Part 25 (2/2)

It was just shy of eleven when Melford dropped me off outside the Kwick Stop. It was only after I was out of the car and it had driven away that I recalled that Melford had said I was done with him, that our business was over. Did that mean I would never see him again? Was he hurt that I hadn't said good-bye? And did I really care if I hurt the a.s.sa.s.sin's feelings?

Not that it mattered. Maybe it was because of everything that had happened in the last day, but I didn't believe I was done with Melford, and I found it even harder to believe I was done with the Gambler, Jim Doe, and the rest. When I was back home, away from Jacksonville and bookmen, I'd believe it.

I walked over to the pay phone just outside the Kwick Stop's door. It was late to be making the call, but, surprisingly, Chris Denton picked up on the first ring.

”Yeah,” he told me. ”I've got your guy.”

”And?”

”And not much. He's a Miami businessman, deals in livestock, and also deals with some door-to-door encyclopedia outfit. He also runs a charity. That's about it. No record, no arrests, no stories in the media other than the usual business c.r.a.p.”

”That's all you've got?” I asked.

”What do you want me to do-tell you he's a ma.s.s murderer? He's just an a.s.shole, like everyone else. Like you.”

”I was hoping to get more for my money.”

”Too bad,” he said. And he hung up.

I stood there by the phone, letting disappointment wash over me. I don't know what I had expected. Maybe some missing piece, something to help put it all in perspective. Maybe I wanted something that would have helped me feel safer.

And I didn't buy it. If B. B. Gunn was the head of some kind of drug and hog operation, whatever that would look like, he must have had some dealings with the law. An arrest that never went anywhere, unfounded allegations that made their way into the newspaper, something like that. Why had Denton come up empty?

As it turned out, it was my fault. I never noticed that Chris Denton's number was in the same exchange as the one Karen had put on her application. It was a Meadowbrook Grove exchange. And Chris Denton, I would later learn, knew Jim Doe.

When I hung up the phone, I had the feeling someone was watching me. I looked up. There was Chitra, her eyes narrow and, I thought, judgmental.

”Hi,” I said. ”This is your pickup too?”

”Yeah,” she told me. ”You weren't selling today, were you.”

”Not selling?”

”I've been here a while. I saw you get out of that car your friend was driving. Did you go swimming?”

”What?”

”That woman in the front was wearing a bikini.”

That was about as far as our conversation got before Bobby pulled up in his Cordoba and she melted back into the store.

Ronny Neil and Scott were already in the car, Ronny Neil in front, whispering conspiratorially to Scott in the back. Did that mean something? Bobby had been picking me up first for weeks.

Why should I care who got to sit in which seats? I was planning on leaving and never coming back. I had bigger and more important things to worry about than whether or not Bobby considered me the best bookman in his crew. I was more interested in making certain I didn't go to jail for murder or get killed by drug dealers.

The Cordoba came to a stop in front of the store, and Bobby pushed himself out. The engine was still running, and from inside Billy Idol crooned about eyes without a face, whatever the h.e.l.l that meant. Bobby grinned and came around to the back, flipping open the trunk with a flair of his wrist, as if he were a magician performing a trick. His blue oxford s.h.i.+rt was partially untucked, and he'd spilled something sodalike on his pants.

”So, besides running errands for the Gambler, did you have any time to make money?”

I shook my head. ”I blanked.”

Bobby sucked on his lower lip. ”That was a pretty primo spot I gave you. Might have helped if you'd been there.”

”I was out there most of the day. It just didn't work out.”

”Yeah, right.”

”It's not like I blanked on purpose,” I said, even though that's exactly what I did.

”So, what happened?”

I shrugged. ”I don't know. Bad luck.”

”No such thing as bad luck, Lemmy. You make your own luck.” Bobby looked at me with a kind of seriousness I had never seen before, and I knew he didn't want to hear my bulls.h.i.+t excuses. He gave his head a little sad shake and then shut the trunk. ”You guys want to go behind my back, f.u.c.k me up, that's your business. Get in the car.”

I had to climb in the back with large, smelly Scott. When they picked up Kevin, there was no way Scott would scoot over to the middle, which meant I would be squished between them, breathing in the stink of Scott's unwashed body all the way back to the motel.

But, I told myself, it would all be over soon. Tomorrow would be the last day in town. Monday morning Bobby would head for home. We would stop on the road to sell, and I'd be back by two or three A.M. A.M. early Tuesday, and I would never have to sell books again. Just two more book-selling sessions and then freedom. early Tuesday, and I would never have to sell books again. Just two more book-selling sessions and then freedom.

A tinny Genesis tune was coming through the radio now, and I tried to concentrate on it. I'd read once that if you had a really bad headache, you could make it go away by thinking about some other part of your body instead. That's what I was trying out. I figured if I listened to Genesis, if I concentrated on Phil Collins's voice, I might not smell Scott quite so much.

”I bet you blanked today,” Ronny Neil said from up front. ”I didn't. I got me a double.”

This was where Bobby would tell him to be quiet, that they didn't talk about how it went in the car. But Bobby didn't say anything. He just stared ahead as he drove.

”You ain't gonna answer me?” Ronny Neil said.

Scott shoved an elbow into my ribs. ”I heard someone say something to you,” he told me. He scratched at a zit on his nose.

I still didn't say anything. I decided instead to nurse my indignation.

”Well, did you blank or didn't you?” Ronny Neil asked. ”I thought you understood English so great.”

”You know we're not supposed to talk about it.”

”I don't hear Bobby complaining.”

I paused to let Bobby chime in, but he didn't say anything ”We're not supposed to talk about it,” I said again.

”s.h.i.+t, boy, you worry too much about what you're supposed to do and what you're not supposed to do. Me, I'm gonna celebrate in style. A double. With that bonus I got me six hundred dollars today, and I get me some p.u.s.s.y.”

”Yeah,” said Scott.

”Yeah what?” Ronny Neil asked his friend. ”Yeah, your buddy is going to get some p.u.s.s.y? You know you ain't. Who would get with a fat, lisping f.u.c.k like you?”

Scott laughed.

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