A Kiss Gone Bad (14 page)

‘How well did you know Pete?’ Whit asked.

‘I met him just once. Let me tell you. Judge, I find porn boring. I find porn stars even more boring. Especially when they’re
male. Pete had all the brains of dandruff.’

‘What about this money Pete and Junior supposedly bickered over?’

Anson cleared his throat. His voice took on a soft volume that had no softness in the tone. ‘Look, Judge, I agreed to tell
you what we know, not undergo interrogation. We knew the guy, we didn’t have anything to do with his death, and Mr Deloache
is gonna want his boat back pronto.’

‘Mr Deloache is going to have to wait for the investigation
to be over,’ Whit answered pleasantly. ‘Mr Deloache, both the senior and the junior, need to answer questions.’

‘Let me ask you one. How many times was Pete shot?’

‘Once.’

‘Where?’

‘The head.’

Anson crinkled his nose. ‘Gee. Once in the head. Can I have suicide for four hundred dollars, Alex?’

‘Or maybe it was an execution,’ Whit said. ‘Gangland style.’

‘Gangland? Christ, I haven’t heard that term since cable showed the James Cagney movie marathon.’ Anson leaned back in his
chair. ‘Look, Judge, you want to explore slander, keep talking. We got a whole flock of lawyers up in Houston that wouldn’t
consider your ass a light hors d’oeuvre.’

‘Yes, but my ass is planted up on the court bench, and from that vantage point I can call you and Junior as witnesses at the
inquest. Mr Deloache, too.’

‘I’ve told you we know nothing. And I got nothing to give you. Judge, except the pleasure of my company and a good cup of
coffee.’ He smiled. ‘I bet you know the good fishing spots in St Leo Bay. We ought to get our lines tight some time.’

Whit imagined more of Anson’s boating expeditions involved concrete mixes and pleas for mercy rather than suntan lotion and
cheap bait. ‘Thanks for your time. I’ll see you in court.’ He headed for the elevator, Gooch silently following, and pressed
the button.

The fishing bonhomie vanished. ‘It’s not a good idea to waste Mr Deloache’s time.’

‘It’s not a good idea to waste mine, either,’ Whit said. The doors slid open, and Whit and Gooch stepped on the
elevator. Anson Todd stared at them until the doors slid shut.

‘You’re such a bad ass,’ Gooch said. ‘I released a vast flood of urine into my pants, out of sheer terror.’

‘You do smell funny,’ Whit said. ‘Watch me. I’ll subpoena both of them so fast their beady little eyes’ll pop.’

The elevator doors slid open with a creaky fanfare. Junior Deloache stood there with a box of raisin bran crushed under his
arm and a six-pack of beer. He looked like a delivery boy gone to seed but a cold light of calculation touched his eyes.

‘Hi, Junior,’ Whit said. ‘Could we talk for a second? Just outside?’

Junior shook his head. ‘I gotta make sure Anson gets his Mr Plumb-r cereal.’

‘I’d like to see what all you’re doing with Sea Haven. I only have a couple of questions for you.’

Junior shrugged and Whit and Gooch followed him through the dismantled lobby to a large patio, aglow with fuzzy security lights,
bare of furniture, with an emptied, cracked pool. A decaying cabana-cum-bar with a graying palm-thatched roof stood nearby,
lopsided with neglect.

‘Welcome to Groo-vin’ Central,’ Junior said. ‘Once we get it cleaned up and lure all the young chickies here.’

Gooch said, ‘Oh, yes, I just see chickies flocking here by the dozens.’

‘You gonna have the money to finish?’ Whit asked.

Junior gave him a scornful sideways glance. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Didn’t you owe Pete Hubble serious money?’

‘Most certainly did not.’

‘People at the marina heard the two of you bickering about money. Saw you shoving him around on your boat.’

Junior frowned, but Whit saw he had to think about it
first. ‘Your sources are faulty, man. I didn’t owe him money.’

Gooch asked, ‘So what did Pete owe you?’

‘And you would be who?’ Junior asked. ‘You the bailiff for the judge or something?’

‘Gooch is just a friend along for the ride.’ Whit wished Gooch would shut up.

‘There was no owing of any sort, man. There’s a real difference between friends goofing around and arguing. I just got a big
voice.’

‘When did you last see Pete?’ Whit asked.

‘A few days ago, last week. He and I took the boat out.’

‘Do you want to talk about whatever this money issue was at an inquest hearing? Because I’ll call you to testify if I think
it’s relevant. Or if you’re not cooperating. I’m sure the police would be interested.’

Not testifying, Whit suspected, might be a family virtue long drummed into Junior, probably since he broke the legs of his
first G.I. Joe in the nursery.

