The Texas Twist (26 page)

A moment later, Kadyn emerged from the bathroom, passed silently by, and returned to Jessup's side. She occupied him for the space of one drink, then escorted him onward, down 6th Street toward one or another of the boîtes and blues joints that lined it. Vic hoped they weren't heading farther, back to someone's somewhere, but at that moment the matter passed out of his hands. He supposed that if Kadyn was a woman worth winning, part of the prize of her was her strength of will. She'd steer her own ship, by God, and Vic knew that's what he wanted: a woman who'd steer her own ship.

Radar asked Allie, “Well, what did she say?”

“Nothing. Just chitchat. She told Jessup and Ames that she'd feed us some misinformation.”

“So they knew we were here?”

“Sure. She told 'em. She wants them to know she has a channel to us. So they'll trust her more.”

“And what's on the channel?” asked Radar. “What's the big misinformation?”

“That Ames is shopping for sidewheels.”

“Muscle? Why?”

“Notionally for party security, but really to bully you if necessary.”

“It's not misinformation,” said Vic suddenly. “It's true.” He tapped his earbud. “Ames
is
hiring thugs. He's meeting with them at his place right now.”

“No he's not,” said Allie. “That's ridiculous.”

“I agree,” said Vic. “But Thing One and Thing Two are running it down for him: what they charge, how they work, what they're willing to do.” Vic listened for a moment, then added, “He's impressed. Apparently they come highly recommended by friend Jessup.”

“Oh, this is all for our benefit,” said Radar. “He must know his flat is gaffed.”

“And still trying to put the fear on us,” said Mirplo. “Well, Radar, I would say he is now officially going to extremes. What are we going to do about that?”

“Just what we planned,” said Radar. “Go to extremes back. And break him like a thing that breaks.”

R
adar lay awake that night, listening to Allie's breezy breath as she slumbered beside him. Instead of sheep, he counted the ways Ames had tried to put the fear on them. Three just today, if you count Jessup's misinformation as a double-misdirectomy, which it might be. What, he wondered, was the real intent of all this manifest bluster?
To panic me and rush me through the endgame? Or to create enough expectation of violence that I'll want to preemptively buy my guys' safety with cash—give up our dough and go?
Radar supposed you could call that a reacharound of a sort, extortion in congruence to con artistry: Just play along and be grateful to leave in one piece. He could see Ames trying to promote that outcome, but he couldn't see the logic of the relentless hard sell.
Does he think I'm that dense, that I somehow might not get the message?
Once again Radar felt a certain wounded pride at being treated like a cheap trick. For someone whose own moves had ranged from bald-faced to comical, Ames
sure displayed some arrogance. But maybe that, too, was just for show. Maybe all of it—the ignorance, the arrogance, and the threat of violence—was just to preoccupy Radar with Adam's script instead of his own.
Stay on your script, Radar. You have a good one.
With that, Radar declared his inner skull session over and set out to find sleep.

But sleep eluded him, and after an hour of tossing and turning he decided that maybe a breath of lake air was what he needed, so he threw on a ratty tracksuit and went outside.

He walked down to the shore below the condo complex and sat on a bench there, thinking his thoughts. After a few minutes he heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Sarah hustling down toward him, hastily dressed in a long vinyl raincoat.

“I saw you from the window,” she said. “You won't believe what Adam's up to now.”

“You're right, I won't.”

She pouted but let it pass. “He's in cahoots with the coot.”

“The coot?”

“The money one. Wellington?”

“Wellinov.”

“Yeah. They're teaming up to screw you.”

“Hmm,” said Radar blandly, “that is bad news.”

“You're still not taking me seriously, are you?”

Radar didn't answer. After so many iterations of the same conversation, there seemed to be nothing new to say. But, as usual, Sarah's stunning revelation was just a pretense to another agenda. An agenda she revealed quite unequivocally with the unzipping of her raincoat. “How about this? Can
you take this seriously? Huh?” She was naked underneath, her breasts high and hard, and her nipples crinkling in the cold. She moved quickly to Radar and held herself against him. He tried to back away, but she clasped her hands behind his back and whispered hotly, “Shh, let's be quiet. We don't want to wake the neighbors.”

Radar wore nothing beneath his track pants, and to the sight and feel of her his reaction was evident. It pleased her. “See?” she said, looking down. “You want me, too.”

“I'm sorry, Sarah, but really I don't.”

“Ooh, Radar, so icy, so in control. Let's see what we can do to melt you a little.”

She groped for his goods, but he pushed her hand away. “That's not going to happen,” he said.

“Well, that's what
you
say, but your tented trousers say otherwise.”

“My body has a mind of its own, Sarah. That means nothing.”

“Nothing, huh? Really? She backed away a step and faced him, frankly daring him not to stare. But he just kept looking at her face, and after a lengthy stalemate she harrumphed and closed her coat. Then she reached into her pocket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. “Guess since I'm not going to kiss you or blow you I might as well smoke.” She lit up. “You missed a good time, you know. I'm a damn good time.”

“I'm sure you are.”

“Oh you're sure, are you? You're sure I'd be worth the time and effort it took the great Radar Hoverlander to mount me?”

“Sarah, I didn't mean—”

“Oh, shut up,” she said. “You know what? Why don't you get over yourself?”

Radar's heart went out to her then, her pain and her need, her confusion, her broken past and future. “Sarah,” he said gently, “where do you see yourself after all this?”

