Bad Things (19 page)

Armed with half a dozen decadent handheld shower massagers, Rick returned a couple hours later to find a moving van blocking the driveway, several roomfuls of ratty furniture stacked by the garage for the Salvation Army to take, and four burly guys with terminal butt-crack dragging his own furniture into the house, none too carefully. Carmen, hands on her hips, seemed to be in her element as she ordered them around.

“Need help?” he asked her.

“No, I'm fine,” She lowered her voice. “Morons, they're morons. They bang up everything.”

“That's what they're paid to do,” he said lightly. He didn't want to think about it.

Rolling her eyes, she looked heavenward. “They did the three bedrooms first. Cody's in his room putting away his things.”

“So my bed's up there?”

“Yeah, but I think they broke it. It's in a bunch of pieces.”

“It's supposed to be,” he said, then realized she was teasing him again. “If you don't need me, I'm going to go put it together.”

“You should make them do it.”

He shook his head. “Like you said, morons. It only takes a few minutes if you know what you're doing.” He paused. “Oh, Christ, the cat. I left the cat up there.”

“I know, don't worry. I put him in my house.”

“You're an angel.”

“I know,” she said, and blessed him with a smile.

“Call me if you need me.”

“Sure, Ricky.”

Upstairs, he found Cody having a great time unpacking and generally making a mess. Watching him, Rick thought that it would be a good idea to nail the closet panel shut right away, not only to keep Quint out, but because if Cody discovered it and went inside, he could be bitten by a rat. Since he didn't know about the passages, he was unlikely to find it, but Rick decided he'd get to it, along with all the other panels in the house, within the next few days. The old beds and dressers were gone, replaced by his son's roomful of high-impact white furniture, and topped off by his race-car bed. The room looked a million times better.

He left the boy shoving Legos in one of the drawers beneath the closet and walked down the hall to his room.

“What a relief,” he said, looking in. Despite the stacks of packing boxes, the master suite looked bigger than ever with his smooth bleached-oak furniture in place of the heavy, dark stuff. He set to work on the bed and, an hour later, had the mattress filling with the help of a garden hose he'd borrowed from the toolshed. Meanwhile, Rick attached a shower head, assured Carmen he was almost done using up all the hot water, and put away some of his clothes.

Twenty minutes later, the bed was filled. He coiled the hoses and headed downstairs, thinking that since he couldn't test the shower massage until the water heater refilled, he'd kill an hour by starting work on the frame for his metal sculpture. That was, if Carmen didn't need him.

A moment later, as Carmen shooed him out the front door, Shelly returned to announce she'd gotten a job at Nigel's Beauty Supply and that she could get makeup really cheap. Her sullenness had evaporated completely, and when she whirled and kissed him on the cheek, he was filled with desire to buy her a car, cable, a phone, and whatever else she wanted. He refrained from saying so, and as he walked to the workshop, he contented himself by hoping that having a job would teach her some respect—if not for him, then for his wallet.

Two hours later, he pushed the welder's mask back and surveyed his work. It didn't look like much, but it was big. He grinned. The base and half the horse's frame were complete. It was merely a stick figure, a simple skeleton upon which he'd build. Tomorrow, after the column was safely sent off, he'd finish the knight's form, and after that, he'd start the real work: the painstaking heating, bending, and cutting of the metal he would weld together to eventually create his horse and rider.

Now, however, the dinner hour was closing in, and he needed to take a shower or three very badly. Grabbing his shirt from the stool where he'd left it, he thought about putting it on, then used it to wipe his brow instead. He paused, looking at the frame. “What the hell,” he said, and pulled the mask back over his face, deciding to allow himself just a minute more to complete a couple little finishing touches before cleaning up for the night.

“Hi!”

Startled, he turned, taking the acetylene torch with him, accidentally pointing it toward the friendly feminine voice.

She stood about ten feet away and was in the process of stepping farther back, her eyes on the flame.

Flustered, he shut off the torch's valve. “Sorry,” he said, putting the tool down. “I didn't mean to—You startled me.”

“I didn't mean to startle you,” she said, retracing her steps. “Your housekeeper said I'd find you here.”

