Part 12 (1/2)
”I will.”
”So, you about ready?”
”Where we going?”
”My place.”
Grace swallowed the rest of her vodka, placed the gla.s.s down on the bar. ”I was watching you this afternoon, Larry, standing over that hot sink. I like to see a man sweat. I like the way it smells.”
”That a fact.”
She leaned in to him so that her cheek touched his. She had a cheap permanent with damaged ends, and her hair smelled of chemicals.
Grace whispered, ”Looking at you made me all wet.”
Farrow stabbed out his cigarette. He signaled the bartender and said, ”Let's go.”
Farrow lived in a stone house fronting the Edward River. His efficiency was on the third floor at the rear of the house and held a double bed, bathroom, and porcelain kitchenette. The room's one window gave to a view of a cobblestone alley.
Grace sat naked on Farrow's bed, drinking red wine from a goblet. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were huge and heavy, with pink nipples as large as English m.u.f.fins. She sucked in her stomach, watching him walk toward her in his underwear.
”You stay in shape,” she said.
”Sit-ups and push-ups,” said Farrow. ”Every day.”
”How long you been doin' that?”
”Long time.”
”I gotta start doing something to break a sweat.”
”Start right now.”
She giggled and licked her lips clumsily. ”This wine is yummy.”
”You like it, huh?”
”I don't know good from bad, to tell you the truth.”
He stood before her and said, ”Really.”
”I hope it's not expensive wine,” she said. ” 'Cause I'm gettin' ready to waste a little. Hope you don't mind.”
Grace got up off the bed. She took a long sip of wine and spit it out onto Farrow's chest. She put the goblet on the nightstand. She got down and licked the dripping wine from his stomach up to his chest. She licked his nipples and pulled down his underwear and played with his b.a.l.l.s. He had an erection now, and he pushed her down on the bed.
Grace's head bounced on the mattress one time, and her eyes grew wide. ”You like to play rough? I like it rough, too, Larry.”
He pulled her to the edge of the bed so that her legs hung off the side. He f.u.c.ked her like that, watching himself slide in and out of her, keeping his eyes there, imagining he was banging one of the many trophy wives he had seen walking through the lobby of the hotel. Thinking of doing those rich women the way he was doing Grace made him go even harder. He flashed on the reverend's pale face and got short of breath. He took Grace's hand in his own and worked his thumbnail under hers. His thrusts lifted her back off the bed.
”s.h.i.+t, yeah,” she said, spittle forming around the edges of her mouth. yeah,” she said, spittle forming around the edges of her mouth.
When she came she sounded like a woman giving birth, and in the middle of her spasms Farrow ripped her thumbnail clean off. As she screamed, Farrow shot off inside her with a violent shudder.
He withdrew and stood over the bed. Grace was crying, thras.h.i.+ng her head from side to side. Blood snaked down her meaty forearm.
”I'm sorry,” he said. ”Grace, I'm so sorry. I didn't realize what I was doing, I was so excited...”
”Aaaah, G.o.d,” said Grace. ”G.o.d, G.o.d, G.o.d...”
”I've got some medical tape and disinfectant in the bathroom,” said Farrow. ”I'll be right back, and we'll fix you up.”
In the bathroom, Farrow could hear Grace muttering the word ”f.u.c.k” over and over again. He looked in the vanity mirror. Tears had formed in his eyes. His lips were twitching, and he put his hand over his mouth.
Farrow turned the bath spigot on full so that Grace could not hear him laugh.
ELEVEN.
ROMAN OTIS DROVE south on Sepulveda, past gas stations, pager shops, drive-throughs, and big box retailers. The people weren't beautiful here, not like the blondes and moussed boys of Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, and trash littered the gutters and the small squares of worn gra.s.s fronting the boxy apartment units and Spanish ramblers along the boulevard. Otis pa.s.sed beneath the freeway and drove into the lot of a garden apartment complex situated beside a dry drainage ditch with old tires and discarded toys lying in its bed. south on Sepulveda, past gas stations, pager shops, drive-throughs, and big box retailers. The people weren't beautiful here, not like the blondes and moussed boys of Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, and trash littered the gutters and the small squares of worn gra.s.s fronting the boxy apartment units and Spanish ramblers along the boulevard. Otis pa.s.sed beneath the freeway and drove into the lot of a garden apartment complex situated beside a dry drainage ditch with old tires and discarded toys lying in its bed.
