Shop Talk (8 page)

Bo felt as if he were smothering under the weight of the Gavins’ need. He didn’t even have the energy to try to fight his way free.

“Bo, baby, if you were the wrong kind of man, you could take a lot of these old people for a ride.” Bo looked at her.

“Their own children abandon them, and you’re nice to them. You care about them, and you don’t even know them.” She shook her head. “They’d leave you their money if you worked at it.”

“I know. People work all their lives and then end up with a stranger to be kind to them.” Bo was too dejected to pace. “This isn’t the way things are supposed to be. We’re off track. The human race is self-destructing, and each generation seems worse and worse.” He sighed and looked up at the skylight, at the milky eye that gave onto a gray sky. “We need help. Someone to lead us back to the right path.” He shook his head. “A hero, Iris. That’s what this country needs. One good man to blaze the trail.”

Iris had seen Bo in a lot of emotional states, but not one like this, not one so black, so prophetic. It had something to do with that clutch of women who had been in earlier. Lucille had started this downward slide with her incessant needs. But there was a cure. One that would take all of her talents.

“Bo, baby, finish that set. I’ve got to take care of something in the apartment.” She closed the metal door behind her and locked it in place. She didn’t want Bo to interrupt her in the middle of her preparations. Digging into the very back of the closet she found the plastic bag and pulled it out. The yellow tulle was only for special occasions. Very special occasions. It was Bo’s favorite costume, one that ignited all of his passions and fantasies. If Bo ever needed the release of
Mandingo,
it was now.

She threw off her clothes and began the long process of arranging the undergarments and hoops, and finally draping the antebellum gown over her shoulder. The yellow fabric settled around her, hugging her waist and belling out around her ankles. With quick strokes she arranged her hair in loops on either side of her head. She bit her lips and pinched her cheeks, then widened her eyes, minced and practiced batting her eyelashes so fast it almost made her dizzy.

The early 70s Dino D’Larentis film was a classic–the worst of a genre of plantation tales based on a series of novels by Lance Horner. She and Bo had memorized every line of awful dialogue. It was howlingly bad, and yet it unleashed a need in Bo that was raw and powerful.

Checking herself one last time in the mirror, Iris stepped through the door and into the shop. Advancing so that her gown billowed around her ankles, she stopped in front of her husband.

She spoke in a simpering voice that was edged with command. “Come on in here, Mead. I’m a tellin’ you to come in here. I want you to listen close. I’m gone tell you a story and I want you to listen good.”

Bo looked at his wife and the desperation slowly left his face. It was replaced by a hint of hope. “Massa Hammond wouldn’t like me goin’ with you.”

“I need me a man like you.” Iris’ voice broke and the last word came out with a roughness. She fluffed at her hair. “Better get in here, Mead, or I’ll have you whupped.”

“Massa Hammond won’t like me comin’ in his bedroom.” Bo glanced at the front door of the shop. It wasn’t closing time. Still, acting out television and movie roles was a part of their marriage, an important part. Through the years they’d developed unwritten rules–unspoken trust. One partner never left the other hanging out on an emotional limb. When the game started, they both played. It was the foundation of their love.

Iris pressed against him. She ran her hands along the planes of his face, down his shoulders, feeling, probing, measuring. “You do what I tell you, Mead. If Hammond can have his bed wench, I’m gonna have me some of what I want.” She slid her hand down his stomach. “You don’t do exactly what I say, I’m gone put you in that pot. You know, that big old pot we use to toughen up your baby soft hide.”

Bo tensed. Iris knew exactly how to get to him.

“Let’s go finish
Mandingo,”
she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.

“Iris, baby, it’s only four-thirty,” Bo said.

All of the sickly-sweet drawl was gone from her voice. “Close the fucking shop, Bo, or I’m gonna put you in that pot. And you aren’t going to like it one little bit.”

His laugh was soft, hungry. He eased out from under her hand and went to the glass door. He locked it and flipped the sign to closed. “To hell with them,” he said.

