Metro Girl

  “Garbage cans aren’t romantic.”

  “See, that’s the difference between a man and a woman,” Hooker said, jockeying into a parking space. “A man has imagination when it comes to romance. A man is willing to overlook a few things in the interest of romance.” He pushed his seat back and handed me a sandwich. “This isn’t so bad. It’s nice and private. Here we are in this little car. Just the two of us.”

  Okay, I have to admit, it was cozy. And I had been thinking Hooker had nice legs. Tan and muscular, the hair on them sun bleached. And I had been wondering what it would feel like to lay my hand flat against his washboard stomach. That didn’t mean I wanted to have car sex in an alley next to some garbage cans. Been there, done that.

  “We’re in a public alley,” I said. “You’re not really thinking of doing anything dumb, are you?”

  “You mean like having my way with you? Yeah, I was thinking about it. It’s what James Bond would do.”

  “I should never have mentioned James Bond. James Bond had a sex addiction.”

  “Hey, if you’re going to have an addiction, pick a good one. Why waste time on smoking and cocaine when you can have a sex addiction.”

  “Would you like some cookies? How about more chips? There are some chips left.”

  “No good, darlin’, I’m in James Bond mode now.”

  “James Bond didn’t call women darlin’.”

  He leaned close and slid his arm around my shoulders. “I’m a Texas James Bond.”

  “Get away from me.”

  “You don’t mean that. Women always put out for James Bond.”

  “Put out? You expect me to put out?”

  “I guess that was an unfortunate choice of phrase. Probably you don’t think that’s romantic, eh? What I meant was… oh hell.”

  And he kissed me. A lot. And after a couple minutes of this I was thinking the alley was pretty private, and I could hardly smell the garbage cans, and maybe car sex would work after all. His hands were under my shirt, and his tongue was sliding over mine, and somehow I’d gotten onto my back in the Mini. I had my ass half on the gearshift between the two front seats and a leg draped around the steering column. I had my head pressed into the side door and suddenly I couldn’t move. My hair was tangled in the door handle.

  “Help,” I whispered to Hooker.

  “Don’t worry, darlin’. I know what I’m doing.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Just give me some direction. I’m good at taking direction.”

  “It’s my hair.”

  “I love your hair. You have great hair.”

  “Thank you. The problem is…”

  “The problem is we’re talking about your other hair, right? I’ve already seen it, darlin’. I know you’re not a natural blond. It’s okay by me. Shit, I wouldn’t care if you were bald.”

  “Hooker, my hair’s caught!”

  “Caught? Caught in what? Caught in your zipper?”

  “Caught in the door handle.”

  “How could that be…you don’t even have your pants off. Oh! CRAP!”

  He got his knee on the floor and examined my hair.

  “Is it bad?” I asked him.

  “No. It’s just a little tangled. I’ve seen worse. I’ll have you back in action in a minute. I’ll just unwrap a few of these little hairs…. Actually, we’ve got more than a few hairs involved in this. Well, okay, we’re talking about major hair involvement. Jesus, how did you do this? All right, don’t panic.”

  “I’m not panicked.”

  “That’s good. No reason for both of us to be panicked. Maybe if I just…”

  “Yow! You’re pulling my hair out.”

  “I wish it was that simple.”

  I rolled my eyes up and saw a cop looking down, in the window at me.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “You’re going to have to leave.”

  “Back off,” Hooker said. “I’m having a problem here.”

  The cop smiled at me. “Jeez, lady, you must have needed it real bad to end up on your back in a little car like this.”

  “It was my boyish charm,” Hooker said.

  “Gets them every time,” the cop said.

  “I just…slipped,” I said.

  A second cop arrived and looked down at me. “What’s the delay?”

  “He was diddlin’ her, and she slipped, and she got her hair caught in the door handle.”

  “He was not diddling me!” Unfortunately.

  Hooker looked up at them. “I don’t suppose either of you guys would have scissors on you?”

  “Scissors?” I said, my voice up an octave. “No! No cutting.”

