A Kiss Gone Bad (25 page)

‘There you go, darling,’ the man said.

She wetted her lips with her tongue. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m your new lover.’

A sick chill goose-pimpled her skin. ‘Will you take off the blindfold?’

‘Not for a while. More fun this way.’

Fun. That word again. ‘Where am I?’

‘Heaven.’

‘Where’s Junior?’

‘Hell. Where he belongs.’

She offered a fake, soft laugh. ‘No, really.’

‘Junior isn’t going to bother you anymore. I took care of him for my sweet darling.’

‘Why am I here?’

‘I need you,’ he said.

Her tongue felt dry as dirt again. ‘Yeah, baby, I can sure understand that. We all need. Perfectly natural.’ She used her
film voice, coy, trying to keep from shaking. ‘But I can’t give you what you need all tied up, baby.’

‘Quiet now,’ he said, brushing her hair with his fingertips.

‘I have a name, baby. Velvet.’

He hummed, low in his throat.

‘You untie Velvet, hon, you let me go, I’ll give you what you need.’

She felt a finger run along her naked breasts, her stomach, the cup of her navel. She suppressed a shudder.

‘What’s your name, honey?’ she asked.

She heard the chair shift. She could smell his breath, reeking of garlic and fried shrimp. He nibbled her ear and ran his
tongue along its edge.

‘What’s your name?’ she tried again in a whisper, her voice cracking.

‘My name is Corey,’ he whispered back. ‘Corey Hubble.’

Then he climbed on top of her. She began to scream.

Whit drove, following Highway 35 as it snaked up the slow curve of the Texas coast, merging into Highway 288 north of Freeport,
then sliding onto Interstate 10’s thick rope when he reached the sprawl of Houston. He crept through Houston’s never-ending
rush-hour traffic and headed up toward the deep pine forests and shallow bayous of far East Texas. He could take I-10 to Beaumont
and then 87 North to 1416, a farm-to-market road to the little town of Missatuck, where he suspected Kathy Breaux was waiting
for Pete and her unexplained money.

Whit reached Beaumont around eight Friday night. The towers of the refineries glowed like an alien metropolis. With his window
cracked he could smell the sour egg odor of natural gas and chemical plants, overpowering the barest hint of pine.

Hungry, he parked in the oil-stained lot next to a cheap diner with a neon fork spearing the window. In the counter he ate
a greasy hamburger topped with kill-your-neighbors-strength onions and gulped a jumbo glass of iced tea. As he ate, he studied
again the clipping file that Patsy had sent. He reread each article and found himself going back to the first article outlining
Corey’s disappearance:

‘Corey is impulsive,’ Senator Hubble said in a brief statement to the press. ‘I don’t think Corey wants to be spending much
time in Austin. I have no reason to suspect that Corey has run afoul of someone. I hope that if he is reading this he realizes
the joke is over and he should please call us soon.’

The accompanying photo showed a stolid yet pained Lucinda Hubble leaving the Port Leo police station, brave, head held high
but wearing dark glasses. A clearly shocked Pete, young beyond his years, walked next to her, grimacing. Delford stood next
to Lucinda, a Rock of Gibraltar.

Of course he had.

The phone call to Georgie Whit had placed yesterday was a simple question of whether there had ever been rumor of a relationship
between Lucinda Hubble and Delford Spires. Georgie, the human archive of local lore and gossip, had said, ‘Well, they’ve always
been friends. I wondered if Delford wanted more at one point. But I guess any chance of romance fizzled after Corey vanished.
Lucinda never let another man close to her.’

It was circumstantial, it was wispy hearsay, but it made Whit wonder. A boy who felt anger and unending grief over his father’s
death and acid resentment toward his mother would not welcome a new suitor. Whit had felt the same sting when Babe split with
Georgie and began wooing local divorcées. He had cordially hated all his father’s girlfriends. Childish, yes, but common.
But he still could not envision Delford ruthlessly killing a teenage boy.

He gathered up his papers and walked out of the diner, heading across the dark plain of the parking lot.

‘Hey, fucker,’ a voice boomed, and a hand borrowed from Goliath grabbed Whit off his feet, dragged him several feet behind
the building, and slammed him into the back brick wall of the diner. The back of his head hit hard and pinwheels filled his
vision. Whit lashed out with a fist and grazed a temple. He blinked and cool fingers curled into his throat, making themselves
at home, squeezing the life out of him. His head pounded back into the bricks.

‘Hey, fucker,’ the voice repeated. ‘Gonna talk.’ In the dim light Whit could see Mr Words was a young, rough kid with thick
arms, big hair, and a pair of narrow-lensed sunglasses most commonly found on pimps. He’d seen the guy before. The muscled-up
kid at Junior’s condo. Out of the corner of his eye Whit saw more movement, heard the quiet creak of a wheelchair.

Oh, shit.

‘I hate a goddamned thief worse than anything,’ Anson Todd said in a hushed voice. ‘And you an elected official. Goddamn,
American democracy is going down the fucking toilet. You corrupt bastard.’

‘Yeah,’ Mr Words agreed.

