Shop Talk (15 page)

“Yes!” Lucille stood up and applauded. “Bravo! Bravo!”

Mona slapped the table. “The bottom line is Dallas won’t be watching Marvin until Robert is returned. Anything we can do to help her, we will.” Mona glanced around the table. “The rest of us will pull a shift. If Marvin doesn’t pan out in three or four days, we’ll call it off. I’ll take the first shift beginning tomorrow morning. Andromeda, the afternoon. Lucille, what about from five until ten, or until he goes to bed? Jazz says he’s old, he won’t stay up later than ten.”

Lucille stared out the front of the shop at the darkening sky. Where was Driskell? It was long past time for him to arrive.

The hard slap of a palm on the table in front of her made her jump. “What?” She blinked at Mona’s impatient expression. “What is it?”

“Can you follow Marvin tomorrow from five until ten?”

“That’s Tuesday?” In the space of a few seconds, Lucille had somehow lost the entire conversation. “I, uh, I …” She looked around the table. If she said no, they’d get rid of her. “Sure,” she said. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”

The bell over the door jingled loudly making Coco jump. The members of WOMB turned to watch as Driskell LaMont entered the shop, his black cape billowing behind him on a sudden draft.

“Ladies,” he said, his voice rich and mellow. He executed a perfect bow.

“What is that?” Mona asked, slowly lifting her heel from the table and lowering it to the floor. She leaned forward in her chair.

“Driskell LaMont, the night repairman.” Lucille stood. Her hands were sweating as she watched Driskell take the measure of each of the women one by one. They, in turn, assessed him avidly.

“I thought the meetings were on Wednesday nights,” he said, but there was a pleased tone in his voice.

“They are. This is a special meeting. We’re done now, so we won’t be in the way while you work.” Lucille shifted from foot to foot. Iris had fed them once again, but since she’d deposited the tray of sandwiches there had been an ominous quiet from the apartment in the back of the shop. Bo had not even peeked out the crack in the door. It was time to get the writers out of the shop now that Driskell had arrived. “We are done, aren’t we?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Mona said. When she stood, everyone else did, too. She sauntered toward the door, suddenly taking a detour so that she could walk around Driskell as he lifted a television. “Nice suit,” she said, circling him.

“Nice spurs,” he answered, using a Phillip’s head to remove the back of the set.

Lucille stood helplessly beside the counter, her legs weakened by a surge of emotion so hot she felt as if her bones had melted. Mona was going after Driskell.

Mona stepped closer to Driskell, her gaze moving from his feet slowly up to his curly hair and down to his busy hands. “Nice hands,” she said.

“Nice deltoids,” he replied, never looking up at her. “You must work out.”

Mona lifted her chin, smiling into his dark eyes that reflected her own image back at her. To say his lips were nice would be too obvious. “Nice pallor,” she whispered.

Driskell smiled. The lady knew her game. “Nice neck.” He put the nest of television wires down and rested his hands on the counter. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“You could make me behave.” Mona’s smile was a dare.

“You must be Mona,” Driskell said easily. “Bo has mentioned you several times.”

Mona had forgotten about the other writers. She’d forgotten about Lucille, or Marvin, or Dr. Marino, who’d shown up at her apartment at three with the electronic pulse massager he’d “borrowed” from the physical therapy department of the hospital. She smiled at Driskell. “What time do you get off?”

Driskell looked around the back of the shop, carefully avoiding Lucille’s stricken look. “About dawn. Bo has a backlog.”

Andromeda stepped up to Mona’s elbow. She didn’t know the Hares, but she suspected that Bo would tolerate almost anything–except a hurt to his wife or sister or disruption of the work in his shop. Judging from Lucille’s expression, Mona was working on two out of three. “Mona, I need a word with you outside.”

“I need an hour or two with this man.” A quick-flash series of images ran through Mona’s mind. There were numerous activities that could be accomplished, unhurried, in that time.

Andromeda took her arm. “Sorry, you’ll need your strength. That Marvin is a frisky dude for his age.”

Andromeda’s grip on her arm was so startling that Mona forgot to balk. She allowed the shorter woman to muscle her to the door and out into the street. Jazz, Dallas, and Coco were right on her heels. When she shook free of Andromeda and turned back, she found Lucille at the door, the lock sliding into place.

Mona turned to find herself confronted with a human body and an insect-like head as Andromeda fastened her helmet into place.

“Get a grip, Mona. That Driskell guy isn’t worth risking our meeting place.” Andromeda’s words echoed slightly inside the helmet. “Lucille has feelings for him.”

