Shella (9 page)

The car pulled up a couple of hours later. The door opened and I could see someone inside. Not Shella. Small, dark-haired. Whoever it was closed the door, started for the house. I stepped behind him, locked my forearm around his throat, kicked his ankles, took him down. I smelled perfume, felt long hair. A woman.

“Make a sound, I’ll break your neck,” I said, quiet. “Who’s inside?”

“Candy,” she whispered. “She lent me the car. Don’t …”

“Who are you?”

“Bonnie. Her friend, Bonnie.”

“You work at the club?” Her body was slim, slender like a boy’s. Whatever she was, she was no dancer.

“Upstairs. I work the phones. Please don’t hurt me.”

“Where’d you get the car?”

“Candy lent it to me.”

“When?”

“Nine o’clock. She brought it out to me. I told her I’d have it back by midnight—she’s gonna drive me home.”

“It’s after midnight.”

“I know. She’s gonna beat my ass.”

I didn’t get it when she said it. I walked her over to the front door. “It’s open,” I told her. “Just walk in, call her name. If she’s in there, by herself, there’s no problem.”

I touched a spot where her neck met her shoulder, felt her jump with the pain. “Don’t try to run,” I told her.

She opened the door. I heard her call “Candy?” I waited outside.

A light came on in the house. Then another. I went around to the back, slipped in a window. I heard a sound from the front. Flesh on flesh. The girl Bonnie was on her knees. Shella was slapping her with one hand, holding the girl’s hair in the other. I stepped forward, let Shella see me.

“What?” I asked her.

“It’s okay. This bitch was late, that’s all,” Shella said to me. She turned her head, looked at the girl. “Weren’t you?” she said. Slapped her again, hard.

“I thought—”

“It’s okay,” she said to me. Again. “I’m taking her home.”
Shella was dressed all in black, like a bodysuit. Boots on her feet, face all made up like she was going out. “We’ll finish this later.”

I didn’t know who she was talking to when she said that.

They went out together. I heard the car start up.

Shella didn’t come back until the next afternoon. I was in the front room, watching television.

“How come you never put the sound on?” she asked me.

“I’m trying to learn how to read lips.”

She gave me a funny look, said she was going to take a shower.

When she came back inside, I was still there.

“You never ask questions, do you?”

“Sometimes.”

“What you saw, last night. It’s just a game, okay?”

“Sure.”

“I do that, sometimes.”

“All right.”

“You don’t care?”

“I don’t know what it is.”

She sat on the arm of my chair, smelling like soap and powder. “You want me to do something for you?”

I closed my eyes. Felt so tired.

“Want me to read to you, baby? Read you a book?”

I nodded, thinking about it. She gave me a little kiss, a sweet kiss.

When I woke up, it was dark. A blanket over me. Shella was gone.

I knew there was something in the memory. I didn’t push it, just let it pass through me. Like pain. I can see the inside of my body, sometimes. I got shot, once. A little gun. Just above the knee. It went in and out. I could see the hole in my pants when I took them off. In and out. I could see the path of the bullet. Like a tunnel, all red and clotted with white stuff. I wrapped a bandage around it, real tight. I saw inside my leg, saw the tunnel close, fill up. It got better. The scars are like dots, front and back.

Memory. Shella slapping that girl. A hotel room. In Huntsville, Alabama. Some convention. Shella said we could make some heavy scores. When we checked in, I saw the signs for the convention. Women Executives. Advertising or something. I gave Shella a look. She winked at me. Told me we wouldn’t work Badger—she’d get the money herself. Just be ready if something went bad.

I was in the connecting room when I heard her come in. I heard voices, then the sound of a belt. Shella wouldn’t turn hard tricks. I looked through the door. A fat woman was on the bed, face down, her wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts, a pillowcase over her head. Shella was whipping her. The back of the fat woman’s thighs were red against her pale-white skin.

Shella showed me the money later. A lot of money. Why was Shella whipping that woman staying in my mind? I never remember anything for nothing. I let it run, waiting.