‘I had no reason to want Pete dead. See, Pete promised me I could be in a movie.’

‘The one he was making about his brother?’

‘Tragedy is not my style. A, you know, different kind of movie.’ Junior swiveled his hips with a not-so-subtle grind.

‘I see. Pete was going to let you be in a groo-vin’ movie,’ Whit said in an understanding tone.

‘Yeah, you’re on board now. Fucking A.’

‘Anson and your dad must’ve loved that idea.’

The smile faded.

‘I got the impression whatever Anson said, you did.’ Whit gently poked the box of raisin bran.

‘Yeah, well, that’s me being nice to an old fart. Anson’s older’n hell, he already got one wheel in the grave.’

‘So with Pete gone I guess your movie career is on hold.
Unless you can convince Velvet to cast you in her next opus.’

He grinned. That’s no problem.’

‘Why is that?’

Junior set the cereal and beer down, gently, stood, and rubbed his palms against each other, warming his fists for use. ‘You
know, you’re grilling me like chicken, dude, and I don’t got to give you the time of day.’

‘Oh, yes, please let’s get physical,’ Gooch interrupted. ‘I haven’t had a workout today, and you got punching bag written
all over your gut.’

Junior started a retort, then seemed to reconsider as he noted the size of Gooch’s biceps. ‘I sure as hell ain’t gonna answer
any more questions.’

‘Fine. I’ll see you in my courtroom.’ Whit had found his weapon – Anson’s and Junior’s loathing of court – and wasn’t about
to surrender it.

A cold rage lit Junior’s eyes. ‘My daddy’s attorneys will eat you alive.’

‘What’s with these attorneys and the food metaphors? Eat us alive and grilling you like chicken and consider Whit an appetizer?
No wonder you’re chunky,’ Gooch said.

‘Gooch. Don’t,’ Whit said. He shrugged at Junior. ‘So start working your cell phone and get all of your daddy’s attorneys
down here. The bill the lawyers charge to your dad for all that travel time should be substantial.’

Junior considered this – calling his father to gather a bevy of lawyers in Port Leo – and suddenly cooperated. ‘Look, Judge,
you want to chase down the right fox, you need to look at the X-Bitch.’

‘Who?’

‘Pete’s ex. He called her the X-Bitch, you know, like
The X-Files?
Freaking alien weirdo. She was about to drive him crazy.’

‘How so?’

‘Man, how didn’t Faith? Over at his boat all the time, trying to sweeten him up. I caught Pete and Faith once, I swear, inches
from fucking. Velvet would’ve had a coronary.’

‘Velvet says Pete was just a friend.’

‘Yeah, right, they’re just friends after he’s had his dick inside her a couple of hundred times. You know women don’t think
that way, not even porn stars.’ Junior laughed, relaxing now that the topic was back on treasured ground. ‘But the X-Bitch,
hell, I think she kinda had a split personality going as far as Pete was concerned. She wanted him but she wanted him gone.
She works for that old shit of a mother of his, and you know they were soiling their panties when he moved back. Jesus, he
told me his mother offered him money to go away. He didn’t want to do it and I’m all like, dude! Are you nuts? Take the money,
ditch Port Lame here and go back to L.A., where life is real.’ Junior shook his head. ‘Shit, he should’ve taken that money.
He really should’ve.’

Anson wheeled into view in the open doorway. ‘Junior!’ he bawled. ‘Get in here.’

Junior picked up his groceries. ‘I had every reason to want Pete alive, and his family sure as hell didn’t. Later.’ He turned
and went back to Anson, walking past him without a word. Whit followed him back through the lobby. Anson wasn’t in a mood
to parry further.

‘Good night. Judge,’ he said with solemnity, and motored himself back into the elevator after Junior.

Whit and Gooch walked out of the lobby. Junior hardly appeared credible on paper, but his words gave Whit pause. If Velvet
was right, and Pete was going to sue for custody, had Faith tried to disarm him with sex? And if Lucinda had truly offered
her son cash to fade away … what had she done when he refused?

It suggested they knew damn well Pete might be suing for custody, and had more than a prayer of winning. But Junior would
be hard to present as a credible witness.

‘I must get the name of the reform school he attended,’ Gooch said. ‘I want to sponsor a scholarship.’

Whit walked past Junior’s Porsche and noticed the rear left corner looked like it had suffered a minor accident. The left
taillight was smashed. Whit remembered the one-eyed Porsche he’d passed last night heading away from the marina, trash disco
blaring into the night – hours before Anson claimed they’d arrived in Port Leo.

The Blade was tired.

