Body Rides (33 page)

‘You don’t never cheat?’

He shook his head. ‘No. Not really. I
have
cheated on a few things – like on my French homework back in college – but I felt so rotten about it . . . I always try to play by the rules now.’

‘How ’bout helpin
me
cheat?’

‘With the gambling?’

‘Yeah. Wouldn’t be the same as doin it for yerself.’

He looked at her. She grinned at him. He hated to refuse her.

I’d look like a self-righteous stick-in-the-mud
.

‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘I don’t think there’s a
way
to win at something with the bracelet. I mean, it might be possible in theory . . . if we knew which cards were being held by the dealer, or something . . . The problem is, one of us would have to be physically present at the table,
playing
the game. That’d have to be me, since you’re under age. So you’d have to be in the dealer’s mind, with your body somewhere else. You wouldn’t be able to affect what he does. All you could possibly do is communicate stuff to
me
. . . which cards he’s holding. To do that, you’d have to leave him, return to your own body, and . . . signal me, or something.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

‘It would never work. You’d need to be someplace where I could see you, for one thing. You’d have to jump back and forth between the dealer and yourself. And there’s
surveillance
. These casinos have security cameras all over the place. You’d be caught in about two minutes if you tried to signal me from across the floor.’

‘Ya sure ’bout all that?’

‘Pretty sure.’

‘That ain’t a good way to try, then.’

‘No, it isn’t’

‘Gotta be a way, though. Ya know?’

‘Gambling?’

‘Well . . . by gettin in ahead.’

‘I’m not sure there is, not if you exclude out-and-out theft. If
you didn’t have scruples, I suppose you could use the bracelet to get your hands on certain information. The combination to a safe, for instance.’

‘Yeah!’

‘Or
where
a person might have some valuables stashed. You know, like cash or jewels they’ve hidden in their house. That sort of thing. But then you’d have to
steal
the stuff.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t wanta do that. But cripes, there’s gotta be
some
way to make a fortune off this thing. A way where ya ain’t gotta rob nobody.’

Sue scowled out the windshield, apparently hunting for a solution.

A solution already known by Neal.

He wondered if he should mention it to her.

Probably not.

‘S’pose we
charge
folks?’ Sue blurted. ‘Let ’em use the bracelet for maybe half an hour? How much ya s’pose they’d pay? Fifty bucks? A hundred?’ She turned her face toward Neal, her eyes and mouth wide open like someone struck with astonishment. ‘Just thinka that! We get us ten people to try it, a hundred bucks apiece, we’ll make us a thousand smackaroos!’

‘How much is that Jeep you want?’ Neal asked.

‘Well, all depends. Say ’round twenty-five grand.’

‘Then we’d need to get two hundred and fifty people to try the bracelet at a hundred dollars a pop.’

‘Maybe all I need’s enough for the down payment.’

Neal shook his head. ‘It’s a fine idea, but it’ll never work. For one thing, nobody would pay us a dime to ride the bracelet without proof of what it does. And if people actually find out that it works, they’ll try to take it from us.
Nobody’s
supposed to know what the bracelet does. Nobody except the person who
has
it.
You’re
not supposed to know. You just found out by accident. We can’t go around and tell
anyone
what it does. Some people would probably be happy to kill us for the thing.’

Sue stuck out her lower lip and blew. The gust of air lifted her bangs off her forehead. ‘Don’t see why they’d wanta kill for some bracelet when ya can’t even make no money off it.’

Just let her go on thinking that, Neal told himself. Better if she doesn’t have a clue.

She resumed frowning. After a while, she said, ‘
Gotta
be a way. Something like this, gotta be a way to make yerself a fortune.’

‘If you think of it,’ Neal said, ‘let me know.’

Then he reached out and touched the radio’s ‘on’ button. Static hissed and crackled through the speakers. He touched the ‘search’ button. The radio began to hunt for a strong signal, and soon found a station playing the golden oldie, ‘I Fall to Pieces.’

‘I just love ol’ Patsy Kline,’ Sue said.

‘Me, too,’ Neal said.

He looked at Sue. She mouthed the words to the song in silence, a sad and wistful look on her face.

God, she’s so young
.

Young and cute and sweet and vulnerable, full of odd notions and simple dreams.

A tightness came to Neal’s throat.

And he thought that maybe he should help Sue get the money for the four-wheel-drive Jeep Cherokee.

At the top of the hour, the music was interrupted by a news update.

The third story dealt with Elise.

‘Though police are so far without suspects in the murder of former Olympic diving great, Elise Waters, her husband, actor Vince Conrad, held an early-morning news conference today to announce a reward of fifty thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of her killer, or killers. Conrad, who returned yesterday from Hawaii upon the news of his wife’s death, told the press . . .’ In a sound bite from the actor’s news conference, Conrad said, ‘The world lost a rare treasure when Elise was slain. But I have every confidence that . . .’ His voice broke, and Neal’s eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. ‘I just hope that the animal who did this to her is caught and . . . brought to justice.’

The newscaster’s voice returned. ‘In other news . . .’

Sue turned the radio off. ‘Reckon they ain’t after you. Not yet, anyhow.’

‘You never know,’ Neal said. ‘The police keep a lot of stuff to themselves.’

‘S’pose they’d hand over the reward to me if I turned ya in?’

‘Maybe,’ he admitted, feeling a little sick. ‘They’d have to convict me, though. And I didn’t do it.’

