Shop Talk (19 page)

Iris hugged Bo from behind as the emptiness of the shop settled over them. She twisted around so that she looked up under his arm. “We could play
Lost in Space.
I’ll be the robot.” Putting her lips against his throat, she whispered, “Mr. Robinson never had it so good. Your robot can do things the Robinson’s robot never dreamed of.”

“Do you have any idea how to get in touch with those writer friends of Lucille’s? Maybe she’s with one of them.”

Iris hesitated. “One of them is a librarian. The head librarian. But I don’t think they use their real names here, Bo.”

“What are their names?”

“Mona, Andromeda, Dallas …” Iris went around the table. “Coco and the one that’s the librarian calls herself Jazz.” She snapped her fingers. “Coco has been talking with Sonny Zanzarro over at the Fiesta. Lucille was telling me all about how he’s going to finance her cookbook called
Cheesecake.”

“I’ll give Sonny a call. See if he has a number for Coco.” Bo felt a surge of life force. There was a chance Lucille had gone off with one of the members of WOMB. That would be the only thing that could drag her away from her computer. The only thing that may have saved her life.

“Here’s the phone number.” Sonny gave it, then hesitated. “What’s the story on this broad?” he asked. “Bo, I want the real skinny. I mean she’s not strange, is she? Her and Lucille? No offense meant, but your sister is a fruitcake, and, well …”

“Coco’s a writer. A
friend
of my sister’s.” Bo heard the interest in Sonny’s voice. He was attracted to the skinny cookbook writer, but he couldn’t simply act on his desire. His greater need was not to be embarrassed or shamed.

“Coco seems like a fine young woman to me. Extremely clean, at the moment,” Bo said. “A little too thin for my taste. I’d hate to puncture a lung with one of her ribs, but otherwise, very attractive.”

“I went by her apartment this morning. I haven’t heard from her in a week, and I wanted to see if she had any more photos and recipes for the book. If I’m going to back this venture, I want a quality product. Something I’m not going to be ashamed of.” Sonny sounded unsure. “Say, Bo, you’re a pretty good businessman. You think it’s a mistake? I know gambling, not books.”

“Hell, Sonny, if you like the idea, what could it hurt?” Bo backed out quickly. Good business advice was always appreciated by the Zanzarro family. Bad advice brought retribution in one form or another. He didn’t mind counseling Sonny romantically, but not where a buck was involved.

“I went by her place this morning,” Sonny went back to the point that troubled him. “There were these men in white suits with gas masks, like toxic waste specialists. They were hauling out these big industrial trash bags full of something.” He paused, and when Bo didn’t comment, he went on. “I mean maybe she’s cooked up something deadly. Some virus or something. You think that’s possible? I mean she is awfully skinny to make desserts.”

“Maybe she had a gas leak.” Bo ventured no farther. He wanted off the phone so he could make other calls. “I don’t know these women, Sonny. Lucille tied up with them. I’m only looking for my sister.”

“Is Lucille still writing?”

Bo felt a wave of remorse. She would be writing–if she were alive. He could only pray that Lucille would turn up. He made a silent vow that he would never again ridicule her work. At least not to anyone but Iris. “Probably,” he hedged. “I have to go.”

“If you talk to Coco, tell her to get in touch with me,” Sonny said. Bells, whistles and horns blasted out in the background. “Gotta go. We’ve got a big winner on a slot machine.” Bo clicked the switchhook and dialed the number Sonny had given him. He was about to hang up when a timid voice answered with a whispery hello.

“Miss Frappé?”

“Yes.” There was relief in the voice. “This is Coco.”

“This is Bo Hare, Lucille’s brother.”

“Ye-es?” Relief turned to hesitancy.

“I’m looking for my sister. Would you happen to know where she might be?”

“Yes.” Coco had never been able to avoid a direct question.

Bo waited. “Well, where is she?”

“Let me think a minute.” Coco had not paid strict attention to Jazz’s complicated scheme to ferret out information about the strange old man named Marvin Lovelace. She’d been too deep in a carbohydrate psychosis, too terrified that after months of thinness, Elsie had emerged.