‘What—’ Whit attempted to breathe, grabbing at Mr Words’s hand, trying to pry the fingers from his throat.

‘I want the money, Judge Smart-Ass,’ Anson hissed. He wheeled close to Whit and with an arthritic fist punched Whit in the
balls. Hard. Whit gagged. Amazing how slight a punch it takes to savage a pair of testicles. Mr Words slammed Whit to the
oily pavement, yanked his arm straight, spread his fingers against the parking-lot grime.

The throat grip relaxed momentarily so Whit could breathe and speak. ‘What money?’

Wrong answer. Fist squeezed, blood fled from his throat. The wheelchair – heavy itself and full of old man – rolled over his
fingers, backed up, rolled forward again. Whit gritted his teeth, wondering if he would first hear or feel the bones break.

‘Don’t fuck with us, Judge,’ Anson said. He steadied the chair, letting its full weight settle on Whit’s knuckles.

‘Did a cop once,’ Mr Words said. ‘Never a judge. Cool. Start with fingers.’

‘I don’t have your money.’

‘Get him into the van,’ Anson ordered. ‘You can have
your fun with him there.’ He hacked phlegm. ‘And shit, it’s time for my medicine.’

Mr Words jerked Whit to his feet, keeping an iron grip on his throat with both hands. Whit tried to wrench free, hoping for
a weak spot to punch or kick, but Mr Words was four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, all muscle. Whit smelled the pineapple
reek of cheap cologne, the soft odor of trash from the diner’s Dumpster, the goon’s sweat.

Mr Words hurried Whit along toward a dark blue van parked at the far end of the lot with a flooring company name on the side,
Anson’s motorized chair purring behind them.

‘Cooperate, get off light,’ Mr Words murmured in a spate of eloquence. ‘You don’t, die in fucking Beaumont. Talk to us. Be
cool.’

The half million. They think I have it.

As Mr Words dragged him along by his neck, Whit considered options. A kick to the nuts and about a dozen hard punches to the
jaw were the ticket. Actually, a small nuclear device would be the ticket. But Whit couldn’t budge an inch. All he could see
was the smeary grease stains of the lot, a few flattened cigarette butts, and the dark shadow of the van, barely illuminated
in the halo of light from a streetlamp at the corner.

Head held down and stumbling, Whit saw the damage before they did. All four of the van’s tires lay flat. He made a noise,
and Mr Words stopped and saw and said, ‘Well, fuck.’

Whit, the baby of six dirty-wrestling brothers, just needed that second. He fought just the way he learned at his brothers’
knees and elbows and fists. He smashed his heel down on Mr Words’s arch, gouging the foot with the modest heel of his loafer.
Mr Words yelled. Whit slammed a forearm against Words’s right arm, then
elbowed backward into the thick throat. Mr Words yelped. Whit spun free of his hold, then drove headfirst into the man’s
abdomen. Mr Words staggered back and Whit jabbed hard with two left uppercuts that sent the kid sprawling onto the asphalt.

‘Eddie, get the fuck out here!’ Anson screamed. Whit whirled, trying to get his breath back. His throat felt like it had been
scalded, his fingers felt like rubber, either broken by Anson’s wheel or Mr Words’s jaw.
Eddie.
Shit.

New plan. Run. He bolted and Mr Words kicked out, catching both his feet on a muscled leg hard as fallen timber, and Whit
slammed hard into the pavement.
Well, you tried.
Fingers closed around his throat again, yanking him to his feet.

Movement came from behind the van. ‘Eddie’s indisposed.’ A familiar voice. Gooch, holding a sleek automatic pistol, neatly
fitted with a silencer. The pistol was aimed at Anson. The grip on Whit’s throat tightened.

‘Let the judge go, son,’ Gooch said. ‘Or I shoot the old man. Then you.’

Mr Words moved Whit in front of him as a makeshift shield. ‘Or maybe I just break his neck if you don’t drop the gun.’

‘I can shoot you first, son,’ Gooch said conversationally. ‘Or I can shoot Anson. You want to explain to Papa Deloache how
you got Anson killed?’

‘Let him go,’ Anson said quietly.

Even when whipped, Mr Words made an excellent lapdog. He let go. Whit gulped a long sucking breath, one that scorched his
throat but his lungs savored.

‘Judge, come here by the van,’ Gooch said. ‘I don’t want you to get blood splattered all over your nice clothes.’

‘Dumbass,’ Anson snarled. ‘You fuck with us, you don’t have any idea what you’re buying.’

‘Oh, I do.’ Gooch smiled. ‘But fuck with me and you buy a grave no one will ever find. Understood?’

Whit leaned against the van. ‘He said Eddie …’

‘Eddie Gardner’s in there. He’s catching some shut-eye right now.’ Whit peered inside; Eddie Gardner lay propped in the back
of the van, bleeding lightly from his nose and mouth, but breathing. Yellow rope wrapped around his arms and legs.

‘You. Get in the van,’ Gooch ordered Mr Words.

The young man stared stupidly.

