I’m responsible for you while
you’re in Florida, Twyla. Call me if you get yourself in a fix.”
“I will,” she promised. “Know what?”
“What?”
“A gotta feeling that you’re a real special man.”
“Not really.”
“Doc told me you were married once,” she said. “Your wife
died, he said.”
“Yes,” I replied quietly. “It was a long time ago.”
“But I can tell you still love her. After all these years,
you haven’t forgotten. What it means to really love somebody, I mean.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right.”
“Yeah, I am,” Twyla said knowingly. “There’s something else.
You care about me. I mean, in a good way and all. From what I can tell, you
care about lots of people who don’t usually get the time of day from just about
nobody. See? These are the things that make you special.”
It could have been the hot night or the blush making a
return visit. My face was warm.
“Well, just be careful,” I cautioned.
“I sure will. G’night, Bullet.” Twyla blew me a kiss and
gently shut the door.
I spotted Conway Kyzwoski’s truck parked several spots down
from Twyla’s room. One of the few lights in the Wayside parking lot illuminated
the vehicle and made it easy to read the bumper sticker slapped on the tail
end: God’s Messenger:
Benjamin Kurios.
I retreated to my room and tried thinking about tomorrow
rather than what was happening in Twyla’s room. All that got me was a bad
dream.
Chapter 5
“I
worked it out.” Doug Kool’s I-can-do-anything air triggered my gag reflex. “A
woman named Agnes works in women’s apparel at Nordstrom’s. Ask for her.”
It was the morning of my second day in Orlando, and there
wasn’t a lot to do before delivering Twyla to Universal Studios at three p.m.
But the prospect of picking out clothes for Manny Maglio’s niece didn’t thrill
me.
“No charge for whatever goes out the door,” Doug explained.
“But whoever the hell Agnes is—she gets the final say. Nordstrom’s willing to
foot the bill—but there’s a limit.”
“Fine.”
“Remember, Bullet, this was your call,” my pal reminded me.
“You’re the one who thinks Twyla should look like Miss Prim.”
I didn’t appreciate getting blamed instead of stroked for
suggesting Twyla needed a makeover. I liked even less the extra day and night I
was stuck in Orlando, waltzing around a blood relative of a mob boss.
“So, how’d your little jailhouse confab go?” Doug asked,
trying to defuse my aggravation.
The tactic didn’t work. I gave Doug an abbreviated account
of yesterday’s developments, but my delivery was close to caustic. The saga of
the blue car slamming into the white van came out sounding too much like a CSI
episode.
“Think your boy’s telling the truth?” was Doug’s reaction.
“He’s not my boy.”
“He’s a Looney Tune is what he is.”
“He’s not a liar.”
“People who play with half a deck tend to see and hear
strange things,” Doug reminded me.
“Not the kind of things Zeus talked about yesterday
afternoon.”
“If you say so,” Doug said in a tone that meant you’re an idiot. “So where do you go from here?”
“I don’t know. Thinking about next steps isn’t easy when the
rest of the morning has to be spent looking for ladies’ garments!”
“I feel your pain,” Doug said. “Look, maybe I can help with
the Zeus situation. There are a few people in Orlando who have a knack for
poking around. Could be I might get you a lead on the van that supposedly had a
disagreement with a bridge abutment.”
Doug and the devil had a lot in common. Take something from
Satan and he holds a mortgage on your soul. Take something from Doug and it’s
an account payable that’s going to be collected somewhere down the line. If I
accepted his offer of help, I’d be signing an I-owe-you. Still, there was no
denying that Douglas was connected to people in all the right—and
you’re in Florida, Twyla. Call me if you get yourself in a fix.”
“I will,” she promised. “Know what?”
“What?”
“A gotta feeling that you’re a real special man.”
“Not really.”
“Doc told me you were married once,” she said. “Your wife
died, he said.”
“Yes,” I replied quietly. “It was a long time ago.”
“But I can tell you still love her. After all these years,
you haven’t forgotten. What it means to really love somebody, I mean.”
“Well, I suppose you’re right.”
“Yeah, I am,” Twyla said knowingly. “There’s something else.
You care about me. I mean, in a good way and all. From what I can tell, you
care about lots of people who don’t usually get the time of day from just about
nobody. See? These are the things that make you special.”
It could have been the hot night or the blush making a
return visit. My face was warm.
“Well, just be careful,” I cautioned.
“I sure will. G’night, Bullet.” Twyla blew me a kiss and
gently shut the door.
I spotted Conway Kyzwoski’s truck parked several spots down
from Twyla’s room. One of the few lights in the Wayside parking lot illuminated
the vehicle and made it easy to read the bumper sticker slapped on the tail
end: God’s Messenger:
Benjamin Kurios.
I retreated to my room and tried thinking about tomorrow
rather than what was happening in Twyla’s room. All that got me was a bad
dream.
Chapter 5
“I
worked it out.” Doug Kool’s I-can-do-anything air triggered my gag reflex. “A
woman named Agnes works in women’s apparel at Nordstrom’s. Ask for her.”
It was the morning of my second day in Orlando, and there
wasn’t a lot to do before delivering Twyla to Universal Studios at three p.m.
But the prospect of picking out clothes for Manny Maglio’s niece didn’t thrill
me.
“No charge for whatever goes out the door,” Doug explained.
“But whoever the hell Agnes is—she gets the final say. Nordstrom’s willing to
foot the bill—but there’s a limit.”
“Fine.”
“Remember, Bullet, this was your call,” my pal reminded me.
“You’re the one who thinks Twyla should look like Miss Prim.”
I didn’t appreciate getting blamed instead of stroked for
suggesting Twyla needed a makeover. I liked even less the extra day and night I
was stuck in Orlando, waltzing around a blood relative of a mob boss.
“So, how’d your little jailhouse confab go?” Doug asked,
trying to defuse my aggravation.
The tactic didn’t work. I gave Doug an abbreviated account
of yesterday’s developments, but my delivery was close to caustic. The saga of
the blue car slamming into the white van came out sounding too much like a CSI
episode.
“Think your boy’s telling the truth?” was Doug’s reaction.
“He’s not my boy.”
“He’s a Looney Tune is what he is.”
“He’s not a liar.”
“People who play with half a deck tend to see and hear
strange things,” Doug reminded me.
“Not the kind of things Zeus talked about yesterday
afternoon.”
“If you say so,” Doug said in a tone that meant you’re an idiot. “So where do you go from here?”
“I don’t know. Thinking about next steps isn’t easy when the
rest of the morning has to be spent looking for ladies’ garments!”
“I feel your pain,” Doug said. “Look, maybe I can help with
the Zeus situation. There are a few people in Orlando who have a knack for
poking around. Could be I might get you a lead on the van that supposedly had a
disagreement with a bridge abutment.”
Doug and the devil had a lot in common. Take something from
Satan and he holds a mortgage on your soul. Take something from Doug and it’s
an account payable that’s going to be collected somewhere down the line. If I
accepted his offer of help, I’d be signing an I-owe-you. Still, there was no
denying that Douglas was connected to people in all the right—and
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