Midnight had come to Port Leo, his favorite time, and he stood beneath a canopy of live oaks and listened to the wind – the
wind that had caressed, in its time, every inch of the world, every woman – whisper through the oak limbs.

It was a good day, he supposed. He knew where Velvet was, a toy just waiting to be opened. His plan for Heather Farrell had
been put in motion. He could sleep and dream up a store of delights that, in the days ahead, he could make real.

Not every man, he knew, was so blessed and rich. He went into the garage to prepare his boat for its chores.

‘Mom?’

Faith Hubble was jolted out of sleep. She had been dreaming: dreaming that Port Leo was gone, left far behind her on a boat
arrowing deep into the bowl of the Gulf, and Pete stood to one side of her, Whit on the other. As the spray from the prow
cooled her face against a blistering sun, the two of them seized her shoulders, upended her over the railing, and she plummeted
toward a canyon of water, falling for miles. She had glanced up and Pete and Whit were gone, Lucinda and Sam standing in their
places, watching her die.

She pulled her head from the pillow. Sweat touched her shoulders, her back, between her legs.

‘Mom?’ Sam said again. Purpling shadows marred the skin under his eyes. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week. ‘You
okay?’

She smiled. She certainly was. ‘Yes, honey, I’m fine.’ She patted his hand. ‘It’s all gonna be okay. I promise you that.’

Velvet munched on a cold Pop-Tart and counted the money again, the bills new and stiff and feeling like revenge under her
fingernails. She made the edges of the bills flush with a smack against the bedside table. As down payments went, it wasn’t
half bad. And since her production company wasn’t being at all helpful on the legal front (‘Sorry, Velvet. Don’t know a lawyer
in Texas and we just can’t get involved’ – the bastards), the money was more necessary than ever. Money from Faith to stab
Faith, eventually. She liked the idea.

She finished her Pop-Tart then studied the pastry’s box to see if the phrase was trademarked – not a bad name for a movie.
Pop-Tarts. Could play up pop music, could play up oversweet breakfast treats. Damn. Trademarked. Oh, well. She folded the
money – twenty thousand – into the bottom of her suitcase, hiding it inside a light wind-breaker.

She showered, considering her next move. Shooting Faith would have been a bad idea and she doubted that she could have pulled
the trigger. But she had loaded the gun and stuck it in the bottom of her purse as Faith knocked on the door, just in case.

Just in case the crazy bitch tried to kill her.

But Faith had not had murder on her mind.
Listen, Velvet, you know and I know that Pete killed himself. You saying anything else is just a ploy for publicity.

You mean a ploy for justice.

No, Publicity. I did a little checking, sweetie. Pete tried to kill himself four years ago, swallowing pills. I got the hospital
records from Van Nuys. I’m giving them to the police and to Whit Mosley.

It doesn’t mean anything.

You know what else I found out, sweetie? Your last five movies have bombed. You tried to get all artsy instead of just delivering
the smut, and no one cares what you’re doing now. You’re broke. Velvet.

Get the hell out of here.

And Faith, instead of getting mad, gave her that superior little smirk.
So mature. Don’t you know I can help you? Get you back on your feet so you can –
the smirk again –
get back off them right away. And you and I can both be happy.

Velvet rinsed her hair clean of lather, turned off the shower, reached for a towel. She felt better than she had yesterday,
when the knots and rocks in her gut shifted
with every breath. She stepped out of the shower, wondering if Pete was looking down or up at her, and whether he hated her
now.

Don’t hate me, Pete, I promise you I’m not done with them yet, and Faith Hubble’s going to fry, fry, fry.
She would have to launder the money the Hubbles would be steering toward her, polish it with a veneer of respectability,
before she called the papers in Dallas and Houston and Austin. It shouldn’t, she figured, take very long.

She got dressed and checked the gun again, at the bottom of her purse. It fit in perfectly next to the handheld tape recorder.
Faith’s voice on that tape – cajoling, begging, offering bribes for silence over Pete’s still secret career – was better than
any bullet. A bullet meant only a moment’s suffering.

Suffering. She thought of Sam, Faith’s pleas that he be protected from all the pain about Pete’s career, and she remembered
Sam and Pete sitting on the prow of
Real Shame,
Pete drinking a bottled beer, Sam sipping a Coke, awkwardly talking, settling finally on a discussion of baseball. Pete liked
the Padres, Sam the Rangers, and she shamelessly eavesdropped, hearing them warm to each other, talking about trades and homers
and a mutual loathing of the Yankees. Sam had finally laughed at one point. Warm tears had welled in her eyes and she thought,
Who the hell are you, June Cleaver?
Maybe she should say nothing forever, let Sam think his father just made industrial films. Pete wouldn’t want Sam to be ashamed,
to bear the brunt of his sins. Or she could take the money, throw it at Sam, say.
Here’s what your mama wanted to pay me for silence, hon. Know who you’re living with.

