Truths of the Heart (23 page)
Read Truths of the Heart Online
Authors: G.L. Rockey
“Dent, how well you know Tommi Gilmour?”
Surprised, “About same as you, why?”
Carl smacked the steering wheel, “Don't goddamn bullshit me, Dent!”
“Hey, my man, what's your problem?”
Carl hit the steering wheel again. “Cut the shit, Dent!”
“Hey, man, settle down.”
“Know what a beard is?”
Silence.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“Whiskers on your chin.”
“Ha ha.”
Silence.
“Tommi says she's your beard.”
Dent squinted, looked out the side window, turned to Carl, “What in the
… what are you talking about?”
“Makes bets for you.”
“And the moon is made of blue cheese.”
“Does she?”
He exchanged a glance with Carl. “I can't believe you would even … NO!”
“Not what she says.”
“You believe that slimy piece of shit over me?”
“Says you owe some nasty people big money.”
“She's delusional … crazy.”
“She said she talked to you.”
“About what?”
“The Super Bowl.”
“Are you on something, partner?”
“Are you?”
“She's lying, she's a born again liar.”
“Why would she lie to me?”
“How should I know? Why are you hanging around with her anyway, putting
another notch on your dick?”
“Cut the bull shit, Dent.”
“What are you turning into my friend, some TV detective?” Dent hit Carl
on the arm with a pal-o-mine tap.
Carl turned off at the next exit.
“Where are we going now?”
“Back to Detroit, the High Five, Tommi's waiting for us. She has you on
video tape, placing bets, I saw it, she said she showed you the tape.”
“Let me out of this car.”
Carl turned a sharp left and sped onto the entrance ramp back toward
Detroit. “Go ahead, jump, might be easier. I hear those guys start by
cutting your balls off, stuffing them in your mouth.”
After several miles, in silence, Dent said, “I told them to fuck off …
now they send you. What are they paying you?”
“Fuck you Dent. I'm trying to keep your ass alive.”
CHAPTER SIX
After dropping Dent off, Carl drove to the WJJ studios and did his
Playing
for Keeps
show. Finished, he went to his office to wrap up some paperwork
and his phone rang. He picked up.
Tommi Gilmour said, “Did you get a chance to talk to our mutual friend?”
“Yeah.”
“Good boy. He on board?”
“I need to see you about those video tapes.”
“What video tapes?”
“You know what video tapes.”
“Why doncha come over.”
“Be there around seven-thirty.”
“Want Gus to pick you up?”
“No.”
“Stinker, use the private entrance. I'll buzz you in.”
Black moonless night, driving to the High Five, Carl called Rachelle. After
fifteen rings, no answer. He dialed again. Another twenty rings, then, “Hello.”
“How's it going?”
She hung up.
“Bitch.” He pressed the number again.
“What?”
“Don't ever hang up on me again.”
“Oh, okay.”
CLICK.
The High Five red neon sign flashing against the black night, Carl pulled
to the side garage door and stopped. The door yawned open. Tommi's Rolls looked
like it hadn't been moved. He pulled in and the garage door closed behind him.
He went to the private entrance, buzzed, and the door latch clicked open. He
entered and looked to the top of the stairwell. Nobody there. He went up.
Nearing the top he smelled the thick smell of burning jasmine candles mixed
with that musky whore house bouquet.
He heard Shearing-like jazz dancing down the hallway. He walked toward the
music. At the entrance to the living room, he noticed more candles burning than
Midnight Mass and, the fire place blazing, the room was a maze of flickering
shadows.
He looked around then heard: “Hi doll, come in.”
Out of a shadow, Tommi appeared. Tonight, dishwater blond, she wore a skimpy
white blouse that revealed her navel, black hip-hugger jeans, and black stiletto
high heels. Her hair flowed over her shoulders like cotton candy. Her lips red,
moist, and full, she extended the dripping red fingernails of her right hand to
Carl. “So glad you could come, how did it go with Mr. Dent?”
