Scratch Fever (18 page)

“That’s the kind of people we’re dealing with,” he said. “I’m sorry it’s the case, but it is the case. Now. Go in there and see if that bitch is getting beers bought for her.”

She nodded, got out. She had a nice rear end on her, Nolan noted clinically.

He sat and waited. He was tired. He rolled the window down, and the cold air felt good. He’d trade his left nut for an hour’s sleep. But the stream of drunks and near-drunks coming in and out of the place, plus the country-rock music in the background, served to keep him from dropping off, and then the girl was back.

“She’s in there,” she said. Smiling like a conspirator.

“Fine.”

“What now?”

“We wait.”

“And follow her home.”

“Right.”

They sat there for ten minutes.

“Are you okay?” she said.

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You look like you’re ready to fall asleep.”

“That’s because I’m fifty years old and been up a like number of hours.”

“Well, I can watch for her. You sleep.”

“Thanks, no thanks.”

She patted his arm. “Jon’s going to be all right.”

He said nothing.

Five minutes later, a rather tall, heavily made-up girl with shaggy brunette hair, wearing a black down-filled jacket over a Marshall Tucker T-shirt and tight jeans, walked out arm in arm with a big, somewhat drunk guy in a cowboy hat, padded cowhide vest, and jeans.

“That’s her,” Toni said.

The couple swayed to a red truck, one of those hotrod pickups on the other side of the lot and the big guy stumbled behind the wheel as she got in on the rider’s side and they pulled out. Nolan followed.

It wasn’t far; in a “town” the size of Gulf Port, it couldn’t be. The trailer was one of half a dozen others on a desolate, somewhat shaded block two blocks from Upper’s. This apparently allowed Darlene to do her local bar-crawling without taking her car, because a several-year-old green Maverick was parked in front; rust was eating it. She guided the cowboy out of his pickup, up the couple of steps and inside.

“Well?” Toni said as they drove past.

“Let’s wait till the pickup leaves,” Nolan said.

“Shouldn’t we . . . ?”

“We’ll talk to her by herself. We don’t need to involve any civilians. This is complicated enough as is. We know where she lives. We’ll come back later.”

“That guy’ll be there all night!”

“Right.”

He pulled over. “I’m getting in back,” he told her. “I’ll keep down. I want you to drive to that motel down from Upper’s and get a room. It’s the only motel in town, and they may be watching for me for Julie. So you get the room.”

She nodded, and they got out, and he got in back and she got behind the wheel.

Soon they were in the motel room, a dingy little yellow room with a double bed and a picture of a ship at sea over the bed. Toni appraised the latter and said, “At least it isn’t on black velvet.”

“What?” Nolan said.

“Nothing. What are we doing here?”

“I’m getting some sleep. You can do what you want.”

“But what about Jon? Shouldn’t we be . . .”

“If they’ve killed him, it won’t matter. If he’s alive, they’ll probably keep him that way. But if I don’t get a couple hours sleep, I’m liable to fuck up. Okay?”

“Don’t pretend to be such a cold fucker, Nolan. You aren’t fooling anybody.”

“Then I’m not fooling anybody.” He lay on the bed and closed his eyes.

“When should I wake you up?” she said.

“I’ll wake up in a few hours. Why don’t you sleep, too?”

“How can you sleep at a time like this?”

“It’s hard with you talking.”

“What about Darlene?”

“The cowboy’ll be out of there by noon, probably. We’ll call on her then.”

“What if she gets up before then? What if she leaves?”

“Where would she go? Church?”

“She could go somewhere in the afternoon. Shopping in Burlington.”

“She’ll be back, then. Are the bars open here on Sunday?”

“Yeah.”

“She’ll be back.”

“Yeah. I suppose you’re right. Nolan.”

“What?”

“Can I lay down on the bed?”

“There’s only one bed.”

“Does that mean yes?”

“It’s a double bed, isn’t it?”

“That means yes.” She lay down.

A few minutes went by.

“You’re not asleep yet, are you?” she asked him.

“Apparently not.”

“Am I bothering you?”

“No.” His eyes were closed.

“You’re tense.”

“I’m fine.” He rolled over on his stomach.

He felt her hands on his shoulders, on the muscles between his neck and shoulders. She began rubbing. “You are too tense,” she said. It felt good.

