Shop Talk Page 23

  Driskell smiled. “You and your cows. When I thought you’d been blown to bits by that bomb, I imagined you coming back as a cow.”

  “Oh, Driskell, that’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.” Leaning across the seat, she lightly kissed him. At the first touch of his cherry red lips, she felt a soft tingle that grew stronger as she held the kiss. His lips were soft and tart, a sensual burst of pleasure that could only be likened to a Sweet Tart hitting the very tip of her tongue. “Oh, Driskell,” she said softly, never wanting to let go of the taste of him.

  Driskell’s sense of duty snapped back into place. He squeezed Lucille’s hand before he started the car and aimed it back onto Highway 90. “Well finish this later,” he promised.

  Lucille lifted her hand and gently touched her lips. They were pulsing, alive in a way she’d never imagined. She chanced a look at Driskell and felt a sudden, hard pulse in her lips. “Oh, my,” she said.

  “Are you okay?” Driskell held the wheel tightly.

  “I think so. Where are we going?”

  “We’re looking for 555 Avelon Drive.” He turned right at the marina and headed for the main downtown street of Biloxi.

  Lucille looked out her window. Her face was dimly reflected in the glass. Her lips seemed larger, redder than they had ever been before. Instead of frightening her, the effect pleased her greatly. “Who are we going to see?”

  “Someone your uncle knows. The lawyer who sent him a letter telling him to come back to Biloxi to claim his inheritance.”

  Lucille forgot her lips. “What inheritance?”

  “That’s what we’re going to ask M.V. Valentine.”

  They passed a liquor store, a dry cleaners and pulled in beside a sno-cone stand. The numerals 555 were crudely painted on the side. They got out of the car and stared at the bright lime green stand.

  “That lying Peter Hare.” Driskell stood beside the curb as Lucille brushed past him and went to inspect the stand. “He duped me.”

  Lucille heard the bitter disappointment in Driskell’s voice. She went to him. “Don’t feel bad. Well find Uncle Peter and make him tell the truth.”

  Driskell turned his face so that their lips were only a few millimeters apart. He could see each separate eyelash, as stiff and spiky as her merlot hair. And he saw himself reflected in Lucille’s eyes, a man with lips red with passion and dark eyes filled with longing. He watched in total fascination as his eyes grew larger and larger, until his lips touched Lucille’s. Though they were a paler red than his, they were nonetheless hot and filled with passion. Driskell lifted his cape with his right hand, creating a shield of privacy for them as they yielded to the passions they could no longer control.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Andromeda stood impatiently in the Wal-Mart checkout. Her Raybans reflected harsh lighting and a dizzying array of frenzied shoppers. Across the slick, black surface of her lenses, the shoppers rushed to and fro, buggies filled with disposable diapers, ant poison, chips, cosmetics, garden hoses, toilet tissue, and heat-rash babies. Cradled in her arms was her riding helmet, and tucked within that were two photo packages and five Slim Jims. While the line inched forward, she ripped the plastic wrapper down one of the small beef sticks and bit it in half. The photos were intriguing. WOMB had underestimated Marvin Lovelace. She pulled the remainder of the beef stick out of the wrapper with her lips. Inch by inch she worked it into her mouth.

  The rustle of plastic drew the attention of the elderly woman in front of her. “You aren’t supposed to eat before you pay. They’ll have to increase the prices for all of us if people like you eat without paying.”

  “I’m paying.” Andromeda saw that the cashier was waiting for the old woman’s items. “It’s your turn.” Behind the Raybans she focused on the woman. She was a study in pastels, a proper church-lady-granny with flawless hose and shoes that were not scuffed on the heels. The kind of old woman she sometimes fantasized as her grandmother. Andromeda smiled. “It’s your turn,” she repeated with a hint of gentleness.

  “I know your type.” The woman rounded on her, pointing at Andromeda’s black leather jacket. “I’ve seen women like you eating in the grocery store. They go to the salad bar and get a piece of watermelon or crackers. They just pop them right in their mouths and go on about shopping as if it were free. Down at the Krogers they had to take out the bulk items because people were stealing out of the barrels and eating the stuff right in the store.”

