended to hurt me. When the song ended, we were done for the night. I looked at the newcomer and nodded him toward the edge of the stage.

  Carlucci took it all in, and Harmonica Jack watched Carlucci, and over it all, Cletus the bouncer was watching. I couldn't have been safer.

  "Archer VanScoy, Ms. Reid," the silver-haired man said. His voice was as cool and slippery as ice. "I tried to reach you at home, but you haven't returned my calls."

  Something about him made me mad straight off. I didn't like him. Didn't like his tone, the way he seemed to be trying to make up to me. So I didn't apologize.

  "What can I do for you, Mr. VanScoy?"

  "Archer, honey, just call me Archer."

  I said nothing. This one here was a snake.

  He didn't seem to mind my obvious coolness toward him. He stared at my breasts and began to talk.

  "Vernell and I were trying to set up a little deal," he said. "I wanted his mobile home lot and Vernell wanted to sell it." VanScoy smiled broadly. "Would've worked out right nice for the both of us. However…" Here he stopped smiling, easing his face into a Teflon-coated expression of sympathy. "I understand Vernell's in a bit of a bind. Now I know you're the other partner, and while we still need Vernell's John Hancock, I feel sure we can wrap this deal up and cut you a check. Money's what Vernell needs now, I'm sure."

  I took another step lower on the stage stairway and stared at him.

  "I'm not sure what bind you mean," I said.

  VanScoy nodded, as if he understood why I might be leery of him. "Well, between us," he said, looking around like a co-conspirator, "Vernell's taking all the cash assets out of the bank, and then disappearing with a large sum given to him by what you call investors is a bit of a bind. Being arrested for Nosmo King's murder, on the other hand, is a legal emergency as well as a bind."

  "I think you've got your facts wrong," I said. "Vernell is not under arrest."

  He leaned back a little, his eyes flashing from my breasts to my face.

  "Honey," he said, "you might want to call down to the police station. The eleven o'clock news was covered over with it. Vernell's been arrested for Nosmo King's murder. They got him locked up tighter than Houdini's trunk."

  Archer VanScoy fished into his suit coat pocket and drew out an embossed business card.

  "Why don't you get up with your husband and then call me? Vernell's gonna need all the help he can get." He hesitated, before he handed me the card. "Of course, some time's elapsed. My original terms have changed. It's one hundred thousand now."

  I turned my back on him and walked up the stairs and onto the stage. All around people moved like ants, disassembling cables and equipment, packing up instruments, and closing up for the night. The house lights were on and the last few customers were clearing out. Tony Carlucci hadn't moved.

  I walked over and stood in front of him, looking right into his eyes without flinching.

  "Vernell's in jail," I said. "If you want him, go get him."

  Carlucci was unreadable. "I know."

  "Then why are you still here?"

  "Vernell's in jail, but the money isn't. They're not going to ease up any with him in jail, they'll just come after you."

  Jack walked around us, behind Carlucci, standing just out of Carlucci's sight, but where he knew I could see him.

  "I can take care of myself," I said.

  "Yeah, I've seen how well you do that." Carlucci pushed off from the wall and looked down at me. "People get right pissed about three million dollars," he said. He took a step closer and I felt the heat radiating from his body. "You don't know what they'll do to get their money back."

  I shuddered involuntarily and Jack started toward us.

  "Maggie, you ready to go?"

  Carlucci stared at him, but Jack didn't move.

  "In a couple of minutes," I said. "I'm just finishing something up."

  Jack took the hint and moved back a few feet, still unwilling to let me be alone with Carlucci.

  "So, you gonna let them kill him too?" he asked.

  "Stop it!" I hissed.

  "Stop acting like an idiot and I won't have to continue to bombard your small mind with the realities of your current situation."

  "Jack's is the safest place I can think of," I said.

  "You want to stay alive? Come with me and let me put you someplace safe."

  He was too close. I had the sudden urge to turn and run, but didn't.

  "I'm not playing with you, Maggie," Carlucci said. "Ditch your friend and let's go."

  I looked at Jack, saw him watching, and smiled a tiny, tight smile.

  "They'll kill him to get to you, Maggie, and he'll die trying to defend you. And don't think they won't hunt you down, because they will."

  "What makes it any safer with you?"

  Carlucci looked at Jack, then back to me. "Because I don't love you, Maggie. This is what I do for, a living, straight up. I find people and I protect people. I'm trained and I'm objective. Your friend isn't any of those things. He'd defend you to the death; you can see that in his eyes. I won't have to."

  I looked over at Jack and saw that Carlucci was right. I turned away and walked over to where Jack waited.

  "He wants me to go with him," I said, "and I have to do it." I raised my fingers to his lips when he started to argue. "It's all right. This is what I want to do."

  And I walked away, knowing I'd hurt him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I woke up at five a.m. because I could feel him watching me. Tony Carlucci had played an elaborate shell game with my car and his motorcycle before putting me on the back of his bike and driving me in a zigzag pattern across Greensboro, south of town to the small village of Pleasant Garden. He stopped several times, waiting, watching, making sure no one followed us, and then proceeded to drive his Harley across a field and up onto the back of his property.

  It was a long, narrow piece of land, rimmed on three sides by a tall, barbed-wire fence. Tony stopped the bike by a gate, unlocked it, and drove the Harley through before returning to lock it behind us.

  "Do you live in a prison?" I asked. Floodlights spotted the backyard, which was filled with fruit trees.

  "Nope, I'm the caretaker," he said.
"It's a concrete factory. They let me live in the house that was here on the property. In return, I keep out the riffraff."

  He drove across the yard, up to the deck that spanned the back of the tiny, brick ranch. The instant we pulled close, a Doberman lunged out at us, his neck bound by a heavy collar that was attached to a thick chain. The muscles corded and strained against the collar and the dog drooled in his attempt to get to us.

  "Popeye," Carlucci called. "It's me, bud."

  Popeye growled, unwilling to accept that I was a guest. I was equally unwilling to accept that Popeye could ever be considered a pet. It was a standoff that only got better once Tony took me inside.

  His house was a monument to cleanliness and order, almost military in its precise attention to detail. Everything had a place and there was no sign of clutter or the dust bunnies that called my house a home.

  Carlucci supplied me with a toothbrush, a comb, even pajamas. But Carlucci was lacking in one essential: There was no guest bed.

  "I'll take the couch," he said.

  "I'm fine with a couch."

  "Be that as it may," he said, "I'm still sleeping on it."

  I stood looking around his room, staring at the pale blue walls, the blue plaid sheets on the bed, the matching pillows, the curtains that hung just so at the windows, and the dresser that had no personal belongings upon it.

  The couch in the living room looked more comfortable than the hard mattress of Carlucci's bed, but beggars couldn't be choosers. I closed the door behind him and was asleep within minutes. How I ever awakened from my coma would remain a mystery, but I did. I felt him watching me, even in my dreamless sleep, and I rose up through the mire of unconsciousness to find him in a chair at the other end of the bedroom, his smoky eyes staring into mine.

  I sat up, still startled and in between sleep and wakefulness. "What are you doing?"

  "Thinking."

  I tugged at the covers, pulling them tighter around me, suddenly cold.