“Great, now hand over the video tapes and there better not be any
copies.”
“Stinker.” She chuckled and sashayed to the bar. “How about a rum and Coke?”
Carl went to the bar and sat, “Where's Pete?”
“Night off.”
As she mixed Carl's rum and Coke, she said. “So Dent is on board?”
“Only if I get the video tapes, and don't give me that 'what video
tapes’ you spouted on the phone.”
“Carl, don't you know about talking about things on telephones?”
“The tapes.”
She handed him his drink, “Is Dent on board or isn't he?”
“The tapes.”
“Paranoid boy.” She patted him on shoulder. “I'll give them to you
after the Super Bowl.”
“Tommi, If you mess with me, I'll....”
“Relax big fella, you'll get the tapes, after the game.” She sipped
from her fish-bowl-size brandy snifter.
“That that Polish hooch?”
“Yes in-dee-dee.”
“Watch that stuff don't catch fire.”
She swayed to the front of the bar and sat next to him.
Carl leaned away.
“I won't bite.”
Carl looked around, cynical, “Is this being taped?”
Tommi gurgled a gut laugh, “Heavens to Betsy, no, this is for eyes only.”
“Uh huh.”
She said, “Say, how would you like to see a really hot video?”
“I'm afraid to ask who's in it.”
“Silly boy.” She chuckled throatily, pushed a button and, to Gene Autry
singing “Back in the Saddle Again”, color video lit up the big screen:
Bareback, two blonde nude girls ride a pony into a barn. They get off
and one begins brushing the pony. Then other gets a water hose, lathers some
soap and begin playfully washing the pony. The pony licks her face. She drinks
water from the hose then lathers the pony's belly. An enormous erection grows
from the pony.
Tommi, “Do you believe that pony's dick?” She put her hand on Carl's
leg and, as the girl stroked the pony's erection, she moved her hand to Carl's
groin, felt his hardness. “My my.”
They watched the video:
One of the nude girls gets on all fours and the other helps the pony
mount her.
Tommi said, “Godamighty”
Carl, watching the show, felt Tommi pull his zipper down. Then, holding
his fly, she stood and led him to the sofa. He sat and she knelt between his
legs, took him out and went to work.
Carl pushed his right hand under Tommi's hip-huggers. Reached. Stopped.
Frowned. He was holding something familiar, yet unfamiliar, unexpected, in his
right hand, felt like a half cooked hot dog. He felt again. It was! A dick!
Carl flushed red, purple, hot, cold.
Tommi licked, “Ummm, oo la la.”
Carl wrenched Tommi's head back, “You dirty rotten son of a....” He
stiff-armed him away, kicked him in the groin. Tommi moaned, rolled to the
floor.
Carl kicked him in the stomach then straddled his chest and began
pummeling his face.
Tommi's wig sideways, blood oozed from his mouth and nose. He smiled up
at Carl then, licking at the blood covering his lower lip, said, “More, big fella,
more.”
Raging, Carl tore Tommi's wig off, grabbed his short black hair, and began
pounding his head against the floor.
Tommi's smile slowly disappeared as blood trickled from his ears.
Carl stood, kicked him again. “Get up you freak prick.” He kicked him again.
“Get up.” He kicked him again.
Tommi didn't move.
Carl kicked him in the face, waited. He didn't move.
Carl, sweating, his mind swirling, went to Tommi's office to retrieve
the video tapes of Dent and himself. But there, rummaging around, he found
hundreds of tapes. No time. Destroy everything, he thought. He returned to the
great room. Tommi hadn't moved. Prick. He kicked him again. He didn't move.
