82 Desire

by Smith, Julie

  That could be a good sign, he thought. I don’t have my old number, either.

  Let’s see now. He had a son. Bad actor, though. Always in trouble. Ah, yes. Son-in-law in the air-conditioning business. But what was his name?

  A little conference with the Yellow Pages, and he had it: “Neville. Like the brothers.” He could hear the guy saying it now. It was too late for business hours, but there was an emergency number. Ray dialed it and waited for a callback, which came within the half hour—maybe the longest half hour of his life. Larry Neville himself called, and seemed all too happy to put his father-in-law on the line. (“Are you kidding? No trouble at all. It’s got the hell beat out of going out to fix an air conditioner.”)

  Ray could hear Marion Newman in the background. “Who? Do I know a Ray Boudreaux? Who the hell’s that? Don’t want to talk to anybody.” He sounded like a crotchety old fart—the Newman Ray remembered was a perfectly turned out, perfectly polished gentleman.

  His hello was even nastier than Talba’s.

  Ray said, “You remember me, Mr. Newman. Hyacinth Oil.”

  “Why, Mr. Boudreaux.” The old fart was suddenly reformed. “It’s a pleasure to hear from you.”

  “How’re you doing, Mr. Newman?”

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Definitely didn’t want to get into the story of his life.

  “I think we might have something in common, Mr. Newman. If you can just give me a few minutes of your time, I think we might be able to help each other.”

  “Very well, sir. You have my full and complete attention.”

  “I’m wondering if you know a man named Russell Fortier.”

  “Russell Fortier, you say? Why no, but that name’s been comin’ up lately. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m going to put it in a nutshell, Mr. Newman. I don’t want to waste your time or mine. I’ve lost my company, thanks to some very dirty tricks played on me by United Oil. I have … information that something similar might have happened to you.”

  “You do, do you? I guess you can’t trust anybody these days.”

  “Meaning large and powerful corporations? I’d say it’s a risky business at best.”

  “Meaning the police. I thought they were supposed to be like priests.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Two in one day is just a little coincidental for subtlety.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, sir.”

  “No sooner do I get through pouring out the whole sordid story to that diesel dyke of a cop than the phone rings, and it’s you.”

  “Diesel dyke?” What on earth could the man be talking about? “Oh. Do you mean Skip Langdon?”

  “You know damn well I do, and what kind of name is that for a girl?”

  “Mr. Newman, I assure you I’m not in touch with Detective Langdon or any other police officer. I got your name from another source entirely.”

  “Is that right?” Newman sounded utterly unconvinced.

  “Look, I’m calling because I hoped we might work together.” He was about to elaborate, but Newman interrupted.

  “Tell me something, Mr. Boudreaux. Did you always pay your royalties on time?”

  “We tried; we certainly tried. But you know how it is. I can’t say that we did, no.”

  “Is that how they got you?”

  “What? On delinquent royalties? Oh, no, they were much trickier than that.”

  “But you were guilty of it and so is everybody else in the industry. Am I right about that?”

  “Well, sir, I wouldn’t argue that.”

  “Well, I’m the one they dragged down with it. They not only got my company, they made sure I turned up tarnished in front of God and everybody. Including my late wife, rest her soul.”

  The last thing on Ray’s agenda was stopping the conversation to make his manners. But there was no help for it. He offered his condolences in as abbreviated form as he dared, and as soon as he decently could, he said again, “Listen, Mr. Newman, I’m calling because I’m hoping we can work together on this.”

  “That would depend, sir, on what we’d be working on.”

  “I’m hoping for a class action suit. But first I’m trying to find out if there’s a class. We both just found there are at least two of us, and I think that’s exciting.” Exciting was hardly the word for it. Ray’s heart was about to pound out of his chest.

  “What do you want from me?”

  Those words, Ray thought, for openers. Yes, Lord! Thank you, Jesus. “I just thought we might put our heads together and trade information.”

  Newman went irascible again, having evidently had a moment to let his brain catch up with his mouth. “Two in one day! That’s just a little much, don’t you think?”

