A beam of light fell from the heavens and he felt the warm, golden glow of the fading sun as he caught his first sight of the woman he loved.
Clara stood before a mirror, turning this way and that, as she examined her reflection in a tight gown of shiny red material. The sleek fabric perfectly draped her full bosom, her rounded hips, and gave a glimpse of one long, milk-white leg viewed through a daring slit. Her long blond curls tumbled about her shoulders and looked as if they hadn’t been brushed in several days. Poor girl, she probably had no time to take care of herself, singing from dusk ‘til dawn.
Slade watched with growing anticipation, until she stepped behind a partition to make a small adjustment to her attire. Since there were no screens, it was easy for him to toss the poem, which he’d wrapped around a rock, into the center of the room. At the noise, he heard her startled cry, but he leapt from the roof into the wagon and bounded down to the street. He wanted to whet her appetite for him. It was a game, truly, but one of love. She was not alone in the world. He was there for her, and she would see him tonight.
As he rounded the corner of the old hotel, he heard a muffled scream followed by his name. He smiled with satisfaction as he pushed through the swinging door and walked up to the bar. He’d have a few drinks before Clara’s singing began. That way the evening would go better for both of them.
Lucille sat back in her chair and sighed. Slade was the perfect man. A man of action. A man of strong desires. It was Clara who was giving her trouble. Strong-willed, adventurous, Clara simply wouldn’t behave. She’d lied to Slade and her family, letting them believe she was going off to teach school, when she intended all along to sing in a saloon. But Slade would win her, Lucille had no doubt–and in time for the first meeting of WOMB. Lucille knew she had to have something really good if she was to be taken seriously by the other writers. This was some of her best writing, even if it had taken her forty-five minutes to find the correct spelling of tailbone.
The alarm clock beside her computer shrilled, alerting her to the time. It was nearly midnight. Since Bo had agreed to let the writers meet in his shop, she was making a valiant effort to get to the bank on time. Bo could rescind his permission to use the shop at any time. If Driskell hadn’t urged him to comply, Bo would never have agreed in the first place.
A stillness fell over Lucille as she sat at the computer and thought of Driskell LaMont. He was an unusual guy. Tall, slender … something about him that reminded her of a ripe berry. There was a promise of sweetness. She pondered her reaction to him. It was his lips. She’d examined them as closely as polite observation would allow and she’d come to conclude that they were stained! As if he very carefully held a raspberry between his lips and pressed together to squeeze the juice just so, holding it for a long moment, until his skin had absorbed the color of the berry. But it was too hot in Biloxi for raspberries to grow. Not even the local Piggly Wiggly carried them. A canned raspberry would not work at all. Canned berries were far too mushy.
In truth, her theory had a lot of problems. But it wasn’t only his lips that intrigued her. He watched her. It was as if she held some special fascination for him. Once, he’d even asked how much she weighed.
“Enough,” she had responded.
Driskell’s answer had been a sad smile and a whispered, “Not nearly.”
A secondary shock pulsed through her at the memory. It had been so … erotic. Sitting alone, she blushed. There was something kinky in her reaction to Driskell. A thrill crawled through her stomach and a smile crept across her face.
She reached down and unplugged her computer. It was twelve fifteen. Driskell would be hard at work right this moment. All alone. As hostess of WOMB, it was her duty to go down to the shop and make sure that everything was in order for the meeting. Bo would be sound asleep, like the good worker he was. Droning away in his REM mode with Iris beside him, dreaming of being a contestant on Jeopardy. The way Lucille saw it, Iris’ entire marriage had been preparation for her appearance on the show. As long as there was a category for television, Iris could wipe her opponents out.
Lucille checked the clock one last time, picked up her car keys and her purse. Maybe, just maybe, she would ask Driskell how he kept his lips so red.
Maybe he would tell her.
Lucille’s fingers clutched her purse, and for the first time in forty-eight hours, Slade Rivers was not the man who occupied her thoughts.
