“Get whatever you want out of the minibar,” she called from behind the bathroom door. “I’ll be right out.”
Chivas Regal looked good. He fixed it with a splash of water. Then he went out on the balcony and watched the crazy-ass tourists frolicking in the waves. Swimming in April. Christ. It was 80 degrees out, but the thought of getting in that water before July gave Butch goose bumps.
Suddenly she was beside him, kissing his cheek, letting her breast brush up against his bare arm for maybe half a second.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said, a sob catching in her throat. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
She’d been crying.
“What is it, Cookie?”
She turned and buried her head in his shoulders, wrapping her long, tanned arms around his neck, pressing herself tightly to him.
“I’m scared,” she sobbed. “I could lose my job. If he fires me, I’ll lose everything. My condo, my car. Everything. I’ll end up on welfare. Oh my God, Butch, I don’t know what to do.”
He buried his nose in her hair. She smelled like a flower garden. Her hair was silky, slightly mussed. His hands stroked the bare shoulders, the arms, rested lightly on that tight little ass of hers. Was she wearing any panties? Then the hands moved slowly upward …
She slid his hands back around her waist. The horny little creep hadn’t changed any. Here she was crying her heart out and he was trying to cop a feel. Better get down to business before he tried to jump her bones right out there on the balcony.
“What is it, hon?” he asked, all loving concern. “Tell Big Butch.”
She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at that one. Yeah, she’d called him that, back in the bad old days, when she was trying to sweet-talk him into letting her have her way. He was Big Butch and Little Butch, well, Little Butch was pressing up against her silk dress in a fairly insistent manner. That was Butch’s main problem in life. He was always letting Little Butch make his decisions for him.
Cookie wiped at the tears on her face, sniffing loudly.
“You didn’t see it on the news?”
“What?” Butch asked, alarmed that she might be referring to the little problem he and Curtis had run into at the dog track.
“Those old people at the Fountain of Youth. They’re making all kinds of trouble.”
Butch wrinkled his brow. “The Fountain of Youth?”
“The place I work,” Cookie said sharply. “Remember, I told you I’m the office manager? I’ve been there a year, Butch.”
“Oh yeah,” Butch said. He remembered no such thing. “The Fountain of Youth. I remember. So what’s the deal?”
She told him all of it.
“And the worst thing is, this horrible nasty little midget. Ollie Zorn, that’s his name.”
“A midget’s gonna get you fired?” Butch asked in disbelief.
“He’s deranged,” Cookie said. “He stood up in this meeting and as much as told me he’d get me fired. And then he tried to get everybody to go on strike. You know, so they won’t get out of the hotel during the conversion. And then today he was on the news. He made us look like we were throwing all these old people out on the street.”
“Why’s that gonna get you in trouble?” Butch asked.
“My boss hates publicity,” Cookie said, “especially bad publicity. The little twerp’s making the church look bad. That makes me look bad.”
“Church?”
Cookie wanted to scream. “The Church of Cosmic Unity. That’s who bought the hotel. Reverend Newby, Jewell Newby, he’s my boss. He’s gonna turn the hotel into luxury condos for church members. But first we have to get these old geezers out of there.”
“Why?” Butch still didn’t get what had Cookie so worked up.
“Because they’re poor!” Cookie shrieked, finally losing it. “They’re old and they’re poor and they smell funny. We want them out.”
“Oh,” Butch said slowly. “What do you want from me?”
“I want,” she said slowly, through clenched teeth, “you … to … get rid of that goddamned dwarf!”
Butch smiled. He pulled Cookie closer, let his hands rest right where her panty line should have been. “Is that all?”
Chapter SIXTEEN
“Palm View,” Truman repeated. “That’s the name of this place. I don’t see any palms. You see any palm trees?”
Jackleen looked around the reception area. They were sitting on an armless turquoise plastic sofa. There was a glass-and-chrome coffee table, and at a right angle to the sofa, an armless orange plastic chair. The floor was white terrazzo. Fluorescent light overhead gave the room a hard blue glare. The coffee table held back issues of Modern Maturity magazine and a display of brochures neatly fanned out over the glass: Managing Incontinence; Estate Planning Tips; Your Role in Elder Care.