  “This Russell Fortier thing’s about to bust open, Mr. Newman. That’s what the whole thing’s spinning around right now. The cops are trying to find him before we do.” His heart in his mouth, he asked, “You don’t have any ideas, do you?”

  “Ideas? I’d barely heard of the man before I read about him in the paper—I didn’t even know he was married to Bebe Fortier.”

  “Wait a minute—United must have made you an offer.”

  “Oh, yes, certainly they did. But Russell Fortier was never involved.”

  “Oh. Well, then, who did the offer come from?” Ray tried to keep his voice as level as possible.

  “Man named Beau Cavignac.” For the first time, Newman chuckled. “Sounds like somethin’ out of Gone With the Wind, doesn’t it? He wasn’t nearly as dashing as he sounds. Little roly-poly fellow. You’d swear he was just barely competent.” He paused and chuckled again. “Some kind of Peter Falk-Columbo act. The man’s a great actor, I’ll tell you that.”

  Ray chuckled along with him, thinking that at last he might be getting somewhere. “Mr. Newman, could we get together and talk about this?”

  “I don’t know what there is to talk about. I don’t know anything else.”

  “Okay. Let’s leave it like it is for now. I know it’s a lot to assimilate—the fact that they did this as policy. But I believe they did and I believe we can prove they did. And I believe we have recourse. Let me just give you time to think it over, and then I’ll call you back.”

  “Fair enough, Mr. Boudreaux. Fair enough.” His voice told Ray he’d already started processing it.

  Ray disconnected, feeling triumphant, almost ready to holler out at Cille that things were finally starting to break, when he heard the little stutter tone of his voice mail. He decided to check it before hollering, to see if anything else good had happened. It was Ronnie, his son.

  “Dad, I need a little help. I’m in … uh … Central Lockup … uh … there’s been a little trouble. If you could do anything to get me out of here, I’d really appreciate it.”

  Central Lockup? How was Ray supposed to take that in?

  But he grasped in a millisecond the fear and misery in his son’s voice. It was heartbreaking to hear the boy trying so hard to be cool, yet unable to hide his desperation.

  Ray hung up the phone and walked very quietly out of the house, trying not to attract Cille’s attention. Now if he could just get away…

  He backed his car out of the driveway at about sixty, swung around, and laid rubber like some high school gangster. But at the end of the block he slowed to a normal pace—Cille wasn’t going to run down the street chasing him.

  He drove over to South Broad Street—the thing was somewhere near police headquarters, he knew that much—trying to picture his baby son, towheaded Ronnie, in Central Lockup. Thank God Cille hadn’t picked up the phone—maybe he could solve this thing, whatever it was, without her even having to know about it.

  Central Lockup (officially the Intake and Processing Center), which sounds like something out of prerevolutionary Russia, in fact looks more like an airport waiting room than a jail. Ray exhaled as he walked in, realizing that he’d pictured an environment where everything was metal, a good deal of it rusty, all of it clank
ing. On the drive over, he could almost feel a coldness that permeated first the air and then the brain of anyone who breathed it, detaching it from the skull, spinning it around like some mad, squishy top.

  When he saw the reality, his spinning brain had only one thought: This isn’t so bad.

  Yet reason told him it could hardly be worse.

  He let himself be led docilely through the steps in getting his son out of jail—he had to find a lawyer who could get a bond set, then find some cash, a near impossibility, and then a bail bondsman. Then he had to post bond, and then he had to get his son in the car and take him somewhere other than home—he couldn’t really be around him right now—and listen to how he had been stupid enough to get busted for a joint or something.

  It turned out it was theft—or that’s what the cops called it.

  He had yet to hear Ronnie’s version.

  He already knew a lawyer from his troubles over his lease, and the lawyer was home and so, in time, was a judge. Ray used his ATM card to get the cash.

  His normally red-cheeked son was as pasty as cinder blocks. The boy’s hazel eyes—neither brown nor really green—were huge with remorse and pleading. I’ll do anything. I’ll go back to first grade and start over. I’ll be a Cub Scout again, I’ll clean my room every day, I’ll scrub the toilets, for Christ’s sake. Just take me out of here now!

