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  “Maybe I should get Bo.” He started toward the metal door.

  Lucille grasped his shoulders. “Don’t you dare wake Bo. I have to get home.”

  “Your uncle’s reappearance is very strange, Lucille. You need to use caution until you find out what he wants.”

  Lucille looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “It doesn’t matter what he wants. Not in the least. What matters is that he’s perfect. Thank you, Driskell. You saved me tonight. You were the tool of a higher purpose. A divine purpose.” She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

  She rushed out the door without a backward glance. Driskell watched her as she backed out of the lot and into Pass Road and headed toward the Marina Apartments.

  She was mad. And it had been left up to him to tell her brother.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Marvin Lovelace closed the door of Lucille’s apartment and stepped jauntily into the night. On the stoop, protected by the shrubs, he dusted his leather-clad hands. It had been almost too easy. Lucille’s security system could have been breached by a ten-year-old with a credit card and a desire to enter. After the debacle of Iran-Contra, it was good to have such a mission. One that fell into place like clockwork. At that thought his lips pulled back to reveal long yellow teeth that snapped three times in anticipation. Ah, Lucille. She was as predictable as a wind-up monkey. She went to work, late. She went to lunch and came back, late. She left early and came home and went directly to her computer, where she hunched over the keyboard and wrote and wrote and wrote, creating God only knew what dreadful tale.

  He’d watched the gathering of her weird friends up at the television shop. He had been taken aback by the appearance of the library bitch at the gathering. He hadn’t anticipated seeing her there, with her teased hair, demented earbobs and protruding hip bones. More troublesome was the Beaudreaux woman. Her association with the Hares had been an unexpected twist. Her most recent television appearance, and the million dollar reward, had prompted him to keep the doctor alive–if just barely.

  Stella Beaudreaux’s inclusion in the gathering at the shop had forced him to reevaluate all of the women. What they all needed was a real man. If they had a man who knew how to keep them well-tuned and busy, they wouldn’t be running the roads at night, clucking and squawking. One look at that clutch of hormonally-twisted women, and he’d realized they were man-eaters. His only regret was that they didn’t meet in Lucille’s apartment. He could take care of them all there.

  American women, in general, were turning into ball busters. What they needed was a man who knew how to discipline. He’d had his share of mouthy broads and when he’d finished, they’d known their place with a man. Subservient, ready to please. It took only a firm hand and consistency.

  Watching those women as they had snacked and argued, he’d barely been able to contain himself. He’d waited around until the Hare-by-marriage had brought out the main supply of food, and then he’d driven to the Marina Apartments and let himself in through the front door.

  The search had yielded nothing new. Lucille’s apartment was filthy. Not only was she stupid, spoiled, and strong-willed, she was slothful. Her apartment was so bad that anyone with allergies could die simply by stepping inside.

  He shuddered as he remembered his brief glimpse into her refrigerator. Had that actually once been an avocado? His stomach turned at the memory. He’d seen grown men eviscerated. Had ordered it done. He’d pulled fingernails out by the roots and done some very interesting things with electrical charges and delicate anatomical parts. Never, never had his stomach failed him as it had when he opened the door of Lucille’s refrigerator.

  It was best to put those thoughts behind him and concentrate on the success of his venture. By tomorrow night he would have the tissue he needed for the tests. Lucille had finally found a higher purpose–tissue donor.

  His lips drew tight, revealing long yellow teeth that he clicked three times, the sound calling up a long buried memory of his mother, dressed in a glittering swirl of white tulle with ruffles and flounces. He’d thought she was the good witch from The Wizard of Oz. He could still remember her tinkling laughter as she bent to him, smelling of magnolias and money. “Am I a good witch or a bad witch?” she’d asked him in her throaty, pretend voice. He smiled as he remembered his response, one that had made her draw back and give him that look of concern that came more and more frequently to her face as he’d grown older. “You’re a dead witch,” he’d said before he went into his bedroom and shut the door. The memory made him click his teeth again. “You’re going home, Lucille, and not even Auntie Em or Brother Bo can do anything to help you. The sand is draining from your hourglass, Lucille Hare.” His laughter was sharp.