“Miss Pearl said there’s a garden in the back where the guests can sit in the sun,” Jackleen said. “That’s probably where they got the palm trees. You can’t put palm trees in a parking lot. People run over them. The Publix near my house, all the palm trees are dead ‘cause the tourists keep backin’ up into ‘em. Check that garden out.”
“Probably plastic,” Truman said, rubbing his arms. “Jeez, it’s cold in here. Why do they keep it so cold? These old people hate the cold.”
Jackleen rolled her eyes. He’d been bitching and complaining about this nursing home from the minute they set out this morning.
“It smells like pee in here,” Truman said. “You smell it?”
She sniffed. “Smells like extra-strength Ben-Gay if you ask me,” she said. “Quit fussin’, Mr. K. This place ain’t so bad. I’ve seen worse.”
“Not me,” Truman said. “I already told Cheryl, if I ever get so bad I can’t live on my own, I want her to get me a suicide cocktail.”
“Hush!” Jackleen said, shocked. “Don’t be talking like that. Here comes Miss Pearl now, pushing Mr. Mel in the wheelchair.”
When the Wisnewskis came into sight, Pearl pushing the chair slowly, a smile pasted on her wan, worried face, Truman gasped despite himself. “My God,” he said.
“Hush,” Jackleen hissed from between clenched teeth.
But it was true. They’d found a bed for Mel at the Palm View Personal Care Home on Tuesday. It was only Friday now. Mel wore a pair of blue print pajamas and a bright red bathrobe that seemed to swallow him whole. A blue knit cap sat on his head and he wore thick wool gloves. His cheekbones protruded from thin, fleshless cheeks and his eyes were sunken back into their bony sockets.
“Well, Mel, look here,” Pearl said loudly as she approached her friends. “You’ve got visitors. Truman and Jackleen. Isn’t that nice?”
Jackleen bent down and kissed Mel’s cheek. “Hi there, Mr. Mel,” she said cheerily. “How are you doing today?”
Mel looked anxiously around for Pearl. “Mother?”
“He’s doing fine,” Pearl said. “He had a big breakfast today, and a nice hot bath, and he’s all excited about going on a car ride with you.”
“Who’s he?” Mel pointed at Truman. “Another spy?”
Pearl laughed nervously. “Heavens, Mel, don’t you remember Truman? Your friend, Truman?”
“He’s a Russian,” Mel declared. “A Commie spy. This place is crawlin’ with ‘em.”
“They let them watch these old movies in the afternoon,” Pearl explained. “The men just love the World War Two movies. This morning when I got here Mel thought I was Lana Turner. He pinched my rear!”
“We’ve got the car right out front,” Truman told Pearl. “You coming too?”
“Not this time. I’m having a meeting with Mel’s doctor. You all go ahead.”
Pearl took Truman’s arm and walked toward the front door.
“It’s bad, I know,” she said quietly. “But he’s not in any physical pain, they tell me. He complains about the cold a lot, so I got him the cap and the gloves. I told him you were coming today. He was so pleased.”
; “But he doesn’t know us. He doesn’t remember who I am.”
“Give him a little time,” Pearl urged. “Talk to him about sports like you always do. Remind him of the things you like to do together.”
She gripped his arm tighter. “Even if he doesn’t remember you, he’s thrilled to have visitors, to get out and go for a ride. He can’t understand why he has to stay here at night, away from me like this. I come every day, you know that, but he doesn’t understand why he can’t come home with me. I tell you, Truman, it’s almost more than I can bear.”
“I know,” he said, patting her hand. “You’ve been a saint.”
“No,” she said fiercely, shaking her head for emphasis. “I’m no saint. You should hear the way I talk to God at night. Yell at him. Cuss at him. Why? That’s what I want to know. Why is this happening to us?”
“Damned if I know,” Truman said.
“It would be better if he was dead,” Pearl said quietly.
Truman pretended not to hear that.
