Tell Me No Spies (30 page)

“Not tonight, dear, I
have a headache.” I turned and left.

He followed. “Hey, I
saved your sweet ass. You could at least slap me around.”

“No.”

“Come on. Please? I
know you wanna leave bloody teeth marks on my big, hard cock. You
wanna squeeze my balls while you whip my ass so hard…”

“If you’re trying to
piss me off, it won’t work.” I kept walking and let the door go in
his face.

“Ow.” He trailed me
out into the bay. “See, that was okay. You could do that
again.”

Hellhound shot him a
deadly look from under lowered brows. “Go work on your car.”

Weasel sent a
disinterested glance toward the car. “Nah. Your crazy bitch’s
giving me a boner that won’t quit. Think I’ll go home and jack
off.” He turned a hopeful face toward me, his nose still red and
puffy. “Or I could spank the monkey right here while you watch.
That’d be so hot.” His hand drifted toward his crotch.

“No,” Arnie and I
chorused.

“You’re no fun.” He
shuffled out, and we heard the front door close and lock behind
him. Seconds later, the muffled thump of the bass faded away.

I dropped back into
the chair and swallowed a generous slug of beer. “What a piece of
work. Where do you know him from?”

“He’s one a’ my
sources. For my P.I. business. I don’t deal with any a’ the
hardcore assholes, but I got a few little slimeballs like Weasel
that’re tapped into the grapevine. Known him for a long time. He’s
bent to shit, but he won’t rat us out.”

“Does he ever actually
manage to get laid?”

“Don’t even wanna
know, darlin’.”

“Good point.” I drank
some more beer. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“I gotta go back an’
talk to my contacts again, see if they found out anythin’ yet.”

I hesitated. “Arnie, I
don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re so beat up already…”

He waved a hand. “No
big deal. The guys that messed with me today ain’t gonna mess with
me tomorrow.”

“How do you know? What
if they come back with a bunch of their friends?”

He grunted. “They
ain’t got friends. An’ they ain’t gonna be outta the hospital
yet.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t
prevent a sidelong glance at his injured knuckles. I was having a
hard time reconciling the gentle, good-natured man I knew with the
reality of the battered, scowling giant in the chair beside me.

As if reading my mind,
he leaned forward and stroked my hand with gentle fingertips. “Ya
know you’re always safe with me, don’t ya, darlin’? Ya know I’d
never hurt ya.”

I took his hand and
brushed my lips over the skin that wasn’t covered by bandages. “I
know.”

Dave let out a
particularly robust snore, and Hellhound shot a glare in his
direction. “Must be fuckin’ nice, sleepin’ on the only couch
without a fuckin’ care in the world. I should go kick his sorry ass
off there an’ let ya have it for a while.”

“Don’t bother. Maybe
it’ll help his back if he spends the night stretched out.”

Hellhound grunted. “I
don’t give a shit about his fuckin’ back. He’s been hoggin’ the bed
every night. Ya need a decent night’s sleep, too.”

Weariness washed over
me in a sodden wave, and I drained my bottle. “I’m so tired, it’s
not going to matter to me tonight. But maybe you should wake him in
a few hours and take the couch for the rest of the night. You must
be hurting like hell.”

He shrugged. “I’m
okay.” He stood and stretched carefully. “Where ya gonna sleep
tonight, darlin’?”

I eyed the filthy
chairs. “I think I’ll sleep in the Caprice. Do you want the back
seat? There’s probably a little more room there than in the
front.”

“Nah. Go ahead an’
take the back. I ain’t even gonna try. If I get crunched up in
there, I’ll never get out again.” He wandered over toward the
LeSabre. “This’ll be better.”

Weasel had left the
rear bench seat lying on the floor, and Hellhound dragged it away
from the car and arranged the cushions from the chairs at the end
of it. He lowered himself cautiously and settled with a long
breath. “That’ll do. ‘Least I can stretch out.”

“Where’s your jacket?”
I asked as he wrapped his arms over his chest.

“Left it hangin’ in
the shitter with my jeans after I cleaned the blood off it.”

“I’ll get it.” I
ducked into the revoltingly dirty bathroom and grabbed his
jacket.

When I leaned down to
spread it over him, he rolled against the back of the seat and held
out his arms. “Come here, darlin’.”

I knelt beside the
seat and eased down, stretching out on the few remaining inches.
His arms closed around me, and I snuggled into his warmth.

