“No.” Rat-a-tat-tat. “She’s a pretty brunette. Tall. Curly-headed. Wearing a pair of red boxing shorts.”
She looked down. Son of a bitch! She was. Red shorts and the white T-shirt she’d had on with her jeans—and white athletic shoes. On her hands, Jesus, how could she have not noticed, was a pair of boxing gloves. The bastard had undressed her, at least her bottom half. What the hell else had he done? Her mood jumped from panicked to pissed.
Sam had never been one to bite her tongue. “Listen, jerk. You’ve got the wrong woman tied up here. I’m Sam Adams. I can prove it. Why don’t you check my driver’s license? Assuming you can read. And assuming you kidnapped my purse, too.”
The speed bag stopped. The big silver-haired man, it was him, walked into the light. His shorts had been washed so many times it was hard to know what color they’d been. With them he wore a blue T-shirt that said Bubbles, black boxing shoes, and a big grin. “I’ve seen your license. It’s a good one. Real, too, probably. That’s no sweat, a license in another name. I bet you have a dozen.” Then he climbed into the ring at the corner diagonal to hers and leaned back against the ropes casually, like a man would who was sure of his place in the world. His shirt was blotchy with sweat.
God, he was big. Carrying a tad too much gut, but still, he was muscular and strong. She’d admired his bulk in the parking lot, but that was then. Now it just meant he could snap her neck in no time at all. One good swing with a glove, he’d knock her head right off. Her stomach flip-flopped at the thought of what the ring and the boxing getup must mean: He was some kind of sadistic looney who liked to dress up his victims before he beat them to death. A rich sadistic looney who drove a Rolls-Royce? Why not? As she knew so well from her years of working the crime beat, there was no end to the varieties of mayhem and destruction of which human beings were capable, and in that arena, clothes bespoke the man not at all.
He was talking again. “Jerk? Is that what you called me? Now, Mickey, or would you prefer Miss Steele, Ms. Steele, you ought not to go around calling people names. Especially people who are holding all the cards.”
He did think she was the redheaded Mickey who was clever with the cards. Couldn’t he look at them and see they were two different people? Was he stupid or what? Was she going to die because he was color-blind? Now, wouldn’t that be a joke? A very bad joke, the thought of which was royally pissing her off. “Look, Mr. Jerk. I don’t appreciate your kidnapping me, necking me out, stripping me, and tying me up, do you understand? I especially don’t appreciate the fact that you’re too dumb to know you’ve got the wrong woman. I am not who you think I am. You’re under the misapprehension that I’m a grifter named Mickey Steele, right? Mickey who’s handy with cards? Well, I’ve met her. But I’m not her.”
The big man smiled. It was the same nice smile she’d seen earlier in the parking lot, but she was hardly in the mood to be throwing bouquets. He stood and ambled straight over to her, and then before she had time to think about what he was doing, he’d pulled her to her feet. The rope slipped up the back of the pole. He pushed himself right up against her. It was a full body press, his chest to her breast, his belly, his strong thighs. He pressed against her hard, like a lover.
“You lousy son of a bitch!” she screamed into his neck. She’d be goddamned if he was going to rape her—not while she was alive anyway.
She’d take a big bite out of the soft flesh of his throat, hoping against hope to hit his carotid artery, his jugular. Then with any luck, he’d pump scarlet like a gusher, all down her front. It wouldn’t be pretty, but when it was over, he’d be the dead one. She opened her mouth wide and pulled her head back as far as she could, knowing she had only one chance to sink hard and fast and deep, hoping she wouldn’t puke.
But her target was gone. He’d untied the rope binding her and suddenly jumped back. Now he was dancing on his toes, gloves up. “Are you mad, Mickey? Huh? What do you say? Mad enough to punch?” He tapped her softly on the cheek with his right glove. “What do you say, huh?”
Oh, you bet she was mad. “The name’s Sam,” she spit. Then she swung hard with her right. She missed him by a mile and twirled in a circle. Shit!
He laughed. “Come on, Mick. You can do better than that. You’re punching like a girl.” He gestured with one glove. “Come on, now. Get in closer. Keep your elbows close to your body. Keep your chin down. Bend your knees. Make ’em soft. Now jab!”