  And after Ray had, when Ronnie was safely in the car, he said, “What if your mother had had to see that?”

  “Dad, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I could kill myself. I swear to God I could.” And at nineteen years of age, he burst into tears.

  Ray drove round and round till the tears dried up and Ronnie could tell his story. “It was just a big misunderstanding,” he said. “You know? I picked up two shirts instead of one. I was at The Gap, shopping, and I bought this blue polo shirt, but then when I walked out, this guy stopped me—this guard or something. He searched my bag, and sure enough, there were two in there. I don’t know how the other one got there—I swear I don’t.”

  “Son, don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  He was, though. Ray felt as if a Toyota had been lowered onto his chest.

  Much as Ray wanted him out of his life right now, Ronnie lived at home and it would probably be best for him to be there until things cooled a little. So, against his own wishes, Ray took the boy home.

  He had called Cille from the processing center, to say Ronnie’d had a little trouble and they’d be home soon. She was waiting up, and when she saw her son, she asked no questions, simply enfolded him in her arms. And when she had hugged him enough, she said simply, “Go to bed now.”

  Ronnie certainly didn’t wait to be told a second time. He disappeared around a corner, not even detouring by the kitchen—and he had to be starving.

  When they heard the door to his room close, Cille came close and hugged her husband this time. “What’d they do to him?” She was wearing only a T-shirt and a robe, which was now gapped open to reveal a pair of black bikini panties. To him, she looked like a high school girl.

  Ray nodded to himself, not even realizing he had done it. She had a right to know, and he knew she could take it. He told her.

  She said, “Oh, honey! Oh, honey, we can’t even say, ‘You don’t have to steal. If you need shirts, just ask us,’ like normal parents would.” She started to cry.

  “Yeah.” That was the part that got him, too.

  “Those bastards have done this to us, Ray.”

  He only nodded.

  “They don’t know who they’re fooling with. They really have no idea what’s coming at them.” It was scary how much alike they thought.

  Twenty-one

  RUSSELL HAD NEVER been all that fond of Fort Lauderdale, and now he was growing to hate it. The good things were the beach and the old marina, straight out of John D. MacDonald. But the bad things were myriad. There were the wall-to-wall condos, the acres of low-ceilinged ‘50s houses, the dumb bars where they had hot-bod contests and wet T-shirt contests and raw oyster-eating contests and, unwittingly, dumb-joke, dumb-line, dumb-talk contests. And there were the horrible restaurants. He’d found a good place for sushi, and one where they had nice Asian dishes, but mostly it was suburb cuisine—plenty of salt, not much style. This might not mean much to most people, but it was the kind of thing a person from New Orleans noticed.

  He’d only gone there to get the Pearson, and make plans for what to do next, but so far he had only one plan—lose Dean Woolverton. Dean was like an albatross around his neck—he wished he’d never heard of the man—but he owed him. He owed him because it was his stupid name that had caught Dina Wolf’s attention.

  Dina Wolf was certainly the most interesting thing about Fort Lauderdale, by far its most unique property. Plenty of towns had beaches, but few had wild, wriggling aliens with animal names.

  He was established here as Dean Woolverton (meaning he had a phone, a leased car, a boat, and a slip for it), which made it tempting to stay a little bit, except that he was so restless. What he really needed were some papers—a driver’s license, passport, maybe even a credit card, though how an imaginary person got credit, he wasn’t sure. But he figured with the amount of dope traffic in Miami, South Florida was the counterfeit-papers capital of the universe. It was just a matter of getting to know the right people. And figuring out who he wanted to be.

