WIREMAN (22 page)

"Not tonight, thanks." Not ever, he thought.

"You come down here often? I can get you most anything if you lay in an order, you know."

"Not often enough for that. What about you? Can I find you here every night?"

They moved through a clutch of Mexicans to the counter again and sat down. Jack wanted to keep the kid talking.

"I’l1 be around. Just ask for Stevie and I can pop up out of the blue for a good bill."

They both ordered Cokes and donuts. "On me," Jack said.

During the next hour, except for two interruptions from buyers who took Stevie off to the men’s room, Jack found out more information on the boy’s lifestyle and habits than he had bargained for. He was small time and his dope dealing went to supplement his meager daytime income as an alarm installer. He was hoping for more extensive drug territory and a greater stock for a burgeoning market, but so far his suppliers had kept him small and he was not making enough to quit work altogether. He lived in an alley apartment in the Heights with "a girl named Judy Lee who has hair down to her ass and legs all the way up to her shoulders."

"You must know a lot of people," Jack ventured, hoping the boy liked ego tripping.

"I know my share.”

"You hear about those killings we’ve been having here?" Jack asked casually.

“You mean that fucking madman, the one running off with fucking heads?" The boy shivered involuntarily.

"Yeah, that’s the one. I bet the street’s alive with speculation on that joker."

"Maybe. Maybe not. How come you askin’, man?" The boy licked his lips and looked around the crowded lobby.

"I’ll tell you something, Stevie."

"Yeah, you tell me, man. I got a feeling you don’t even do ’ludes and maybe all of a sudden I’m real busy and better move on, huh?"

"Wait a minute. Calm down. I ain’t the heat, what the fuck’s wrong with you?" Jack thought fast. "I’ll tell you what I am, though. You know that woman that got killed? That one in the apartment?"

"Down on Richmond?"

"That’s the one. Well, that woman, she was a friend of mine. A real good friend of mine, okay? And you know the fucking cops. They don’t know shinola." He managed to sound both angry and disgusted.

"They don’t know from nigger bitching."

"That’s right, and I figure, I tell myself, there’s somebody out here might know this motherfucker. Somebody might know the crazy sonovabitch."

"Me?" Stevie fidgeted on the stool. "I don’t know goose shit. I sell a little smoke, man; I don’t know the fucker."

Jack lit a cigarette and took his time drawing in the smoke and letting it trail out in a thin, languid stream.

Dead end, Goddamn dead end everywhere he went, everywhere.

"A guy I know at work now..." Stevie said. He thought of the mean Nick Ringer.

Jack turned to him to show his interest.

“This guy, he’s really sick, you know? He’s been talking. Every fuckin’ time I have to ride with him to do a job he’s talking shit."

"Like what?" Jack felt his skin prickle.

"Well, like how it don’t bother him none this fucker’s going around stealing heads, maybe they deserved stealing. You know--shit like that. Sick, this guy’s real sick, know what I mean?" Stevie pointed to his head and made a circle with his finger.

"What else does he say?"

"Oh man, just sick stuff like what he did in Nam, how he killed three gooks single-handed, like he’s some big hero. Then he gets into what he thinks the guy’s doing with the heads. Real sicko." Stevie looked around the lobby for potential customers.

Jack patiently smoked his cigarette and stared at the boy, silently urging him to talk.

"You know what he said last week?" Stevie asked suddenly.

Jack shook his head.

"He said maybe the killer’s shrinking the heads like with voodoo or something. I mean, shee-it, this guy I work with makes my balls crawl up my be1ly."

"Maybe I could talk to him. What’s his name? Where do you work?"

"You tell that motherfucker I sent you to him and he’ll skin me alive, man." Stevie drew away from Jack and looked ready to flee.

"I ain’t telling nobody nothing. I’m doing this for Marjorie, you understand? You won’t be involved," Jack said, quickly reassuring the young man.

"He’s a bad dude, man, I’m warning ya."

“Name?”

"Nick. Nick Ringer. Apex Alarm. But if you let on you know me..."

The boy hushed as Jack took out his wallet. He handed Stevie another twenty and slid off the stool. "See ya, kid. Thanks. You hear anything else you tell me when I come back by."