She jabbed, but he blocked the punch with his glove and shoved her hand back toward her. Then tapped her a smart one on the chin. It wasn’t even all that hard, but the blow snapped her head like a whip. Her chin hurt like hell.
“Hey!” she said. “That wasn’t fair!”
Then she heard herself, and her stomach flopped. What did she think this was, some kind of game? A situation that called for chivalry? This was no gentleman going easy on the little lady, teaching his sweetie how to box. This was a sadistic son of a bitch who was going to beat her to death, no matter what. And this, no doubt, was his idea of foreplay.
“What do you mean fair?” he laughed. “Didn’t I let you go first? Who got in the first two punches, Mickey?” Then he tagged her with a left to the body.
Shit! That hurt, too. Her ribs were probably smashed. He was going to pound her to pieces. She squinted and tried to see out of the ring, into the gloom. Was there any way out of here?
“No exit, Mick. Not a prayer. Give it up. Now, look back here.” He was gesturing at her with his glove again. “Come on, give me your best shot. I know you’ve got the stuff. Anybody who teams up with Doc’s got to have some moxie. The man’s a killer.”
Sam stopped dead and dropped her gloves. “Who the hell’s Doc?”
“Don’t give me that crap, Mick. Get those gloves up. Now keep moving. Move. Up on those toes. Dance.”
She did as she was told. She sure as hell wasn’t going to stand there and let him punch her like a weight bag.
He was dancing, too, moving backwards clockwise. He was light on his feet for such a big man. “Obviously,” he said, “I don’t have any beef with you. Just tell me, what’s on Doc’s mind?”
“What I’m telling you is I don’t know any Doc.”
She tried one with her left, which he blocked. Then she tried to sucker-punch him in the gut, sneaking her right underneath. But he was too fast. Fast and light on his feet. Her hands were beginning to hurt in the heavy gloves that smelled like a refrigerator gone bad.
He said, “Doc’s got to know I’m here. So what’s the deal?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know Doc. I don’t know what the hell you want me to say.” She could hear herself getting whiny. God, she hated that. She punched again with her right and missed. She really wanted to smack him. She moved in closer. She could smell his sweat, or was that her? Could he smell her fear? Did it turn him on?
“Tell me, Mick, did Joey send him?” Then he added, like he was talking to himself, “I don’t think he did. Joey wouldn’t do that.”
“Joey who?” She was starting to sound like a fishwife.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know Joey Cangiano.” Now he was dancing forward, closing in on her, taking the lead around the ring as if they were doing the foxtrot in boxing shorts. “Come on, Mick. Joey the Horse?”
Hey, she did! “Sure, I do! I do know Joey. Joey from New Orleans?” Joey, head of the Big Easy’s wise guys, former employer of her friend Lavert, Harry’s best friend and partner in the barbecue business. That Joey the Horse?
“Good girl.” He smiled. “See, I knew you’d come around.”
“But that doesn’t mean I’m Mickey!” She jabbed with her right, and this time her glove sneaked past his block and popped into his gut. Jesus, that felt good! She grinned. She was pumped.
He grinned back. “You want to hit me again? Huh? A little contact, does that loosen your tongue?” He lowered his gloves, and she danced right up and took her best shot. She popped him one on the jaw. Yes! She felt like Rocky.
She swiveled her hips to the right like he showed her and landed one on his shoulder that had a real pop to it. That was better than good. That was great! There was something very satisfying about this boxing business.
As long as you were the one doing the punching.
They were bouncing and bobbing and weaving now in a pugilistic tango. “So,” he said, “Joey sent Doc to do me?” He shook his head and looked sad. Genuinely hurt. His voice grew softer. “That’s really disappointing.”
“I didn’t say that. All I said is I know Joey.”
“Okay. That’s enough.” And with that, he stepped right into her again, pinning her arms to her sides. She struggled, but he had no trouble backing her into the corner once more. He pressed his wet body against hers, which was just as damp. He pulled her arms behind her. She couldn’t fight back. Her arms were exhausted, overcooked spaghetti. Her hands were meatballs.
