Dead Man Talking

  Chapter 26

  In case anyone watched from the shadows, I pawed through a collection of tools, greasy rags, and a couple biker scarves with RIDE TO LIVE and LIVE TO RIDE on them in both saddlebags. After the pretend, fruitless search, I wandered over to Uncle Clarence’s new pickup, as though admiring it. The dim light from the neon bucket sign didn’t reflect much, but the brushy trail to the bar had left a few scratches on the hood and passenger door. Why on earth would he drive his brand new truck down that trail? Uncle Clarence, who took pride in his possessions, be they clothes, vehicle, or woman. This was the type of place he liked to drink at, so he’d probably been here before. You’d think he’d realize what would happen to his paint job. I traced a finger down one of the deeper scratches. These wouldn’t buff out even with a wax job.

  Jack appeared at the door, swigging his beer, and I hurried over. “Thought you might’ve run into some trouble out here,” he said, low-voiced. “A biker bar parking lot’s not somewhere you should be wanderin’ around in alone, Chére.”

  “Jack —" A giggle from the shadows drew our attention. Tildy’s dark-haired friend with Rick. Rick had pushed her up against the wall, crotch to crotch, and she wasn’t struggling.

  “Honey,” she gasped. “Oh, you do feel good. But I might have to drive Tildy home.”

  “Forget her, Rhonda, babe." Rick jammed his pelvis tighter and circled it against hers. “Max’ll bed her down in back if he has to. Won’t be the first time.”

  A pair of bikes growled up the trail and into the parking lot, headlights briefly illuminating the couple. Jack eased me inside as Rick pulled Rhonda-babe around the building.

  “Your uncle’s going to buy us a beer." Jack led me toward one of the tables. “What’s he doing in a place like this?”

  “Uncle Clarence lives and breathes places like these,” I explained. Uncle Clarence sat at a table in the middle of the floor, where two fresh longnecks leaked ice chips into puddles. He held a highball glass filled with a smoky brown liquid.

  “It’s always nice to find new faces in a place,” he said. “Makes the evening less borin’.”

  The newly-arrived bikers — two men and two women — walked in, but they headed for the bar. My uncle had probably chosen this table for its placement. The light fixture above illuminated it, and most patrons in a bar sought shadowed recesses, nursing their drinks and dates. Which meant we could talk without being overheard, at least until the place filled up.

  Jack set his half-full warm beer aside and picked up the fresh longneck. I reached for mine, then recalled that I’d already had two beers and decided I’d better pass the rest of the evening sipping rather than guzzling. I played with the label with my fingernail.

  Uncle Clarence focused on Jack. “Ah assume you two have heard that Katy was here at the Holey Bucket with Bucky. Ah hope you don’t think that means she had anything to do with Bucky’s death.”

  Jack took another swallow of beer.

  “We heard that wasn’t the first time Katy’s been here,” I blurted. I expected an under-the-table shut-up kick from Jack, but he only stared at the new pool game. Shouts of drunken laughter erupted as the shooter broke the triangle of balls with an explosive crack, scattering them in flashes of arcing color on green velvet. So I continued, “Shoot, Uncle Clarence, you taught us both to boot-scoot and Zydeco in Bourbon Street bars. But I thought we left those days behind us a long time ago.”

  “Katy still likes to dance,” Uncle Clarence said with a shrug. “That bastard...excuse my French...she was married to had an image he wanted to project. Besides, he didn’t know a two-step from a waltz. And when she moved to Esprit d’Chene...well, she got tired of Daughters of the South meetings and small town theaters once in a while. Got that from my genes, maybe.”

  “It doesn’t look good, especially that rumor going around,” I insisted.

  “No,” he agreed, lifting his drink. “It doesn’t look good...sound good." He set his glass down.

  I noticed a sheen of sweat on his brow. “Should you be drinking, on top of the medication you must be taking?”

  He laughed and took another swallow, finishing off his drink and motioning with the glass to Max for a refill. “Ah appreciate your worrying 'bout me, sweetheart. But Ah have my own plans for the time Ah have left.”

  Sadness filled me. “Yes, sir,” I murmured obediently.

  Jack did nudge me under the table this time, a questioning frown on his face while Uncle Clarence exchanged his empty glass for the full one Max brought over. I mouthed, “Later.”

  Rhonda-babe slipped in a side door, a disgruntled Rick a few seconds behind her. Rhonda hurried to Tildy, Rick stalked to the bar. He slapped some money down and flicked his head toward the booth. A moment later, Max carried two drink glasses over to the women.

  Rick pouted through half a beer before he picked up his bottle and wandered over to our table. “Howdy, Clarence,” he said. “How’s it hangin’?”

  “Have a seat, Rick,” Uncle Clarence said politely. “You meet my new friends here?”

  “Yeah." Rick pulled out a chair and unsteadily found the seat. He propped his elbows on the table, beer dangling from one hand, cigarette from the other. “You talked to Tildy tonight?”

  “No." Uncle Clarence glanced at the booth. “Doesn’t look like she’s in the mood for male companionship.”