“Well, maybe I am,” he said.

“Does that feel good?”

“Keep doing it,” he said.

She rubbed. Then she untucked his shirt and reached her hands up under it and scratched.

“How’s that feel?”

“Good.”

“Just good?”

“Very good.”

“I thought you were human.”

“Why, is that news?”

“I just never knew a man who didn’t like his back scratched.”

She stopped and he turned over and leaned against his elbow and smiled at her. She was a cute kid; nice tits with the nipples poking at the Nodes T-shirt.

“Turn over,” he said.

She grinned and got on her stomach. He rubbed her back a while; then he reached his hand under the T-shirt and scratched her back. She made contented sounds, like a purring kitten.

He slapped her butt and she yelped.

“Looks like you’re human, too,” he said.

She turned over and smiled up at him; took his hands and put them up under her shirt, in front this time.

“Hey,” he said.

“What?” she said.

He didn’t pull his hands away; he liked them where they were.

“You’re Jon’s girlfriend,” he said.

“I’m not his girlfriend. I’m his friend.”

“Just a fellow band member, huh?”

“That’s right.”

She kissed him. Slow, sweet kiss.

He looked at her, pushed her away from him, hands still under her shirt; she had a scared look.

“I need to be close to somebody right now,” she said. “And I don’t think it would hurt you, either.”

She pulled her T-shirt off; her breasts looked just as nice as they felt.

He turned off the light. He took off his clothes, and she took hers off, too. They got under the covers and made love; it was slow and rather sweet. Like the kiss. She was right: it was exactly what he needed right now.

Afterwards, he sat up in bed and said, “Are you sure you’re not Jon’s girlfriend?”

“I care about him a great deal.”

“You’ve never slept with him?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He shook his head, smiled disgustedly. “I been had.”

“Me too,” she said. “Listen, I’m thirsty.”

“There’s a pop machine a few doors down.”

“I’d rather have Cutty Sark.”

“I bet you would. Will you settle for a Coke?”

“Sure,” she said. “You don’t really mean you’re going to go get it for me?”

He shrugged. “You scratch my back . . .”

He put his clothes on. As an afterthought, he stuck the silenced 9 mm in his waistband.

“Do you need that?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“No,” Nolan said, meaning it. “I’m just being paranoid.”

The night air—actually early morning air—was still cold, and he still liked the feel of it, the alertness it gave him. He hadn’t managed to get any sleep yet, after all. But the girl had done him good. She had released some of his tension, though he found himself feeling guilty, as if he’d somehow betrayed Sherry. Which was crazy. He wasn’t married. But he didn’t suppose this Toni could understand how he felt, not with the strange sense of morality she and that generation of hers seemed to have.

As he was nearing the Coke machine, he noticed a car parked in the stall in front of one of the other rooms: a shiny black Mazda. Sporty little car, but it wasn’t the car that caught his eye—it was the license plate. Even though this was Illinois, most of the plates on the cars in the motel stalls were Iowa ones; this one was Illinois, specifically Rock Island County.

Infante.

Nolan had left his LTD home, with its Rock Island plates, for just this reason; he’d suffered the discomfort of Sherry’s little Datsun because its Ohio plates wouldn’t lead anybody to him.

But Infante was dumb. Which became even more obvious when Nolan found the car unlocked. He checked the registration; the car belonged to Carl R. Hines, Infante’s boss.

Nolan took the 9 mm out of his waistband.

He went to the door of the room the Mazda was parked in front of. He knocked.

Infante answered the door wearing a towel, which he held around him with one hand; in the other was the twin to Nolan’s 9 mm, but he was too startled and slow for it to do him any good.

Before Infante knew what was happening, Nolan slapped him across the face with the automatic, knocking him back into the room, the 9 mm’s twin tumbling out of Infante’s hands, leaving him sitting on the floor with the towel a puddle across his lap, rubbing his face and saying, “Shit! Shit!”

Nolan shut the door.

Infante said, “You fucker!”

“Shut up.”

Infante started to get up.

Nolan pointed the 9 mm at Infante’s head. “Keep your seat,” he said.

Infante’s eyes darted around, looking for his 9 mm.

“It’s under the bed,” Nolan said. “I don’t think you can get to it in time.”

“I’m going to kill you, you fucker.”

“I don’t think so.”