It didn’t matter that she’d cut away the old fat and the old personality in a series of horrifically painful surgeries. Elsie was still there. Hiding behind the curtains. In the refrigerator. In the grocery aisle where chocolate chip cookies and Little Debbie snack cakes whispered her name, promising starbursts of pleasure that only food could provide. They were calling her now.

“Coco. Coco. Coco?” Bo beat the receiver on the desk. “Coco, are you there?”

Bo’s question brought her back and she blinked her dark eyes at the telephone like a wounded deer. “Yes. I’m here.”

“Do you know where Lucille is?”

Coco looked at her watch. It was ten minutes after ten. If she remembered correctly, Lucille’s shift for watching Marvin was over. She vaguely remembered that the watching was to be a secret, another of the many pacts that bound the members of WOMB. “She should be on her way home.”

“From where?”

Coco had no idea where Marvin might have gone. “I don’t know.”

“But she was away from home tonight?”

Bo’s voice held an urgency that electrified Coco. “She was supposed to be doing something for Jazz until ten o’clock.” That was as much as Coco could tell. “Call her apartment and see if she’s home.”

Bo was about to retort that perhaps Coco should turn on her television and tune into the real world when he saw Iris rise abruptly and walk to the window. The glare of headlights cut into the shop, invasive and cold. He heard Iris’ gasp, and though he couldn’t see who had driven up because of the glare, he thought for certain it had to be Peter Hare.

“It’s Lucille!” Iris held up her hands. “It’s your sister. She’s alive and perfectly fine!” Iris yanked open the front door of the shop. “Lucille! Where have you been?”

“Never mind,” Bo said to Coco. “Thanks for your help, and Sonny Zanzarro wants to talk to you.” He hung up before she could ask a single question.

Lucille entered the shop and stopped at her first glance at Bo and Iris. “What is
wrong
with you?” She swiveled her head back and forth. “Where’s Driskell? What are you two still doing up?” She looked at Iris, who simply stared back at her. “Is there food on my face?” She reached a hand up and brushed at whatever offensive matter might be there. She turned to Bo. “What’s going on with you two? Are you doing some kind of drugs?”

“Lucille?” It was both statement and question, ending in a high note of doubt and relief.

Lucille’s gaze drifted down to Bo’s hands. Her eyes widened and she stepped forward, snatching the lump of battered fake fur that he held. “What did you do to my slipper?” She looked up at him, her own face stricken. “What sick roles have you and Iris been playing that involved a badger?”

“Lucille,” Iris said. “We thought you were dead.”

“So you tore up my slippers?”

“Your apartment …” Bo stared into his sister’s hazel eyes. He realized she had no idea about the apartments. “Maybe you’d better sit down.”

“I’ve spent the last five hours sitting on my butt. Now how did you get this slipper? It is mine, isn’t it?”

“What’s left of it,” Bo admitted. “We got it from the police. Didn’t you hear the explosion?”

“Yeah. What’s that got to do with …” Lucille stared into her brother’s eyes. She turned to Iris.

Iris finished lighting her cigarette, then nodded slowly. “Blasted off the face of the earth. There’s not a whole fake shake-cedar shingle left.”

“Not mine.” Lucille begged for confirmation. Her face paled. “My computer!”

Iris exhaled a line of smoke. “Decimated. The police believe the bomb was planted in your apartment. The blast started there and moved out from the center in all directions.”

“My computer!” Lucille stared at Bo. “What will I do? I have to have my computer! I can’t finish
Forbidden Words
without a computer. There was nothing left?” She grabbed Bo’s hand. “You can fix it, Bo. You can fix anything.”

“Not even Bo can shape ashes into a computer, Lucille. Get a grip, girl, the insurance will get you another.”

“I don’t want another. I want mine!” she wailed. “Can’t you fix it, Bo?”

He put his arm around her. “Lucille, they’ll get you a brand new one. One with CD-ROM. A better one. And I know for a fact that your insurance premium is paid up.” He roughly patted her shoulder. “It’s just a good thing you weren’t home writing tonight. Where were you?”