  He walked the two blocks from the marina to where he’d parked his car. He’d be home within minutes, and once he dealt with Dr. Beaudreaux, he’d sleep like a baby.

  Chapter Twenty

  Slade Rivers looked into the tawny eyes of the gypsy girl who straddled him. He caught the glint of derision in the thin line of her lips.

  “I’m sorry, Angie, I’m just not up for this,” he said, his voice a rough husk of anger and despair.

  The girl dismounted, drawing one silk-clad leg across his bare chest, a move that had sent many a cowboy over the edge. “That’s an understatement, Slade. I thought you were going to put Clara behind you.”

  Slade propped himself up on both elbows as he watched her carefully adjust the black silk stockings that sheathed her golden legs. Angie’s fingers provocatively snapped the hook of the lacy garter belt he hadn’t even bothered to undo. “My heart is over Clara, I think. It’s just that the rest of me isn’t.” He looked down his torso to his sleeping manhood. The sight of Angie in all her tawny-skinned beauty did nothing to awaken the dozing prince. Clara’s lips held the only kiss that could break the curse of narcolepsy that had rendered Slade’s member useless for all save the most mundane chores.

  “You know the old saying, Slade. ‘If you don’t use it, God will take it away from you.'” It was something of an insult to the talents of a practiced whore when she couldn’t arouse the interests of a man who’d been in the company of nothing but cows for five weeks. She went to the window and looked out on the small town of Granite, Wyoming. The bleakness of the vista made her sigh. Perhaps she was getting as hard as the landscape.

  “I wouldn’t give it a worry, Slade. You’ll get over Clara.”

  “Are you sure?” Slade swung his bare legs out of bed and stood up. He strode to the window, grasped Angie by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “You’re an expert at the ways of love, Angie. Are you sure I’m not suffering some permanent condition? Maybe Clara gave me something.”

  Angie laughed. “Yeah, she gave you a soft love plunger. But that’s a condition of the spirit, not the flesh. It won’t last forever.” Her voice grew sad. “I doubt you’ll ever love another woman the way you loved Clara, but you’ll still be able to show a girl a good time.” At his look of concern, she smiled and touched the corner of his mouth with one finger. “I swear it, Slade. Just give it a little time. Once you’re really over Clara, you’ll see. Everything will pop into place.”

  Slade kissed her cheek, tangling his fingers in her dark brown curls. She was the complete opposite of Clara. Angie was petite, her olive complexion the difference of sun to moon. That was why he’d driven the cows all the way to Wyoming and the richly appointed bedrooms of Bernadette’s Brothel. He had hoped that a dose of sun-warmed flesh in the person of Angelita Diego would cure him of the malady that had laid him low.

  But it was not to be. Sun-kissed flesh could not cure the curse of the moon-goddess.

  “Where’s Clara now?” Angie asked.

  “In Hot Spur,” Slade replied. “Singing in a saloon.”

  “Clara can’t sing.” Angie turned to him. “They wouldn’t even let her hum in the church choir. I’ve heard cats mating who made prettier sounds than Clara trying to carry a tune.”<
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  “She’s very popular in Hot Spur,” Slade answered stiffly.

  “Right.” Angie shrugged. If Slade wanted to play make-believe, then who was she to rub his nose in the truth. He had enough problems as it was. Maybe it was his subconscious knowledge that what Clara was getting paid for had nothing to do with scales and adagios that had taken the starch out of his constitution. Well, she’d known Clara Lloyd since they were five years old, and she’d never believed that Clara would have become a saloon singer. But then, she’d never thought she would turn out to be the “gypsy” whore in a cow-town bordello. She turned away from Slade and went back to the window. There was nothing in sight but a few mean buildings, horses tied at hitching posts, a wagon at the ramshackle pile of lumber that passed as a general store, and the cold slabs of granite that marked the town’s cemetery. That was one thing about Granite, there was no lack of material for gravestones, and there was no lack of graves. It seemed to Angie that folks came from the East, the North and the South just to die at Granite. In fact, the town had originally been called Gravestone, but wranglers kept getting drunk and confusing it with Tombstone, another legendary town where flying lead was the cause of death, so the name was changed.