“Not around you, that's for sure. You're just a jerk.”

“Yet a jerk you keep coming back to. That's not because of me. That's because of you, something inside you that's drawn to wrong men. Can I make a suggestion? Find something real to do. Something for yourself. Then you won't need guys like Adam and me.”

“Oh, that's very pastorly. What do we call you now? Reverend Radar?”

When she blew smoke in his face, Radar finally gave up. “Forget it, Sarah. Forget I brought it up. Whatever you want from me, I can't give it. But I can give you this advice: Come Saturday night, just steer clear. Let others sort this one out.”

“Yeah, right. Then I'll end up broke and with nothing. No, I'll be there to defend my interest. Maybe you won't recognize me. There's a lot of fools in sheep's clothes, you know.” She flicked her cigarette into the lake and flounced off upstairs. Radar looked up to his bedroom widow. Allie was a light sleeper these days. He thought she'd be watching, and she was.

He wondered if Ames was, too.

Later, back in bed, Radar noted that Sarah and Adam had used the same phrase,
defend my interest
. To Radar it put Sarah firmly on Adam's script, breathless revelations and naked propositions notwithstanding. But talk of naked propositions turned them on and they made love then with
a fierce urgency that had nothing to do with hormones, parenthood, last turns, anything like that. This was pregame sex, leavened with anticipation and spiked with fear, for even the tightest snuke could come unraveled in the end. And this one was more ragged than most. It made them feel more fraught. So they climbed all over each other and had hard at it. As the color ran up in her face, Allie gloried in their two bodies, in the relentless chemistry and elegant physics that made sex work so well.
Whoever thought this up,
she thought,
definitely earned their pay for the week.
Radar's mind lighted momentarily on Sarah's naked body and her hand on his pants. Some other time, he suspected, he might be replaying that tape; tonight, however, he needed no fantasy. The woman who moved and moaned beneath his touch more than took his mind where his body wanted to go. The sound or perhaps scent of them caused Boy to snuffle in his sleep. He didn't bother waking up. He'd seen this show before. It held no interest for him.

On March 29th, the Baby Bluebonnet beauty pageant that had been occupying the convention center's grand ballroom finished its run, and Vic and Kadyn finally got access to the cavernous space, which they proceeded to transform into a fool's paradise. Under their effortless joint direction (it drove Vic crazy how well they worked together), capable minions hung tufted clouds of cotton batting above the entrance and installed floating plump cherubs and cupids. Greek columns rose up to the clouds, and then more clouds crowded the floor. On the night there would be dry ice, creating the impression of strolling through heaven. But this was just the first of dozens of dizzy motifs. Some were large,
like the
Is It Art?
department, filled with common objects in uncommon contexts. Others were merely moments in passing: your map of a flat earth; your Lucille Ball–bearing TV. A massive labyrinth of their construction offered new foolishness around every bend. Have you painted your face yet? Played the shell game? How about a hit of this helium balloon? Or that funny balloon over there? Then out you pour into the display of auction items, there to drool like a fool over sparkly baubles and spa getaways. Hired hosts and hostesses will be on hand to take your bids via wireless register. Very engaging young people. Very persuasive. You might bid more than you like.

You'll easily drink more than you like if you like. Tequila runners on roller skates will see to that, as will the champagne waterfall and the beer-pong contests. Smoking is not permitted in the ballroom of course, but there's that terrace over there that you can step out on. It's very discreet. If you want to pot up, pot up, but then
bid
up, for while your organizers don't condone illegal activity, they do enable it, all for the good cause. When you get hungry, visit the junk food bar, but don't be surprised if those Cheetos are actually risotto; our chefs can do some pretty clever trompe l'oiel. Oh, speaking of fooling the eye, be on the lookout for counterfeit guests. Don't think of them as prostitute partygoers, paid to entertain. Like the hosts and hostesses, they're just here for your good time.

We're here for your good time. Don't forget to give.

Pay no attention to the music. Let it sneak up on you. It will start off playful, a dumbass jukebox of forgotten one-hit wonders and candy-floss melodies that get stuck in your
head. Then will come ballads of teen tragedy, of Dead Man's Curve and other fatal mistakes. Finally we'll quit fooling around and give you words you can dance to till dawn, till you're exhausted and sated, and you spill yourself out into the world. Did you have a good time? Did you see it all? The Civil War reenactment with troll dolls? The funhouse mirrors? The couple getting married? You didn't drive, did you? Good. Find a cab and go home. We'll see y'all again next year.

And that's called party planning. Credit Vic with the vision and Kadyn with the execution, and damned if that didn't just make him want her more. They were such a good team, a genius team. And yet when first Jessup and then Wellinov came by to woo her that week, she fawned shamelessly over them both. With Jessup she was a julep, grown flowery on his flattery. It was a little disgusting to watch. But with Wellinov, she tracked more like a classic gold digger sizing up her sugar daddy. Watching Wellinov feast on Kadyn's attention like any lonely solo gentleman would, Vic almost forgot that Woody was in there. This sensation doubled whenever Wellinov and Jessup crossed paths (as they did frequently in their respective efforts to canoodle Kadyn), for the two men circled each other like bull elks, and since when did Woody Hoverlander ever play the alpha-male card? Yet in this case he played it well—you could almost see him snorting smoke. This gave Mirplo pause. Woody had betrayed Radar before. Could he be counted on to stay true glued? Pretty young girls make excellent solvents.