Lucille’s eyes popped open wider. “Call my boss. I have to get to the bank. My back-up disc is in a safety deposit box. What if they tried to blow up the bank, too? I have to call and make certain my disc is safe …” She started toward the telephone.

Bo caught her around the waist and held on. “The bank is fine, Lucille. Don’t bother Mr. Johnson now, you hear. No sense in waking the man up when I can drive you by the bank, and you can see that everything is fine.” As his sister ceased to struggle, Bo relaxed his grip on her.

“Lucille, what were you writing?” Iris asked. “Maybe somebody didn’t like what you were putting down on the page so they decided to blow you up.”

“It’s not funny, Iris. I can’t believe this. A bomb.” Lucille eased around the counter and sat in Bo’s cowhide rocker. “A bomb in my apartment,” She looked up, staring between Bo and Iris. “Why? Who would want to blow me up?”

“I’d say just about anybody who talked to you for more than ten minutes,” Iris mumbled under her breath as she stubbed out her cigarette.

Bo rubbed his sister’s shoulders. “That’s a good question, Lucille. I told you someone was trying to tamper with your brake lines, but you didn’t want to believe it.” He bent down so that he was eye to eye with her. “Someone is trying to kill you, Lucille. Do you have any idea who it might be?”

Lucille shook her head. “There’s no one. No one at all.” She blinked at her sudden tears. “The police really think someone was trying to kill me?”

“They didn’t come right out and say it. I think maybe they think you set the bomb.”

“Me?” Lucille was outraged.

“Could it have been Uncle Peter?” Bo asked.

“You think he would try to blow me up with a bomb?” Lucille’s hand fell down to brush at her knees.

“Lucille, you haven’t been milking someone else’s cow, have you?” Iris raised an eyebrow. She didn’t believe it for an instant. Lucille was in love with her computer and her pathetic characters. There wasn’t time for a man. Not even a married one.

“You think someone is trying to blow me up because I’ve been sleeping with her husband?” Lucille stood. “One thing is certain, Iris, you watch entirely too many soap operas. Real people divorce when one partner commits adultery. They don’t blow each other up.” She spoke with scorn.

“Is that a yes or a no, or just a devious way to avoid the question?” For the first time Iris pondered the possibility.

“It’s a no.”

Bo touched his sister’s jaw and got her attention. “Who else would do something like that?”

It came to her in a flash. The old man had
known
something was going to happen at the apartments. He had gone to watch it. She looked up at her brother. “We have to go help Jazz,” she said, jumping to her feet. “There’s no time to waste.”

As Lucille bolted out the front door, Bo started after her. Iris grabbed his arm. “Where are we going?”

Bo pushed open the door. “Lucille, wait a minute.” When he saw that she was not going to stop, he shook his head at his wife. “We have to stop her.” He ran out after his sister.

Across the road headlights flicked on. The bright glare, not thirty feet away, stopped Lucille as she fumbled for the keys to her Camaro. A motor erupted into life, powerful and half-tuned. The smell of burning oil came with the noise as the monster truck roared across the road headed directly for Lucille.

Bo heard the threat of the engine as he called out to his headstrong sister. For a split second the headlights across Pass Road blinded him, sending him a memory of childhood that was paralyzing. He smelled the rich brown soil of a cornfield and heard the rustle of tassel and husk in a hot July breeze. He was surrounded by darkness, the sky above sectioned into glittering bands of stars by the tall stalks of corn as he lay in the dirt and stared into the night. He’d come out to the field to escape the disagreement of his parents. They were arguing again, about him and Lucille. It was a bitter argument filled with words he did not understand, but he did recognize his mother’s voice ripe to the point of splitting with outrage and betrayal, his father’s anger and denial. To his right was Lucille’s high, thin cry of sorrow as she ran through the rows of corn seeking him, needing him to block out the hurt and anger of their parents’ battle. He had lain very still in the warm brown earth.

