determined man," Candace added.
"Got a
head like a rock."
Candace
Atherton leaned in close. "He was originally going to stage the barbecue
in Cleveland, but there were some problems."
"The
stampede?" I ventured.
"No, that
was Atlanta," Candace said.
"Yeah, in Cleveland it was every goddamn animal rights activist in the world," Rickey Ray
reported. "All out in the streets with signs and shit. Hell, we had to get
outta Dodge, three days before the opening. City charged Jack thirty-five grand
for the mess."
"You think
he can pull it off this time?"
"Oh,
yeah," he said. "You can pretty much count on it. This time he's the
man with the plan. And the closer we get to that, the more downright
interesting thmgs're gonna get."
The distant
voices rose an entire octave, dueling tenors.
"I better
go," Candace said, hurrying off toward the din.
I watched her
go. Candace in motion was balm to the eye.
"Jack's a
lucky man," I said.
"Luck got
nothin' to do with it," Rickey Ray said. "Bought her a new Mercedes
convertible for her last birthday and a little cabin on Lake of the Ozarks the
year before that."
"How long
has she been with Jack?"
"We both
been 'round a couple of years. Me, a little longer."
"How'd
you—" I started.
Rickey Ray
looked over my shoulder, "Hey, Bartster."
When he wasn't
buried beneath a pile of bags and boxes, Bart was a real good-looking kid.
Six-two or so, black hair, blue eyes. He looked like one of the models in a
Sears catalog.
"Don't
they ever get tired of that?" he asked Rickey Ray.
"Near as I
can tell, no."
He stuck out
his hand. "Bart Yonquist."
I took it
"Leo Waterman."
The sound of
broken glass sent Rickey Ray into motion. "Ah, sheeeet. I best break it
up."
The voices
soared again as he crossed the room. I turned back to Bart. "What's a nice
kid like you doing in a place like this?"
He told me. He
was in his second year of medical school when he got a notice in the mail. It
said the next check he got from his parents' trust fund was also going to be
the last. At that point he was twenty-five and had never held a job. Talk about
rude awakenings.
Anyone who's
ever had to look for work knows how he felt by Friday afternoon, after a solid
week of pounding the bricks. The Fates provided Dixie, who, it just so
happened, was between escorts at the time and thought Bart was, as she put it,
"just as cute as a bug's ear."
Bart, while
being both desperate and young, but neither blind nor stupid, respectfully
declined. She told him it paid two thousand a week, cash, no taxes. Bart did a
little mental math. He figured six months would get him through school and a year
might get him an office.
"And you'd
be surprised how much better it sounded to me."
It was crude; I
admit it. I'd just met the guy, but I had to know.
"Do you,
like . . . you know ..." I was prepared to go on ^definitely without ever
using a verb, but Bart got the idea.
"No, man.
It's not like that. She had all of that she could stand by the time she was
thirty. Just ask her. She'll tell you. She wants a fuU-time gofer and somebody
to be seen with. It's the being seen that really gets her off."
"At two grand
a week," I said, "a guy could be seen quite a lot."
"That's
what I thought. Beside, Dixie's got a good head, she really does. She's a bit
off the wall, but she's good people."
I liked the
kid. He still hadn't gotten a steady job at twenty-six. You had to admire a guy
who could cheat the system for that long.
"Gotta
go," he said. "Take care."
I stood alone
for a few moments. The suite had suddenly gone quiet. As I pulled open the door
and walked out into the hall, I kept repeating Senor Alomar's words; Money is
no object, money is no object . . .
Chapter 6
I rode the
soundless elevator down to the ninth floor. In the twenty minutes I'd been
upstairs, my bag had been unpacked, my clothes hung neatly in the closet, my
unmentionables stowed in the dresser and my toiletries geometrically arranged
on the bathroom
"Got a
head like a rock."
Candace
Atherton leaned in close. "He was originally going to stage the barbecue
in Cleveland, but there were some problems."
"The
stampede?" I ventured.
"No, that
was Atlanta," Candace said.
"Yeah, in Cleveland it was every goddamn animal rights activist in the world," Rickey Ray
reported. "All out in the streets with signs and shit. Hell, we had to get
outta Dodge, three days before the opening. City charged Jack thirty-five grand
for the mess."
"You think
he can pull it off this time?"
"Oh,
yeah," he said. "You can pretty much count on it. This time he's the
man with the plan. And the closer we get to that, the more downright
interesting thmgs're gonna get."
The distant
voices rose an entire octave, dueling tenors.
"I better
go," Candace said, hurrying off toward the din.
I watched her
go. Candace in motion was balm to the eye.
"Jack's a
lucky man," I said.
"Luck got
nothin' to do with it," Rickey Ray said. "Bought her a new Mercedes
convertible for her last birthday and a little cabin on Lake of the Ozarks the
year before that."
"How long
has she been with Jack?"
"We both
been 'round a couple of years. Me, a little longer."
"How'd
you—" I started.
Rickey Ray
looked over my shoulder, "Hey, Bartster."
When he wasn't
buried beneath a pile of bags and boxes, Bart was a real good-looking kid.
Six-two or so, black hair, blue eyes. He looked like one of the models in a
Sears catalog.
"Don't
they ever get tired of that?" he asked Rickey Ray.
"Near as I
can tell, no."
He stuck out
his hand. "Bart Yonquist."
I took it
"Leo Waterman."
The sound of
broken glass sent Rickey Ray into motion. "Ah, sheeeet. I best break it
up."
The voices
soared again as he crossed the room. I turned back to Bart. "What's a nice
kid like you doing in a place like this?"
He told me. He
was in his second year of medical school when he got a notice in the mail. It
said the next check he got from his parents' trust fund was also going to be
the last. At that point he was twenty-five and had never held a job. Talk about
rude awakenings.
Anyone who's
ever had to look for work knows how he felt by Friday afternoon, after a solid
week of pounding the bricks. The Fates provided Dixie, who, it just so
happened, was between escorts at the time and thought Bart was, as she put it,
"just as cute as a bug's ear."
Bart, while
being both desperate and young, but neither blind nor stupid, respectfully
declined. She told him it paid two thousand a week, cash, no taxes. Bart did a
little mental math. He figured six months would get him through school and a year
might get him an office.
"And you'd
be surprised how much better it sounded to me."
It was crude; I
admit it. I'd just met the guy, but I had to know.
"Do you,
like . . . you know ..." I was prepared to go on ^definitely without ever
using a verb, but Bart got the idea.
"No, man.
It's not like that. She had all of that she could stand by the time she was
thirty. Just ask her. She'll tell you. She wants a fuU-time gofer and somebody
to be seen with. It's the being seen that really gets her off."
"At two grand
a week," I said, "a guy could be seen quite a lot."
"That's
what I thought. Beside, Dixie's got a good head, she really does. She's a bit
off the wall, but she's good people."
I liked the
kid. He still hadn't gotten a steady job at twenty-six. You had to admire a guy
who could cheat the system for that long.
"Gotta
go," he said. "Take care."
I stood alone
for a few moments. The suite had suddenly gone quiet. As I pulled open the door
and walked out into the hall, I kept repeating Senor Alomar's words; Money is
no object, money is no object . . .
Chapter 6
I rode the
soundless elevator down to the ninth floor. In the twenty minutes I'd been
upstairs, my bag had been unpacked, my clothes hung neatly in the closet, my
unmentionables stowed in the dresser and my toiletries geometrically arranged
on the bathroom
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