  “I got a knife,” the first cop said. “You want a knife?”

  “No!” I said.

  “Yeah,” Hooker said.

  I narrowed my eyes at Hooker. “You touch a single hair with that knife, and I’ll make sure you sing soprano for the rest of your life.”

  “Wow, she’s scary,” the first cop said to Hooker. “You might want to think about this relationship.”

  “Are you kidding?” Hooker said. “Look how cute she is with her hair all wrapped around the door handle. Well, maybe not with the hair wrapped around the door handle…but usually.”

  “All I know is, you gotta get out of here. This is a public alley. Hey, are you Sam Hooker?”

  Oh great.

  “Yep, that’s me,” Hooker said. “In the flesh.”

  “I saw you win at Daytona. That was the best day of my life.”

  “Hello,” I said. “Remember me? How about someone untangling my goddamn hair!”

  Hooker blew out a sigh. “Darlin’, unless you want to be a Mini Cooper accessory for the rest of your life, you’re going to have to get cut free.”

  “Can’t you just drive me to a hair salon?”

  Hooker looked out at the two cops. “Do you guys know of any all-night hair salons around here?”

  They mumbled something about me being a nut and shook their heads.

  “Fine. Great. Cut me free,” I said. “What am I worried about? I haven’t had a good hair day since I’ve been in this state. It’s a swamp for crying out loud.”

  “That’s real negative,” the first cop said. “It’s hard to live with a woman who’s negative. Maybe she’s not the one, you know what I mean? You’re a NASCAR guy. You can probably have anyone you want.”

  Hooker sawed at my hair with the knife. “Just a little bit more… oops.”

  “What oops?” I asked. “I don’t like oops.”

  “Did I say oops? I didn’t mean oops. I meant thank goodness you’re untangled.” He handed the knife back to the cop “Now all we have to do is get you to sit up.”

  “My leg is caught on the steering wheel and my foot is asleep.”

  The first cop ran around to the other side of the car to help get my leg free. And the second cop opened the passenger-side door, grabbed me under my armpits, and pulled me out.

  “This is a little embarrassing,” I said to the two cops, “but thanks for the help.”

  I got back into the car, buckled my shoulder harness, and gave Hooker a death look. “This is all your fault.”

  Hooker gave the Mini some gas and motored out of the alley, down the street. “My fault?”

  “You started it all with that kiss.”

  Hooker smiled. “It was a pretty decent kiss.”

  “Sure, easy for you to think that. You didn’t get your hair caught.”

  “Seems like it’s a good idea to be on top when you’re having car sex.”

  “Do you have a lot of car sex?”

  “Yeah, but I’m usually alone.”

  “I’m afraid to look in the mirror. How bad is my hair? It looks like there’s an awful lot of it stuck in the handle.”

  Hooker cut his eyes to me and ran off the road onto a lawn. He made a fast correction and was back on the road. “It’s not bad.”

  “You just ran off the road.”

  “I
was…distracted.”

  I reached for the mirror on the sun visor and Hooker knocked my hand away.

  “Don’t do that. You don’t want to look,” he said. He grabbed the visor and gave it a twist and snapped it off at the pivot point. He powered his window down and threw the visor out the window.

  My eyes were wide. “You just broke my brother’s car!”

  “Darlin’, your brother’s car is a wreck. He’ll never notice the missing visor.”

  I put my hands up to feel my hair.

  “I’m telling you it’s not so bad,” Hooker said. “Well, okay, it’s pretty bad, but I’m really sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you another hat. A nicer one. Hell, I’ll buy you a car. Would you like a car? And you’re still cute. I swear, you’re still cute. If you put your little pink skirt on, no one’s gonna notice your hair.”

  I just stared at him. I could feel that my mouth was open, but there weren’t any words coming out of it. I was all out of words.

  “Oh boy,” Hooker said. “You’re upset, aren’t you? I really hate when you’re upset. You’re not going to cry again, are you? I’ll do anything. Honest to God, I’ll do anything. What would you like? A vacation? A good seat for Daytona? Marriage? Do you want to get married?”