  “Angie, would you consider going to Hot Spur and talking with Clara?”

  Slade’s question came out of the blue. Angie turned to him. “I thought you were getting over her.”

  “I thought I was, too.” Slade’s smile was sickly. “She won’t even talk to me. I tried.”

  Angie shook her head. “Clara never listened to anyone. It wouldn’t do any good for me to go. Not a whit.”

  He’d put on his pants and shirt. As he leaned over to pull on his boots, a pencil stub fell from his pocket. He picked it up and examined it as if he’d never seen it before. “I immortalized her in poetry. I loved her with all of my heart. It just wasn’t enough for her.”

  Angie went to him then, wrapping her small, tanned fingers around his larger, tanned fingers. “I never told you before, Slade.” She shrugged. “I never told anyone. But the reason I turned to a life of whoring was because of Beaureguard Lloyd.”

  “Beau?” Slade’s brows drew together. “Did he dishonor you?”

  Angie’s laughter was brittle. “I wish.” The quick laughter fled, leaving in it’s wake the sheen of tears in her eyes. “I threw myself at him, and he ran from the room screaming.” She put her hands over her ears as if she could still hear his shrieks. “He said I was indecent, a woman with unnatural needs. He said that a good woman performed her wifely duties because they were duties. The fact that I wanted to sleep with him was sick and indecent. He said I was fitted to be nothing more than a whore. So that’s what I became.” Angie put the back of her hand against her forehead. Her long confession had exhausted her and given her a terrible headache.

  Slade’s grip on her shoulders was harsh, biting. She looked up at him, startled by the passion that his fingers fed into her flesh. “Slade?”

  “Those damn Lloyds! They made a whore out of you and a eunuch out of me! Damn them! Damn them! Damn them!”

  “Oh, Slade!” His passion was a thing of beauty.

  “Oh, Angie!” Her tenderness was the key that awoke the sleeping prince. He pulled her against him, his fingers coursing over the lace-clad firmness of her buttocks.

  Angie felt his first stirrings. The little man pressing against her thigh had awakened hungry and demanding. Very hungry. Very demanding. It was one big appetite she relished tackling.

  It was the sweat trickling down the shallow trench of Lucille’s spine that finally halted her. Slightly dazed from the intimate scene to which she’d just been privy, she leaned back in her chair. On the wall the Felix the Cat clock ticked and tocked, the black tail moving back and forth as the eyes rolled. She looked at it with a sigh of desperation. It was four-forty-four. She had come back from the horrible encounter with her uncle–or the man who claimed to be her uncle–and had written a scene with Slade and a woman she never knew existed in Slade’s life. A petite, Spanish-heritage whore named Angelita Diego.

  Lucille drew a deep breath and felt her knees pulse with pain. She was going to have to pull her ruined leggings off, and when she did the newly formed scabs on her knees would probably have to go, too. It was a thought that made her stomach ache. Even as a child she’d hated the cuts and scrapes that came from playing with Bo. Happy and Ethel had thought playing outdoors would be good for her, so they’d insisted she spend time in the sunshine. But she’d hated every minute of it, despised the games Bo made up. Most of all she’d hated the fact that her Uncle Peter frequently hid around the farm, ready to jump out and ambush her and Bo at any moment. He’d been a cruel bastard then, and now he was a fat, cruel, stinky bastard. She dreaded having to tell Bo that he was back.

  But Uncle Peter’s return had done something strange to her writing. She’d been on fire to rush home and send Slade off to find a good woman. A woman of substance. A woman who deserved his sensitive poetry and his gentle spirit.

  How had he wound up in Wyoming with a whore?

  Lucille scrolled the computer page down and began to read what she’d written. It was good. Damn good! The passion between Angie and Slade, their mutual mistreatment at the hands of the Lloyds, it was giving the book a different kind of power. A dark power that was as strong as Slade’s goodness and sensitivity.