She dug the creased business card out of her purse, smoothed it out, then dialed Whit’s number.

*

At ten after nine Wednesday morning, Claudia drove past an elaborately painted sign that read
JABEZ JONES MINISTRIES.
Above the logo was a gold cross etched over a pair of gargantuan biceps.

‘Did you know that Jesus did not work out on a regular basis?’ Whit slurped a cup of hot coffee he’d snagged at Irina’s café.

‘Judas was flabby, too,’ Claudia said. The road leading to the compound was surrounded by a dense growth of bent oaks and
lined by hardy palm trees. They drove past another sign that read
SALVATION AHEAD – FEEL THE BURN BURN.

‘So what happens if you go to hell? Don’t you still feel the burn?’ Claudia asked. She didn’t feel the burn, but she felt
the tension in the car. She and Whit hadn’t talked since she’d seen Faith at Whit’s place. Whit had seemed tired when she
picked him up at the courthouse. He updated her about his talk with Junior Deloache and Anson Todd. Another angle for her
to present to Delford, although she fretted her boss would welcome news of Pete’s friendship with hoods no more than theories
of murder. ‘Do you think he’s this corny on purpose?’

‘Absolutely. It’s sort of like asking if pro wrestlers consider themselves athletes,’ Whit said. ‘Do you remember Jabez Jones
from school?’

‘Vaguely. Geeky, glasses, the kind of preacher’s kid you felt bad for because you just knew he never got to have one lick
of fun,’ Claudia said.

‘I remember seeing him wrestling on TV. Joltin’ Jabez Jones. I nearly didn’t recognize him. Especially in gold tights.’

‘God knows my father considers pro wrestling a religion.’

‘God doesn’t have much to do with his appeal,’ Whit
said. ‘He’s just like those TV specials on pets that attack or cops’ greatest chases or us all watching a president get caught
with his pants down. Everything is entertainment now. He’s just making local evangelism another genre.’

They turned into an asphalt parking lot. Jabez’s compound was the original odd folly of a Fort Worth oil baron who had built
a television studio outside Port Leo, part of an ill-conceived plan for a fishing network. The few shows he produced bombed
and the compound stayed shuttered for a few years until Jabez Jones defected from the pro wrestling ring to start his church
and show.
Holy Cross-Training.
It had found a shaky home on stations serving rural markets with low-powered religious programming.

The squat cabins were painted a glossy white. A game of women’s volleyball, played in modest shorts and T-shirts adorned with
gold crosses, was under way in a sand pit. A couple of men stood by, watching, attempting unsuccessfully to look pious while
ogling the bouncing breasts.

‘He’s Hugh Hefner with a Bible,’ Whit said.

Whit and Claudia were barely out of the car when the welcoming committee arrived. She was six feet tall, well muscled, and
wore her platinum-blond hair closely cropped. She wore a tight white T-shirt with a gold cross emblazoned on the chest and
cargo pants bulky enough to conceal an armory. Whit remembered what Ernesto had told him about one of Pete’s visitors:
like a man with titties.
It was a crude, unkind, but effective description.

‘Hi. I’m Judge Whit Mosley and this is Detective Claudia Salazar from the Port Leo police. We have an appointment with Jabez,’
Whit said.

‘Regarding?’

‘He wanted to share some information with us regarding a case,’ Claudia said.

‘Follow me. But if he’s not done with his taping, you’ll just have to wait.’

Claudia and Whit followed the Amazon along a crushed-oyster-shell path that led down from the main complex toward a finger
of the bay.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,’ Whit said.

‘Mary Magdalene.’

Whit shot Claudia a look. If Mary Magdalene was this tough, Whit thought, God only knew how butch Esther and Ruth were. Eve
could probably kick major ass, too.

‘This is an impressive setup.’ Claudia gave Whit a frown that said.
Don’t you dare laugh,

Mary Magdalene nodded. ‘Oh, yes, the Lord has smiled on Jabez.’

‘He’s smiling on that volleyball court,’ Whit said.

‘Jabez says exercise is a way of paying homage to what the Lord has created, in making man and woman. Building muscles is
worship.’ She flexed her own thickened arms.

‘I’ve always believed our bodies are temples,’ Whit offered. Mary Magdalene gave him a quick scrutiny, then apparently dismissed
his temple as one devoted to a lesser god.

