The Bastard Hand (14 page)

“Sure,” I said.

“If you’re feeling up to it, why don’t you take the car to get a tune-up—” he paused thoughtfully, then added, “—and some new tires too, what the hell. Then go somewhere outta town here and buy us some real booze. Maybe four, five bottles of Jack. You feel like doing that?”

“You’re the boss, Rev. Actually, I was going to ask you if I could use the car today, anyway. I need to go back up to Memphis and buy a few things.”

He said, “You gotta go up there? Can’t you buy ’em here in town?”

“I need a suit. The store here didn’t have anything I liked, so I thought I’d hit a few resale shops up there. Do you mind?”

He shrugged. “Hell, no, I don’t mind. Just don’t forget the Jack.”

I promised him I wouldn’t forget, and he tossed me the keys to the Malibu.

At the garage, an overly-friendly mechanic whipped the car into tip-top shape—gave it an oil change, replaced the spark plugs, adjusted the timing, put in a new oil filter, and slapped a set of brand-new Goodyear tires on it. I remembered the broken taillight right before I left, and the mechanic took care of it in short order at no extra charge. He took my money cheerfully, told me to come back any time. By three-thirty I was on the road north, and the Malibu drove like a Rolls Royce.

I still felt a little raw from drinking the hell-juice the Aarons brothers called shine, but going back up to Memphis made me feel better.

After about an hour, I crossed the state line into Tennessee, and in no time I was in Memphis proper. I spent a good amount of time just driving around and checking places out. I found a package store and bought four bottles of Jack Daniels for the Reverend and two bottles of vodka for me.

Just short of six-thirty, I’d dealt with all the business that had brought me back to town. By then, the heat of the day had begun to take its toll on my booze-ravaged head. I forced down a cheeseburger and fries at a fast food restaurant on Union, then drove around looking for a bar—hair of the dog was in order.

There were bars on just about every corner in Memphis, but I remembered one in particular that we had passed on Madison that previous Sunday. I found my way there.

It was a small, dark place with a jukebox and a pool table that took up half the floor space available. Men in t-shirts and baseball caps lounged at the bar, drinking beer, and looked up at me with brief friendly nods when I came in. Then they went back to their conversations. Two guys playing pool tipped their beers at me, then went back to their game. The waitress winked at me and said, “What can I get for ya?”

I ordered a shot of house whiskey and an ice cold Killians, and sat at a small table near the jukebox. A moment later, she came back and I slammed down the shot, chased it, and immediately felt better.

My intention had been to have my shot and beer and then leave, but the bar was so cool and comfortable I wound up staying awhile.

So I was sitting there, thinking warm little thoughts, sipping my second beer, when the chair across from me pulled back and the girl sat down and smiled at me.

I nearly choked on my beer.

Her again. The little back-street femme fatale.

Her smile, so disarmingly confident that I wouldn’t belt her, threw me off for only a moment; I gathered my cool quickly, took another sip of my beer, and said, “I have a new name for you. Bad Penny.”

“I like that,” she said. “If I didn’t already have a name, I’d choose that one.”

Clear brown eyes stared at me frankly. She propped her chin in her hands, her elbows resting on the table, and just watched me as if expecting me to perform a magic trick or something. Her black hair was slicked back and curved under her ears. She wore what could have been the same clothes she had on the night she suckered me—white t-shirt, black tights—sans the leather jacket.

Finally, I gave in under the pressure of her stare and said, “If you’re planning on mugging me again, you’ll have to wait. I’m busy drinking now.”

She said, “Oh, now, don’t be so mean. I wouldn’t think for even a second about mugging you again. Not after the other night.”

“No?”

“Not a chance.” She gazed casually around the bar, her pale face seemingly without a care, eyes skipping over the men who looked at her with unabashed interest. Fixing her gaze on the bar, she said to me, “Buy a girl a drink?”

I laughed. “What, are we friends now? I think you can buy your own.”

“I don’t have any money. See, somebody busted into my house and stole almost everything. Left two of my friends all bloody and bruised.”

“What a shame. Be sure to give them my regards.”

She looked back at me, eyes narrowed. I couldn’t make up my mind if the smile on her face was playful or dangerous. Probably a bit of both. She said, “Come on. One drink?”

