The Crush (21 page)

"Hey, cowboy, how come you're drinking alone?"

The young woman who plopped down on the stool beside his had dyed black hair and a red T-shirt with YOU BET YOUR ASS THEY'RE REAL spelled out in letters of silver glitter.

"I'll warn you right now, miss, I'm not good company tonight. That's why I'm drinking alone."

"Try me. I'll bet I can stand your company."

Wick shrugged and signaled the bartender. She ordered a bourbon rocks like his. She thanked him for the drink. "I'm Sally."

"Pleased to meet you, Sally. I'm Wick."

"So, why the long face, Rick? You have a fight with your significant other?"

He didn't correct her on his name. "In a manner of speaking."

"That sucks."

"Tell me."

"What was it over?"

"Our falling out? I did something dumb. Lied by omission. Lost trust. You know."

"Guys do that," she said with the resignation borne of experience. "How come, I wonder."

"Nature of the beast."

"Must be, 'cause you're all the same."

She took a big slurp from her drink and tried to lighten the mood with a smile. "Change of subject. What do you do?"

"When?"

"For work, silly."

"Oh. You guessed it. I'm a cowboy."

"Really? I was just joking. You're a gen-us-wine cowboy?"

"Um-huh. Just this afternoon I was working in the stable with horses, hay, currycombs. All that stuff."

In his mind he was comparing the Rennie who had so lovingly groomed her horses to the one who had soundly rebuked a trio of Fort Worth's finest. Dr. Newton could not only skillfully wield a scalpel, she could slash with words just as effectively. He cleared his mind of these images and, playing turnabout, asked Sally what she did for a living.

"I'm an exotic dancer." She gave him a wicked smile and executed a move that caused the shiny letters to shimmy.

Wick wasn't impressed, but he let her believe he was. No sense in two people feeling like shit. "Wow."

Flattered, she giggled.

"Where do you perform?"

Her smile faltered. "Well, see, I'm not actually performing yet. I'm still auditioning.

Right now I'm working at this temporary job.

Over there. Cleaning condos." She nodded toward the high-rise.

Wick's instincts were stronger than the bourbon.

His mind instantly sprang to attention. Trying to keep his sudden curiosity from showing, he smiled at her. "Let me know when you get hired to dance.

I'd like to see you sometime."

She laid her hand on his thigh. "Maybe I could give you a private show? On the house."

"Where? Over there?" He hitched his thumb toward the high-rise. "Do you live there?"

"Oh sure." She snorted. "Like I could afford it."

"Man, I've always wanted to go inside that place." He gave the facade of the building a wistful glance. "See if it's as fancy as it looks."

"Oh, it's fancy all right. Only rich people live there."

"Like who?"

She took a wary glance around. "I'm not supposed to talk about the residents. If we're caught talking about the people who live in the building, we get canned, no questions asked."

"Oh, sure. I understand."

"It's a privacy thing."

"Right." He turned toward the TV behind the bar and pretended to have a sudden interest in The Magnificent Seven, which was playing silently.

"But you look trustworthy." Sally nudged his knee with hers beneath the bar. Regaining his attention, she leaned close enough for him to hear her whisper and to feel the weight of her breast against his arm. "You know the race-car driver?"

Wick named a NASCAR driver who he knew lived in Fort Worth. Sally nodded vigorously. "Ten-B."

"Honestly? What's he like?"

"Nice. But that wife of his?" She made an ugly face. "A bitch royale."

"Any other celebrities?"

"One of the Cowboys lived there through last season, but he moved after he got traded. And there's some old lady on the fifth floor who used to be on Dallas, but I don't know her name or what part she played."

"Hmm." He pretended that his interest had waned again and glanced at the closeup of a stoic Yul Brynner. The breast got heavier against his arm and Sally's hand inched a little closer to his crotch.

"Did you see on the news where that guy just beat a murder rap?"

Wick kept his expression impassive.

"Murder rap? I don't think so. How long ago?"

"Couple of weeks. His name is Lozada."

"Oh, yeah, I think I remember seeing something about that. You know him?"

She scooted so far toward him he couldn't imagine how she was managing to stay seated on her own stool. "Me and him are ... close. His condo is on the floor where I work. The penthouse floor. I'm in his place all the time. And not just to clean." She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

"You're kidding, right? A murderer?"

"Shh." Again she glanced around nervously.

"He got off, remember?" Then she giggled and added, "Now I get him off."

"Come on." Wick guffawed.

"I swear."

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Does he do it different from, you know, regular guys?"

She considered the question seriously before answering.

"Not really. Pretty much the same. We've only balled a few times. Mostly he just likes for me to blow him. And this is kinda weird." She moved closer still. "He doesn't have any hair down there."

"Why, what happened to it?"

"He shaves it."

Wick let his jaw drop. "Get out!"

"I swear."

Wick looked at her with feigned respect and awe. "And you're this guy's girlfriend?"

"Well, not officially." She cast her eyes down and trailed a finger along his arm. "I mean, he's crazy about me and all. He's just not the type that shows his feelings, you know?"

"Have you ever seen him with any other women?"

"No."

"Any ever come up to his fancy apartment?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, yeah. And I would know. I pay attention to detail. There's never been a trace of another woman in the place and believe me, I check things out while I'm cleaning. I'm always on the lookout for one of those damn scorpions. If one ever got out I would freakin' shit."

"Scorpions?"

