Carcass Trade (29 page)

“What'll he think, me coming in there with you?”

“We'll find out, won't we? But don't blow it for me, Raymond. Be cool.”

“I'm always cool. Know what? Some girl told me the other day I looked like a Mexican version of Tom Cruise.”

“Oh, way better than that, Raymond.”

When I hung up, I poured myself a Southern Comfort and put on an old Lacy J. Dalton tape, maybe her first. Wanted to hear her sing about hard lovin' and good times. Tried to match her unmatchable voice.

Ray was hanging tight to a bottle of beer, leaning back with those sweet penny-colored eyes leveled at me.

“This is from Takki,” I read from the prompter card in my palm. “It's washable silk, acetate lace, very easy care.” Ray grinned and sipped his beer. I moved on. The man at the next table liked Jolene better, his eyes on her three tables over. She and I alternated floor strolls with two other models.

When I arrived earlier, Monty hadn't come in from an errand yet. But Paulie Avalos was sitting fat-bellied at the bar talking to Howard, giving me glances but not threatening ones.

In the office, where we were changing till Monty arrived and forced us into the ladies' room, Jolene was slipping a black thing with spaghetti straps over her head. I said, “Here. You need this,” and gave her a brilliant blue robe that lit up her dark hair and blue eyes. The robe was supposed to go with a shortie I was wearing, but I decided to go out without it. I had on a black satin sleep suit and shoes with pom-poms at the toes.

“Thanks,” she said, trying it on. “Say, did Monty tell you he's going to get dancing in here? Topless. Would you do it?”

“Not me. This is all he gets.”

Jolene opened the door just as the model with the fullest figure came down the hallway. She bumped a new watercolor of an African-American woman standing with feet spread as she spoke to the clouds, two snakes wrapped from ankle to thigh, teasing tongues in the middle. We passed by, and the model's perfume bowled me over. “That's Coral,” Jolene whispered, “Can't stand her.”

“Why not?”

Jolene shrugged a shoulder as we stood for a second before going out onto the floor, me looking at her new shiny ducktail haircut and both of us checking the crowd. At the back of the room Ray's white jeans gleamed under the table. He looked like he belonged. The hair was maybe too coplike, the mustache too trim, but a handsome, confident piece of manhood all around.

To Jolene's back I said, “You still thick with Switchie? I don't see him here tonight.”

“Jeez, I don't dump 'em that soon. And I mean he's not half bad.” She tossed her head as she left me, saying, “Oh, honey,” in a way that was supposed to tell me something about Switchie's prowess in bed. The song that started was by the mother-daughter Judds, licking up a raunchy harmony. I always got their names mixed up. The mother looks like one of those porcelain dolls sold by Heritage Collections, four payments plus shipping. The daughter's a beauty too but somebody else's child, different face and body shape. I could picture her and her mom on the tour bus offering each other the last French fry, and fighting and loving each other to death. Then the mom got sick and the daughter sings alone or duets with Clint Black. And rides Harleys.

Jolene was beautiful in the black and blue, I had to give her that. She stopped at a table under a soft ceiling light, touching the table with one long white forefinger, lips glistening red as licked suckers as she spoke to the man, and I thought the guy, still in his necktie, was going to need CPR.

I drifted over to Raymond's table. He'd changed brews for himself, rolling the bottle by the neck to show me the label. Mexicali Rogue it said. He smiled, and his left knee swept back and forth like a pendulum.

“Made in Ray Vega's bathtub,” I said.

His gaze fell to my breasts, and I felt self-conscious around him for the first time.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Paulie Avalos swivel on the barstool as if deciding to leave, go belt somebody, or find the rest room. Then he settled down again, putting both fat arms on the bar, and stood again and reached clear over the bar and pulled out from under there somewhere a package of potato chips. I pointed him out to Raymond, said he was an accomplice to the killing of Bernie Williams. “But don't look now, dammit,” I said, and Ray played the game of just another drunk flirt.

I followed Jolene, ready for her next change.

