Shop Talk (24 page)

Bo nodded slowly. “He was, but the part about capturing Germans was a lie. Daddy never made it to Europe. He hurt his back in a jump over in Georgia. They sent him to Horn Island instead.”

“Horn Island?” Lucille stepped over Coco and went to her brother. She grabbed his arm and turned him to face her. “He spent the war out on a beach? What about the medal? What about him being a hero and capturing all of those Germans? What about the scar by his hip where he got shot?” She saw it in Bo’s face. “Why did he lie?”

The door jangled again and Jazz, her chest fluttering up and down with exertion, stepped into the room.

Bo never slowed down. “He wanted to be a hero. In your eyes and mine. And in Mama’s eyes.” He shrugged. “And he said the Air Force asked him to do it and not ever tell anyone he was right here in Mississippi on the island. It was a secret mission. When he was dying, he wanted me to know the truth.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Driskell said as he put his arm around Lucille. “It doesn’t matter at all, Lucy.”

“It does so matter that Daddy spent the war on Horn Island when he told me he was a hero in Germany. It matters a hell of a lot–to me!”

“Horn Island?” Jazz walked toward them, hip bones thrusting against her lime green sheath. She walked as if the weight of her bee-hive pulled her slightly backwards. Tropical fruit hung from her ears. The tiny bananas, oranges, limes, and papayas clattered like far away applause as she moved.

Bo gave Jazz an irritated look. “Horn Island, that’s what I said. He was assigned to watch for German subs, to protect the mainland. What he did was a valuable service to our country, even if he didn’t capture any Germans.”

“It was the drawing of Horn Island that started all of this.” Jazz looked at Lucille. “This all started with that little map.” She hesitated only a second at the sight of Coco inert on the shop floor. “During the war the government confiscated that island. There were rumors that scientists worked on the atomic bomb there, but it was never confirmed.”

Bo found himself staring directly into Jazz’s eyes.

“Even more interesting are the other rumors. That’s why I’m late. I got a call this afternoon from a book tracking service. In the 70s, one J.D. Tanner published a book on the wartime activities on Horn Island. Strangely enough, J.D. Tanner disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“What happened on the island?” Andromeda asked. “It involves genetics, doesn’t it? Experiments on human DNA. They used the soldiers without telling them what they were doing, didn’t they?”

Jazz nodded. “According to Tanner’s book, which I just got, a large vessel was pulled out of the Gulf and towed in secret to Horn Island.”

“A German sub?” Mona licked her lips.

“Even better.” Jazz paused dramatically. “A space ship.”

Jazz pulled the dangling fruit from her ears and felt her lobes continue to pulse, a sensation that was not pain but knowledge. Slightly dizzy, she gripped the counter and blinked her eyes. “The Hares are in grave danger.”

Driskell swirled his cape about Lucille. “I agree,” he said. “I thought my mission was to protect the United States from the Hares. Now I see it’s the Hares who need my protection.”

“You think my daddy did something bad to alien prisoners of war?” Lucille felt Driskell’s arms tighten around her, comforting and restraining, as she tried to get to Jazz. “My daddy was a very kind man!”

“I didn’t say that,” Jazz answered. “I’m not certain what happened out on that island. I can only say that it’s attracted Marvin Lovelace and plays a part in the disappearance of Robert Beaudreaux.”

“What are we going to do about Marvin?” Mona asked.

“And Robert. He’s my husband and I want him back.” Dallas set her fists on her hips. “I hate it when people assume you don’t want something and just ‘borrow’ it without permission.”

Bo pointed at Driskell. “You’re the CIA agent. What should we do?”

“Actually, it’s agent-in-training, but I do have a plan. We should wait until dark.” He motioned them all to gather round. “Darkness is always best. It gives us the element of surprise.”

“Another tidbit from the mercenary manual?” Iris asked.

He ignored her. “Well wait until dark, and then, Dallas, you’ll go to Marvin’s apartment. Watch and wait until he leaves. Then do whatever you have to do to get inside. You’ve all been tailing him?” He waited for their nod of agreement. “And he hasn’t gone anywhere other than to get food and go to the beefalo ranch?” They nodded again. “Then there’s a good chance your husband, or whatever’s left of him, is inside that apartment.”

“What makes you think Marvin will leave the apartment?” Andromeda’s eyes were unreadable behind the Raybans.

“Because he needs something from the Hares.” Driskell looked at Bo. “Hell come out to hunt.”

“And the beefalo ranch?” Mona asked.

“Iris and Bo will stay in the shop, in case he comes here. Jazz, is there any place else you can check about Horn Island?”

“One or two other sources.”

“The rest of us will meet at the beefalo ranch.”

“What time?” Mona asked.

“Seven o’clock. Sharp.” Driskell looked around the gathering. “This could be extremely dangerous. My impression is that Marvin is a deadly force. There’s also the wild Hare, Peter. We’re not certain what his role might be, but I don’t think hell be bothering us tonight. He’s had a … cleansing experience.”

“What about Coco?” Dallas went over to her friend and nudged her with a toe.