Wick knew about Lozada's fascination with them, but it chilled him anew to hear Sally tell about the climate-controlled tank. "I keep my eyes open when I'm in there."

"What about his phone?"

"His phone?"

"You ever answer it for him?"

"Are you serious? I'd be fired for sure.

Besides, he only uses a cell."

"Have you ever heard him talking on it?"

"Once, but I didn't hear what he was saying."

"So you don't know if he was talking to a woman?"

She withdrew slightly and gave him an odd look. "Hey, what is this?"

He smiled and patted the hand still resting on his thigh. "Just trying to help you out, Sally. Looking for signs that the guy is seeing someone else. But it sounds to me like you've got no competition."

She snuggled closer. Both breasts were propped on his forearm now. "You're cool, Rick. Would you like to go to my place? I've got booze."

"Hey, I don't want this Lozada character after my ass."

"I see other guys too."

"I thought you liked him."

"I do. He's good-looking and wears the coolest clothes."

"And he's rich."

"For sure."

"Then what's the problem?"

"Well, he ... scares me a little."

"He doesn't hit you, does he?"

"No. Well, sorta. I mean, he doesn't actually hit, but like the other night, he warned me not to talk--"

"Wick, what the hell are you doing?"

Wick swiveled around. Oren was standing behind them, glowering.

Sally, glowering back, asked crossly,

"Who's this?"

"My partner. Oren, meet Sally."

"Did you say partner?"

"That's right."

"You're a fag?"

Her screech drew the attention of nearly everyone in the bar. Even Steve McQueen seemed to do a double-take from the TV screen.

Sally dismounted the stool with a hop that caused the breasts, of which she was so proud, to bounce like a pair of water balloons. She stamped away on her platform heels.

"I'd still like to see you dance sometime," Wick called after her.

"Bite me," she hollered back.

Oren grabbed him by the back of his collar and practically dragged him through the exit. Once they were outside, he gave Wick a shove that nearly sent him sprawling. "I've been looking all over town for you."

Wick spun around. "You push me again, Oren, and you'll regret it."

Oren looked ready not only to push him, but to slug him. "I've had every cop on the force on the lookout for your truck."

"What for?"

"Because I didn't trust you not to do something stupid." Oren took several heavy breaths as though forcibly tamping down his anger.

"What's the matter with you, Wick?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing my ass. You're sulky, edgy, disagreeable. Argumentative. Defensive.

Thigpen was right on when he called you a jerk."

"Then why don't you and Thigpen get together and suck each other's dick. I'm going home."

Oren grabbed him by the shoulder and, heedless of Wick's warning, pushed him backward against the wall. He held him pinned there with one strong forearm across his chest. Oren's first beat had been in a tough neighborhood rife with gangs and drugs, but he was just as tough as the criminal offenders and had come to be respected and feared by the meanest of the mean. He and Joe.

"This time I'm not going to let you get away with copping an attitude. That's too easy.

You've got a bee up your butt, and I want to know what it is. If Joe were here--"

"But he isn't," Wick shouted.

"If he were," Oren shouted back, "he'd pound it out of you."

"Leave me the hell alone." Wick pushed him aside, knowing he could do so only because Oren allowed it.

"Is it her?"

Wick turned. "Who?"

Oren shook his head, looked at him with a mix of aggravation and pity. "She's bad news, Wick. A whore dressed up in a doctor suit."

"She's not."

"You heard so yourself. From those people in Dalton.

She fucked--"

Wick took the first swing, but the last Wild Turkey had finally kicked in. It hampered his speed and his aim. Oren caught it in the shoulder, which was padded with plenty of muscle. Oren's fist caught Wick on the chin, which wasn't padded with anything. He actually heard his skin split.

Felt the blood spurt.

Mercifully, Oren grabbed him by the front of his shirt before his knees gave way. He pulled him close and held him face-to-face. "A few days before he was shot, Raymond Collier's wife filed for divorce. She cited adultery. Guess who was named correspondent."

Before he heaved up the bourbon on a public sidewalk, Wick pushed away from Oren, turned, and headed toward the parking lot where he'd left his pickup, which had apparently been spotted by a tattletale cop. It hadn't been that hard for Oren to find him.

"Wick!"

He stopped, then came around and aimed a threatening finger at Oren. "If you ever talk about her like that again ..." He was breathing hard.

Gasping, in fact. He couldn't deliver the warning with the impetus he wished. He had to get out of there, fast. So he settled on "Just don't, Oren. Just don't."

"You shouldn't be driving, Wick. Let me take you to the motel. Or to my house."

Wick turned away and kept walking.

FROM THE DRIVER'S SEAT OF AN
SUV parked in a metered slot on the street, Lozada watched the scene play out between Wick and Joe Threadgill's former partner, Oren Wesley.

He was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the exchange was angry.

To Lozada's delight, they actually swapped punches. This was better than he ever could have anticipated. Dissension within the ranks. Strife between good friends. Everybody close to Wick Threadgill was pissed at him. Perfect.

Earlier he'd had the pleasure of revealing Wick's profession to Rennie. While she was still trying to assimilate that, he had added the furthermore. Furthermore, the FWPD had her under surveillance.

Earlier, after Wick had left her with those two cute blasts of his horn, Lozada had trailed him around the block to a house that was supposedly under reconstruction. Since he had been the object of surveillance himself, he knew the signs: three cars parked out front, including Wick's pickup. Building materials scattered around but no evidence of actual work being done. An empty Dumpster in the front yard.