up to our asses and if this Seattle store ain't a great big hit, we may
all end up wearin' paper hats? Security, my ass."
Without another
word, she brushed past me and started after Bart, who had bumped his way around
the corner and "moved down the hall.
"You so
much as break wind without me being there, Jack, and I'm going to haul your big
ass back to jail," she said over her shoulder.
Jack opened his
mouth, remembered I was there and, instead, went tiotting down the hall in her
wake. I could hear his plea.
"I can't
operate this way, Dixie. If s all gonna go sour. You're just gonna have to take
a smaller part here."
"Trust me,
Jack," she said. "You got a small enough part for the both of
us."
I missed
whatever was said next. As I stood still and tried to catch the receding
voices, a head popped up over on my left. Visible above the carved wood border
on the Victorian sofa was a lustrous mane of sandy-brown hair, connected to a
rather lustrous young woman. She must have been lying down. "Poor
Jack," she said, rising.
I thought I
heard Rickey Ray chuckle as she came around the edge of the sofa. "Sorry
if I startled you," she said.
"No
problem," I said.
"I'm
Candace Atherton."
She was maybe
thirty and a beautiful girl. A lithe five-ten, in a white silk blouse, a blue
cashmere cardigan and a pair of loose-fitting chinos. She eased herself across
the room in my direction, her movements far too graceful to be considered
common locomotion.
"I'm
afraid I'm what Miss Dormer so prosaically referred to as Jack's latest high
school honey."
"It's been
a while," I said, "but I don't remember anything even vaguely like
you in my high school."
"I suppose
I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. . . ."
"Waterman,"
I said. "Leo Waterman, and please do."
From the far
end of the hall, a garbled mix of raised voices filtered our way. "How
long has this been going on?" I asked.
"She got
the court order six weeks ago in Dallas," Rickey Ray said. "Been dogging
us ever since."
"Poor
Jack," the woman-said again.
"You ought
to be around when she follows him into the toilet," said Rickey Ray.
"Noooo
..."
"There's a
phone in the toilet," Candace Atherton said.
" 'Cause
she knows ol' Jackeroo does most of his business on the can. Says he thinks
best in there."
"Oh, now,
Rickey Ray," she chided.
"He had me
throw 'em out of the suite in Dallas. Two hours later, they come and hauled his
ass to the pokey on contempt charges. Took us two days to get him out. The ol'
boy was not a happy camper."
She looked at
me. "I hope you won't judge Jack by this, Mr. Waterman. He's really a
warm, loving human being. Kind and generous to a fault and very
self-actualized."
"I'm not
in the judging business, Miss Atherton, I'm in the security business. I'm just
trying to make his visit to Seattle as pleasant as I can. My employers were
concerned that, you know, with Mr. Del Fuego and Ms. Meyerson and Mr. Reese all
here under the same roof—"
Candace
interrupted, her eyes wide. "Mason Reese is here?"
"Room
eight-fourteen," I said.
"We ain't
even goin' to the show till Tuesday," Rickey Ray said quickly. "I
don't figure we're gonna have no problems at the show."
I pulled my
notebook from my pocket. "What’s your schedule for tomorrow?" I
asked.
"Oh,
Jack'll be clearin' his sinuses till noon, then we'll head down to the new restaurant,
and he'll gum up the works down there till dinnertime, and then we'll head back
here. After that, ifs anybody's guess. Just depends on what comes into his
head."
"Anything
I can do for you?" I asked.
Rickey Ray
moved out from behind the bar, standing between Candace Atherton and me, wiping
a glass with a small towel. The knuckles of his hands were buried beneath a
half-inch ridge of brown calluses.
"Things
ain't gonna get dicey till Friday. That’s the night of the barbecue. You know .
. . the . . ."
"Hasn't
anybody tried to talk him out of it?"
Rickey Ray
shook his head. "Hell, everybody's tried."
"Jack's a
very
all end up wearin' paper hats? Security, my ass."
Without another
word, she brushed past me and started after Bart, who had bumped his way around
the corner and "moved down the hall.
"You so
much as break wind without me being there, Jack, and I'm going to haul your big
ass back to jail," she said over her shoulder.
Jack opened his
mouth, remembered I was there and, instead, went tiotting down the hall in her
wake. I could hear his plea.
"I can't
operate this way, Dixie. If s all gonna go sour. You're just gonna have to take
a smaller part here."
"Trust me,
Jack," she said. "You got a small enough part for the both of
us."
I missed
whatever was said next. As I stood still and tried to catch the receding
voices, a head popped up over on my left. Visible above the carved wood border
on the Victorian sofa was a lustrous mane of sandy-brown hair, connected to a
rather lustrous young woman. She must have been lying down. "Poor
Jack," she said, rising.
I thought I
heard Rickey Ray chuckle as she came around the edge of the sofa. "Sorry
if I startled you," she said.
"No
problem," I said.
"I'm
Candace Atherton."
She was maybe
thirty and a beautiful girl. A lithe five-ten, in a white silk blouse, a blue
cashmere cardigan and a pair of loose-fitting chinos. She eased herself across
the room in my direction, her movements far too graceful to be considered
common locomotion.
"I'm
afraid I'm what Miss Dormer so prosaically referred to as Jack's latest high
school honey."
"It's been
a while," I said, "but I don't remember anything even vaguely like
you in my high school."
"I suppose
I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. . . ."
"Waterman,"
I said. "Leo Waterman, and please do."
From the far
end of the hall, a garbled mix of raised voices filtered our way. "How
long has this been going on?" I asked.
"She got
the court order six weeks ago in Dallas," Rickey Ray said. "Been dogging
us ever since."
"Poor
Jack," the woman-said again.
"You ought
to be around when she follows him into the toilet," said Rickey Ray.
"Noooo
..."
"There's a
phone in the toilet," Candace Atherton said.
" 'Cause
she knows ol' Jackeroo does most of his business on the can. Says he thinks
best in there."
"Oh, now,
Rickey Ray," she chided.
"He had me
throw 'em out of the suite in Dallas. Two hours later, they come and hauled his
ass to the pokey on contempt charges. Took us two days to get him out. The ol'
boy was not a happy camper."
She looked at
me. "I hope you won't judge Jack by this, Mr. Waterman. He's really a
warm, loving human being. Kind and generous to a fault and very
self-actualized."
"I'm not
in the judging business, Miss Atherton, I'm in the security business. I'm just
trying to make his visit to Seattle as pleasant as I can. My employers were
concerned that, you know, with Mr. Del Fuego and Ms. Meyerson and Mr. Reese all
here under the same roof—"
Candace
interrupted, her eyes wide. "Mason Reese is here?"
"Room
eight-fourteen," I said.
"We ain't
even goin' to the show till Tuesday," Rickey Ray said quickly. "I
don't figure we're gonna have no problems at the show."
I pulled my
notebook from my pocket. "What’s your schedule for tomorrow?" I
asked.
"Oh,
Jack'll be clearin' his sinuses till noon, then we'll head down to the new restaurant,
and he'll gum up the works down there till dinnertime, and then we'll head back
here. After that, ifs anybody's guess. Just depends on what comes into his
head."
"Anything
I can do for you?" I asked.
Rickey Ray
moved out from behind the bar, standing between Candace Atherton and me, wiping
a glass with a small towel. The knuckles of his hands were buried beneath a
half-inch ridge of brown calluses.
"Things
ain't gonna get dicey till Friday. That’s the night of the barbecue. You know .
. . the . . ."
"Hasn't
anybody tried to talk him out of it?"
Rickey Ray
shook his head. "Hell, everybody's tried."
"Jack's a
very
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