  Dean Woolverton was three things and three things only, it seemed to him: blond hair, an earring, and a name. He’d already dumped the earring and started growing a beard. Now all he had to do was figure out how to change his hair color and name without arousing the suspicion of the only person he knew. He could, of course, simply set sail for somewhere else—even somewhere close, Delray, say—and that would be that. But, aside from the Pearson, Dina Wolf was all he had. Literally all he had—the only person he had to talk to, the only distraction from a life of solitary afternoon movies. He was desperate to buy golf clubs, but he had no idea how much the fake papers were going to cost, or how much he’d need for other expenses. He had treated himself to a tennis racket, and occasionally took out his aggressions on yellow balls.

  He still had hopes for the vagabond life, once he started actually living it. He could just sail to the Bahamas and gunkhole around, living on the boat and buying groceries now and then, occasionally consuming a beer at a bar in some lonely port, so as to keep in touch with the human race. That was all he really needed.

  But in the meantime, he was uncomfortably dependent on Dina Wolf. She was just so damn fascinating to try and figure out. Plus great in bed.

  He’d taken to calling her so much she had said, “Don’t you think we’re moving too fast?”

  It stopped him cold. It really hadn’t occurred to him they were moving anywhere at all. He was so taken aback he could only stammer. “I didn’t … I mean I don’t…”

  She nodded. “Right. And that’s how men and women are different. Look, you’re recently out of a marriage, or maybe still in one, I can’t tell, and you’re not used to being alone. I, on the other hand, have a life, such as it is. I don’t want you messing it up.”

  “Messing it up. You mean it’s messy having me phoning when maybe you’re entertaining someone else? Or… you mean you’re spending too much time with me and not getting enough sleep?”

  He was trying to think of other explanations when she said, “Are you being deliberately obtuse, or are you really that innocent?”

  Russell felt like some bumbling professor in a Jimmy Stewart movie. What was it with this girl?

  She said, “Listen, let’s understand each other. You’re just looking to pass the time, but you’re taking all my time. This is usually considered a sign of serious intentions.”

  Though they were only talking on the phone, he was blushing. “Dina, listen, I’m sorry. I never for a minute meant to give you that impression.”

  “I know that. Dean, and you didn’t.” She sounded angry. “What I’m saying is, y
ou’re breaking the rules—you can’t have your cake and eat it, too.”

  He was hugely embarrassed. His mother had taught him better than this—or at least he knew that was how one behaved when dealing with women like Bebe. He had somehow thought that women one met in places like the Bootlegger played by different rules. He simply did not know how to deal with this woman. What the hell was he supposed to say now?

  But she saved him. “Look. Think about it and call me back when you feel like it, okay?”

  She hung up, leaving him exhausted.

  What the hell to do? He put his hands behind his head and lay back on his bunk, feeling about as depressed as he’d ever been in his life.

  And then slowly, a plan began to form, a plan born out of the outrageousness that had spawned the Skinners—a plan that made him laugh.

  He called her back, held his nose, and pitched his voice a couple of octaves higher than normal: “This is Western Union, we have a telegram for Miss Dina Wolf, please do not interrupt—our time is of the utmost essence. Is Miss Wolf available, please?”

  “This is…”

  “Please do not interrupt. Mr. Dean Woolverton requests the pleasure of Miss Wolf’s company at dinner Wednesday night and dancing afterward. If such an arrangement meets with Miss Wolf’s approval, Mr. Woolverton will call for Miss Wolf at seven-thirty o’clock. Dress is, of course, optional. It will not be necessary for Miss Wolf to bring her own bottle.”

  She chuckled. “A for effort, Dean. But not A-plus, since Wednesday’s tomorrow night. And by the way, it’s Mrs. Wolf. As it happens, I’m free.”

  A dial tone buzzed in his ear, and he felt suddenly bereft. He hadn’t realized how much he enjoyed their time together, or how callously he’d seen her merely as a way to pass the time. That “Mrs. Wolf” bit hurt—she evidently meant he’d never even asked her if she’d been married, but surely he must have. He wasn’t that self-involved.

  He wondered what she did on nights home alone by herself. He hadn’t heard a television. Maybe she read. What? he wondered. Romances? The classics? Self-help books, maybe—Women Who Love Men Who Are Truly Buttholes. Maybe that was what the lecture was all about.