Shop Talk (23 page)

Bo rubbed his eyes as the Cadillac pulled into the only open slot at the front of the shop. It had been a long morning compounded by the weird old man who’d followed him all over the shop for an hour. Bo had a tender spot for the elderly, but several times the old sicko had brushed against him as if he were trying to deliberately touch him. Now Bo was tired and grumpy. He’d not slept a wink, tormented by visions of Lucille sitting at her computer just as her apartment was blown to bits. Now this!

He rubbed his eyes again, unwilling to believe what he saw. Driskell LaMont had pulled his big black Caddy into the tiny apron of a parking lot. And Lucille was riding with him.

“Iris, baby, you’d better come up here,” he called loud enough so that his voice carried into the apartment.

Iris rinsed the collards, aware that the smell of baking ham had permeated the short, raggedly cut-off jeans that hugged her hips and the polka dot blouse that was tied, tightly, at her breasts. Beside a colander of freshly washed okra was a straw hat. Iris had decided that a mess of collards and some good Southern food would help Bo through the horror of Lucille’s near extermination.

“I’ve got to get the grit off these greens,” she called back. For the last hour Bo had been tied up with some old man who’d come in
to look
at repaired television sets. Bo had patiently explained that the sets weren’t for sale, that they belonged to customers. But the old guy with the hard eyes of a stuffed eagle had either been dumb as a rock or up to something. Iris, busy making the brown sugar and pineapple sauce to glaze the ham, hadn’t hung around the front long enough to tell which it was. “Did that old dude ever bring his set in?” she yelled as she began the process of tearing the collards into small bits.

“No, he never did. Listen, baby, I think maybe you should come up here and check this out. It’s Lucille. And Driskell.” Bo didn’t have the energy to sound really urgent.

“Bo, this ham and accoutrements are exactly what we both need.” In mid-sentence her speech began to change, the words becoming slow and syrupy. “I got it all figured out. We eat a big heapin’ plate o’ vittles and some finger-lickin’ cornbread. We wash it all down with some big glasses of iced tea, topped off with the fresh blackberry cobbler that’s bubblin’ in the oven. After that, we’ll feel fine.” She fluffed her ponytail with only a split second of regret that her hair was not blond.

“Iris.” Bo watched as Driskell went around the car to open the door for Lucille. His sister got out and stared up at Driskell as if she’d never seen him before. The mid-morning light struck Lucille fully in the face, revealing lips that looked slightly larger–and redder! “Iris, you’ve got to see this.”

“Now just listen to li’l ole me, sweetie. We’re gonna eat this bodacious meal, which will send all the blood rushing straight to your gut to help digest the food. That’ll leave your big ole, tired-out brain without enough blood to think.” Iris gave a giggle. “Of course, if you put a double strain on it and take even more of the blood somewhere else that requires a lot of circulation, well, I ga-ran-tee you won’t be thinkin’ about poor ole Lucille.” She poked her head around the door to grin at her husband. He had no idea of the treat that was in store for him. One of his favorites,
The Dukes of Hazzard.
Her outfit was going to finally put a smile on his face.

But Bo didn’t even notice her when she went in the shop. He was absorbed by the scene outside the window. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Lucille. And Driskell.” Bo felt a sense of impending doom as a second black car pulled up in front of the shop. “And Mona.” A movement across the street caught his eye. “And here comes Coco and Dallas.”

Iris crossed the floor in ten long strides. She forgot all about her deep-fried accent. “Je-sus, baby. Lock the door. They look like rabid dogs.” She started toward the front door, but Bo grabbed her arm.

“Look at Lucille,” he said. “She belongs with them. Look, she fits right in.”

“Well, now, she does.” Iris’ voice didn’t hold the disapproval of Bo’s. “Where’s the kinky one with the sunglasses?”

Her question was answered by the sound of a big bike. A black clad rider sped by the shop at high speed. Twenty yards past, the rider laid the bike on the asphalt as she did a complete one-eighty and came roaring back to the shop. Three inches from the plate glass window she braked and climbed off.

“My lord, that girl knows how to straddle a hog,” Iris said approvingly. A sudden inspiration popped into her head. “I wonder if she might let us borrow the bike one evening. Not to ride, just to … use.” She feathered a hand through Bo’s hair.

“They’re here. All of them. And now Driskell’s part of them.” He looked at Iris, eyes wide with shock. “You don’t think Driskell has decided to write, do you?”

“I don’t know, baby. He couldn’t be any worse than Lucille.”

