Cold Bullets and Hot Babes: Dark Crime Stories by Arlette Lees Page A

to lentils. Who knows?”
    Suddenly, Bell stumbled and the soup went all over the kitchen floor.
    “Now look what you’ve made me do!” she said. “And that was the last of it.”
    I gladly volunteered to clean up the mess.
    I can’t say it wasn’t weird eating meatloaf and mashed potatoes like a Leave-It-To-Beaver family knowing what I’d witnessed that afternoon. Bell had slipped effortlessly back into her drab persona and Cal sat there like she didn’t exist. Robby and I played it cool, but, the tack room antics had scrambled my ten- year-old brain. Later, I put Dad to bed with enough Benedryl in his hot chocolate to keep him under until the cock crowed.
    At midnight Robby and I coasted the John Deere mower down the driveway to the highway, fired it up and drove the deserted mile to the Quick Stop. Once inside the phone booth, Robby dialed home and after a few rings Bell picked up.
    “I gotta see you, baby. You were hot this afternoon,” he said, in Cal’s sexy rumble. The timber and resonance couldn’t have been more convincing. “Slip away and meet me at Mike’s Bar. And put on that red job. I’m tired of the weary, pioneer woman shit.” Robby hung up before she could respond.
    “What if she checks the tack room first?”
    “Then we’re screwed,” Robby said.
    When we got back the pickup was gone and Dad was still out like a light. I ran to the tack room and woke Cal. Despite everything I knew, he still made my heart flutter. But, my head was on straight. Well, almost straight.
    I handed him the keys to Dad’s old Ford. “Bell needs you to pick her up at Mike’s Bar. The connection was bad, but, I think she’s having trouble with the truck.”
    The moment he pulled onto the highway we called Pastor Blevins. Half way through our story he was out of bed and dressed.
    “I’m calling an ambulance for your Dad,” he said. “In case Bell and Cal return, I want you kids with me.”
    * * * *
     
    Both of the vehicles were parked outside when the three of us entered the bar. It was a rowdy crowd and the baseball bat at Mike’s elbow spoke volumes. Hank Williams warbled “Your Cheatin’ Heart” from a bubbling jukebox, and everyone including Mike, ignored the NO SMOKING sign above the door.
    “Stand by the jukebox and don’t move,” directed Pastor Blevins.
    Cal sat at the bar looking like himself in his jeans and plaid shirt, but, if I hadn’t seen the red dress and blonde wig in the attic, I wouldn’t have been able to pick Bell out of a police lineup. Her eyes were made up Egyptian-style, her lips painted sports car red. No longer the faded hausfrau, she looked the part of a high class hooker.
    “Bell Jones!” boomed Pastor Blevins’ voice over the ambient roar. The room fell still as heads swiveled toward the action. Bell looked like she’d been zapped by a stun gun and Cal blanched to the pallor of chalk. Then, like a thief startled in a heist, she slid serpent-like from the stool and headed toward the door with Cal hot on her heels.
    Suddenly, Bell spotted me hiding in the shadow of the jukebox and her mind snapped like a fresh carrot from Grandma’s garden.
    “YOU LITTLE BITCH!!!” she screeched. “YOU’VE RUINED EVERYTHING!!!” She reached beneath her satin skirt and pulled the tiny gun from a lacy garter, swinging it in my direction.
    Cal shouted, “NO!!!” and landed a solid punch to her arm. Robby jumped in front of me as the bullet whizzed by my ear and shattered the window of the jukebox.
    Enraged by the betrayal, Bell whirled around and plugged Cal point blank in the chest. There was a look of bewilderment on his face as he slumped to the floor.
    A cowboy in a big hat spun around on his stool and casually cracked Bell on the wrist with his beer bottle as if he dealt with crazy women every day of his life. God knows there were enough of them around the watering holes of Gunnar.
    The gun flew across the room, skidded through the cigarette butts and spilled drinks on the