And then had come the roar of the tractor, the two narrow headlights bursting into life. Bo had looked up to see Lucille running straight toward him, arms outstretched, the combine coming right behind her and his Uncle Peter’s demented face clearly visible in the interior cab-light as he grasped the wheel and laughed.

The memory galvanized Bo and he leapt forward as he had done so many years ago. He knocked Lucille to the ground. Together they rolled, Lucille howling as her already scraped knees hit the pavement again. They came to rest half under the low-slung Camaro, and Bo instantly jumped to his feet. Lucille was wedged tightly under the car, and he began tugging on her as the murderous truck backed up and turned so that the headlights were directed fully upon them.

“Run, Bo!” Iris cried from the safety of the doorway.

He ignored her as he tugged at Lucille, who struggled frantically to free herself.

“Damn, baby, he’s going to ram the car!” Iris cried as she ducked into the shop.

Bo took one look at freedom, only ten steps away, but he held firm. “Suck in, Lucille,” he whispered urgently. “Suck in and wiggle. I’ll pull.” He grasped her free arm and leg and gave a ferocious tug as the truck revved its engine.

“Go on, Bo!” Lucille gasped. “Run!”

Bo looked up long enough to see the massive head just above the tiny steering wheel of the truck. Somehow, Bo had known all along that his uncle would return. He’d seen enough
Friday the 13th
movies to learn that evil always returned.

The door of the shop arced open and Iris ran into the night. She darted into the parking lot and ran straight toward the monster truck. Without a second’s hesitation she found footing on one of the knobby tires and launched herself at the open window. “Take that, you asshole!” she cried over an angry hissing sound.

An anguished cry came from the interior of the truck cab, and Iris was flung backward. She sailed into the air and landed in the parking lot, followed by the sound of a tin can. The can rolled unevenly to Bo’s foot as he tugged again at Lucille.

Uncle Peter Hare was screaming in the truck and beating his squinty eyes with ham-sized fists as he revved the engine and veered back onto Pass Road. In a moment there was nothing left except the stench of burning oil and rubber.

Bo caught another odor, a sweet, sickly smell that he recognized instantly. Nudging the canister at his foot, he saw the roach spray.

“What a shot, baby,” he said to Iris as he let go of Lucille’s arm and leg and went to help his wife to her feet. “You gassed the bastard.” He brushed the loose sand and gravel from Iris’ buttocks with a gentle, proprietary hand. “You are some kind of woman, Iris Hare.”

Iris dusted her scraped hands on her black leggings and looked down the empty road. “It’s going to take more than a can of roach spray to kill that son of a bitch. We’re going to have to move up to some industrial type poison.”

“Not before he explains a few things,” Bo said, his voice deceptively soft. “Right now I’d better get the jack. We’re going to have to lift the car to get Lucille out from under it.”

Iris put her hand on Bo’s arm. “Lucille is safe and sound.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Maybe we should leave her there for a while. It’s the one place we know she’s safe, and besides, she doesn’t have anywhere else to go except inside with us. And I feel a sudden need for you to dance with me.” She rubbed her lips lightly against his neck, nuzzling. “I am stimulated by the smell of roach spray, baby.” She licked beneath his jaw, pressing her breasts against him. “We need to plan our attack on Peter Hare. But right now, I need …” She moved her tongue to his ear. “… for you to call me … Cara Mia.” Easing back away from him, she flipped her long brown hair off her shoulder and gave him a smoldering look.

Bo’s knees bent, his hips swiveled close to hers. One arm wrapped around her while the other extended, clasping her hand as he drew her against him. “Give me three minutes, darling,” he said as he stared into his wife’s eyes and gave a low trill of passion.

“Gomez,” Iris breathed.

“Cara Mia,” he answered, pulling her hard against him. “Three minutes,” he whispered, then stepped away from her and got the jack from Lucille’s trunk. With a few expert moves, he freed his sister. As he tugged her from beneath the car, he leaned down. “You’ll wait in the front of the shop, won’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Lucille said, nodding. “Thanks, Bo.” She turned to Iris. “And thank you, too. Y’all go on back to the apartment and tend to business. I’m just going to wait here for Driskell.”