The door bell jangled a warning as Lucille led the way into the shop. The other writers and Driskell followed behind her.

“It’s not Wednesday night.” Bo stood up. His hands were shaking. “I’ve had a really bad day, Lucille. Really bad. I can’t take all of you writers right now.” He waved at them, shooing them toward the door. “Go away.”

Mona lifted an eyebrow at Iris. “What? Are we interrupting some kinky version of L’
il Abner?
How appropriate.”

“Eat your heart out, you Madonna-wanna be.” Iris didn’t mind the writers as much as Bo, but she had no intention of being mocked in her own home.

“Baby.” Bo held open his arms and then closed them around his wife. He looked over her dark head and into Lucille’s flashing eyes.

“Enough of this.” Lucille stamped her foot. The bandages on her knees bucked and wiggled. “This is serious business, Mona. Quit hassling Iris. Driskell and I have put two and two together and come up with a lot more than four.” Lucille looked at Driskell, who moved up to her side. “Tell them.”

“It’s your Uncle Peter,” Driskell said as Andromeda slapped two packages of photos impatiently in her palm. “Bo, there’s some weird stuff going on here, and Lucille is at the center of it.”

Bo sat back down on the stool, easing Iris over onto one knee. “So what else is new?”

“This isn’t my fault. I’m a desirable woman. Very desirable. I didn’t bring this on, it’s something that just happened. So don’t go getting that long-suffering look on your face. I’m not a fool. I’m,” she looked at Driskell, “one fine, sexy woman.”

Looking up at the ceiling, Iris whispered, “Je-sus.”

“What’s all this about?” Bo ignored both Iris and Lucille. He looked instead to Andromeda, who had moved in closer.

Lucille refused to be by-passed. “You have to talk to me, Bo. I’m the one this is about. I’m the one, with Driskell’s help, who figured this out. Uncle Peter is involved with the guy we’ve been watching, the guy who blew up the apartments. Marvin Lovelace.”

Driskell took up the story at her nod. “It was the lawyer. Lucille and I stood outside the sno-cone stand, and we realized the lawyer was a fake. It was his name. M.V. Valentine.” Driskell’s dark eyes burned bright against the pallor of his skin. “You see, most criminals choose an alias very close to their own name. It’s human nature–I learned this in a mercenary correspondence course. M.V. Valentine. Marvin Lovelace.” He put his hand on Lucille’s shoulder. “I’m the undercover agent, but it was Lucille who figured it out.”

“You’re an undercover agent?” Bo’s face registered shock. “Is that what you said?”

Lucille touched Driskell’s cape. “He told me all about how he came to the bank to meet me as part of his assignment. He used me, but it’s okay. I’ve forgiven him. What we have to do now is figure out about Marvin. Driskell and I dropped by the police department and talked with Officer O’Neill, and he said that a guy named Marshall Lovecraft had been on the bomb site with CIA credentials. Fake credentials, as it turns out.”

“It’s the old fart.” Andromeda stepped to the counter. “And I tell you, I’ve had enough of old people. Senior citizen discounts, private parking, little scooters that jet propel them around the mall where they run down innocent pedestrians, and all that change they carry so they can count it out one penny at a time and drive other shoppers to madness!” She dumped the photos on the counter and turned to Dallas. “Your husband is involved in this. It’s genetics. The beefalo, the government. Where’s Jazz?”

“Jazz is late.” Dallas scattered the pictures, scanning through them. “How is Robert involved in this? Have you gotten some word on him? I haven’t received a single ransom demand, just two phone calls of heavy breathing!”

Coco’s delicate nose lifted and she sniffed. “Something’s burning. Maybe I should check on it.” She licked the right corner of her mouth and drifted from the gathering as the members of WOMB looked down the street for Jazz.

Bo collected the photos, holding them so Iris could see. He flipped through them–cows, cows, jogger, a big black blur, black fur, black nose, cows, an elaborate gate. “Uh-huh,” he said.

“What’s your point, Andromeda?” Mona asked. She tugged at her bustier. The conical swirl of sequins that shaped her breasts glittered dangerously in the light from the silent televisions.

“There’s something going on at that ranch.” Andromeda lowered her chin. “I don’t know exactly what it is, but it’s serious, and that old Marvin person is right in the middle of it. Beefalos. It has to do with cross-breeds. Genetics.”

Lucille snatched the pictures from Dallas’ hand. “Okay so we have cows and Marvin jogging and that gate with the Nazi emblem.” She handed them back. “What’s the big deal?”