I got it. When Shella worked that convention, we had another room. In a motel out on the highway. Took a cab
to the convention hotel when we checked in. Like we were coming from the airport. When we checked out of the hotel, we took a cab to the airport. Then we caught another one back to the motel, where we had our car.

When Misty got back, I told her I knew how to do it. Told her we’d go next Friday night. She ran over, gave me a big kiss like I’d done something great.

The phone rang in the hotel room. It never rings. Nobody has the number. I pointed at Misty—she picked it up.

“Oh! I’ll be right down. No, wait a minute. Can you send someone up with them? Okay. Thanks.” She bustled around the room, pulling on a pair of slacks.

“What?”

“You’ll see, baby.”

A knock at the door. Friendly knock. Misty opened it. A bellboy in a uniform, whole mess of packages on one of those carts they use in hotels to move luggage. The bellboy put the stuff where Misty pointed, on the bed. He never looked at me. Misty gave him some bills. He sort of bowed, saying thanks. It must of been too much money.

When he closed the door, Misty locked it, put on the chain. Danced around, flinging off her clothes.

She opened one of the packages, opened another. Took out a little red piece of leather, held it up.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“What is it?”

“A
dress,
baby. Wait … see, it goes with these shoes, and I have stockings for it, and …”

“How come …?”

She was looking at the dress—I could see it was a dress, now that she told me—holding it up. “I’ll have to use powder to get this on, but wait’ll you see …”

She ran off into the bathroom. Closed the door. She doesn’t usually do that, close the door. I heard the shower. Turned on the TV.

When she came out, she was in the red dress. It was so tight, she had to take little steps. The top of the dress pushed her breasts together so hard they were popping out over the red leather. Big zipper right down the front. The skirt was way up on her thighs. She had black stockings, red spike heels the same color as the dress. Her arms and her neck were bare, hair pulled up on top of her head, long earrings, little red balls at the end, dangling.

“What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” I told her. Shella had pranced around like that once, asked me how she looked. I told her “Good” and she threw an ashtray at me. So I knew not to say that again.

“See how it shows me off, honey? With these heels, and the dark stockings …? Like I have long legs, yes?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how I’m gonna sit down in this. And I can’t wear pants under it either. But it’s worth it. I mean, I want you to be proud of me when we go out.”

“I am proud of you. You look great, Misty.”

“For real?”

“I swear.”

“Wait’ll you see the best part!” she said, rooting around in the other packages.

I watched her bending over the bed. The skirt rode up, white flesh above the thick black bands at the top of her stockings. I could see her sex.

“Look!” she said, holding up some black clothing.

“What is it?”

“It’s a
suit,
honey. For you. You don’t have clothes for a nightclub.”

I let her fuss with the stuff. She was right—I never thought of it. A black suit. Smooth, shiny. A white shirt, like they wear with tuxedos, all ruffles in front. The shirt had little black buttons, black cufflinks. She even had black boots. Alligator, they looked like.

“Everything fits,” I said. Surprised.

“I measured you, honey. In your sleep. Every square inch. Do you like it?”

“It’s great,” I said, letting her close all the little snaps and buttons on the shirt. I got into the pants. The waist was fine, but they didn’t feel right. “They’re too tight,” I said.

“No, they’re not. Here …” She opened the snap at the top, moved around behind me, reached inside my underwear, grabbed my cock, moved it to one side. “Try them now.”

They closed fine. I gave her a look. “That means you carry left, honey. You don’t … I mean, it’s not supposed to be right in the
middle,
you understand? Once you put it where it’s supposed to be, it won’t move, okay?”

She looked so young then. Like something mattered, so much. I felt Shella near me, nudging me in the ribs, rolling her eyes like she did when she said I was being stupid. “It
won’t stay like this, I see you in that dress,” I told Misty. Her face lit up.

The jacket fit real good. I looked at myself in the mirror. “The shoulders are too big,” I told Misty. They stuck way out.

“They’re
supposed
to be like that,” she said. “It’s the fashion.”