“Exactly.” Iris led the way to the heavy metal door.

The bath water was hot, scented with a manly musk and a few oils for his skin. The lap of the water against the wooden tub was soothing to Slade’s tired body. At first the water had stung the two little raw spots on his inner thighs and the place where his coccyx had rubbed the worn leather, but he had accepted the pain as his due for the long hours in the saddle. The cowboy life was a hard one, but it was the one he had chosen.

He had made it into Hot Spur, Montana, with the hope of a bath, a hot meal, a glimpse of Clara and a clean bed, all in that order. After three weeks on the range, he’d been glad to see the raw frame buildings of the town. The cows had been glad, too. They were willing creatures, going a hundred miles out of their way on the trail south so that Slade could follow the elusive scent of Clara. He’d heard she was singing in the Silver Dollar Saloon in Hot Spur, an activity that he found somewhat lacking in ladylike qualities. He intended to have a talk with her about her choice of professions as soon as he found her. He could only assume that she’d turned to singing when she was unable to obtain work as a schoolmarm–after the nuns had shunned her. The image of the nuns, all black and white condemnation when he’d mentioned Clara’s name, troubled Slade. It was obvious the sisters had failed to understand that Clara’s spirit was her strength, not her weakness. They’d turned their backs on her, forcing her to move on, seeking employment as a teacher. But the Montana wilderness didn’t set a great store in book learning.

Easing down until his chin touched the water, Slade sighed. The west was a hard place, for men, women–and cows. Clara was a survivor, and he liked that. She hadn’t given up.

As the dust and grime of the trail washed off him and settled into the bottom of the tub, he thought about the coming evening. He’d been told that Clara had taken a room on the second story of the Hotel Peligroso. He had walked past the building, noting the raw lumber and the screenless windows, a sure indication that Clara was running low on the funds she’d fled with. Not to put too fine an edge on it, he’d heard Clara sing. Even as much as he loved her, he wouldn’t pay money for the pleasure. But he admired her spunk. Trouble was, the hardened cowpokes he knew didn’t give a damn for spunk. They were a lust driven lot, thinking only of wine, women and … At that thought he rose out of the tub, water cascading down his sculpted body. The manly oils had coated his skin and he glistened as though he’d been burnished by the sun. Maybe he should begin to execute his plan immediately. After all, spunk couldn’t put food on the table for a woman like Clara, and he knew for a fact she was fond of her meals.

He slipped into the new black denim pants he’d purchased at the general store, then buttoned the blue chambray shirt he’d bought because it exactly matched his blue/blue eyes. In preparation for this reunion with Clara, he’d been hefting heifers. Fifty heifers every day. And he’d had to round them up first. Even as fit as he was, he could still feel his heart pounding against his ribs, hard. The prospect of seeing Clara excited him, and he was man enough to admit it.

He was also pleased by the fact that while soaking in the hot bath, he’d come up with another poem for Clara. A light-hearted verse that conveyed his amorous feelings for her. He’d simply incorporate the poem into his plan.

He pulled his boots on and then rubbed the toes on the back of his pants. He was ready. For Clara. For his destiny. Just as soon as he found a piece of paper and a pen.

The local grocery had no fine stationary, so Slade settled for the back of a rough paper sack. Somehow, it was fitting. With a borrowed pen he put his feelings down on the page.

After he checked the spelling twice, Slade folded the note, returned the pen, and headed for the hotel. It was after five, and the dust stirred by numerous wagons and assorted horses had finally begun to settle. In the windows of the hotel saloon, lamps had been lit, giving the old, ramshackled building a more homey look. Inside the bar a small mariachi band played a song welcoming the patrons to the Hotel Peligroso. For a brief moment, the old hotel gained a certain loveliness as Slade envisioned Clara singing with the band.