Bo eased Iris off his lap as he stood. “What Nazi thing?” He looked at Lucille as if he’d never seen her.

“The gate. It’s like that Nazi thing Daddy kept in the trunk. The one he took off the German he had to bayonet. The medal. He kept it in his war trunk.” She waved at him impatiently. “What about Marvin Lovelace and the fact that he’s connected with Uncle Peter?”

“What trunk?” Bo reached across the counter and grasped his sister’s arm.

“The one in the closet, under the window. The green trunk where Daddy kept all his war stuff.” Lucille shook free of Bo’s hand. “What’s with you? It’s something Daddy got when he was in Germany. Some military relic or something.”

“Lucille, Daddy never made it to Germany.”

“But he did. He got that medal.” Lucille wanted to swat Bo like a fly. All around her the writers were grumbling and pawing the photos. None of it had a thing to do with her and Driskell’s discovery.

“Lucille …”

“That’s Marvin?” Dallas’ voice rose an octave as she examined a picture more closely. “He’s the bastard at the press conference.” She grasped Lucille’s arm. “Did you tape it? The press conference?”

Driskell nodded. “She did.” He went behind the counter and pulled out the tape. In a matter of moments it filled a television screen.

“That’s him!” Dallas pointed to a panning shot of the press. Marvin stood on the fringes, his blue eyes boring into Dallas.

Iris bolted off the stool. “That’s the old guy who was trying to feel your butt.”

Bo eased closer to the television. It
was
the same man. And if the writers could be believed, he had shown up in each of their lives. He looked at Lucille. “This man is connected with Peter Hare?”

Lucille nodded. “We, Driskell and I, believe Uncle Peter was brought back to Biloxi by Marvin.”

“To what purpose?”

Lucille rolled her eyes. “That’s what we’ve been saying. That’s what we have to find out.”

“The ham!” Iris jumped up from her perch on Bo’s stool and started toward the back of the shop.

“Lucille is right, Marvin is the key,” Mona said, tapping the photos in her palm.

“Je-sus!” Iris’ voice exploded from the back. “You little pig! You’ve eaten the whole ham!”

Before anyone could move, Coco exploded out of the apartment and into the shop. Her face glistened with the sheen of grease and she held her hands out in front of her. Beneath her fingernails were chunks of pink meat.

Iris burst through the doorway, broom in hand. “I’m going to swat her like a roach.” She started after Coco, who ran headlong into a plate glass window. The crash shook the glass front of the shop, and for a moment, Coco clung to the glass before she slid down it, an obvious grease streak left in her wake.

Still wielding the broom, Iris stopped over her. “She ate the entire ham. She even sucked the marrow out of the bone. When I went back there she was drinking the juice out of a corner of the pan and tossing the pineapple rings in the air to catch them in her mouth.”

“Hold on, Iris.” Bo made a grab for his wife and missed.

“I’m going to kill her,” Iris said, lifting the broom high over her head. “I’m just going to plain beat her to death.”

“Now, Iris.” Bo took the broom out of Iris’ hand. “That ham weighed at least twelve pounds. She ate all of it?”

“There’s not enough meat left on the bone to make beans.” Iris lowered her hands to her side. “Look.” She nudged Coco’s pronounced stomach with her foot. “There’s the whole thing, right in her gut. She probably didn’t even chew it.”

“Is that a dab of blackberry cobbler?” Bo pointed to a splotch of sticky purple substance in Coco’s hair.

“Not the cobbler, too!” Iris ran back to the apartment. In a moment there was the sound of an oven door slamming, hard. “The little anorexic bitch ate the cobbler, too.” She stalked back over to the supine Coco. “Let’s cook her.”

Bo shook his head. “Calm down, baby.”

“We’ve got that big pot we use for
Mandingo.”
Iris’ eyes had taken on a slick shine. “That little walking skeleton ate everything I just cooked.”

Bo put his arm around her and led her back to the counter. “Let it go, baby. I’ve lost my appetite anyway.” He picked up the photos again, studying the one of the gate. “Lucille, Daddy never went to Europe. He told me that before he died. I should have told you before now. There just didn’t seem to be a right time.”

“He got a medal.” Lucille put her hands on her hips. “I know you saw the medal. What’s wrong with you, Bo? Daddy was proud of being in the paratroopers.” Only Driskell’s hand on her shoulder kept her from flying right in Bo’s face.