“I suppose she does.” Mona sighed. It had been a momentary weakness. “And I have Marvin in the morning. I certainly hope he lives up to the sinister image you’ve created.”

Jazz pulled her earrings off and began to massage her ears. “Be careful, Mona, that man is bone evil.”

Dallas pointed in through the shop windows. “Look. It’s a news special about Robert.” She tapped on the glass, drawing Lucille back to the door.

“Yes?” Lucille poked her head out, clearly not intending to allow any of them back into the shop.

“Could you tape the news for me?” Dallas asked. “There was a guy at the press conference. An older man. He was very nasty. Maybe one of the news cameras caught him.”

Driskell kept his hands busy at the television set as a silent Lucille slotted a tape into one of the many VCR’s, hit record and began to pick up the paper plates and soiled napkins. With quick, jerky movements, she captured the banana pepper stems and peppermint wrappers and even blotted the puddle of water around the chair where Coco had been sitting. Driskell felt Lucille’s displeasure like the brush of a large moth’s wing against his temple. She kept her pink, sweatshirt-clad back to him and her paisley legs in constant motion as she cleaned like a Trojan, showing a passion he’d long anticipated, an anger he knew was directed toward him. She worked in the blue glow of the televisions.

“Can I help you with the table?” he asked.

“No thanks.” Lucille flipped it on its side and began to push it across the cement. A loud screech of protest halted her. Guiltily, she looked at the streak across the painted floor.

Driskell put down his pliers and walked over. With a shrug, he lifted the front end of the table. Lucille hefted her end, and they stored it in the parts room. Lucille shut the door without a word of thanks and walked away with short, quick steps.

At the counter she collected her purse. “Good night, Driskell.” She pushed open the front door and stepped into the night.

In the cool of the April dark, she felt the pressure of tears. This was the way Slade must have felt when he saw Clara shaking her scantily clad bosom in the faces of leering cowboys. Like Driskell, Clara had committed her licentious acts right under Slade’s nose. There was a word that perfectly described Lucille’s feelings. Betrayed. The word tasted bitter in the roof of her mouth.

The thing to do was to go home and write, to use the hurt and pain and raw feelings to infuse her book with such power and emotion that no one who read it would put it down unchanged. She would turn her personal tragedy into a work of art.

As she stood in the tiny parking lot, her chest burning with trapped emotion, she understood the book from a completely different perspective. Slade was too willing to forgive. Too willing to overlook Clara’s behavior. But it wasn’t just behavior, it was a weakness of character in Clara. For all of her blonde curls and cornflower blue eyes, Clara was headed down the path to damnation, and she was singing merrily the whole way. Either Slade was going to have to stop her, or he was going to have to give up his quest and go back to his cows.

As she hunted through her purse for her car keys, Lucille felt her depression yielding to excitement. This was a major breakthrough in Slade’s character. The book had definitely taken a turn. The power of her discovery sent the blood rushing through her with such force and speed that she fumbled the keys that were tangled with gum wrappers, pens, lipstick tubes, scraps of receipts, flakes of tobacco, Tic-tac boxes, and pennies.

Frustrated, she sat down on the cement curb beside her Camaro and dumped her purse upside down. The keys were in there. She could hear them.

What she had to do was concentrate on not losing the thread of her newfound insight. Slade would disavow Clara. He would abandon her a third of the way into the book, realizing that she was not the woman for him. This was not romance–it would be better than romance. Slade Rivers would be a man who was not ruled by his loins, but rather by his desire for a woman of substance. To hell with Clara. She’d been nothing but a conniving, spoiled, headstrong little bitch since she’d first appeared on the page. Slade would leave her behind in his quest for real love, and she, Lucille Hare, writing as RoxAnne Flambeaux, would make sure that Clara got the fate she deserved. Lucille almost swooned. For the first time, she realized that she had the power to create–and in equal measure, the power to destroy. As a writer, she could dispense justice. Clara Lloyd was going to come before her bench!

Amidst the clutter, Lucille found her keys. She scrambled everything back into her purse and stood.

Out of the darkness a pair of headlights sprang to life across the parking lot. A loud, slightly erratic motor cranked up. The headlights began to move, swinging past Lucille and then coming back to her as if they sought her out. Blinded by the unexpected light, Lucille stood, one foot on the curb, car keys in hand, motionless.

There was the sound of gears grinding and a belch of noxious fumes as the vehicle careened across the four lanes of Pass Road and headed directly for Lucille.