He trundled Mel into the back of Jackleen’s battered old station wagon, then got in beside him.
“Hey,” Jackleen said as they pulled out of the Palm View parking lot. “This is just like that movie Driving Miss Daisy, only it’s all turned around. We got a woman driving two men. What do you think about that?”
“Where are we going?” Mel asked, leaning forward in his seat.
“Where do you want to go?” Jackleen said. “You just name it.”
“The track,” Mel said promptly. “Let’s go to the dog track. I haven’t been this year.”
Jackleen gave Truman a troubled what now? look.
“You don’t remember going the other night?” Truman asked.
Mel’s brow wrinkled. He glanced down at himself. “That’s right,” he said mildly. “It’s daytime. Why am I in my pajamas?”
“You’ve been kind of sick, and Miss Pearl wanted you to be comfortable,” Jackleen said. “Besides, we’re just going for a drive.”
“Say, Mel,” Truman said, “how would it be if we just drove by the dog track? They don’t open till eleven, but we could just look.”
“Okay,” Mel agreed, “I like the track.”
Truman and Jackleen kept up a running conversation as they drove, trying futilely to engage Mel in a discussion of the weather, current events, the passing landscape, even the traffic.
“Look at that clown with the Michigan tags,” Truman exclaimed as they headed north on Fourth Street. “He’s making a left turn from the far right-hand lane.”
Jackleen gave the offending motorist a blast on her horn. “That’s telling him, huh, Mr. Mel?”
“Do it again,” Mel said, gripping the back of the seat with both hands, as though he were on an amusement-park ride.
Jackleen grinned and laid on the horn for three long blasts.
“Hey, Mel,” Truman said, “did you watch that exhibition game on ESPN last night, the Braves and the Dodgers? You know the Dodgers let that bum Strawberry go…”
“I watched a war movie,” Mel said. “The place where I live now, we don’t see ball games. The Braves and Dodgers? Did the Braves pull it out?”
“By the hair on a gnat’s ass,” Truman said. “The game was tied two-two right up until the bottom of the ninth. That new kid they brought up from Richmond—Elliott?— hit a two-out double, brought Andrews in. Great game. I think they’ll go all the way this year.”
Mel’s face lit up now, animated as he listened to Truman run down the Braves’ lineup.
“I hate to miss the ball games,” Mel said. “These old people who live in that place, they like to watch those daytime shows. What are they called?”
“Soap operas,” Jackleen said. “You mean you don’t watch Days of Our Lives?”
“I like ball games,” Mel said stubbornly.
“Tell you what,” Truman said. “Let’s see if we can’t get you a TV set in your room. Then you could watch all the ball games you like.”
“People come into my room,” Mel said. “They come in at night when I’m asleep. They open the cupboards and the drawers and wake me up. But I pretend to be asleep.”
“Oh now, Mr. Mel,” Jackleen said, “That’s probably just the nurses checking to see if you’re all right or if you need anything. They’re not stealing your stuff.”
“They take my clothes,” Mel said. “That’s why I have to wear pajamas.”
Truman stared straight ahead. He couldn’t look at Mel.
“Here’s the track right here,” Jackleen sang out, slowing to a stop at the intersection leading to the parking lot.
Mel pressed his face to the windows. “Let’s go in.”
Jackleen shot Truman another look. “The matinee doesn’t start until twelve-thirty. It’s only ten now. How about we drive out to the beach and look at the water. It’s a real pretty day today. Would you like that?”
“I’d like a beer,” Mel said. “And a cheese dog. That food where I live all tastes like shit.”
“We’ll get you a hot dog,” Truman said, laughing in spite of himself. “The beer might have to wait for another day. Pearl might not like it if we take you back with a snootful.
“We had a good time here at the track the other night, Mel, didn’t we?” he asked.
“The other night?”
“Last Friday. When you and I and Jackleen came over here on the bus. The Snowbird Special. You remember that, don’t you?”
“We were on a bus,” Mel said tonelessly. “It was hot.”
“That’s right! And when we went inside, you went to look for that girl. Racetrack Rosie. Remember?”