Bo caught Iris in his arms and cheek to cheek, they danced through the shop and back to the apartment. The metal door clanged shut.

Lucille reached down to the pavement and retrieved her car keys. Bo and Iris would be busy for at least an hour, and there was no time to waste. She had to get to Jazz–and the other members of WOMB.

Inside the small apartment Marvin paced the floor with nerves he hadn’t felt in forty years. In his chair Robert was a silent lump. Marvin kicked the doctor’s legs. “That demented Hare is dead, and your little bayou vixen will be next. As soon as I get my money.”

Robert struggled and moaned, the gag effectively halting any intelligible sound.

“Are you sure you don’t know anything about the Hares?”

Frantically Robert shook his head, “-eeesees,” he gurgled.

Marvin kicked him again and kept pacing. He’d miscalculated the power of the explosives he’d used. The Marina Apartments had exploded and burned like the grass huts of the Indians in Guatemala. With a single book of matches, he, personally, had decimated nineteen villages. It would have been twenty, but a gust of wind had blown out the final match. It brought to mind the day his father had burned ant beds in the back yard of their Macon, Georgia, home.

Earl Lovelace had doused the ant beds with gasoline and then lit them. Small volcanoes of burning antbeds dotted the yard. At the very last bed, the wind had extinguished the match.

Earl had looked at Marvin for a long time, gauging the eager expression on his son’s face as he waited for the tower of flame.

“Burn them, Daddy,” Marvin had begged.

“Not today. Fate has given them a reprieve.”

“Fate has no interest in ants.” Marvin was proud of his reply.

“How can you be sure ants aren’t a superior civilization?” His father’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Ants work hard, they build together, they share. There is no welfare system in the ant kingdom. Perhaps we are the barbarians.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Marvin had answered in his ten-year-old voice. He’d learned this lesson well. “We’re stronger, and
that’s
what matters.” Before his father could stop him, he’d snatched the matchbook from his father’s hand. The explosion of fire was instant and hot, the mound littered with the crisps of ants.

“Impulsiveness is a poor man’s trait,” his father had said as he’d walked away without a backwards glance.

Marvin had remembered that moment as he’d stood, years later, in the center of the small village beside a hut that would not burn. Dead match in hand, he stared at the women who held their screaming children and stared back at him with stoic acceptance of the evil he brought to them. He had spared the hut, a gift to the gods of war to make up for the ants he’d killed as a boy. In his book it was an even trade.

The tingle in his left hip drew him out of the past. His arthritis had begun to trouble him. He went to the cabinet for aspirin, then took his cigarettes out onto the small deck. The flames of the Marina Apartments were no longer licking over the fringe of trees to the north, and the sirens no longer pulsed and wailed. Instead of lighting his cigarette, he drew in a lung full of air, inhaling the pleasant odor of charred timber and disaster. It was time to go and look for a little bit of Lucille. A tiny bit would do. Just enough to get a smidgen of her DNA.

Of course the over zealousness of his bomb had complicated that matter. But there were bound to be tissue fragments scattered about. If he were the kind of man who had regrets, he’d regret his decision to put the bomb in the black and white tocking cat. But the motion of the tail, the rhythm of the eyes–it had been impossible for him to resist. Perhaps he’d used a bit too much plastique. The new stuff was a lot more potent than what he’d worked with in Nicaragua.

There was no time for hindsight. What he had to do now was convince the local yokels that he was a federal investigator, gain access to the site, pick up the tissue sample, and take it in for testing. At the thought of what those results might be, Marvin clicked his teeth together three times and patted the pocket where the stolen computer disc resided. He’d taken it from Lucille’s desk on a whim. The label,
Forbidden,
had intrigued him. Perhaps Lucille wasn’t as stupid as he thought. The disc might contain some information that would prove invaluable in his game plan. And whatever it contained, Lucille wouldn’t be needing it anymore. He took a deep breath and grinned. Soon, very soon, he would have the evidence that would make him a very wealthy man.