Outside the bus station a drunk walked by, talking to God. The wizard shot Jack an angry look and turned his back. A hack driver yawned and looked at his watch.

Jack flipped the butt of his cigarette into the gutter and strode across the street to his car.

It’s nothing, he told himself.

It’s all you’ve got in weeks, he argued back to himself.

This Nick is nothing but a degenerate, a waste of time.

But it’s all you’ve got.

One thing that Stevie had said stayed with Jack as he drove home.
"Maybe they deserved stealing..."

Who said shit like that? Nick Ringer. Apex Alarm. And he had been in Vietnam. Please God, Jack prayed, let this be the break I need.

EILEEN MCKENNA pulled her blue fox jacket closer around her shivering body. Ever since she had heard about the River Oaks’ murder on the six o’clock news she had felt chilled. A general malaise settled over her as she prepared for her appointment later that evening with a client in the River Oaks’ district. It was her first job since she and Jack had made love after Willie’s death, and she realized her hesitancy to keep the appointment involved more than a reluctance to be near the scene of a brutal murder. She did not want to go to another man’s bed out of an unreasonable feeling that it would be a betrayal of Jack.

Could this be the beginning of a new morality, she wondered? Anyone who knew her would have laughed.

Since when did Eileen McKenna believe in sexual devotion to one man, in monogamy? There was no precedent for this sudden urge of fidelity on the part of Houston’s most sought-after call girl. It was utter foolishness.

The doorman of her apartment house watched enviously as a chauffeur opened the rear door of a beautifully kept 1975 Silver Cloud Rolls Royce for her. Hal Winifred’s style extended even to his paid companions, Eileen thought uncharitably as she got in. When you were a middle-aged bachelor who owned a large interest in Astro-world and the Houston Oilers football team, you could afford to send one of your Rolls to pick up a gorgeous redhead in a blue fox coat. That you also were expected to pay highly for the services of this woman did not matter.

I’m being mean and petty, Eileen thought, but could not manage to throw off her uneasiness. She felt like sulking, and when she was in such a mood her professional manner took over. There was an unwritten law that prostitutes kept their private lives private.

The chauffeur, an old man with pure white hair, did not spare his passenger a single glance, much less the benefit of a friendly word. This made Eileen even more irritable. The unspoken message was painfully clear. They were both employees of Hal Winifred. They need not waste one another’s time engaging in the social amenities. He drove the car and she rented out her body. She might as well be a basket of flowers or a sack of groceries.

"Turn around," she commanded abruptly.

The chauffeur flinched and the back of his neck reddened. "Madame?"

"I said turn this car around and take me back to the St. John."

"But Mr. Winifred is expecting you." To the chauffeur this clearly settled the matter.

"Mr. Winifred will have to be disappointed. I don’t feel well and I wish to be taken home immediately.” For the first time since picking her up, the chauffeur twisted his head around to look at her. "But Mr. Winifred sent me--"

"You will simply have to convey my apology to your employer," Eileen interrupted. "I’m sure you’re well-trained in that regard.”

The utter contempt in her voice was not lost on the chauffeur. “Yes, madam. Whatever you say.” Eileen relaxed against the soft leather seat and formulated a plan in her mind. All she had been able to think about for the past weeks was Jack DeShane. It was time to be honest with herself. She loved him and she no longer liked her life as a woman surviving on her looks and sexual skills. She knew her recent sleeplessness and irritability were caused by a refusal to admit she was in love. She had been needed before by various men for various reasons, but never had she been needed as a total woman, accepted as a total person, unconditionally. Jack needed her and loved her. She had tried to deny that she needed and loved him the same way.

It would mean taking a chance on another person, opening herself to hurt, relinquishing the lifestyle she had so studiously created. The safety of the cold, empty place she had put herself in would be gone. Love meant risking the emotional stability that came from non-commitment. After all these years, could she respond warmly and honestly to true love--and return it?

Not that she had a choice. Look at what she had just done. Look at how she had put off all the appointments with men after the last night with Jack.

The Rolls slid smoothly to a halt before the entrance of the St. John. Without a word to the chauffeur, Eileen let herself out and walked into the lobby like a queen. She called for a taxi and within minutes was on her way to Jack DeShane’s house. All the way she prayed that he was home. They had not seen each other for over a week because of his searching the streets. Could she ever erase his agony over Willie?