He could have selected the front door, but it presented too little challenge. Instead, he used a wagon parked beside the building to gain access to the first story roof. As he neared the window he’d determined to be Clara’s, he was afraid she might hear the pounding of his heart. But she didn’t. It occurred to him that Clara’s hearing might be part of the reason she sang slightly off-key. Clutching his poem, he crouched below the window and slowly lifted his head.

A beam of light fell from the heavens and he felt the warm, golden glow of the fading sun as he caught his first sight of the woman he loved.

Clara stood before a mirror, turning this way and that, as she examined her reflection in a tight gown of shiny red material. The sleek fabric perfectly draped her full bosom, her rounded hips, and gave a glimpse of one long, milk-white leg viewed through a daring slit. Her long blond curls tumbled about her shoulders and looked as if they hadn’t been brushed in several days. Poor girl, she probably had no time to take care of herself, singing from dusk ‘til dawn.

Slade watched with growing anticipation, until she stepped behind a partition to make a small adjustment to her attire. Since there were no screens, it was easy for him to toss the poem, which he’d wrapped around a rock, into the center of the room. At the noise, he heard her startled cry, but he leapt from the roof into the wagon and bounded down to the street. He wanted to whet her appetite for him. It was a game, truly, but one of love. She was not alone in the world. He was there for her, and she would see him tonight.

As he rounded the corner of the old hotel, he heard a muffled scream followed by his name. He smiled with satisfaction as he pushed through the swinging door and walked up to the bar. He’d have a few drinks before Clara’s singing began. That way the evening would go better for both of them.

Lucille sat back in her chair and sighed. Slade was the perfect man. A man of action. A man of strong desires. It was Clara who was giving her trouble. Strong-willed, adventurous, Clara simply wouldn’t behave. She’d lied to Slade and her family, letting them believe she was going off to teach school, when she intended all along to sing in a saloon. But Slade would win her, Lucille had no doubt–and in time for the first meeting of WOMB. Lucille knew she had to have something really good if she was to be taken seriously by the other writers. This was some of her best writing, even if it had taken her forty-five minutes to find the correct spelling of tailbone.

The alarm clock beside her computer shrilled, alerting her to the time. It was nearly midnight. Since Bo had agreed to let the writers meet in his shop, she was making a valiant effort to get to the bank on time. Bo could rescind his permission to use the shop at any time. If Driskell hadn’t urged him to comply, Bo would never have agreed in the first place.

A stillness fell over Lucille as she sat at the computer and thought of Driskell LaMont. He was an unusual guy. Tall, slender … something about him that reminded her of a ripe berry. There was a promise of sweetness. She pondered her reaction to him. It was his lips. She’d examined them as closely as polite observation would allow and she’d come to conclude that they were stained! As if he very carefully held a raspberry between his lips and pressed together to squeeze the juice just so, holding it for a long moment, until his skin had absorbed the color of the berry. But it was too hot in Biloxi for raspberries to grow. Not even the local Piggly Wiggly carried them. A canned raspberry would not work at all. Canned berries were far too mushy.

In truth, her theory had a lot of problems. But it wasn’t only his lips that intrigued her. He watched her. It was as if she held some special fascination for him. Once, he’d even asked how much she weighed.

“Enough,” she had responded.

Driskell’s answer had been a sad smile and a whispered, “Not nearly.”

A secondary shock pulsed through her at the memory. It had been so … erotic. Sitting alone, she blushed. There was something kinky in her reaction to Driskell. A thrill crawled through her stomach and a smile crept across her face.

She reached down and unplugged her computer. It was twelve fifteen. Driskell would be hard at work right this moment. All alone. As hostess of WOMB, it was her duty to go down to the shop and make sure that everything was in order for the meeting. Bo would be sound asleep, like the good worker he was. Droning away in his REM mode with Iris beside him, dreaming of being a contestant on
Jeopardy.
The way Lucille saw it, Iris’ entire marriage had been preparation for her appearance on the show. As long as there was a category for television, Iris could wipe her opponents out.