”Be right back,” said Otis, smiling, checking his gold tooth out in the rearview.
Gus Lavonicus watched Otis step along the walkway toward the apartments, not too fast, and not like he didn't have somewhere to go, either. He wore reverse pleated slacks, a lightweight sport jacket, a nice black polo s.h.i.+rt underneath, soft Italian loafers, those shades of his that adjusted their tint to the light, that ID bracelet with the funny inscription, and a previously owned Rolex watch. Otis had style.
Lavonicus looked down at his plain blue pants and the black size-eighteen work boots he ordered special from the Real Man Big and Tall catalog. It wasn't like a guy his size had many choices.
Maybe Cissy would look at him with a fresh set of eyes if he dressed sharp like her brother Roman. Probably not. It seemed lately that nothing about him could make Cissy happy. She was having a change of life. Her periods seemed longer, and when she was having them she was meaner than any woman he'd ever known. He had asked her to look into some of that period medicine he'd seen at the drugstore, and at the suggestion she threw a fit. She screamed at him like his mother used to scream at him back in the mountains of Eastern Europe. Ah, his mother was a real screamer, too - he'd sworn he'd never marry a woman like that.
When Lavonicus played for the Spirits of St. Louis, Cissy would wait for him outside the locker room with all the other basketball wh.o.r.es. But Cissy was different - she had love in her eyes for him then. He guessed he was never happier, playing ball and getting paid for it and falling in love with Cissy back in 1975.
Those were a nice bunch of guys on that team, crazy but nice. They knew how to get him pumped up for the game. The coach would tell him that a player on the opposite team had laughed at him, called him r.e.t.a.r.d Man or something like that. A hard feeling would develop in his stomach, and he'd tell the coach he was ready to go into the game. He'd find the player who'd laughed at him and submarine that player as he went up for a rebound, step on his knee, maybe, when he was down on the court. Sometimes he'd just go ahead and drive a hard elbow into the player's Adam's apple if he could get away with it, or knock the player into the scorer's table when he was trying to save a ball from going out of bounds. After those things happened he would often be sat down, and upon his return to the bench his teammates would slap him five, laugh about it, pat him on the back. By then he'd feel a whole lot better. He'd look for Cissy in the stands - the Spirits were only drawing three thousand fans a game then, so it wasn't hard to spot her - and she'd give him a broad wink. Those were really good times.
He smiled and felt his eyes grow heavy. When he opened his eyes it was to the sound of the car door opening and closing, and Otis was beside him in the driver's seat.
”Got 'em,” he said, tossing a small gym bag over his shoulder.
”Where to now?”
”Back across town to Silver Lake,” he said. ”Lonnie Newton's crib.”
Lonnie Newton was a small-change c.o.ke dealer who had experienced a run of good luck in the past six months. Roman Otis had staked the original thousand that had put Newton in business, but as yet Newton had not repaid the debt.
Newton lived in a two-bedroom rental house set on a hill in Silver Lake, at the top of c.u.mberland Avenue. Otis drove the Lincoln over the crest of c.u.mberland, took it down where the road snaked along and narrowed for the next fifty yards, parked behind an old import with Jersey plates. A dark-haired woman got out of the import and gave Otis the fish-eye as she walked to her house.
”Whatever, baby,” said Otis, taking a .45 from the gym bag, checking the load, and slipping the gun inside his jacket. He waited for the woman to enter her house. He waited for ”Ladies Night” to end on the radio. He said to Lavonicus, ”Come on.”
They walked back up c.u.mberland.