In the office the other model, Coral was dropping a chartreuse shortie on. She had auburn hair down to her shoulders, and she was a sturdy forty. I didn't know what Jolene's problem was. I thought the woman was pretty. Comfortable. Some men like them that way.

At the closet I closed my eyes and picked. Near gagged when I saw it, but I put it on, read the tag from the shop owner, and left before the other two women did. The brief glances I got when I paraded my spiel sagged my confidence. I homed in on the table with the Mexican and the Mexican ale. “This is from Donna Waters,” I said, referring to the lacy thigh-grazing violet thing I was wearing that looked to me more like a circus costume than a nightie, “and it sells for seventy-five ninety-five.”

“I'll bet it does,” Raymond said. At least
he
appreciated it.

He said something else, and I said, “You say what?” Someone in control of the music dug the Judds. Now the younger Judd's rich voice graveled loudly and I leaned closer to Ray to hear.

Ray pushed his chair back a little, gave me that look again that now I recognized, the one he'd give a stranger in a different bar. “Smokey, you're too much,” is what he said, and squeezed my fingers as I got ready to make my way back for the last change.

A girl who looked like she ought to be riding horses, her hair braided in back and her healthy good looks just a little flushed from changing, came out wearing a floral satin. New kid on the shift. I wanted to send her to her room; kick the stuffed animals off your bed and do your homework.

When I was back for another change, Jolene came in. We had lingerie scattered all over the place. Monty's desk looked like an underwear bin. Jolene said, “Is this all? We're going to be repeating ourselves,” as she pushed in the small closet where Monty kept the clothes. “He should get us more. Why'd he have four of us if this is all?”

“Here, put this white one on. I'm done,” I said. I'd found it piled down on the floor of the closet and I'd thrown it over the file cabinet.

“You want to go hustle that dark dude.”

“What dark dude?”

“The one in the white jeans.”

“I came in with him.”

“You
did
?”

“Yeah,” I said, and sang a song about loving the night life, and boogied over to the chair where my own clothes were. I'd come in jeans, the blue boots, and a white knit top that slung off both shoulders in a wide band. I wasn't wearing a bra, and certain things had showed like hard buttons, so in the truck with Raymond I'd kept my jacket on; it was black and businesslike, hitting me below the hip.

“Monty know about this guy?”

“He will now.”

“You're going to get him all pissed. Is that what you're trying to do?”

“I'm just livin' my life.”

She fastened herself into the outfit I'd handed her that seemed made of snowflakes and whalebone, and then leaned over to get her breasts balanced in just so. Under the fabric, her nipples were dark moons. “Hm,” she said. “This is nice.” Out of a red brocade overnight bag she took a white garter belt and white stockings and put them on. I struggled with my boots. When I straightened back up and Jolene was all together, I had to say she was stunning.

The door opened and in came Full Figure Franny. She ducked back out just as quickly, saying, “Oops, full house. I'll go to the john.”

Jolene said, “What she's doing is eating Twinkies and counting the dimples on her ass. She knows she's too big for what we got left.”

“You talk about me that way behind my back?”

“Shit no. I'll tell you to your face.”

“Where's Switchie tonight?”

“Why you wanta know?” Jolene made sure her hair was staying tucked behind her ears. As she did, her diamond or fake diamond earrings caught the light.

“I just wondered.”

Now she was powdering her nose with the compact she swiped out of the healthy woman's hand earlier and never gave back.

*
   
*
   
*

It was almost midnight when Monty came in. Wearing his Levi jacket over a black knit shirt, and with his hair ponytailed back, he strode right for me and Jolene while we were standing in the alcove dressed in our street clothes, ready to leave. She was looking for a quarter to call and find out why Switchie wasn't here yet. Paulie was gone. I glanced over to see if Raymond was still alive. With no dancing and most of the patrons not showing any sign of misdemeaning, he did seem half asleep. The server had not picked up his last empty, so there were two bottles in front of him.

“I'll get you a quarter,” I told Jolene, moving toward Howard by the cash register and out of Monty's approach. But Monty was already blocking the way. “Hi, girls. You do good tonight?”