  “Ma’am? Ma’am?” The cashier waved her forward.

  Ignoring the cashier, she shook a finger at Andromeda. “You’re just like those people who sue when they spill hot coffee on themselves, or when they’re playing golf and their golf ball hits the railroad tracks and then comes back and hits them in the head. You have no sense of responsibility for yourselves.”

  Behind her, Andromeda heard the other people in line mumbling. “Lady, if you’ll check your things I can pay for mine.” Andromeda inched forward. The pastels and pearls had been a sham. The creature before her was old. Old and mean and cantankerous. Age did something to a person. It got inside them and curdled everything that was good or decent. It made them hate younger people.

  The old woman held up both hands, silencing those behind her. “Be quiet! Be quiet! I have something to say. When I was a young woman, we were proud to work for a living. This day and time, young folks want a government check! We’ve become a nation of freeloaders.” The old woman snatched the Slim Jim wrapper from Andromeda’s hand. “And thieves!”

  Andromeda snatched the plastic back. “I’m going to pay for that!”

  “So you say,” the woman answered. “You’re like all the other young people. Punks!” She spat the word at Andromeda.

  The cashier was paralyzed. Andromeda waved at her. “Check the old bag out,” she said, keeping her voice as reasonable as she could.

  “No respect for your elders.” The woman punched Andromeda in the shoulder. “What would your mother think of you if she saw you right this minute? You look like a hoodlum.”

  Andromeda could stand it no longer. She reached into the woman’s basket and piled her things on the counter. “I have to get out of here,” she said. She’d given Natalie only a light dose of laudanum. “Lady, check out or move over.”

  “Listen to her! Just listen. I won’t be ordered around by the likes of you!” The old woman swatted at the clerk’s hands as she reached for her items. “Don’t touch those! Don’t touch them!” She clutched her purchases to her chest and widened her feet. “We’re shutting this place down until you issue an apology.”

  Andromeda looked deep into the old woman’s fading blue eyes and felt a stab of pure horror. “Who are you?” Andromeda asked.

  “Mrs. Prencil.” The woman clutched her purchases. “And I demand an apology!”

  All around her fights were breaking out at the checkouts as the older customers began to make a seal-like sound, chanting in unison. “Arrp! Arrp! Arrp!” They clapped their hands and chanted.

  “What the hell is going on?” a young mother with three children in her buggy asked. She pushed into the line beside Andromeda. Ahead of her an old man punched his fists into the air as he made the seal sound. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “American Association of Retired Persons. AARP,” Andromeda said. For the past three months Natalie had been filling out secret questionnaires to obtain more senior discount cards. “It’s the biggest lobby in the nation.”

  “I’ve got to get home,” the mother said. She nudged the old man with her cart. “Step aside, mister.”

  “Arrp! Arrp! Arrp!” The man shook his fist at her children.

  “Get out of my way,” the woman warned. When the old man laughed at her, she rammed him with her buggy. He fell to the side, and she pushed her cart past him. Throwing items helter-skelter, she rushed the cart toward the door at break-neck speed. Her children reached for toys and screamed, a long, grinding wail that was somehow harmonized.

  Andromed
a clutched her helmet, her photos, and her Slim Jims to her chest. It was time for action. She stiff-armed the old woman and ran. The elderly greeter dropped into the stance of a football tackle, blocking the exit. Without a qualm, Andromeda used the butt of her palm to send him sprawling. As she ran, she watched the slo-mo bedlam of the store, the agonized faces of angry shoppers opening into wide mouths, the slow and exquisite lifting of a bag of pretzels that suddenly exploded over a cashier’s head. Lunging, twisting, but always holding onto the photos, Andromeda saw the automatic door open for her just as the music from Chariots of Fire swelled in her head. The finish line, she was almost there. Free-dom. Free-dom. Free-dom. The word echoed in her head, and in that split second, she accepted the fact that she would never go home again.