Jazz pulled at both earlobes as she held the rainbow earbobs in her mouth. The charred smell of the smoldering Marina Apartments sickened her. How many were dead? How many injured? She was tempted to creep back to her car and flip on the radio for the news, but something held her deep in the shadows of the big oak tree. She massaged her ear lobes again, caught between pain and pleasure. For the first time since he’d left, she missed Mac. He’d had a way of sucking at her lobes at the end of a tiring day. He had the perfect suction, just the exact amount of pressure, and the titillating little slurping noises that catapulted her from the footsore and lobe-weary into the erogenous zone. With a few sucks, slurps, and exploratory touches, Mac had been able to drive the Dewey decimal system straight out of her head, leaving her crying out bawdy limericks and a series of scatological homonyms.

So intense had been their sexual union that for the first few years of their marriage, Jazz had failed to notice that Mac couldn’t read.

“Back off,” she cautioned herself. She was on her way to bestsellerdom. Mac was the last thing she needed. Jazz leaned against the tree. She didn’t really miss Mac. It was just being out in the night alone, on a mission of some danger, with earlobes throbbing like they’d been tortured. While some folks got migraines or ulcers or neck twinges, Jazz suffered in her lobes.

“Got a new boyfriend?”

Mac’s voice came to her out of the darkness. Jazz looked around her, hoping that she’d imagined it since she’d just been thinking about her ex-husband.

“What’s the matter? You can’t answer a direct question?” Mac MacKissock stepped out of the shadows thirty feet closer to the main road than Jazz. He was broad and tall, and the streetlight behind him stretched his shadow until it touched the very tip of Jazz’s toes.

Earlobes pulsing, she turned away from him to face the apartment. “Shush,” she whispered, pointing.

The apartment door opened. In a wedge of light, the old man stepped onto the tiny landing, shutting the door behind him. A small flame flared momentarily, illuminating his face. Jazz drew in her breath.

“Helen.” Mac advanced, closing half the distance. “Why are you stalkin’ that old coot? I been watchin'. He’s old enough to be your daddy.” He paused a half beat. “Is that it?” Sudden doubt made him sound mean. “You been reading too much of that crazy old man from up around Oxford. Incest. That was what was on his mind. I told you those books would finally rot your brain cells.”

“Shut up, Mac.” Jazz used all of her willpower to ignore her ex-husband as she stared at the apartment. Was it possible, as Andromeda insisted, that they’d stumbled on something greater than a simple thriller? They’d spent an hour trying to figure out the connection between Horn Island and beefalos. It was true that at one time cattle had been raised on the island. The Army had even built holding pens for cattle used for secret tests. Were the beefalo in Saucier descendants of some mutated cows? They had no solid evidence to confirm that fact. But the abduction of Robert Beaudreaux might. An internationally famous geneticist.

The back of her neck began to draw and pull. The hairs on her nape were trying to rise, but the hairspray held them hostage. Mac eased closer to her.

“Helen, I’ve decided to come back to you. I been thinkin'. It wasn’t right for me to leave you without a man. I know you need one. So I’m doin’ the manly thing, and I’m comin’ home to shoulder my responsibilities. You can forget this foolishness of standin’ out in the dark and spyin’ on some guy with one foot and four toes in the grave.”

“For the last time, shut up, Mac.” Jazz felt the cells of her epidermis begin to harden. Mac’s voice was making it happen. Every word he spoke added a thickening to the cell structure. If he kept on talking she’d be an armadillo in a matter of moments. A creature girded for war.

“This ain’t the liberry, Helen. You can’t shush me out here in the open. I want you to come on home with me like you’re s’posed to do. Like my woman.” He put his hands on his hips. “You can keep the liberry job, but you got to go part-time. What went wrong with the marriage was that you weren’t home to cook for me. A man likes a hot meal ever’ night. And those friends you meet up with in restaurants and now up at that TV shop, they’ve got to go. They’re bad influences. I can see that a mile away, and I been watchin'. And the books …”