“I’ll take her home,” Bo said. It wasn’t safe to leave her around Iris. As soon as she walked back in the kitchen and saw the ruin of her meal, she’d get angry all over again.

“Good, then, at seven,” Driskell said.

“At seven,” everyone agreed as they broke up to go their separate ways.

Dallas sat with the engine of her Mercedes idling as she stared at her home. Looking at the beige stucco facade of the million dollar house, she felt a disturbing dissatisfaction. She had everything money could buy. Everything. She’d even made progress on her book, fantasizing a six-page shopping spree at the Macy’s in New Orleans where her heroine, Jasmine DeNiro, had squandered her cruel husband’s entire stock portfolio and then wound up in the arms of a Russian emigrant who spoke with eloquence and passion about the destruction of his home and culture.

But watching Driskell and Lucille in the shop had unsettled her. There had been something between them, something that had awakened a nagging desire.

“Why am I letting Lucille Hare have any effect on me?” she asked herself. “The woman thought one of her characters had come to life. She’s an idiot. A moron. A total loser.” But she heard her own voice lose its force.

“Damn it all to hell,” Dallas whispered. She put the car in drive, the motor purring with wealth and power. Driskell had told her to wait until seven, but she was ready for action. She’d never imagined that she’d miss Robert. But she did. A great deal more than she wanted to admit. If there was a chance at all that he was being held captive in Marvin Lovelace’s apartment, she wanted to be the one to set him free. And when he was recovered, she might even relent and let him sleep in the house again.

Sonny Zanzarro ducked down into the seat and watched as Bo Hare pulled up in front of Coco’s apartment. Peeping through the steering wheel, Sonny had a direct, head-on view of the television repairman and one sick-looking Coco. Leaned back in the seat, her mouth open, Coco moaned as she worked the door. “Please tell Iris how sorry I am,” she said, slowly exiting the car. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“Iris can be a little forceful at times, Coco.” Bo tried not to stare at the swell of her stomach. He was reminded of “Little Red Riding Hood,” where the wolf ate Red and the grandmother had to cut her out.

“My life is over.” Coco chewed on a fingernail as she stood at the curb. “I’ll get fat again, and I’ll never be able to finish my cookbook. No one wants to see a fat girl in sexy aprons.”

Bo felt helpless. There was nothing in his agenda of cures to help Coco. “You make your own destiny,” he offered, knowing it sounded lame. “You can’t go around starving yourself, but you don’t have to eat everything, all at once.”

“My destiny is Elsie. I was born fat.” Coco’s head hung on her thin neck.

“There are other things in life than food. Your writing, your …” He knew so little about her. He and Iris had accepted her at face value, without probing any deeper. Perhaps they’d done that to all the writers, including Lucille. He tugged at the loose collar of his shirt.

“Maybe for other people. Not for me.”

Bo thought back to WOMB sitting around the table in his shop. There had been an energy there. Ambition. Women with dreams. And Coco was one of them. “For you, too, Coco,” he said with great authority. “Your book is going to be a smash success, and I get the feeling that something unexpected and wonderful is going to walk right through your door when you least expect it.”

“Thanks, Bo.” Coco’s smile was weak as she walked away. When she was at the stairs, she turned back. “What about Lucille?”

Bo had a mental flash of her as he’d just left her, sitting in a corner of the shop with Driskell’s laptop in front of her. Her fingers had been flying over the keys. She’d had some “break through” and had forgotten that she had no apartment, no place to live. She was writing. “We’ll work things out. All of us. Together.” He waved and drove away, headed back to the shop and the strange tangle of Driskell and Lucille.

As soon as Bo was gone, Sonny climbed the stairs to Coco’s apartment. There was something wrong with the beautiful chef. Rubbing a circle in the window, he stared inside.

The photographs that hung about the room took his breath away. Coco Frappé, in a host of provocative and delicious aprons, decorated the room. Sonny swallowed, unable to tell if it was the food or Coco’s delectable poses that caused the flow of saliva in his mouth.

Mona slit the seal of the official looking letter from Washington. Before she scanned the typewritten contents, she read the signature at the bottom. Yes, she remembered him, and with a smile. A fond smile.

As she went back up to the top of the letter and began to read, the smile widened. Of course, if she took the offer, she’d have to put her writing on hold for a while. But then, she could continue her research. She’d often been curious about the use of power as an aphrodisiac. If she responded to the letter from Jimbo Fine, she’d have the golden opportunity to find out.

Scenarios flitted through her head. Echoing hallways, the crack of a whip, barbershops, spas, houseboats along the Potomac. Yes, Washington had lots to offer. And the money was incredible. She’d have to train an assistant or two to handle the workload. The position Jimbo Fine offered her was more than full-time. To accomplish what he had in mind before the presidential election in the year 2000, she’d have to work night and day. Her smile stretched from ear to ear. The man had made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

The big Harley turned the corner at Wisteria Drive and roared down the street, seeming to suck the shrubs and trees along the road in its wake. At 112 Wisteria, Andromeda aimed the hog at the front steps and opened the throttle. The sleek black bike bounced up the steps and crashed through the front door.