Her sharp little tongue jutted out between her sharp little teeth and briefly touched the corner of her lips. I thought about that quick, crazy kiss, the sharp tongue touching at my mouth, and a bit of the wild madness it had inspired in me came back. Sighing, I motioned for the waitress.

The girl ordered a whiskey sour and I asked for another beer. We sat silently looking at each other until the drinks came. Her taut leg kept fidgeting under the table, and the smile never left her face. When the waitress brought the drinks, the girl took a long sip. She set the glass back down half-drained and said, “You know, I think that was exactly what I needed.” Then, “I suppose introductions are in order, what do you think?”

I didn’t answer.

She said, “My name is Tassie,” and stuck her small white hand at me.

I ignored it. After a moment, she dropped her hand, sighed deeply, and said, “Don’t be that way, huh? Here I am, trying to be friendly and all, and you give me the cold shoulder. Not very gentlemanly.”

“Look. I’m not sure what you’re used to dealing with, but in case you forget, we already have a history. You and your goons mugged me. You took every penny I had to my name. I don’t know what sort of fool you think I am, but—”

“You had your revenge, didn’t you?” she said. “You found me. You thrashed my friends—which was very impressive, by the way, I don’t think they’ll ever forget you—and you took almost all our money and one of our guns. Now, I suppose we could hold a grudge about that forever, but what the hell? Turnabout is fair play, like they say.”

“What do you want?”

She shrugged. “Gee, I don’t know. What about you?”

I rubbed a hand over my face. “I want you to leave me alone. In fact, why don’t you just finish your drink and move on?”

She shook her head. “Can’t do it, I’m afraid. You and I need to talk.”

“Nothing to talk about.”

She raised a finger at me in an imitation of disapproval. “You’re wrong. There’s lots to talk about. The way you cleaned up on Vinnie and Bone, for instance. I never thought I’d see anyone get the best of those guys, but you did it. Very impressive. And then just grabbing me and planting one on my mouth. Dashing. Big-time Errol Flynn.”

“It was a momentary lapse of reason.”

She nodded. “Those are the best kind, aren’t they? I have them all the time, and they never let me down.” She took another drink of her whiskey sour, then said, “You have the advantage over me now. I told you my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“No, I guess you don’t.”

She let out a harsh breath of air. “Still being the tough guy? Come on. I’m really debasing myself here.” I didn’t respond. She said, “Christ, man, can’t you get over it? What’s a little mugging between friends? And a little blood and money and wasted coke and quick kisses? In the long run, you know, they don’t mean a thing.”

Against my better judgment, I was softening. A remarkable girl. Obviously a criminal, but so forthright in her life of crime that you couldn’t help but be charmed. She also had the good fortune to be very attractive—sort of a post-punk Clara Bow, gone horribly wrong somewhere on the ethics scale.

But who was I to judge? Ethically speaking, I wasn’t exactly Joe Friday.

She could sense I was warming up. Grinning, she said, “Okay, let’s try it again, from the top.” She offered me her hand again. “Howdy, stranger. My name’s Tassie. What’s yours?”

I took her hand, but didn’t return the smile. “Charlie Wesley,” I said.

“Charlie Wesley . . .” she said. “Hm. Somehow I’d imagined a better name. Flint, maybe. Dash Lancer. Something like that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh, I’m not terribly disappointed. Charlie is an okay name. Sort of sounds like a cab driver. Or maybe a construction worker.”

Taking a drink of my beer, I said, “How did you find me here?”

She laughed. “Wow! Deja vu, huh? I remember saying something very much like that to you. And you found me by sheer luck, didn’t you? You just happened to be walking down the street, and—voila! There I was.”

“But it wasn’t sheer luck this time, was it?”

“Well . . .” She rolled her eyes in an imitation of coy. “No, it wasn’t exactly luck, except in the sense that you actually turned up. I’ve had eyes out for you. About twenty minutes ago, one of those eyes called me on the phone and told me he’d spotted you coming in here. Fortunately, I only live a couple of blocks away. But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“If you and your goons don’t hold a grudge, why have you been looking for me?”