“What you missed,” I said.

“How's the new one? Linda.”

“Good, good. She did good.”

“I need a quarter,” Jolene said. “You have a quarter?”

Monty ignored her, put his hand on my elbow and walked me down the hallway. I wondered if Raymond was seeing all this, but of course he was. He's a cop.

“C'mere,” he said, whisking me into the office. Big Franny—Coral—was still there, putting her brush in her sizable purse. She smiled sweetly and said good evening to Monty, and he said for her to collect from Howard out of the drawer; he'd see her tomorrow.

When he shut the door, he locked it.

I looked at him curiously, and then I smelled the whiskey. He didn't seem mad. He didn't seem as though he was about to accuse me of anything. I said, “What?” meaning what do you want, or what did I do, or why'd you lock the door; and then it became very apparent. He stepped right over to me, slid his palms onto my shoulders underneath my black jacket and dropped it right off. Before I knew it, he was running both hands down my sides. When he bent his head, I saw the dull-silver snake earring swing toward his jaw and the office light thread his wavy hair with silver strands.

“Monty,” I said, trying to figure out how to handle this. But maybe he thought it was a cry of relief, gratitude that he was finally making his big move, because before I could react, he hooked three fingers in my knit top and pulled, and slipped it all the way off one shoulder, exposing my breast. He ran a rough thumb over it, my own taut flesh springing back like an unwilling kid put down for a nap.

I jerked away just as the door handle rattled and someone knocked, and I heard Ray Vega's voice say, “Hey, open up!” and then all at once hard banging. I got my breath and pulled up my blouse.

When he unlocked the door, Raymond stood glaring, his eyes red from Mexicali ale. Ray the taller, Monty the one who said, “Just who the
fuck
are you?”

Ray gave Monty a shove full-handed on his chest, and Monty slung a punch to the side of Ray's jaw. By the time I called him off, my Mexican rogue knew he'd blown it big. On the way out, with Ray hustling me along like any good boyfriend would, or me hustling him, it was hard to tell, Lacy J. was on the jukebox singing “Everybody Makes Mistakes.”

Everyone does. From the passenger seat, Ray apologized all the way home.

“You know this ain't easy.”

“What, Monty? What isn't easy?”

“Maybe I need to apologize.”

Giving that some thought a moment, I said, blandly, “Am I supposed to work tonight, or do you have enough people?” He was calling me at home, ten o'clock, and I'd only just booted Ray Vega out, who'd slept on the couch in the living room and left with his hair standing on end and his mouth, according to him, tasting like shit.

“Nah, I don't want you to work tonight. You need the money?”

“What do you think?”

“I'll pay you anyway. That new one, Linda, she'll take over. And Coral. There's not gonna be that much goin' on tonight anyway. Never is, Tuesdays.”

Tuesday. It was hard to imagine it was only Sunday I'd been at the rally and seen the murder, Monday I'd been back out to the Avalos farm and then at Monty's farm, and last night at the Python. Some days are longer than weeks.

“I want to make it up to you, what I did last night,” he said. “That was most ungentlemanly.”

“A Viking would be ashamed,” I said, leaving the interpretation of how mad I was to him.

“I hurt that guy?”

“He'll be all right.”

“What happened to ol' Father Time? You dump him for this guy?”

“That's none of your business. But since you asked, he's just a friend.”

“
He
know that? He's a little touchy for just a friend, won't let you out of his sight. Listen,” he said, his voice soft, hesitant.

“Where you calling from?” I asked.

“The club. It's cold and dark in here. I don't even have the light turned on. With my window boarded up, the only light's from the john.”

“I feel real sorry for you.”

“I know it's my own damn fault. I just can't drink like I used to.”

“What broke the window?” I asked, switching the subject.

“I busted it myself tryin' to get it unstuck. Listen here,” he said, “I'd like to take you to hear some good music this afternoon. No funny business. Just to make up.”

“Who plays music in the afternoon?”

“There's this place up in Carbon Canyon. You know where that is? Take the Fifty-Seven—”