In the living room, beside the green and orange plaid sofa, Andromeda kicked down the stand and unstraddled the bike. She lifted the heavy helmet, freeing her mass of black curls.

“Mama, I’m home,” she called.

Red dust hovered over the herd of cattle like a Biblical curse, and Slade Rivers wiped the grainy sweat from his brow with a cracked and worn glove. “We-ee-ee, doggies,” he cried as he swung his lariat. It was only five more miles to the Jordan River, and he meant to make it before sundown.

Agreeable, as always, the cows moved along the red dirt road that was bordered by the quiet of tall pines. It was strange, flat country to the cows, but they had given their fate into the hands of the cowboy who often quoted verse to them, and they did not question him now. Their destiny was inextricably linked with that of the tall, lean man who had been sad and lonely since leaving the West and the soft arms of Angelita, the Gypsy Whore. The cows had liked Angelita. She was a vegetarian and had argued with Slade for their release. Instead, Slade had turned south, driving the herd before him.

“Get along little doggies,” Slade urged. He straightened his back and his mind. He missed Angelita, but his heart had accepted that she was the past. It was just other parts of him that refused to let her memory go. The landscape had changed, from the high mountains of Wyoming to the endless miles of the great plains, and finally, the mighty Mississippi and the treachery, to the cows, of the Louisiana swamps. He was almost at the end of the drive. After a few weeks of rest and recuperation, he and the cows would determine where to go next. He was traveling by blind instinct, aware only that he searched for something that he would know when he found it.

After leaving Angelita, Slade had accepted his lot as the traveler, the poetry-less wanderer. He was doomed to move about the earth, never settling, always searching for the woman who would lasso his heart and hog-tie it while simultaneously setting his imprisoned muse free. So far, that woman had not been found.

Up ahead he heard the splash of the cattle as the first wave found the Jordan River and eagerly waded in. The cows were hot and ready for a dip. And Slade, too.

“What about it, Chester?” he asked the horse, patting the gelding’s sweat-slick neck. Together they walked to the bank of the river and Slade slipped from the saddle. There was no one around but Chester and the cows. He hadn’t seen a living soul for the past three days. The best he could tell, everyone else had been carried off by the swarms of mosquitoes that populated the hot Mississippi land. Unbuckling his gunbelt, he let it drop. His shirt went next, then one boot after another, and finally his pants as he joined the cows to splash and play in the cool river.

In the embrace of the water, Slade forgot his heartache and weariness and played with the cows. One by one they drank their fill and moved out of the water to graze on the sweet grass that grew beside the river. Slade remained floating as he watched the sky turn from pale blue to lavender to gray. Night would be upon them, but he felt no need for food. In the water he’d found a measure of peace. Tomorrow would be another day, another choice to make, another path to tread. For now, though, he wanted only to float and let the colors of the sky spin against his eyelids.

The unmistakable click of a shell being slid into a chamber made him open his eyes. At first all he saw were the banks of the river and the cows. He fastened his gaze on the dark silhouette of a woman. She held a rifle pointed directly at his … He sat up. “Ma’am?”

“They hang cow thieves in the state of Mississippi.” The woman held the gun steady. “Not to mention trespassers.”

“I’m only traveling through,” Slade said. He’d found his feet but he couldn’t exactly walk out and have a chat. His clothes were beside her on the bank.

“Looks to me like you’re taking your own sweet time about traveling through.” She lifted the gun when he started to move. “Easy there, cowboy, or I’ll blow the top half of you across the creek and leave the bottom half for the hungry ‘gators.”

Slade started forward at the mention of ‘gators, but then he remembered the gun. One was a real threat, the other a possibility. He decided to obey the gun.

“I’m from Montana, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Slade Rivers, cowboy-slash-poet. And I’m driving my cows down to the Mississippi Sound.”

The woman looked at him. “Why in the world have you walked those poor animals all the way to Mississippi from

Montana? We have cows here already. We don’t need more cows, especially not those. You’ve just about killed them.”

“It’s been a journey of the heart, ma’am,” Slade answered. “The cows decided to keep me company. We got to the meat lot in Kansas City, and they just kept going. I took it they liked the traveling life.”

“Well, given the choice, I can’t say as I blame them,” she said. “This is McLain land, and it’s time for you to be moving on.”

“It’s a nice stretch of property. Kind of flat, but the river is fine. The cows were right glad to get here. How many acres does your husband own?” Slade glanced at the cows, but there was no help from that quarter. They were completely involved in the grass.

“My husband don’t own spit,” the woman answered. “I own this land, and I own this gun. If you want to take it a step further, I own the bullet that’s going to turn into hot lead and fly into your butt.”

Slade’s eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the light. His interest had moved from the barrel of the gun to the woman who held it. Her hair was pinned loosely atop her head, but the sun caught several falling strands and shot them through with a red as rich as fine merlot wine. The long skirt hid the shape of her legs, but her waist was small and the tight bodice revealed full, firm breasts. Slade felt a stirring that had been absent since Granite. He sank deeper into the water.