“I thought it was important that we talk.”

“You keep saying that, but you haven’t told me anything yet.”

She said, “Has anyone ever told you, Charlie, that you’re incredibly hard to get along with? Okay, then, I’ll lay out all the cards. But I tell you, I can’t stand you ‘right-to-the-point’ types. I mean, you take all the fun out of everything. Although—” she paused, looked thoughtful, “—I should’ve known you would be like that. I mean, what kind of guy just grabs a girl and kisses her, right in the middle of a hit? Someone who doesn’t like to play, that’s who.”

“You were about to lay your cards on the table.”

“Oh, right,” she said. She finished off her drink, motioned to the waitress for another, then got down to it. “This is the deal, Mr. Charlie. You fucked up my men royally. You nearly crushed Vinnie’s windpipe, and Bone is still wearing bandages all over his face from where you smashed his nose. Both of them were crying for your blood—I mean, they were seriously pissed, understand? But the more we talked about it, the more we realized . . .”

She paused when the waitress showed up with fresh drinks, then left me hanging while she drank. I sipped my beer.

Finally she said, “We realized that you’d make a pretty formidable ally.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your obvious talent in the field of kicking ass. Bone and Vinnie both are very tough mothers, if you know what I mean, but you took them out without even breaking a sweat. Hell, you even managed to look like you were having a good time while you were doing it.”

“Are you suggesting,” I said, slowly, “that I join up with your little rag-tag band of muggers? Is that what you’re saying?”

She looked peeved. “Hey, you could do worse. And you probably have.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s not amazing enough that you would think I’d join your little gang, but you actually think I would trust you for even one second. You’re out of your mind.”

She said, “Did I say anything about anyone trusting anyone else? Listen, Charlie, if trust was the issue here, do you think I’d be wasting my time talking to you? I don’t know anything about you, other than the fact that you’re a drifter, and that you can kick ass if the occasion requires. And,” she added, “you’re a decent kisser.” Then, “Not that that last bit has anything to do with anything.”

She smiled again when she said that, a very seductive smile that promised nothing and everything at the same time. I could feel myself being drawn in by it, and forced a hostile expression onto my face.

“How do I know your boys aren’t outside now, waiting for me to come out?”

“You don’t, I guess,” she said. “Although that would be pretty stupid, don’t you think? If we were lying in wait to ambush you, I certainly wouldn’t have come in and let you see me, would I?”

Good point. But a voice inside me said, Don’t be a sucker, Charlie. They have a score to settle. I went over all the possibilities—perhaps they planned on gaining my confidence, then catching me off guard. But why go through such an elaborate subterfuge when they could just nail me on the street?

I said, “I have a hard time believing that Bone or Vinnie are willing to let bygones be bygones.”

“Understandable,” she said. “But they’re over it. Interestingly enough, the one who’s still pissed at you is Stoker, and you didn’t even touch him.”

I nodded, remembering the fury that had burned in Stoker’s eyes, and what he’d said to me—Next time you’re in Memphis, it’ll be for your fucking funeral. I said, “No, but I touched you. That’s what burnt him.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Who knows? The important thing, though, is that Stoker does exactly what I tell him to do. And, if you join up with us, he wouldn’t touch a single hair on your head.”

I said, “All of this is pointless, really. What it comes down to is that I’m not interested.”

Annoyed, she said, “Not even for just one job?”

“No.” I took one last gulp of my beer, then stood up. “Not even for one job. You have an enterprising spirit, Tassie, but maybe you should look into something other than mugging innocent people. That’s not a good racket.”

She said, “Innocent people . . . hmm. Interesting term. I mean, I’ve heard of the concept, but so far I haven’t seen it.”

I tossed some money on the table. “See you around,” I said, and started to leave.

“What if I told you that the job doesn’t involve any so-called innocent people at all? That it was a hit on a crack house?”

“No,” I said, walking away.

She called after me: “Several thousand dollars, Mr. Charlie.”

I stopped. When I turned around to face her, she was grinning that confident grin again, lips at the rim of her glass. The two guys playing pool had heard the comment about several thousand dollars and looked up at us. When I glanced at them, they went quickly back to their game.