Mallard said. “No matter how thin it is, please call me. I want this woman.”
• • •
L OUISE CLARK DECIDED that she could talk to Carmel only after Hale Allen convinced her it was okay. “I’m a lawyer, Louise,” Allen said. “It’s all right to talk to Carmel—the cops are just busting our balls.”
“If you’re sure,” Clark said anxiously. She was a thin, mousy woman with lank brown hair, a fleshy nose and nervous, bony hands. “It’s just that the police said . . .”
Clark did not look like any sex machine Carmel had ever seen; but, she thought to herself, you never know. “He’s sure,” Carmel said abruptly. They were sitting in Denny’s and had been talking for ten minutes and the woman had started whining. Carmel didn’t like whiners. She looked at Hale Allen. “Why don’t you take a walk around the block. I want to talk to Louise alone.”
So Hale Allen went for a walk, his hands in the pockets of his light woolen slacks, wearing a great blue-checked sport coat over a black t-shirt. The coat emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, and both women watched him as he held the door for a woman coming into the restaurant with a child; the woman said something to Allen, who gave her the great grin, and they had a little conversation in the doorway.
After a few seconds, Allen continued on his way; and Carmel and Louise had their talk. C ARMEL HAD a king-sized bed with two regular pillows and a five-foot-long body pillow that she could wrap her legs around when she slept. Although she told people that she slept nude—all part of the image—she actually slept in an extra-large Jockey t-shirt and boxer shorts. With the shirt loose around her shoulders and her legs wrapped around the pillow, she lay in bed that night and reran mousy Louise Clark.
For the most part, Clark’s story was the same ol’ story. She and Allen spent time alone, in their work. They shared a lot of stress. His wife didn’t understand him. They developed a relationship based on mutual respect, blah-blah-blah-blah. They fell into bed at the Up North Motel. Then the Mouse stuck it to Carmel.
“The first time I saw him naked in the motel there, it was afterwards. Really, after we made love, he was just so . . . beautiful. He’s a beautiful man.” Then her eyes flickered, and she added, girl-to-girl, a little giggle, a half-whisper, “And he’s really large. Beautiful and really, really large. He filled me up.”
Carmel squeezed the pillow between her legs and tried to squeeze the image out of her head. Hale Allen and the Mouse. Large. T HE ALARM WENT OFF at seven o’clock sharp. Carmel pushed out of bed, slow and grumpy, robbed of her usual sound sleep. Large? How large? She scratched her ass, yawned, stretched and headed for the bathroom. A half-hour later, she was drinking her first cup of coffee, eating her second piece of toast, and checking the Star-Tribune for leaks about Allen and Clark, when the phone rang.
“Yes.”
“Miz Loan? This is Bill, downstairs.” Bill was the doorman.
“What?” Still grumpy.
“We got a package for you, says Urgent. I was wondering if we should bring it up.”
“What kind of package?”
“Small one. Feels like . . . looks like . . . could be a videotape,” Bill said.
“All right, bring it up.” Bill brought it up, and Carmel gave him a five-dollar bill and turned the package in her hand as she closed the door. Bill was right: probably a video. Plain brown wrapping paper. She pulled the paper off, found a note written with a ballpoint pen on notebook paper. All it said was, “Sorry.”
Carmel frowned, walked the tape to the media room, plugged it into the VHS player and brought it up.
A woman’s image came up, and Carmel recognized it immediately. She was looking at herself, sitting in the now-understandably bright light of Rolando’s kitchen, just a little more than a month before. T HE ON-SCREEN C ARMEL was saying, “Only kind I drink.” And then, “So
• • •
L OUISE CLARK DECIDED that she could talk to Carmel only after Hale Allen convinced her it was okay. “I’m a lawyer, Louise,” Allen said. “It’s all right to talk to Carmel—the cops are just busting our balls.”
“If you’re sure,” Clark said anxiously. She was a thin, mousy woman with lank brown hair, a fleshy nose and nervous, bony hands. “It’s just that the police said . . .”
Clark did not look like any sex machine Carmel had ever seen; but, she thought to herself, you never know. “He’s sure,” Carmel said abruptly. They were sitting in Denny’s and had been talking for ten minutes and the woman had started whining. Carmel didn’t like whiners. She looked at Hale Allen. “Why don’t you take a walk around the block. I want to talk to Louise alone.”
So Hale Allen went for a walk, his hands in the pockets of his light woolen slacks, wearing a great blue-checked sport coat over a black t-shirt. The coat emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, and both women watched him as he held the door for a woman coming into the restaurant with a child; the woman said something to Allen, who gave her the great grin, and they had a little conversation in the doorway.
After a few seconds, Allen continued on his way; and Carmel and Louise had their talk. C ARMEL HAD a king-sized bed with two regular pillows and a five-foot-long body pillow that she could wrap her legs around when she slept. Although she told people that she slept nude—all part of the image—she actually slept in an extra-large Jockey t-shirt and boxer shorts. With the shirt loose around her shoulders and her legs wrapped around the pillow, she lay in bed that night and reran mousy Louise Clark.
For the most part, Clark’s story was the same ol’ story. She and Allen spent time alone, in their work. They shared a lot of stress. His wife didn’t understand him. They developed a relationship based on mutual respect, blah-blah-blah-blah. They fell into bed at the Up North Motel. Then the Mouse stuck it to Carmel.
“The first time I saw him naked in the motel there, it was afterwards. Really, after we made love, he was just so . . . beautiful. He’s a beautiful man.” Then her eyes flickered, and she added, girl-to-girl, a little giggle, a half-whisper, “And he’s really large. Beautiful and really, really large. He filled me up.”
Carmel squeezed the pillow between her legs and tried to squeeze the image out of her head. Hale Allen and the Mouse. Large. T HE ALARM WENT OFF at seven o’clock sharp. Carmel pushed out of bed, slow and grumpy, robbed of her usual sound sleep. Large? How large? She scratched her ass, yawned, stretched and headed for the bathroom. A half-hour later, she was drinking her first cup of coffee, eating her second piece of toast, and checking the Star-Tribune for leaks about Allen and Clark, when the phone rang.
“Yes.”
“Miz Loan? This is Bill, downstairs.” Bill was the doorman.
“What?” Still grumpy.
“We got a package for you, says Urgent. I was wondering if we should bring it up.”
“What kind of package?”
“Small one. Feels like . . . looks like . . . could be a videotape,” Bill said.
“All right, bring it up.” Bill brought it up, and Carmel gave him a five-dollar bill and turned the package in her hand as she closed the door. Bill was right: probably a video. Plain brown wrapping paper. She pulled the paper off, found a note written with a ballpoint pen on notebook paper. All it said was, “Sorry.”
Carmel frowned, walked the tape to the media room, plugged it into the VHS player and brought it up.
A woman’s image came up, and Carmel recognized it immediately. She was looking at herself, sitting in the now-understandably bright light of Rolando’s kitchen, just a little more than a month before. T HE ON-SCREEN C ARMEL was saying, “Only kind I drink.” And then, “So
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