Carl looked around. Wiping his lips, he noticed Tommi's snifter of slivovitz on
the bar. He remembered the time Tommi had lit the stuff in an ashtray. He went
to the back-bar, found a case of slivovitz, opened two bottles, doused the
carpet, sofa, Tommi, and the top of the piano. Then he went to the fireplace
and turned the gas off. The flame sputtered out. He turned the gas back on and quickly
went to the piano, tipped the candelabra. Blue flames spread across the piano
top, the varnish began to burn. A blue flame snaked across the carpet toward
the drapes. Carl hurried to the private stairs, skipped down, and went into the
garage. The closed garage door froze him. He looked around. A button by the
door. He pushed it. The door started opening. He quickly got in his BMW, backed
out and, lights off, drove to the street.
He glanced back to the High Five. Flames were rising in the upstairs windows.
He gunned it and, speeding away, heard a violent explosion.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Rachelle, trying to concentrate on a research paper, couldn't. A
metaphor keep popping up: her marriage a ship hung up on a shallow reef,
refused to sink. She reasoned she knew why: image, societal pressure, mores,
admitting mistakes … hers!
Who are you kidding Doc, its fear of bodily harm. One or both of you
will end up dead. So you delay even though you know in your heart (thank you
very much Mr. Faulkner) the ultimate outcome must be el extremo.
She put on her white silk pajamas, crawled into bed, and, T.S. by her
side, read began reading a story in The Missouri Review.
The sound of the garage door opening broke her concentration. She
looked at the time, 2:05 A.M.
She got up, slipped on her night gown, and went downstairs to the
kitchen door that led to the garage. Like he knew who it was, T.S. didn't
bother following.
Cracking the kitchen door an inch, Rachelle looked out to see Carl emerging
from his BMW.
She opened the door and said, “What are you doing?”
“What the fucks it look like.”
She turned on the kitchen lights and sat at the table.
Entering the kitchen, Carl said, “Long day … exhausted, damn radio
show, I've been working my ass off. I'm tired, calling in sick tomorrow. I need
a drink.”
“You smell like a drink.”
“Hah hah.” He went to the bar, filled a water glass with rum, and
drank.
Rachelle stood and went to staircase, “You want the bed or the sofa?”
“Sweets, don't push me.”
“I don't want you in my bed.” She started to go upstairs.
He rushed and grabbed her by the ankle. “Come here.”
“Let me go.” She kicked free.
Carl laughed and went back to the bar.
Two hours later Carl stumbled into bed, mumbling incoherently, Rachelle
went downstairs to sleep on the sofa. T.S. joined her.
Next morning, Rachelle up early, her first class at 10:00 A.M., she fed
T.S., skipped her morning exercise and retrieved the Lansing State Journal from
the front stoop. A cup of hazelnut cappuccino brewed, she sat at the kitchen
table, unfolded the paper, and read the headlines: LATE EDITION: INFERNO
DESTROYS MOTOR CITIES' HIGH FIVE.
Below the headline she looked at a color picture of the High Five in
flames. She read to the right:
In the wee hours of last night, Detroit's famous
High Five
was
destroyed by fire. In what Fire Chief Harold Welch described as a holocaust,
the seven alarm blaze destroyed the Motor City’s infamous hang out of the rich
and famous. Welch reported that the second floor collapsed in on the sports bar
and restaurant below. Welch said, “It appears that an explosion fueled by a
ruptured gas line created inferno-like heat, even melted iron kitchen stoves.”
He further explained that the heat and intensity of the fire were added to by
the old building's construction, and the owner's failure to install an add-on
sprinkler system. “By the time the gas could be turned off at the street, the
building was totally involved,” he said. He also noted that the High Five had
received two fire department citations in the past year. With little more than
ash left, the coroner has been unable to confirm the total number of deaths.
Some believe that owner, Tommi Gilmour, most certainly was among the victims.
She lived above the restaurant in a penthouse apartment and has not
been heard from. Welch said, “If she were alive, most certainly we'd have heard
from her.” Others speculate she might have been in New Orleans for the Super
Bowl. The investigation continues.