I woke with a start
when I rolled off onto the floor.

The lights still
blazed overhead, and the men were enthusiastically competing in the
Snoring Olympics. Ordinarily, I found Arnie’s quiet buzzing as
soothing as the purr of a big cat, but the packing in his nose
forced him to sleep open-mouthed, snoring like a spavined
chainsaw.

Combined with Dave’s
bagpipe imitation, the echoes bounced through the high-ceilinged
bay, amplifying instead of softening.

I groaned and squinted
at my wristwatch. Quarter to two. Another friggin’ long night.

I opened the door of
the LeSabre so the dome light would stay on before turning off the
overhead lights in the bay. Then I crept through the darkness into
the back seat of the Caprice, and thankfully closed the door on the
racket outside.

“Fuck!” I threw an arm
over my face in an attempt to block out the insufferable light, and
tried to squirm away from the seatbelt buckle grinding into my
hip.

I heard the sound of
the rear door opening, and a whiff of dirty ashtray reached my
nostrils as Weasel sang out, “Good morning, Jane-Crazy-Bitch!” He
inhaled deeply and groaned, “Goddamn, nothing like the smell of hot
pussy in the morning.”

I realized I’d draped
one leg over the driver’s headrest and the other on the back deck
when I pried open one eye to see Weasel’s face inches away from the
crotch of my jeans.

In sheer reflex, I
jerked away and kicked both heels into the middle of his chest. I
caught a glimpse of his wide eyes and open mouth as he toppled
backward.

Blind, brainless rage
overwhelmed me. The rude awakening after a too-short shitty sleep
obliterated everything but the primal urge to find the source of
the irritation and eliminate it. Permanently.

When I woke fully, I
was astride Weasel’s motionless body. My knuckles hurt and my arms
were pinned behind me. Dave knelt beside me, his eyes wide and
frightened while he called my name. When I snapped my head around
to look at him, he jerked back.

“Aydan!” Hellhound’s
strained voice came from behind me. “Calm down, darlin’.”

I realized I was
gasping for air, my heart hammering. I sagged in Hellhound’s grip,
and he slowly relaxed his hold. “Ya okay? Ya know where ya are,
right? Ya know you’re safe?”

“Yeah.” I couldn’t
catch my breath. “I’m. Okay. What…?”

Dave reached slowly
for Weasel’s neck and pressed trembling fingers against the pulse
point. There was a lot of blood. What little breath I had went out
of me.

“Oh… God… is… he…?” I
doubled over, panting, afraid to hear the answer.

“He’s fine.” Dave’s
voice was full of relief. “Guess he’s just got a glass jaw.”

“Oh…” I slumped back
into Arnie’s arms. “Thank God.”

He held me close for a
few seconds. “Ya scared me, darlin’. I thought ya were gonna kill
him.”

Dave rocked back to
sit on the floor, his face ashen. “I thought you had killed him.
Jeez. What kind of martial arts was that?”

“I don’t know any
martial arts. I don’t even know what I did. I’m not even awake
yet.”

“If I let ya go, will
ya hit him again?” Hellhound asked.

“No. I didn’t really
mean to…” I trailed off as Hellhound released me.

“Come on, darlin’.” He
offered me a hand up. I winced when his grip crushed my aching
knuckles, and he let go hurriedly and examined my hands. “Shit.
You’re gonna need the frozen peas this mornin’. ‘Cept they ain’t
frozen anymore.”

He looped an arm
around my waist and helped me totter over to the couch. Dave handed
me an orange juice and hovered while I attempted to free the straw
from its cellophane with shaking hands. After a second, he took it
away from me, inserted the straw, and handed it back.

I sipped slowly under
the weight of two sets of worried eyes. A groan from behind the car
signalled Weasel’s return to consciousness, and a couple of minutes
later he staggered toward us, smearing the sleeve of his jacket
through the blood on his face.

“Jesus,
Jane-Crazy-Bitch, you know how to get a guy up in the morning,” he
mumbled. “I shot two massive loads last night, and now you got me
hard all over again.” He pushed his hand inside his jeans and
fondled himself.

Dave gaped at him in
frozen outrage for a split second. Then he shot to his feet, his
face contorting with fury as he lunged at Weasel. “You scumbag
pervert! You…”

Hellhound and I both
leaped to intervene as Weasel snatched up a tire iron and swung it
in a whistling arc. “Right now, old man! I like it from the
bitches, but I ain’t gonna take no shit from no fat old fart.”