‘Clearly you’re no Fulbright scholar,’ Gooch said, ‘but do what you’re told and you’ll be fine. You come out of that van before
I say, I shoot him and then I shoot you. You understand?’

Mr Words glanced at Anson; the old man nodded. The boy climbed into the van next to the unconscious Eddie, and Gooch slammed
the door. He then held up a clear plastic bag to Anson: three black pistols, .22s, a switchblade, a blackjack, and a cell
phone lay inside. ‘I don’t think I missed any of your toys when I went through your van, Anson. If I did, and Muscles comes
out shooting, you get a bullet in the brain.’

Whit thought.
No, Gooch, don’t do this,
but he said nothing, still rubbing his aching throat.

‘I’m old, do your worst,’ Anson huffed. ‘I probably get a fucking colostomy bag next year. You think I’m afraid of you?’

‘I don’t believe you want to die one second before you have to, and I really don’t think you want to see Muscles die. Isn’t
he Deloache’s nephew?’

In the dim light Anson’s stare narrowed. ‘Who are you?’

‘Why are you following Judge Mosley?’

‘Kiss my ass.’

Gooch brought the gun up. ‘How hard are the cops going to look for your killer, Anson? I think not very.’

‘He thinks I took Pete’s half million,’ Whit coughed. Feeling was slowly creeping its painful way back into his fingers and
throat.

Gooch raised an eyebrow. ‘Anson?’

‘I don’t feel good. I need my medicine.’ Moments ago he had been all snarl; now he was all plead.

‘I got a permanent cure here if you don’t start talking,’ Gooch said.

Anson shrugged with a baleful look at Whit. ‘You’re like me, aren’t you?’ he asked Gooch. ‘Always cleaning up other people’s
shit. We ain’t done anything wrong, we’re the wronged ones.’

‘Oh, I bet,’ Gooch said.

‘Junior gave Pete Hubble a half-mil cash of his dad’s money for some adult film series, because Pete promised Junior a percentage
of the sales, the starring role, and all the bimbos he could screw. Well, that ain’t the movie that Pete was making. He was
making some shit about his fucked-up brother. Junior found out and wanted his – our – money back and Pete balked, kept saying
it’d be a much better investment than porn. But Junior hadn’t told his dad about this unapproved investment. We got to get
that money back.’

‘And you couldn’t find it on the boat, so you figured the judge had it?’

‘We been keeping an eye on Pete’s boat, saw the judge leave it and head the fuck out of town like his ass is on fire. I figured
he had it, or knew where it was.’

‘I don’t have your money,’ Whit said.

‘Don’t feel bad that it’s lost,’ Gooch said. ‘He bought it with the veins and noses of kids.’ Gooch pushed his gun into the
old man’s face. ‘Did you shoot at Whit the other night? Threaten him about the Hubble inquest?’

Anson shook his head.

‘I don’t mean you personally, Anson,’ Gooch said. ‘I’m talking anyone you know.’

Anson shook his head again. ‘I … maybe Junior got a guy to come up from Corpus, some local muscle. Just a theory.’

‘How’d he know about Whit’s family?’ Gooch snarled, grabbing Anson’s throat.

Anson coughed. ‘Junior … drinks at the Shell Inn. The owner brags about her former stepsons. In excruciating detail. Again,
just a theory.’

‘Ah. Thank you,’ Gooch said. He eased his grip.

‘I don’t suppose it had occurred to you that Pete might have spent the money,’ Whit said. He was surprised at how calm his
voice was.

Anson huffed. ‘Not in a few days in Port Leo. It’s still our money. He lied to us and we want it back. I figured either you
or that Velvet bitch had it.’

‘Where’s Junior?’ Whit asked, a sudden icicle forming in his heart.

‘He said he was going to Houston, explaining all this to his dad.’

‘Bull,’ Gooch said. ‘You know damn well where he is.’

Whit pulled out his cell phone and dialed Velvet’s motel room. No answer. He left another message with the motel clerk to
have Velvet call him as soon as she could.

‘Maybe Junior’s trying to rough Velvet up the same way you roughed up me?’ Whit said.

‘Shit. He’s not gonna hurt her. He wants to be in her movies.’ Anson shook his head. ‘Fuck films. No values left anymore,
the world is just going down the toilet. Why Hollywood don’t make a nice musical is beyond me.’

‘Lecture your Sunday school class about it,’ Gooch said.

Whit played a card. ‘You know, I just heard on the radio that they caught Jabez Jones and he’s talking. He had to get his
dope from somewhere, and he might be implicating Junior.’

Anson kept his face stone still. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Gooch laughed, very softly. ‘Whit, go back to your car. I’ll join you shortly.’

‘What are you going to do with them?’ Whit asked.

‘Just go.’ Gooch’s voice sounded soft, lazy, as though nothing was on the agenda more compelling than a tall glass of lemonade.

‘No. I’m calling the police.’

‘We’re not doing that,’ Gooch said.

‘I’m a magistrate, for God’s sakes. I’m having them arrested. At the least for assaulting a public servant.’

Gooch glanced back at Anson. ‘What if the next schmuck they come after doesn’t have the luxury of me to save their ass, Whit?’