  Rick growled, “Rhonda and I had a date. I don’t like bein’ stood up. Like she thinks she’s the only fish in the sea." He sized Jack up over his bottle, and I cringed.

  “Might do her good to realize she ain’t,” Rick said as a slow, moody song started on the jukebox. “You mind if I borrow your old lady for a dance?”

  “Sure,” Jack said without concern. “Just bring her back when you’re done.”

  I accidentally-on-purpose stepped on Jack’s foot as I pushed my chair back when Rick stood and held out his hand. My tennis-shoe-clad foot didn’t do much damage through his cowboy boot, but hopefully I got my point across.

  Rick dragged me all the way over by the jukebox, to a tiny dance floor that couldn’t have held more than three or four couples at a time. That was the point, so the couples would cuddle close to make room for everyone else. He burped — at least he didn’t fart — and pulled me close. I kept my arms between us to give myself distance from his beer- and smoke-laden breath, but he wrapped them around his neck. More to protect my sense of smell than in a spirit of cooperation, I tucked my head on his chest.

  He settled his palms on my back, just above my hips, and slowly slid into the rhythm of the song. He was a good dancer, and after a few seconds, I relaxed and decided to enjoy the dance. I’d always liked dancing, and it didn’t matter whether the music was pop, country, blues, or Zydeco. Rick turned me in a tight circle, so he could keep an eye on the booth and Rhonda’s reaction. Evidently, he either got the reaction he wanted — or didn’t — because soon he moved his palms down further and cupped my hips.

  I pulled back and adjusted his grip upwards. “Uh-uh. I’ll play along, but only so far.”

  He cocked his head and studied my face. “How tight are you and Jack?”

  “Tight enough,” I said. “I’m not on the prowl.”

  “‘Cept from your husband, huh?”

  Damn Jack, I thought, and Max, too. And Max said women liked to gossip! I forced a dreamy smile, glanced at Jack. “I’m asking for a divorce as soon as he gets back from this run,” I lied, then quickly changed the subject. “How long have you and Rhonda been together?”

  “Met her when I moved here couple months ago from Corpus. Got divorced myself down there and figured I’d start fresh somewhere. Found me a job over in Longview at a bike garage. You tell Jack he ever needs any work done on his hog, I’m his man.”

  “But why is Rhonda ignoring you tonight?”

  “Her and Tildy’s been best friends since grade school. Ronnie says she owes her some help gettin’ through her grief.”

  “Grief? Max said Bucky
was Tildy’s ex. How much grief can you have over an ex?”

  “That’s what I been tellin’ Ronnie,” Rick said with a pout. He nodded at the door as another woman walked in, this one without an escort. Her red hair flowed down her back in a riot of curls, and she’d probably deliberately washed her pink T-shirt to get it to conform to her D-cup bust that tight. “Hell, Red’s got a better right than Tildy to be sorry 'bout old Bucky. She was his main squeeze lately.”

  “Red?”

  “Yeah. Her name’s Carmine. Carmine Medina. You can see why we call her Red, tho’. Hey." Rick frowned. “Why you so interested in old Bucky and his girlfriends? It ain’t healthy right now for nobody to let on they’s interested in that murder." His frown deepened, and I followed his gaze to Jack. “An’ ain’t I seen your boyfriend somewheres? Maybe I’ve already worked on his Harley sometime or another.”

  “I doubt it,” I put in quickly. “Jack’s bike is new.”

  “Maybe that’s where I seen him. The garage I work at’s connected to the shop that sells new bikes. Probably saw him when he came in to pick out his bike.”

  Thankfully, the song ended, and I disentangled myself. “I better get back,” I insisted as the next record — my Credence song — dropped into place and the fast-paced music blared into the smoky tranquility the slow number had fostered.

  “Aw, let’s do one more,” Rick said, grabbing for my arm.

  I dodged him and shook my head. “No, I — Jack can be the jealous type.”

  Someone shoved me none-too-politely aside with a hip, and I breathed a sigh of relief when Rhonda/Ronnie wiggled in between Rick and me. “I think this one’s our dance, honey,” she simpered, and Rick immediately lost any interest in me.

  I passed Uncle Clarence and Red on their way to the dance floor and stifled the brief thought of whether it was good for Uncle Clarence’s health to be dancing to that sort of music. He wouldn’t appreciate my concern. At the table, I took a long swallow of cool beer before I noticed Tildy’s gaze on my uncle and Red. It wasn’t friendly, either, more of a glare of rage. I eased into my chair beside Jack and nudged him to draw his attention to the booth. He only nodded and said, “She hasn’t taken her eyes off the redhead.”

  I quickly explained what I’d learned from Rick. “So we’d probably better get out of here before Rick remembers where he’s seen you. I’ll bet every biker around here knows that a cop bought his own bike.”

  “Damn,” Jack muttered. He pulled his wallet out and dropped some bills on the table. Rising, he took my arm and nearly lifted me to my own feet, then steered me toward the door.

  “Y’all come back, hear?” Max called, and Jack waved at him.

  We nearly made it.