  She’d left the Harley parked illegally by an enormous display of marigolds. The jaunty gold and russet flowers seemed to bob a hello on a soft wind as she ran to the bike, climbed on board and kicked it into life. With a twist of her wrist, the bike roared forward on its rear tire. She walked the hog across the entire front of the store as managers, clerks, and a growing army of old folks came out after her, wielding umbrellas and shaking their fists.

  “Hi! Ho! Silver!” Andromeda cried out as she set the bike down on two wheels and took off to find the rest of WOMB.

  Marvin tugged the long brim of the tractor hat even lower as he shuffled down the sidewalk using his cane. It galled him to resort to cheap disguises. But then he’d never met a human as hard to kill as Lucille Hare. When he’d seen her, standing against the rising sun, he’d felt a true discomfort in the region of his heart. His ribs had squeezed shut into a fist. How was it that she’d escaped the blast that had killed ten and injured dozens more? Eight apartments had been declared total losses.

  And Lucille Hare had escaped without a scratch.

  He sighed. No wonder the forensic team hadn’t been able to find any trace of her.

  He lingered in front of Igor’s Video Store and stared at the miniature marquee displays of newly released movies. But he was actually watching the reflection from the other side of the street.

  Bo’s Electronics looked deserted. There had been four or five customers, and the mailman, who’d stayed longer than any of the customers. Now it appeared that everyone was gone. Except for Bo and Bo’s wife. Iris Hare. He’d seen her flitting around the shop, butt barely covered by a pair of cut-off jeans. Now she was one hunk of woman. She was one that would fight back. One whose bones would not snap easily. The idea of breaking her to his will excited him, and he forced his attention back to the poster on Pulp Fiction. He’d never bothered to see the film; John Travolta was a sissy. And Bob Dole had said it was a movie that corrupted America. A glorification of violence.

  Marvin knew one thing for certain, violence wasn’t to be glorified. It was something that governments did with regularity–against their own citizens and the citizens of other countries. In whatever form it took, violence was covert. Denied. Done and lied about. A necessary part of making the world run properly.

  No matter how precisely or professionally it was done, violence was never glorified. That was what was wrong with those Hollywood types.

  A small and ghostly Bo Hare suddenly appeared in the Pulp Fiction poster. Marvin concentrated on Bo as he lifted a television from beside the front window of his shop and disappeared again. Marvin clicked his teeth. Bo was alone.

  Reaching into his pocket, he checked the curette to make sure it was easily accessible. He didn’t have time to run Lucille Hare to ground. Bo would have to do for the tissue sample. All it would really take would be a plug, something he could clamp and snatch. It wasn’t the preferred plan, but it would get the material necessary for the DNA tests, and Marvin knew he’d wasted far too much time on this step. Somehow, he’d lost sight of his goal in his frenzy to rid the world of Lucille. All he really needed was a plug of tissue, and Bo would have to serve that purpose.

  Chapter Thirty

  Bo rubbed his eyes as the Cadillac pulled into the only open slot at the front of the shop. It had been a long morning compounded by the weird old man who’d followed him all over the shop for an hour. Bo had a tender spot for the elderly, but several times the old sicko had brushed against him as if he were trying to deliberately touch him. Now Bo was tired and grumpy. He’d not slept a wink, tormented by visions of Lucille sitting at her computer just as her apartment was blown to bits. Now this!

  He rubbed his eyes again, unwilling to believe what he saw. Driskell LaMont had pulled his big black Caddy into the tiny apron of a parking lot. And Lucille was riding with him.

  “Iris, baby, you’d better come up here,” he called loud enough so that his voice carried into the apartment.

  Iris rinsed the collards, aware that the smell of baking ham had permeated the short, raggedly cut-off jeans that hugged her hips and the polka dot blouse that was tied, tightly, at her breasts. Beside a colander of freshly washed okra was a straw hat. Iris had decided that a mess of collards and some good Southern food would help Bo through the horror of Lucille’s near extermination.

  “I’ve got to get the grit off these greens,” she called back. For the last hour Bo had been tied up with some old man who’d come in to look at repaired television sets. Bo had patiently explained that the sets weren’t for sale, that they belonged to customers. But the old guy with the hard eyes of a stuffed eagle had either been dumb as a rock or up to something. Iris, busy making the brown sugar and pineapple sauce to glaze the ham, hadn’t hung around the front long enough to tell which it was. “Did that old dude ever bring his set in?” she yelled as she began the process of tearing the collards into small bits.