I flung both arms
around Dave and dug my toes into the concrete floor, trying to
shove him backward. He made an equally determined effort to push
past me, and we struggled against each other for a few seconds
until I found my voice. “Dave, stop!”

I got a close-up view
of his scowl as he panted, “Filthy. Scumbag. Pervert. Gonna…”

I wrestled with him a
few more seconds before I finally brained up and let out a pitiful
cry. “Ow, Dave, you’re hurting me!”

He backed off so
suddenly I almost fell. His arms closed around me. “Sorry, I’m
sorry. Didn’t mean to hurt you, are you okay?”

“Dave…” Hellhound’s
rasp held a world of menace, and I turned quickly to see him
holding the tire iron in one large fist and the front of Weasel’s
shirt in the other. Weasel’s toes were still touching the ground,
but barely. His eyes bugged out while he gurgled desperately.

“I’m fine,” I said
quickly. “I just hit the bruise on my arm.”

“Ya sure you’re okay,
darlin’?”

“I’m fine. Don’t kill
Weasel,” I added.

Hellhound grunted and
half-shoved, half-tossed Weasel away. He landed hard on his butt
and sat gasping and massaging his throat. “Look who’s talking,” he
croaked. “You were all over her like slime mould last night, you
fat old fuck.”

Dave tensed and shot
an anxious glance at me. A slow flush climbed his neck, and he let
go of me abruptly. “Uh…” He studied the floor, his face flaming,
and then dragged his gaze up to my eyes. “I owe you an
apology.”

“No, you don’t,” I
assured him. “You had a reaction with your painkillers and some
beer, and you kind of fell against me. It might have looked as
though you were groping me, but you weren’t. We just put you on the
couch, and you fell asleep.”

“I remember being on
the couch…” He blushed even more furiously. “I might’ve said some
things, um…”

“No, you were just
snoring,” I lied.

“Oh.” He sagged with
relief. “Good. I mean… uh, my back’s good today. Muscle relaxants
must’ve helped.”

“Your back cracked
when you fell last night. I was afraid I’d hurt you worse.”

“No.” He stretched and
twisted tentatively. “Feels as good as if I went to the
chiropractor. Thanks.”

“Time we got outta
here,” Hellhound growled. “Ayd… Jane, get some breakfast, an’ let’s
roll.”

Dave surveyed me with
concern. “You’re shaking like a leaf,” he said, and ushered me back
to the couch. “Sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.”

He turned to head for
the car and stopped when Weasel climbed to his feet. The two men
locked eyes, glaring until Hellhound stepped between them.

“Back off, both a’ ya,
before I rip your fuckin’ heads off and shove ‘em up your asses,”
he advised.

Dave and Weasel
surveyed his blackened eyes and the blood-stained packing that
still protruded from both nostrils. I could track the progress of
their inspection over his bulging arms and shoulders, down to the
ludicrous tattered skirt drooping over his hairy, muscular legs and
heavy boots.

Neither man seemed
inclined to laugh. Or to argue. Weasel turned back to the LeSabre
without another word, and Dave made for the Caprice.

Hellhound raked them
both with an expressionless stare before turning to me. “Be right
back. Gonna put on my pants an’ take this packin’ out. Yell if the
gonad twins start up again.”

“I will. Wait,” I
added as he turned.

“What?”

“What about Hooker? I
just realized it’s been three nights. Will he be okay?”

Dave made a slight
detour around Hellhound with the grocery bags. “Who’s Hooker?”

Arnie eyed him
impassively. “My cat.”

Dave let out an
uncertain laugh that trailed away as Hellhound’s deadpan scrutiny
continued. After a few seconds, Arnie turned to me. “I called Miz
Lacey yesterday mornin’ right after ya dropped me off. She’s
handlin’ it.”

“Oh, good. You’re
lucky to have her.”

Arnie’s face softened.
“I know. She’s gonna gimme hell when I show up lookin’ like this,
too.” He chuckled and turned away, his good humour obviously
restored by the thought of his feisty elderly neighbour.

As he vanished into
the front of the bay, Dave leaned closer. “Does he really have a
cat?”

“Yes.”

“A real cat. Not like
some perverted joke, like hooker…” He flushed and whispered,
“…pussy…” His flush deepened. “You know.”

“His cat’s full name
is John Lee Hooker. He’s named after a famous blues musician.”