“She sells tout sheets,” Mel said. “But I couldn’t find her. I got lost. And then Pearl was mad at me. She called the police and they put me in jail for a long, long time.”
“Uh-oh,” Jackleen said quietly.
“You never found Rosie?” Truman asked. “Never talked to her at all?” He made an effort to sound calm, matter-of- fact.
“Did we win any races?” Mel asked. “I never could find Rosie.”
“No,” Truman said. “We lost.”
“Hot dogs,” Mel said suddenly. “I want a hot dog.”
Chapter SEVENTEEN
Jackie set the stack of paper napkins down beside the plastic tray of silverware, then plunked herself down at a table she’d dragged into the doorway leading to the lobby. She liked to be near the sun, and the dining room was dark this time of day.
It was quiet in the afternoon. She was rolling the silverware, humming softly to herself, when Truman came over and sat down beside her.
He reached for a handful of silver and started rolling it into the napkins.
“You’re doing it wrong,” Jackie pointed out.
He kept on rolling. “You want the help or not?”
“You got a point there,” she said. “How come you’re not over at the Senior Center? Everybody else was going on that field trip over to Busch Gardens.”
“I’ve been to Busch Gardens,” Truman said pointedly.
She put the silverware she’d been rolling into the plastic bus tray. “You’re still upset about Mr. Mel, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “It’s selfish, isn’t it? Looking at somebody else’s misfortune and all you can think about is that’s how you might end up yourself. And you know what the hell of it is?”
“What?”
“Up until a few months ago, right up until the time Nellie died, I never thought of myself as old. I mean, I knew I was in my sixties. But I felt good. I had plans. We had plans. Then I retired, and before we could do any of the things we planned, she was gone, and none of it seemed to matter anymore.”
“What about your daughter?” Jackleen said, choosing her words carefully. “And your grandson. And your friends here?”
“Well, sure. Cheryl and Chip, of course they matter. And Mel and Pearl. But these other folks …” He waved his hand dismissively.
“They’re old,” she guessed.
; He smiled sheepishly.
“You know what you need?” Jackleen said, wagging a finger at him. “You need you a job, Mr. K.”
“I had a job,” he said. “They made me retire when I was sixty-five. Now, I call over to the bureau, just to point out a little mistake, maybe give somebody a lead on a story, they act like I’m some kind of pariah. I called a buddy of mine about this church thing yesterday. You know what the secretary did? She put me on hold. Me. I used to be her boss.”
“Used to be,” Jackie pointed out. “I’m not talking about the kind of job you used to have. I’m talking about giving yourself something to do every day. Something worth getting up for. Worth getting mad about.”
“Like what?”
She shrugged. “Can’t say. All I know is, my grandmama said a body was born to work. She worked right up until the week before she passed, and she was eighty-two at the time.”
“That what you want to do, work right up until the day you die?”
“Maybe,” she said. “I’ve seen people in my neighborhood. Sitting out on porches, hanging out on the corner, doing nothing. Got a dead look in their eyes. I’m not saying I want this job my whole life. I got plans. I’m going back to school, law school maybe, after I save enough money.”
“Okay,” Truman said, adding his pile of silverware to the pile in the bus tray. “What would you suggest?”
She shrugged. “How ‘bout keeping them bloodsucking church folks from kicking us all out of here?”
He shook his head. “Anybody ever tell you you’re a nag?”
The front door opened then and a young man wearing navy-blue coveralls, carrying a clipboard and a toolbox, stepped into the lobby and looked warily around.
“There’s another one of those workmen. They been crawling all over the place all week long,” Jackie said, sniffing. “Looks like they could have spent some money on this place a long time ago instead of waiting until new owners got hold of it.”
The young man’s cap was pulled down low over his eyes. While Jackie and Truman watched, he strode over to the receptionist’s desk, where Yvonne Sweatt was sitting.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said politely. A long time ago, Wade Hardeson had been raised to be polite. “I’m from Gulf Coast Electrical. Somebody called and wants me to check your circuit breaker and take a look at some of the receptacles in some of the rooms here.”
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