It took a few seconds to register that the vehicle wasn’t going to turn into the street. It was coming right at her, head-on, as if it meant to sweep over her and fly straight through Bo’s new plate glass windows and into the shop.

She held up both hands and spread her paisley legs. “Stop!”

Driskell had taken a stand at the door as he watched Lucille go through the contents of her purse. She looked young and vulnerable, sitting on the curb, legs splayed apart, high-top tennis shoes smudged with evidence of wear. He yearned to go out and talk to her, but she had made her feelings toward him plain. She was angry with him. About Mona’s behavior.

And his own.

He’d spent the last ten minutes pondering the exchange he’d had with Ms. d’la Quirt, and he accepted responsibility for wounding Lucille. He’d been intrigued by Mona. Attracted to her. There was something about her that was forbidden, naughty, kinky, more than a little desirable.

Mona was the antithesis of white, tricot slips, the lingering memory of soft rolls of flesh, scented with a light vanilla talc. Mona was sleek leather, hard …

Bright headlights flared into his eyes, making him draw back from the light and his thoughts. It took him several seconds to realize that the vehicle was coming across the road at a high speed and headed directly for the shop, and Lucille, who stood like a giant X, arms and legs apart as if she could deny the speeding vehicle access.

Driskell pushed through the door and launched himself at Lucille with every ounce of strength he had. His shoulder caught her just below the ribs, and he heard her breath give with a soft whiff as she folded over him. Together they smacked into the asphalt and rolled to the front of Lucille’s Camaro.

The scream of tires seemed to bleed from the pavement into his ears, a hollow, cartoon sound. Holding tight to Lucille, Driskell closed his eyes. Suddenly, the night was filled with silence and the smell of burning rubber.

With Lucille still folded over his shoulder, Driskell looked up to see enormous smoking tires that supported a tiny black pickup. The interior of the cab was hidden by a sheet of black glass that reflected BO’s ELECTRONICS backwards.

Lucille moaned.

“Shush,” Driskell said softly. This was a danger Roger had not warned about.

“My knees,” Lucille whimpered. She hiccuped. “My elbows.”

“Hush,” Driskell said more forcefully as he watched the driver’s window. Very slowly it rolled down.

The head that loomed out of the truck was enormous. The facial planes were big, broad, and encased in layers of fat. But the head itself was at least twenty-eight inches. And the expression the man wore was not benign.

“Well, well,” he said, his mouth working as if it had not uttered intelligible words in a long time. “If it ain’t little Lucy.”

Lucille went completely limp, then arched like a jolt of electricity had been shot through her veins.

“No,” she said. “No!” She began to struggle like a banshee.

“Hee! Hee!” The man in the truck said. “Hee! Hee!” His laughter was interrupted by a loud wheeze.

Driskell felt Lucille under and around him like a sack full of angry ‘possums, and he did what he could to get off her while at the same time watching the leering face above him. He had no weapon. Bo and Iris were in the back of the shop and would never hear him if he cried out for help. He knew exactly who the man reminded him of–the giant in
Jack and the Beanstalk.
He watched the wet looking lips, expecting to see them form the words, “Fee, fie, foe, fum.” Once the wheezing stopped, the lips pulled back to reveal tiny teeth that were black at the base and slightly pointed. “Hee! Hee!” the man laughed.

“Who are you?” Driskell asked, his voice more polite than he intended.

“Hee! Hee!” the man answered. His big head, surrounded by a clump of matted dark hair, rocked backwards and forward with his mirth. “Hee! Hee!” He beat the side of the truck. “Hee! Hee!”

“Who are you?” This time there was a demand in Driskell’s voice. He was about to gain his feet, but Lucille bucked beneath him, causing him to fall back on top of her. The air exploded from her lungs in a sharp cry followed by a whistling moan.

The big man laughed, wiping his eyes.

“Who are you?” Driskell staggered to get away from Lucille.

The man held up a hand, choking as he tried to contain his mirth. “Why little Lucy …” he gasped, “you ain’t changed a bit.”

Lucille went still. Driskell found his feet and stood. “Who are you?” he asked for the fourth time.

“Why, ask Lucy,” the man directed, still wiping his eyes. “Surely she recognizes her Uncle Peter.”

Lucille sat up and looked into the truck window. “This can’t be happening,” she said softly.

“I’ve come back, Lucy. I got to thinking about you and your brother out in the world all on your own, and I knew I had to come home and take care of you.”

Lucille got to her feet slowly. Both her knees had been badly scraped on the pavement. Blood ran down her shins, a twisting pattern of darker red among the pink paisleys. “You’ve been gone nearly twenty years. Bo and I are grown now.”