Using the same rope he’d pulled from the comer post, he trussed her up. But she was freer this time, tied neither to the stool nor the post. And her feet were free. One chance, Sam. Do it. She stomped as hard as she could on his foot. He didn’t even flinch. But when she raised her right knee higher, he jerked clear and stepped around behind her.
He wrapped her into a warm embrace. His lips moved against her ear like a kiss. “Good thing you didn’t kick me in the balls, Mick. You’d be very very sorry.”
And what would be the point? The pain wouldn’t kill him, only make him mad. And then what?
“Do you sleep on your back or your tummy?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Back or tummy?”
“None of your business. What makes you think I’m going to sleep anyway?”
“You will after a while.” Then he jerked the rope and she fell to the mat, hard. “Now, back or tummy?”
“Stomach.” She spit the word. She’d banged her head, it hurt, and she’d failed. She was no closer to getting free from this maniac than when she’d regained consciousness. She was still tied up. She was a dead woman.
Then he gently rolled her over, pulled off her boxing gloves, and pushed a cushion under her head. He threw a soft blanket over her and patted her on the fanny. “Sweet dreams, Mick. I’ll turn out the light.”
And he did. She groaned. The room was dark as a tomb, she was scared, and she had to pee something awful.
16
DOC WAS TRYING to keep his dream in his mind: the Sea Islands off Georgia, South Carolina, his gypsy wagon, the silver Airstream. He even tried picturing the beach and the surf. But none of it did any good. Speed McKay was driving him nuts.
They were sitting in the kitchen of the big stone house on the edge of Lake Ouachita. “So, Doc,” Speed was saying, “as long as we’re here, got a little time to kill, what do you say we play some cards? Want to play a little gin rummy? Huh?”
Doc had said to Mickey earlier, I’ll run into town and make the phone call to the bride-to-be, pay phones being the only kind they used, avoiding a trace in case Jinx hadn’t paid attention to what they’d told her about the cops.
Now Speed was saying, “What do you think, Doc? A little gin to kill the time before my darling bride-to-be comes through? Of course, poker’s my game. I’ve played in Hong Kong with gold bullion in little red silk bags, had to fight my way out of a back room, knives, swords, hatchets, sharp things flying everywhere you looked. It wasn’t pretty. I wouldn’t kid you about that, Doc. No shit. Just giving you a friendly warning, before we deal the cards. Only a friendly piece of advice.”
As if Doc hadn’t heard this routine a thousand times before. Or it seemed that way. Actually, he and Speed had only worked that little time together, maybe a month or so, for Jack Graham down in New Orleans. It was one of the few jobs Doc had ever held, seeing if he liked the track. He didn’t. Even though the action moved around—Florida, Louisiana, Arkansas—up the East Coast, it was still too confining for him. Maybe his ma had been right; she’d always said, Forget the gajo in you. Gypsy blood will out. Whatever it was, he sure didn’t like staying still. And he hated being cooped up like this, especially with Speed. He’d told Mickey that from the beginning: He didn’t know if they could all work this scam together. The little man made him crazy. Mickey had said, Don’t worry, I’ll hang out with him.
But when Doc had said that about his running into town, making the call from the pay phone, Mickey’d snapped back, You and whose army? If I don’t get away from that little motormouth son of a bitch, I’m grinding him up, we can ship him back to this Jinx by the pound, she can make spaghetti sauce.
In the end, they’d tossed for it. She’d nixed Doc’s using his own coin, knowing that he had a pocketful of the Heads I win, Tails you lose variety. So they flipped with hers, his knowing it was gaffed, too, but also knowing that he didn’t want to leave her alone with Speed.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her.
Okay, so he didn’t trust her.
The truth was he didn’t trust anybody. So what if Mick hadn’t screwed him over yet, in the months they’d been together? He’d known lots of hustlers with more patience than that. For all he knew, Mickey could see their whole time together as a temporal and floating version of the big con.
Just like he did.
The difference was, there was no doubt in his mind that when push came to shove, he was the one walking away with the fat score. Add that to the stash he’d been building all these years, he’d never have to pull a bajour again.