‘Well, don’t worry ’bout it, I ain’t gonna blow the whistle on ya.’

‘Thanks.’ He wondered if she was telling the truth.

‘’Sides,’ Sue said, ‘I think her husband done the dirty deed.’

Neal gave her a look.

‘Yup,’ she said, and bobbed her head.

‘I know who did it, and it wasn’t Vince Conrad. It was the guy I shot. Rasputin.’

‘So who’s to say Conrad didn’t like
hire
yer Rasputin to do it?’

‘There’s no reason to think he did,’ Neal told her.

‘Ya hear how he talked?’

‘He sounded upset.’

‘Well, he’s an
actor
. Guy like that, I betcha he can turn it on and off like a faucet. Anyways, I thought he sounded real phoney. Ya know? Like he was
too
sad.’

‘She was his wife.’

‘Yeah, but they was separated, right? Gonna get divorced?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Well, there ya go.’ She gave Neal a quick, decisive nod, as if she’d just proven her case.

‘People get divorced all the time,’ Neal pointed out.

‘Only sometimes they just go and slit their wife’s throat, instead.’

‘That’s fairly rare,’ Neal said. ‘Even in Brentwood.’

‘Sure’s convenient, ol’ Vince just
happenin
to be in Hawaii when she got herself murdered. I mean, ya can’t find yerself much of a better alibi than
that
.’

‘Doesn’t prove anything.’

‘Ya ever see him in the movies?’

‘Conrad? Sure.’

‘Makes my skin crawl.’ As if to prove her point, she grimaced and writhed.

Neal saw goosebumps rise on the back of her right forearm. And as he looked, he noticed the mellow tan of her arm, and how it had a fine layer of golden, downy hair.

Sue let go of the steering wheel with one hand, and rubbed the
arm as if trying to make the bumps go away.

‘Ya ever see him in that
Dead Eyes
movie?’ she asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Didn’t he just give ya the
worst
kinda creeps?’

‘He was supposed to. He’s an actor. It was just a role he was playing. Look at all the creeps Karloff played, but everyone says he was the greatest guy . . . a real gentleman, sensitive, kind . . .’

‘Well, Conrad ain’t no Karloff. He’s just a weird creep, ya ask me.’

‘Which doesn’t make him a killer,’ Neal said.

‘How come
yer
stickin up for him?’

‘I just don’t see any reason to think he had a hand in it. You should
see
this Rasputin character. I mean, I hope to God you never do, but . . . he sure didn’t seem like someone who’d been
hired
. He’s a sadistic degenerate.’

‘Now that there’s a reward, we
gotta
get him.’

Neal stared at her.

‘Ya know?’ Letting go of the wheel with her right hand, she reached out and gently rapped Neal on the upper arm. ‘How ’bout it? We can split the reward fifty-fifty.’

‘Twenty-five thousand each,’ Neal said.

‘That’s a brand new four-wheel-drive Jeep Cherokee for me. How ’bout you? What’ll ya get yerself?’

Neal shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’d probably put it in the bank, save it for a down payment on a house.’

‘There ya go! A nice, big ol’ house fer you and Marta. Ya gonna marry her?’

‘Eventually, I guess.’

‘Whatcha waitin on?’

‘My career to take off. I can’t marry someone when she’s making more money than I am. I’d have to be able to support her.’

‘Well, first ya get the reward for this Rasputin guy, then ya write up a movie about it, and yer gonna be rollin in dough.’

‘It’s a thought,’ he admitted.

‘How ’bout we turn this buggy ’round right now, and head on back to Los Angeles . . .?’

‘What about the Fort?’ Neal asked.

‘If we wanta get that reward, we gotta act quick ’fore somebody else beats us to the punch.’

‘I don’t know how we’d go about finding him, anyway.’

‘Well, he’s gonna come after
you
, ain’t he? Ya said how he’s got yer address. What we gotta do is be there, all set to catch him when he shows up.’

‘There’s no telling when he might decide to come after me,’ Neal pointed out. ‘Since he didn’t do it right away . . . My guess is, he’s probably laying low somewhere, too badly hurt to worry about me. So it might be . . . who knows? A few days . . . even weeks . . . before he drops in on my place.’

‘Well, we wanta be there when he does.’

‘Right now,’ Neal said, ‘we’re only a two or three hour drive from the Fort. It’d take us
six
if we went back to L.A. So why don’t we just go on ahead? I mean, I want to see the Fort. Don’t you?’

‘Well, sure.’

‘We can
do
the place, find a motel or something and spend the night, then worry about all this other stuff tomorrow. How does that sound?’

‘Well, okay.’

‘Good.’ He yawned. ‘Now let me get a little rest. I’ll take over the driving in a while.’

‘Okey-doke.’

He settled down in his seat, shut his eyes, and yawned again. He felt as if he’d been worn out by so much talking to Sue.

It’s going to be a long day, he thought.

Everything’s gotten so complicated
.

All he’d wanted to do was get
away
from Los Angeles and his problems about the murder – go off and hide from the police and Rasputin . . . even from Marta.

A few days, a week maybe. Solitude and quiet so he would have a chance not only to recover from his wounds, but to figure out what he should do next.

A chance to play with the bracelet, too.

So much for all that, he thought.

Maybe we
should
go back and try to nail Rasputin
.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Or the day after. No big hurry.

In a vague and tired way, he wondered if he should try to get separate rooms for the night.

Better, he thought. Stay in the same room, what’ll I tell Marta?