  “You’d marry me?”

  “No, not me. But I could find someone.”

  I sucked in some air.

  “Only foolin’ with you,” Hooker said. “Of course I’d marry you. I mean, it isn’t like your hair won’t grow back, right? Any man would be lucky to get married to you.”

  “And you’d marry me, why?”

  “Because I just feel so sorry for you. No, wait a minute that’s not it. That’s a bad answer, isn’t it? Because…I don’t know why. I was trying to make you happy. You know, take your mind off your hair. Women always want to get married.”

  “I appreciate the effort, but I don’t want to get married.”

  “Really?”

  “Not now, anyway. And not to you.”

  “What’s wrong with me?”

  “For starters, I hardly know you.”

  “I could fix that.”

  “No! I can’t afford to lose any more hair.”

  I put my pink hat on, settled back in my seat, and called Judey to check on Bill.

  “He’s sleeping like a little lamb,” Judey said. “I’m keeping him comfy. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  Hooker had a country western station on the radio. Some woman was singing about her man dying and her heart breaking. And if that wasn’t bad enough it sounded like she didn’t have a home and then her dog ran off.

  “See,” Hooker said. “You don’t have it so bad. You could be like that poor woman singing. Her boyfriend died and left her all alone. And you just lost a patch of hair.”

  “Do you like country western music?”

  “I hate it. Depresses the shit out of me. I just get sucked into it every now and then. One of those Texas things.”

  I searched for a rock station, didn’t have a lot of luck, and finally settled on Latin dance music.

  “Unless you have a better idea, I’m taking us back to my condo,” Hooker said. “I don’t know where else to go, I could use some new clothes, and I wouldn’t mind trading this car for my Porsche.”

  “Don’t you think that might be dangerous? We’re the only ones who know where the canister is located. Suppose the bad guys are waiting for you to go home?”

  “I’ll deal with it. I need a place to think.”

  Hooker drove down Alton Road and turned left onto First Street and then onto Washington. “I’m still hungry,” he said. “I’m going to run into Joe’s and get some take-out stone crabs.”

  He double-parked and ran into the restaurant. A parking place opened up in front of me, so I scooted over behind the wheel and parked the Mini. Ten minutes later, Hooker came out with a bag of food and slid in next to me.

  I returned to Alton Road and entered the parking garage. Hooker had two numbered spaces. His Porsche was in one. I pulled the Mini into the other, beside the Porsche. I caught a flash of movement in my rearview mirror. I looked up and saw Slick move toward us, his white sling standing out in the dim light.

  I threw the Mini into reverse and gave it gas. The car jumped back, there was a shriek and a thud, and Gimpy tumbled off to the side. Slick jumped in front of the Mini, arms wide in a stop gesture. I shifted into drive, stomped on the accelerator, and bounced Slick off the hood. I swung the car around and headed for the exit. Gunshots echoed in the cavernous space. I gritted my teeth, put my head down, and sped out of the garage.

  I cut across a couple streets, hit Collins, and drove north. Hooker was slumped in his seat, looking dazed, clutching the food bag.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him.

  “Hunh?”

  There was a fine line of blood trickling down the side of his face. I slid to a stop under a streetlight. The blood was oozing from a gash in Hooker’s forehead. It wasn’t a gunshot wound, and it didn’t seem to be deep. The area around it was red and swollen. I shifted my attention to the windshield and saw the point of impact. Hooker’d released his shoulder harness and hadn’t rebuckled in time. At some point in the garage fiasco I’d pitched him into the windshield.

  “Good thing you’re such a tough guy,” I said to Hooker.

  “Yeah,” he said. “And I’m going to protect you, too. Both of you. You’re going to have to hold still, though. I can’t protect you when you keep spinning like that.”

  “Hang on. I’m going to take you to the emergency room.”

  “That’s nice,” Hooker said. “I like going places with you.”