Would his son’s death destroy him so that their love might never have a chance?

"Here you are, lady," the cab driver said, clicking over the meter.

Eileen looked out the window to the porch awash in yellow light. This was a home, not a hotel. It reminded her of Bloomington. "Thanks, keep the change."

Her lovely smile melted the driver’s heart so thoroughly that it was not until he had driven away that he realized she had given him a twenty-dollar bill for a ride that cost three.

Betty Lawrence stood before the open door, a look of astonishment on her face.

"Is Jack at home?” Eileen asked.

Mrs. Lawrence quickly assessed the woman before her: fur jacket, small silver-beaded purse clutched to her chest, thick, luxurious red hair piled atop her head, and the sweetest face God must have ever made. What on the earth could she want with Jack DeShane?

"No, I’m sorry, but he’s out," Mrs. Lawrence said when her appraising eyes were halted by the steady sea-green gaze.

"I’m a close friend of Jack’s," Eileen explained. "Do you think it would be too much trouble if I waited for him?"

Mrs. Lawrence saw the cab pull away and stepped aside to allow the woman to come in. "He might not be back for some time," the older woman warned. “He’s had a misfortune, and he spends every night out this way. If you’re close like you say, then maybe you know what he’s up to.”

"Yes, I know about Willie. And I know about Jack trying to find out something on the streets."

Mrs. Lawrence heaved a sigh. Perhaps here was an understanding soul. But what this wealthy lady had to do with a poor cop was still a mystery. “I’m Mrs. Lawrence, Mr. DeShane’s housekeeper. I moved in to stay awhile after what happened to Willie."

"Eileen McKenna." Eileen held out a hand. "Jack’s told me about you. He really appreciates all you’ve done for him, Mrs. Lawrence, and so do I. I don’t know if he would have made it without you here to stay with him."

The housekeeper took Eileen’s fur coat and hung it up. When she turned back to the woman, she was struck again by the unearthly beauty of Eileen McKenna. "Lord, but you’re pretty," she said, and quickly closed her mouth in embarrassment.

But Eileen’s smile was innocent and kind, quickly putting Mrs. Lawrence at ease. "Thank you," Eileen said. She glanced down the hall to the kitchen and into the darkened living room.

"Well, well. Look at me forgetting my manners this way," Mrs. Lawrence said sheepishly. She took Eileen by the arm to lead her to the kitchen. "I’ll make tea if you like, and we’l1 have a little talk while we wait. I had just made myself some fried toast for a snack. I don’t sleep till Mr. DeShane gets home safe nights. Would you like a slice of toast, Miz McKenna? Or I could fix you something else.”

A long lost memory of a plate of fried toast from when she had been a girl in Bloomington surfaced and made Eileen’s stomach rumble. Home.

"I’d love fried toast!" she said. "That would be a wonderful treat."

Mrs. Lawrence listened eagerly while melting butter into a heavy black skillet. The beautiful lady came from a small Texas town and a poor family. She was no stranger to fried toast and grits and collard greens and cornbread. The more she talked about herself and her childhood, the more the housekeeper liked her.

Not a snooty bone in her body, she thought happily. What a catch she would be for Jack. The house might come alive again with love and happiness with this lady around. God willing, and with a careful nudge from interested parties, Jack DeShane could be in line for a miracle. Stranger things had happened.

Both women’s attention turned to the sound of a key scratching in the front door. It was eleven-thirty, an early hour for Jack’s return from the streets. For a few seconds Eileen remembered the killer who stalked the city. Without her knowing it, Mrs. Lawrence too felt sudden fear at the sound from the front of the house. When they heard Jack’s familiar greeting, "Mrs. Lawrence, I’m home," the women gave twin sighs of relief and only then realized how frightened they had both been.

Mrs. Lawrence smiled to Eileen shakily and said, "That’s my cue to go to bed. I’m sure Mr. DeShane will be happy to see you. If either one of you need anything later tonight, don’t hesitate to call me."

"It was good to meet you, Mrs. Lawrence. Jack’s lucky to have you for his friend."

"What he’s lucky about is having you."

Mrs. Lawrence met Jack in the hall and told him he had company waiting in the kitchen. Then she excused herself and went to bed.