Lucille checked the clock one last time, picked up her car keys and her purse. Maybe, just maybe, she would ask Driskell how he kept his lips so red.

Maybe he would tell her.

Lucille’s fingers clutched her purse, and for the first time in forty-eight hours, Slade Rivers was not the man who occupied her thoughts.

Bo’s Electronics wasn’t more than five miles from her apartment, and at twelve-something on a Tuesday, Pass Road was virtually empty. Lucille, in her silver Camaro, had the four-lane mostly to herself. She passed a few of the Keesler airmen, known among the coastal natives as pingers, as they headed back to the base. Their shaved heads reflected the gleaming shades of neon as they drove past a few disreputable clubs. They stared at her, four or five to a car, as she drove by. So young. So eager for experience. So far away from their homes and loved ones. She gave them a sad smile as she left them in her wake. It was heartbreaking to be so young. Only time could cure them of that particular disease.

At age thirty-four Lucille knew she was in her prime. Yet she had made the supreme sacrifice of putting those yearnings away; they interfered with her writing. There were times, though, when she felt herself seething with sexual desire. Sacrifice was part of a writer’s life; not a pretty part, but Lucille knew that no art was created without suffering.

She parked in front of the shop, making sure she locked her car. The neighborhood was full of thieves and vandals. The door was only ten steps away, but she pulled out the canister of red pepper spray Bo insisted she carry. Bo was always worrying about things. One of his biggest problems was that he always expected the worst. So what if he was right? He just made the bad things twice as bad because he knew they were coming, expected to hear them knock at the door. Lucille preferred her own way of going at life. When the bad times struck, she hunkered down and waited for the shit to stop flying. It might smack her on her unprotected head, but at least she didn’t spend her whole life wearing a shit helmet like Bo.

The glow from the televisions stopped her, hand on the door. Bluish light filled with other colors, and it struck the glass windows and refracted into a blur of motion. She thought of a fish tank and smiled. It was Tuesday night. What would be on TV? She wasn’t certain because her viewing habits were so infrequent, and none of the Hares had cable. It was a matter of principle with Bo, and she had her computer. Was Driskell a cable watcher? She didn’t think so.

Easing forward to catch him at work, she was rewarded with a view of him standing at the long work desk. His posture was straight, and his hands were down where she couldn’t see what he was so intently engrossed in. It was the perfect opportunity for Lucille to observe him, something she found she’d been wanting to do. Something she could not stop herself from doing.

Driskell moved through the phantasmagoria of images cast upon the glass by the televisions. His movements were graceful and concise. The images swam over and through him, giving him a substance that belied his gauntness. Lucille found that she was holding her breath and she let it out slowly. A small circle of moisture appeared on the glass in front of her and she pressed her lips into it, feeling both the chill of the glass and the dampness of her own condensed breath. She bent down slightly and watched him through the delicate whorls of her own stenciled lips.

She had never seen such dark eyes, so black and yet so full of light. They were mirror-like, except they did not cast back the images but held the light absorbed from the television screens deep inside. He hadn’t looked up and noticed her yet, but Lucille knew that when he did, she would be drawn to him. Tiny feathers of wind frisked over the backs of her knees, delicious little licks.

As if he felt her gaze upon him, Driskell looked up from the tangle of wires he held and stared directly into her eyes. His lips moved.

“Come inside.”

Lucille could not hear him. Not with her ears. However, she knew exactly what he’d told her to do. Drawing back from the rapidly fading imprint of her lips, she walked inside.

Driskell smiled at something deep inside himself. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “I knew you would come.”

Lucille shivered, then rubbed her arms.

His smile faded. “Have you been ill? You look as if you’ve lost some weight?”

There was sincere concern in his voice. Lucille shook her head. “I’ve been so worried about this writers’ meeting. What if they don’t like my work?” She blinked back sudden tears and realized she was more distraught than even she had realized. All of this going to work on time and trying to please Everett, then trying to please Bo and the writers. It was a strain.