Bo’s Electronics wasn’t more than five miles from her apartment, and at twelve-something on a Tuesday, Pass Road was virtually empty. Lucille, in her silver Camaro, had the four-lane mostly to herself. She passed a few of the Keesler airmen, known among the coastal natives as pingers, as they headed back to the base. Their shaved heads reflected the gleaming shades of neon as they drove past a few disreputable clubs. They stared at her, four or five to a car, as she drove by. So young. So eager for experience. So far away from their homes and loved ones. She gave them a sad smile as she left them in her wake. It was heartbreaking to be so young. Only time could cure them of that particular disease.
At age thirty-four Lucille knew she was in her prime. Yet she had made the supreme sacrifice of putting those yearnings away; they interfered with her writing. There were times, though, when she felt herself seething with sexual desire. Sacrifice was part of a writer’s life; not a pretty part, but Lucille knew that no art was created without suffering.
She parked in front of the shop, making sure she locked her car. The neighborhood was full of thieves and vandals. The door was only ten steps away, but she pulled out the canister of red pepper spray Bo insisted she carry. Bo was always worrying about things. One of his biggest problems was that he always expected the worst. So what if he was right? He just made the bad things twice as bad because he knew they were coming, expected to hear them knock at the door. Lucille preferred her own way of going at life. When the bad times struck, she hunkered down and waited for the shit to stop flying. It might smack her on her unprotected head, but at least she didn’t spend her whole life wearing a shit helmet like Bo.
The glow from the televisions stopped her, hand on the door. Bluish light filled with other colors, and it struck the glass windows and refracted into a blur of motion. She thought of a fish tank and smiled. It was Tuesday night. What would be on TV? She wasn’t certain because her viewing habits were so infrequent, and none of the Hares had cable. It was a matter of principle with Bo, and she had her computer. Was Driskell a cable watcher? She didn’t think so.
Easing forward to catch him at work, she was rewarded with a view of him standing at the long work desk. His posture was straight, and his hands were down where she couldn’t see what he was so intently engrossed in. It was the perfect opportunity for Lucille to observe him, something she found she’d been wanting to do. Something she could not stop herself from doing.
Driskell moved through the phantasmagoria of images cast upon the glass by the televisions. His movements were graceful and concise. The images swam over and through him, giving him a substance that belied his gauntness. Lucille found that she was holding her breath and she let it out slowly. A small circle of moisture appeared on the glass in front of her and she pressed her lips into it, feeling both the chill of the glass and the dampness of her own condensed breath. She bent down slightly and watched him through the delicate whorls of her own stenciled lips.
She had never seen such dark eyes, so black and yet so full of light. They were mirror-like, except they did not cast back the images but held the light absorbed from the television screens deep inside. He hadn’t looked up and noticed her yet, but Lucille knew that when he did, she would be drawn to him. Tiny feathers of wind frisked over the backs of her knees, delicious little licks.
As if he felt her gaze upon him, Driskell looked up from the tangle of wires he held and stared directly into her eyes. His lips moved.
“Come inside.”
Lucille could not hear him. Not with her ears. However, she knew exactly what he’
d told her to do. Drawing back from the rapidly fading imprint of her lips, she walked inside.
Driskell smiled at something deep inside himself. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “I knew you would come.”
Lucille shivered, then rubbed her arms.
His smile faded. “Have you been ill? You look as if you’ve lost some weight?”
There was sincere concern in his voice. Lucille shook her head. “I’ve been so worried about this writers’ meeting. What if they don’t like my work?” She blinked back sudden tears and realized she was more distraught than even she had realized. All of this going to work on time and trying to please Everett, then trying to please Bo and the writers. It was a strain.
“They’ll like it.” Driskell looked back down at the wires. “You don’t mind if I work, do you?”
“Not at all.” She settled onto a stool beside the counter and watched his long fingers. They were like gulls, the way they dove into the tangle of wires and came up with just the right one.