The volleyball bounced into the grass near them. One of the comely disciples chased it. She scooped the ball up, and Whit
thought: Do
I know her?
But the young woman turned and sashayed back to the game.

‘Jabez doesn’t have much trouble getting a date, does he?’ Whit observed in what he considered to be a completely friendly
tone. Claudia withered him with a glare.

‘Jabez doesn’t
date,’
Mary Magdalene spat out the last word. ‘He doesn’t care a whit for the temptations of this physical world.’ Her voice hardened.
‘The temptations of the flesh are the seed of all evil.’

Whit surveyed the immaculately kept buildings, the
sand-rumped girls playing volleyball, the new Cadillac parked right by the administration building door with
JABEZ
on the plate. ‘He’s a real Francis of Assisi,’ Whit said to Claudia, his voice lowered.

‘Sissy?’ Mary Magdalene had misheard.

‘No, sassy,’ Whit answered. ‘He sasses that old devil, don’t he?’

Mary Magdalene raised one platinum eyebrow. ‘Jabez could kick the devil’s ass, and don’t you forget it.’

Whit and Claudia reflected on this platitude in silence. Claudia pinched Whit on the meaty part of his arm to ensure he wouldn’t
comment.

Mary Magdalene escorted them to a small stretch of beach full of cameras, portable sound booms, and spandex-clad missionaries.
Sparkling white sand, cleaner-looking than the grayish beige grit on most Texas beaches, had been spread over the native soil.

Whit and Claudia stood back to watch the spectacle. Jabez Jones, well over six feet tall, two hundred thirty pounds of muscle
with less body fat than a moth, lay on his side, scissoring his tree-trunk legs into the air, counting off reps while providing
a little insight into the Book of Luke. Behind him two women (one svelte, one heavy for the dieting viewers to bond with)
and a less beefy man mirrored his exercises, all beaming like angels.

‘Now, hold the lift until the Scripture is done,’ Jabez boomed. ‘“I tell thee, thou shalt not depart thence till thou hast
paid the very … last … mite.” … There! Amen! Bless us all, did you feel the Holy Spirit invigorating your limbs? I know I
did. I’m just coursing with the Holy Spirit right now. You keep doing those leg lifts and the devil himself won’t be able
to catch you. Now let’s start our cool-down, and our Scripture for that is one of the more relaxing Psalms, a personal favorite
of mine, number sixty-one.’

Whit resisted the urge to lead a cheer.

Cool-down completed, Jabez jumped to his feet, did a hand clap, reminded viewers about his
I
-888 number and Web site to place requests with Jabez’s Prayer Workout Chain or to order his fitness-theology tapes. ‘Remember,
your donations make all the difference in fighting flab … and sin! Praise God! Call now!’

God – who, in Whit’s mind, represented the infinite beauty of the universe – as a weight-loss shuckster.

Finally a nasal-voiced director called, ‘That’s a wrap. Beautiful, Jabez.’ Jabez gave a weary sigh and wiped the sand off
his oiled legs. The crew began their cleanup.

‘I’m curious, Mary Magdalene,’ Whit said. ‘Where does all the money come from to pay for this wonderful spread? Jabez’s wrestling
career must’ve been lucrative in that worldly goods way.’

‘The Lord provides,’ Mary Magdalene intoned.

‘The Lord must provide on a real regular basis,’ Whit said. Claudia shot him a look:
Quit antagonizing this woman.
Whit moved to the left a couple of feet to avoid another pinch.

Jabez Jones trotted over, smiling. ‘Hello, Detective Salazar. Judge Mosley. Bless you.’

‘Hello, Reverend.’ Claudia nodded. ‘We had an appointment?’

‘Of course. Thank you for escorting them here, Mary. We can talk here along the beach, it’s quiet and peaceful.’ He gestured
with his oak-tree arm down a stretch of beach away from the camera crew.

‘Jabez?’ Mary Magdalene clearly didn’t want to leave his presence. ‘I can stay—’

‘Go. It’s fine,’ Jabez said.

‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Mary Magdalene said, ‘I have the Lord’s work to do.’ She uttered this with a mysterious air,
as though this activity involved Navy SEALs, Russian microfilm, and Jimmy Hoffa.

They followed Jabez. The morning had turned shiny, the sky cloudless. A wheel of gulls cawed above their heads, swerved as
one, and dived for food in the lapping surf. Shriveled husks of two dead Portuguese man-of-war jellyfish lay on the sand.

‘Mary Magdalene seems real sweet,’ Whit said.

‘She’s very devoted. I rescued Mary Magdalene from the streets of Houston. She was homeless, hopeless, strung out on dope,
not strong. I made her strong,’ Jabez said.