“Well, enough time wasted, I say. Now we can be one big happy family.” He nodded. “Just the three of us.”

Driskell looked at Lucille. “Is this man really your uncle?”

Lucille swallowed. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Where’s that brother of yours, Lucy?”

“Bo’s asleep.” Lucille shifted slightly, as if she meant to blockade the front door from her uncle.

Driskell moved beside her, just behind her shoulder.

“Well, roust him out of bed. It’s reunion time. Tell him to come on out and welcome his Uncle Peter.” He slammed the side of the truck. “Hell, let’s pop a few brewskies and celebrate. Two fatherless children have got themselves a new daddy!”

“Bo’s asleep.”

“Well, wake him.” The joviality was gone from his voice.

“Where have you been for the past twenty years?” Lucille didn’t budge. “At first Aunt Doris was sick with worry.” She took a baby step forward. “After a few weeks, she started to realize how much better her life was without you. She got a new hair cut and started bowling. You’d better put that truck in gear and move on down the highway.”

“You’ve gotten mighty sassy for a child who couldn’t tie her shoelaces until she was nine.” Peter’s laughter crackled like splitting glass.

Driskell stepped in front of Lucille. “I don’t believe you’re Lucille’s uncle, and it’s obvious that she wants you to leave. I think you should do it.”

“Right, ruby lips. You gonna make me?”

Driskell’s lip quivered. Some terrible stench had suddenly assaulted him. Lucille, too, drew back. “If Lucille is your niece, why did you try to run her down?” he asked.

“Hell, that’s a game, boy! A game. Hee! Hee! When Lucy and little Bo were younguns out on the farm, I’d chase them through the cornfield with the tractor and corn-picker, pretendin', you know, like I was harvestin’ bundles of chilluns. They’d run and scream down those corn rows. Bo, he’d always jump the rows and get to the side, but not Lucy. It was like them stalks of corn was the Iron Curtain. She’d run straight down one row with the corn-picker right on her churnin’ little butt.”

“It’s true,” Lucille whispered. “He tried to kill us.”

Driskell took Lucille’s arm and marched her to the door. “Go inside and wait. I’ll take care of this.”

Lucille caught the edge of his cape, fingering the silky material. “Just make him leave, Driskell,” she said. “Can you?”

“I can make him regret it if he stays.” He pushed her through the door. “Do you want to wake Bo?”

“Heavens above, no.” Lucille stepped back. “Bo hates Uncle Peter. He might get the gun and shoot him.”

Driskell nodded. As he turned around to confront the beefy giant in the mud-caked truck, he thought that a gun might be the only reasoning tool Peter Hare would comprehend. That or a club.

“Mr. Hare, or whoever you are,” Driskell stepped up to the truck, climbing up on the mud encrusted knobs of the wheels. “Call Bo in the morning. Until then, go away.”

“Hee! Hee!” Peter Hare answered. “You look like a bat, boy. Hee! Hee! Hee! Bat boy! That was a good one. Hee! Hee!”

Driskell dropped back to the ground, landing lightly on his feet. His cape, undamaged by his tumble on the asphalt, swirled around him.

Peter’s laughter stopped in mid chuckle. His small eyes narrowed even more as he stared at Driskell for a long moment. “Who are you?” he asked suddenly. “You aren’t … you know, involved with little Lucy, are you?” His one long heavy eyebrow that slashed across his low forehead lifted.

“I’m certain Bo will want to know where you’re staying.”

“Tell Lucy and Bo I’ll be back, tomorrow.” He put the truck in gear and spun out backwards into the street.

Driskell watched the taillight departing. Only one worked. The other flickered on and off with the motion of the truck. The only thing left of Peter Hare was black streaks on the tiny apron of a parking lot and an unholy stench that defied definition.

When Driskell was sure he was gone, he turned back to the shop. Lucille was pressed to the window as if she cooled her face against the chill pane. A tear slid down her cheek. Picking up the lighting of the Electric Maid bakery sign that glimmered down the block, the tear tracked aqua, then pink, and finally fell off into yellow.

Guilt tripped through Driskell as he remembered Mona and the steamy flirtation they’d shared. In a way, it was as if he’d been possessed by a spirit. Mona was a tempting woman, but not his kind. Not at all. He remembered the feel of Lucille beneath him, soft and womanly, the soft whiff of her lungs when she’d hit the pavement, so delicate a sound. Mona was incapable of such a soft creation. Only Lucille could whiff. And he had betrayed her.