“Lucille, I have some questions I must ask you.” “Good.” Lucille felt a tingle of excitement. “I have some for you.”
If he was to accomplish his mission, Driskell had to find a way to get closer to Lucille. This was a good start, but he had to play it carefully. There was also the story in the newspaper he had to ask her about. “Ladies first, Lucille. You ask me.”
“Driskell, why are your lips so red?” She’d been dying to know.
Of all the questions she might have asked, that one took him aback. “Are they too red?”
The pain in his voice momentarily confused her. She hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings. “Maybe it’s just that your teeth are so white.” Lucille found herself staring at his mouth.
“Yes, my teeth are very white.” He put the tangle of wires down on the counter, then eased his hands below to find the newspaper he’d tucked there. “My lips are a result of my lonely childhood and a kind grandmother. Nothing more.”
Lucille heard the sorrow in his voice and chose to back away. “Your eyes, Driskell, they’re almost black.” “The better to see you with, my dear.” Lucille laughed. “I’m no little Red Riding Hood.” “And I’m no … wolf.”
“Oh, Driskell.” Lucille blushed and looked down at the floor. “I do believe you’re flirting with me.”
Driskell saw the blood rise up beneath her pale skin. “I do believe I am,” he said, his voice hoarser than normal, and he found that he was gripping the work table. This was not his assignment. Although Roger had urged him to do “whatever was necessary” to learn about the Hares, Driskell had not expected to feel such stirrings for Lucille. He had to get hold of himself.
The moment was electric, and Lucille felt both compelled and unusually cautious. Driskell was an anti-hero. He was not a man of brawn, yet his effect on her was more pronounced than any flesh and blood man she’d ever met.
A limo swished past, catching her attention and breaking the tension between them. The glide of the big car blended with another movement, something outside the window.
Driskell opened the newspaper. “This was the man who brought the television into the shop last night.” He pushed the article toward her.
She glanced at the picture. The man did look familiar, though she hadn’t paid much attention to the man who’d come in the shop. Driskell had repaired his antique black and white television in a matter of moments and sent him on his way.
“He was apparently abducted after he left here.” Driskell waited for her reaction.
“They must have taken the television, too. Who would want a black and white television?”
“Lucille, he’s a famous scientist.”
She read a few paragraphs of the story that detailed Robert Beaudreaux’s top secret work with Keesler Air Force Base. “So he is,” she answered.
“You know nothing about him?”
She thought back, trying to establish a memory. She’d heard his name. He’d been on some magazine cover, because everyone at the bank talked about it for days. But she never read newspapers or magazines. “Why are you so interested?” she asked. Driskell’s intense scrutiny, his obsession with Robert Beaudreaux, unnerved her. “I have to be going.”
Driskell blocked her access to the door. “Are you sure you don’t know that man? Think, Lucille, this could be important.”
Marvin Lovelace tapped the steel tip of his cane lightly against the broken concrete. The hour was late, and it was dangerous for him to stand about on poorly lit streets. With the disappearance of Robert Beaudreaux, the cops were on the prowl. The heat was on to find the scientist. Not that they ever would. But the kidnapping of Beaudreaux, though necessary, had made Marvin’s job even more delicate.
At the whisper of an approaching car, Marvin slipped into the small alley beside Bo’s Electronics. He could not afford to be picked up by the local cops. Their inept questioning would not reveal anything about him. His past had vanished, a fact accomplished through the wonders of modern technology and an old Colt.45. It wasn’t the most efficient weapon he’d ever used, but it was one of the most beautiful. The only rival was the twenty-four-inch machete he’d had in Panama. The handle had been made from a human tibia, and it was indeed a work of art. It was in ‘73 he’d lost the machete, along with Hermanas, his little Latino assistant. Hermanas was a loss, but like all people, he was ultimately replaceable. The machete was not. Sometimes at night, Marvin awoke with his hand curled in the shape of the fine bone handle of the knife, his thin frame tensed with a surge of adrenaline, ready to fight. He’d never held a weapon more perfectly balanced. More impressively deadly. To this day, he still regretted the loss.