  “No, he never did. Listen, baby, I think maybe you should come up here and check this out. It’s Lucille. And Driskell.” Bo didn’t have the energy to sound really urgent.

  “Bo, this ham and accoutrements are exactly what we both need.” In mid-sentence her speech began to change, the words becoming slow and syrupy. “I got it all figured out. We eat a big heapin’ plate o’ vittles and some finger-lickin’ cornbread. We wash it all down with some big glasses of iced tea, topped off with the fresh blackberry cobbler that’s bubblin’ in the oven. After that, we’ll feel fine.” She fluffed her ponytail with only a split second of regret that her hair was not blond.

  “Iris.” Bo watched as Driskell went around the car to open the door for Lucille. His sister got out and stared up at Driskell as if she’d never seen him before. The mid-morning light struck Lucille fully in the face, revealing lips that looked slightly larger–and redder! “Iris, you’ve got to see this.”

  “Now just listen to li’l ole me, sweetie. We’re gonna eat this bodacious meal, which will send all the blood rushing straight to your gut to help digest the food. That’ll leave your big ole, tired-out brain without enough blood to think.” Iris gave a giggle. “Of course, if you put a double strain on it and take even more of the blood somewhere else that requires a lot of circulation, well, I ga-ran-tee you won’t be thinkin’ about poor ole Lucille.” She poked her head around the door to grin at her husband. He had no idea of the treat that was in store for him. One of his favorites, The Dukes of Hazzard. Her outfit was going to finally put a smile on his face.

  But Bo didn’t even notice her when she went in the shop. He was absorbed by the scene outside the window. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Lucille. And Driskell.” Bo felt a sense of impending doom as a second black car pulled up in front of the shop. “And Mona.” A movement across the street caught his eye. “And here comes Coco and Dallas.”

  Iris crossed the floor in ten long strides. She forgot all about her deep-fried accent. “Je-sus, baby. Lock the door. They look like rabid dogs.” She started toward the front door, but Bo grabbed her arm.

  “Look at Lucille,” he said. “She belongs with them. Look, she fits right in.”

  “Well, now, she does.” Iris’ voice didn’t hold the disapproval of Bo’s. “Where’s the k
inky one with the sunglasses?”

  Her question was answered by the sound of a big bike. A black clad rider sped by the shop at high speed. Twenty yards past, the rider laid the bike on the asphalt as she did a complete one-eighty and came roaring back to the shop. Three inches from the plate glass window she braked and climbed off.

  “My lord, that girl knows how to straddle a hog,” Iris said approvingly. A sudden inspiration popped into her head. “I wonder if she might let us borrow the bike one evening. Not to ride, just to … use.” She feathered a hand through Bo’s hair.

  “They’re here. All of them. And now Driskell’s part of them.” He looked at Iris, eyes wide with shock. “You don’t think Driskell has decided to write, do you?”

  “I don’t know, baby. He couldn’t be any worse than Lucille.”

  The door bell jangled a warning as Lucille led the way into the shop. The other writers and Driskell followed behind her.

  “It’s not Wednesday night.” Bo stood up. His hands were shaking. “I’ve had a really bad day, Lucille. Really bad. I can’t take all of you writers right now.” He waved at them, shooing them toward the door. “Go away.”

  Mona lifted an eyebrow at Iris. “What? Are we interrupting some kinky version of L’ il Abner? How appropriate.”

  “Eat your heart out, you Madonna-wanna be.” Iris didn’t mind the writers as much as Bo, but she had no intention of being mocked in her own home.

  “Baby.” Bo held open his arms and then closed them around his wife. He looked over her dark head and into Lucille’s flashing eyes.

  “Enough of this.” Lucille stamped her foot. The bandages on her knees bucked and wiggled. “This is serious business, Mona. Quit hassling Iris. Driskell and I have put two and two together and come up with a lot more than four.” Lucille looked at Driskell, who moved up to her side. “Tell them.”