And what the hell? He was getting old. Tired. It was his turn. Mickey was young—and female. She had plenty of time before she hit 40 and wouldn’t be fresh and pretty enough to pull the big fish.
And Speed? Speed didn’t count at all. Though Speed had turned them on to the possibilities here and provided the bait, well, that’s what Speed was. About as important to Doc as an earthworm.
“You want me to make us something to eat before we deal?” Speed was standing now, halfway to the stove. Earlier they’d been drinking tea. Strong tea, the way Doc’s ma made it, and sweet with jam. Pearsa had used sliced oranges, peaches, plums, strawberries, whatever fruit was in season. Or jam, when nothing was. Doc liked it with jam.
Mickey was always after him, saying it was a wonder he had any teeth at all. The truth was, he had strong white handsome teeth with never a cavity.
Now he sipped from his cup, leaned back against his chair, adjusted the shoulder holster and the Hardballer .45 he’d been carrying since the three of them had waltzed through the door last night, Speed crowing at the top of his lungs, We’re gonna be rich! Mickey didn’t like the gun, but what did she know?
Of course, he hadn’t told her about Jack Graham. He hadn’t mentioned a word about their mutual hate-on. He’d known he’d have to finish it since he’d left those mutts in Jack’s yard. It was Jack or him, and Jack had started it. Jack’s the one accused him of fucking up, called him out like he was some kind of kid. Hell, he had years on the man, eons if you were talking experience. In any case, the big score was one thing, but the stronger attraction to Hot Springs for Doc was Smilin’ Jack. Doc was itching to do that sucker, have their shit over and out.
Now he was watching Speed. The little man had thrown open every knotty pine cabinet door in the kitchen, every drawer, and he was standing in front of the refrigerator, it open, too, of course, and the freezer, frigid air curling out like fog, the power cutting on. It really was a good thing Mickey wasn’t home. She’d have broken Speed’s fingers, slamming those doors closed. Which, come to think of it, wasn’t such a bad idea.
Just listen to the little man now: “Well, sir, you don’t have much choice in here in the way of foodstuffs, no sir, you don’t. But we’re not going to let that stand in our way. No siree, we won’t. I was raised in the got-a-lemon, no problemo, make-lemonade school of being grateful for what God ga
ve you. Be glad you’re not in one of those forsaken countries, and God knows I’ve been in plenty of those, Africa, Southeast Asia, you name it, we soldiers of fortune went where we were needed, break your heart to see people standing around starving to death, drinking their own slops. You know what I mean?”
Doc didn’t bother to answer. He just tapped his left boot, trying to keep himself from kicking Speed’s teeth down his throat.
“So, we’ve got some leftover Kentucky Fried chicken, I can pull off the skin, dice that up with a little mayo, some fresh-ground pepper, and, yep, here’s some celery, have a nice chicken salad. I can do that. No problemo. If we had some good oil, I could make us some homemade mayo. But we don’t. And no good bread, but no problemo, we can toast up these English muffins. You know where English muffins came from? I’ll tell you.”
Doc stopped him before he did. “Speed, I knew you were an operator. But I never realized you could cook.”
“Oh, yes,” said Speed. “Yes, I certainly can. Man of many talents, my dear old mother used to say, bless her heart. Mother taught me many things. But one of my favorites is her fried chicken. Do you know how to make fried chicken, Doc? It’s easy as can be. Yes, it is. No problemo, you’ve got the basic ingredients. Let me tell you while I whip up this chicken salad.”
Doc pushed back from the table. “Excuse me. I’m gonna run up and get some cards while you do that. When I come back down, I’m gonna kill you.”
17
THE LIGHTS SNAPPED on, and Sam jolted out of sleep and darkness. Where was she?
Then she tried to move her arms, and she remembered. She was lying facedown in the boxing ring, trussed like a stupid chicken.
She called into the bright silence, “Hey! Kris Kringle, is that you? Are you here?”
Nothing. Well, if he hit her again, she was going to pee all over the mat. But, who knew, that kind of thing might be right up his alley. Jeetz, she hoped not.
What was this place anyway? She wanted to know.
He Was Her Man Page 13