Lifting the cane, he stepped back to the window and pointed it, pressing the small button that was disguised as a lion’s eye in the knob. The cane was an affectation, but one he rather liked. He could have used a pocket camera as easily, and probably with better results. But the cane allowed him to walk the streets late at night, an older gentleman unable to sleep, and certainly harmless. The image would be paid for in grainy photos that required special processing. But Marvin Lovelace had not lived through three public wars and uncountable secret acts of aggression without building a tight network of sources that could provide the best in support services. The irony of the film development made him smile. His source was a local undercover narcotics agent who happened to be a photography shutterbug. Bug being the operative word.
Marvin’s ramble of thoughts had given him a moment’s pleasure, but as he aimed his cane for a second series of photos, all the warm tingle of his memories disappeared. Lucille Hare was leaning her elbows on the work counter where that freak of nature was playing with the wiring of a VCR. Marvin was acutely aware of the Hare woman’s body language. Even a loutish KGB agent could see her sexual interest in Driskell LaMont.
Marvin clicked off a few more shots, wanting a good one of LaMont. His sources had been unable to turn up a thing on the television technician other than that he was from a small New Jersey town, and that he’d left that state after crashing through six toll booths without paying the fare. Marvin had no particular love of toll highways, or anything else that might come from New Jersey, but he did understand the need for an obedient citizenry. Those who hadn’t the balls to lead should follow without complaint, and without creating scenes. There was a remedy for trouble-makers like LaMont. Had he been the token taker, he would have whipped out the AK-47 he always kept close when he was doing enforcement work and blasted Driskell LaMont into the heaven-bound traffic lane. Thus the problem that now faced him would never have existed. Driskell LaMont, an odious creature with strange lips, would have been eliminated months prior. Now he was complicating the matter of the Hares.
Angry at LaMont for showing up in Biloxi just when he was ready to make his move, Marvin failed to catch Lucille as she strolled toward him. It wasn’t until she registered his image outside the glare of the window that he felt her hazel gaze upon him. He looked into her eyes long enough to n
otice, with astonishment, that the skin around her eyes was exactly the shade of gray-green of her irises. Exactly. How was it possible for a woman to match colors so perfectly? Especially one who didn’t have sense enough to get to work on time? He drew back just as Lucille’s lips parted, and he could almost feel the little expulsion of surprise that spun Driskell around to face the window.
Chapter Nine
“Driskell!” Lucille whispered his name but in a tone so urgent he whipped around to face her. “What?” he demanded.
“Someone is spying on us!” The malice in the face that stared in at her made her voice quiver.
Marvin had a last image of Lucille as a fish gaffed and gasping in the bottom of a boat. Cursing under his breath, he turned and fled down the alley beside the shop. He ran everyday. Eight miles. Up and down hills on his friend’s beefalo ranch up near Saucier. He ran for the discipline, and also for such a moment in time as this when his entire future depended on his ability to escape. Sean Connery could eat his heart out. Marvin Lovelace was seventy-six, and in better shape that most men in their forties.
He ran around the back corner of the building, skirting past Bo’s silver Mazda truck. Iris’ gleaming red Mazda 626 beckoned. Marvin had a fleeting thought of the small little.38 Iris kept in her glove compartment. But if he killed Driskell, even though the painted-homo-wimp might deserve a bullet, his entire plan would be screwed.
And he had waited far too long, and plotted way too hard, to throw it all away on the simple urge to step on a roach just for the pleasure of the crunch. Driskell could wait. Once the Hares had been dealt with, Marvin knew he would have plenty of time to enjoy the extermination of the painted one. He gave the side of Iris’ car a vicious thunk with the cane. The satisfying sound of destruction gave him a new spurt of energy as he bounded through the back yard and out toward a sidestreet that led to the Pussycat Club, the perfect hideout.
Shop Talk Page 8