  I called Judey and got directions to South Shore Hospital. It was a weeknight, and Hooker and I arrived after the hospital’d had a flurry of rush-hour road-rage victims and before the hospital got into the late-night parade of drug-and alcohol-induced disasters. Since we were between peak hours Hooker was seen almost immediately. His head was examined and a Band-Aid applied. Some tests were taken. He was diagnosed as having a moderate concussion. I was given a sheet with instructions regarding his care for the next twenty-four hours. And we were dismissed.

  I had Hooker by the elbow, guiding him down the hall to the exit. A gurney rolled toward us, pushed by a male nurse. A man was on the gurney, most of him covered by a sheet. His chart had been placed on his stomach. I passed close by the gurney and made eye contact with the man. It was Gimpy.

  Gimpy gave a startled gasp. “You!” he yelled, suddenly sitting up, clawing out at me, sending the chart clattering to the floor.

  I jumped away, and the nurse gave the gurney a quick shove ahead.

  “You didn’t hit him hard enough,” Hooker whispered to me. “It’s like he’s the living dead. You can’t kill him.”

  Good to know Hooker was feeling better.

  I helped him get into the Mini, which now had one side entirely crumpled, a missing visor, and a scattering of bullet holes in the lower part of the hatchback.

  I crossed South Beach and drove north on Collins. I didn’t want to chance going back to Hooker’s, or Bill’s, or Judey’s. For that matter, I didn’t want to chance staying in South Beach.

  Hooker had his eyes closed and his hand to his head. “I have a massive headache,” he said. “I have the mother of all headaches.”

  “Don’t fall asleep. You’re not supposed to sleep.”

  “Barney, I’d have to be dead to fall asleep with this headache.”

  “I thought I’d drive north of town and look for a hotel.”

  “There are lots of hotels on Collins. Once you get north of the Fontainebleau we should be safe.”

  I tried four hotels, including the Fontainebleau, and none had a vacancy. This was high season in Florida. The fifth hotel had a single room. Fine by me. I was afraid to leave Hooker alone anyway.

  I moved us in, and I called Judey to tell him everything was okay. The room was clean and comfortable. The hotel was on the beach
, but our room faced Collins.

  Hooker stretched out on the king-size bed, and I crept into the bathroom to check my hair. I stood in front of the mirror, held my breath, and whipped the hat off.

  Shit.

  I blew out a sigh and put the hat back on. It’ll grow back, I told myself. And it’s just one chunk. And it’s not like I’m bald. I must have at least an inch or two of hair left where he chopped it.

  I returned to the bedroom, and I sat in an armchair and watched Hooker. He opened one eye and looked at me.

  “You’re not going to sit there and watch me all night, are you? It’s creepy.”

  “I’m following the instruction sheet they gave me at the hospital.”

  “Those instructions were for a bad concussion. I’ve only got a moderate concussion. They gave you the wrong instructions. Your instructions should read that you go to bed with the concussed.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You can’t sit in that chair all night. You’ll be tired in the morning. You won’t be able to out-smart the bad guys.”

  He had a point.

  I lay down next to him. “We’ll leave the lights on so I can check on you. And you have to behave yourself.”

  “I’ll be fine as long as you don’t fondle me when I’m sleeping.”

  “I’m not going to fondle you! And you’re not supposed to be sleeping.”

  I closed my eyes and instantly fell asleep. When I woke up the lights were off and the room was dark. I reached over to check on Hooker.

  “I knew you couldn’t help yourself,” Hooker said.

  “That wasn’t a fondle. That was a bed check. You were supposed to leave the lights on.”

  “I couldn’t sleep with the lights on.”

  “You aren’t supposed to sleep.”

  “I can nap. Anyway, it’s impossible to sleep with the sound effects.”

  And that’s when I heard it. Thump, thump, thump, thump. It was the bed in the next room hitting the wall. “Omigod.”

  “Wait. It’ll get better. She’s a moaner and a screamer.”

  “Not even.”

  “Swear to God. Wait until you hear her. If it wasn’t for the headache I’d have a woody.”