  So, the book would just be longer than she’d ever thought. Maybe a thousand pages. Maybe fifteen hundred. But when characters were as exciting as Slade and Angie, they could go on forever. The reader wouldn’t be tired of them. Maybe she could even do a sequel. Or a trilogy! The very thought made her body burn and tingle. The sweat, which had begun to dry, sprang up at her hairline again. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. This was as close to a moment of ecstasy as a single woman could hope to find.

  The sensations passed, and she opened her eyes and found they were riveted on the clock. It was now four fifty-nine. She could sleep for two hours and then make it to work. She had to sleep. She was committed to spying on that old geezer for Jazz. That thought was a needle of aggravation that propelled her to her feet. It sounded too stupid for words–to waste four or five good writing hours parked outside an old man’s apartment because he dropped a drawing of Horn Island in the library. But it was part of belonging to WOMB, and if that’s what it took to be in the group, Lucille knew she had no choice. Andromeda and Jazz would grow tired of the foolishness soon enough. And Coco didn’t look as if she’d be able to watch a corpse.

  As she tumbled into the wad of sheets, she thought again of her Uncle Peter. His head had been enormous. As big as a basketball. Something had caused the skull to spread wider and rounder. One thing was the same, though. His horrible laugh had not changed at all.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Peering into the rearview mirror, Mona pulled down the neck of her shirt. The bruises were a faint yellow now, almost gone. Thank goodness, she thought as she let the turtleneck snap back into place. It was nearly noon on a hot and fragrant April day.

  Unless she found a doctor who was as skilled as he was enthusiastic, she’d have to give up her research on asphyxiation and the female orgasm until fall. It was too hot in Biloxi in May for turtlenecks. Well, truth be told, she’d grown weary of research. The things she’d learned about powerful men and their need to give and receive debasement were not what she’d entered the field expecting to find.

  She’d tried hard not to pigeonhole and categorize men, but somehow they kept sorting themselves into lines labeled by their professions. Even now, when she was resisting as hard as she could, she saw her past lovers begin to march into queues. There were the doctors on the left, with their meticulous personal grooming habits and their need for instruments of pain. The slap of flesh against flesh did not excite them like the use of a metal tool.

  The next line was composed of men in expensive suits, ties that made a statement, and personal grooming habits that often left some
thing to be desired. A tiny, black riding crop made them fumble backwards with unmitigated fear. Words were their preferred method of debasement. Lawyers. They loved to be called names and forced to say terrible things about themselves and their mothers. They liked bondage, but the sharp heel of a boot did not bring them nearly the pleasure of a well-placed insult.

  The next line of men wore blue collar shirts and work boots. Mona smiled. These were men who would go to great pains to construct a scenario for their fantasies. Plumbing, wiring, stout wooden beams. These men knew the business of erection. Their approach to the give and take of sadomasochism was less refined, more spontaneous. They thought little about what gave them pleasure, but they recognized it when they felt it.

  She sighed softly as a line of uniformed men took shape. Whether firemen, cops or soldiers, they all had the desire to rule. They were less work than the others, for her. They took the initiative and then forced her, hand-cuffed and pliant, to do their bidding. It was nice to wedge one of these between two lawyers. Refreshing. But she wouldn’t want a steady diet.

  Not of any of them.

  At that thought Mona opened her eyes. Glancing into the rearview mirror, she saw that Andromeda had pulled up behind her on the big Harley. Mona’s watch was over, and she’d learned only that Marvin Lovelace never went anywhere without his cane and that he had a post office box, number 264, at the main post office rather than door to door delivery. Even as Andromeda dismounted from the bike and started toward her, the door to Marvin’s apartment opened and he stepped out, thin legs revealed in jogging shorts. He wore a sweatshirt and carried a towel. Well, thank God Andromeda would have to jog with him. Mona didn’t mind activity that got her heart rate up and her body pumping, but she wanted a better pay off than sweaty clothes.

  At Andromeda’s tap, Mona rolled down her window and took in the black spandex shorts with red suspenders, black T-shirt, knee-socks and hiking boots. Andromeda was dressed for action. Her eyes were concealed behind her ever-present Raybans.