Three feet from him, she halted. Rick stared dumbly, aware that she was the least Vegas-like female he'd seen for some time. She was no more than five three, with slender bones and small breasts. She wore a scoop-necked white tank top, tucked in to her jeans, and her mane of gold-red hair floated around her shoulders.
This woman is my type,
he thought, remembering Dakota's efforts to fix him up. He'd have to explain that to O'Keefe sometime.

“I'm Audrey,” she said, extending her hand and smiling.

“Rick—” He snatched his hand back before it reached her, shoved the mask up, reextended his arm. “I'm Rick Piper. I'm afraid you have the advantage . . .”

“Oh.” She looked flustered this time. “You didn't know I was coming?”

“No,” he said sheepishly. “I don't even know who you are.”
But I'd like to find out.

“My brother was supposed to phone you to let you know I'd be bringing this by.” She pulled an Express Mail envelope from her shoulder bag and handed it to him.

“Your brother?”

“Duane.”

“Duane?” he asked, puzzled.

“Oh.” Her smile lit up the room. “You probably call him Dakota.”

Before he could react, she was talking again, words spilling out in a nervous rush. “He said it came for you Monday and that it was vital you got it, but he didn't have your address, so he sent it overnight to me and asked me to bring it over and make sure I gave it to you myself.” She smiled. “I just live over the hill in the Heights.”

“You're
Dakota's sister?” he asked in amazement. He owed Dakota an apology. O'Keefe did know his type.

Audrey smiled. “He described you to me, but you don't look quite like I expected.”

In response, Rick set the letter down and pulled the welder's mask from his head and placed it on the workbench. He looked down, saw the dirt and dust caked on his chest, hands, and arms, the stains on the jeans, and wondered what his face looked like. He grabbed his shirt and wiped his forehead. “I'm a mess, aren't I?”

She laughed, just a throaty little chuckle, and he liked it very much. He thanked God for California girls. The Beach Boys were right.

“Duane talks about you sometimes,” she said. “He always says he wishes your, ah, sexual persuasion was, well, different.” She blushed.

“I'm glad it's not,” he heard himself say. In Las Vegas, sex was a buy-and-sell commodity, and Rick hadn't responded mentally or physically to a woman in a long, long time. Now his brain was alert, and there was an embarrassing twitch in his shorts. “Dakota's a very good friend.”

She nodded. “He's a good guy.” She continued to study him. “You're not small at all.”

Before it dawned on him that she was talking about his height, he'd grabbed his shirt and draped it over his arm so it would conceal any embarrassing bulges in his jeans. “Small?” he asked, his voice cracking. He felt as if he were fourteen again, very embarrassed and very friendly.

“He said you were short. I thought you'd be five two or something.”

“Five nine without shoes.”

She grinned. “That's tall. Men taller than that give me a stiff neck.” Suddenly she blushed. “I—I'm sorry, I don't know what gets into me sometimes. I didn't mean that the way it sounded . . . I mean . . .” She regained her composure with visible effort. “Aren't you going to open that?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I guess I should.” He snagged the envelope, fumbled, finally ripped it open. Inside was a folded piece of paper. A single sentence, in Dakota's flamboyant hand, occupied the entire page: “I told you you'd like my sister.” He stared at it. Stared some more.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I, uh, hell. Here.” He thrust the note at her.

Audrey stared at the note, then blushed to the roots of her hair. “That rotten brother of mine,” she began. “I was so nervous coming here because he kept calling me and telling me that . . . that . . . Christ. This is ridiculous.” She took a deep breath. “I think Duane's playing matchmaker.”

Rick nodded. “Dakota told me you were my type. I didn't believe him.”

“He told me the same thing about you. I didn't believe him either.”

“Want to have dinner with me?” he asked solemnly.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice controlled and dignified.

“Want me to shower first?” he inquired even more gravely.

“That would be
very
nice.” A giggle got loose, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. “I'm sorry,” she said a second later. “This is all so weird.”

“It is,” he agreed, putting away his tools.

“So what is that?”

“It's a metal sculpture for my garden. With any luck, it'll look a little like Don Quixote.” He closed the last cabinet. “Did your brother happen to mention I have children?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Just checking. You can see the house while I clean up. I have to take a shower,” he added unnecessarily. Then he blurted, “I have to take several.”

She laughed. “What?”

On the way into the house, he explained, then left her with Carmen and Cody while he went upstairs.

 

 

Half an hour later, Audrey drove them to Briarwood, an English pub with sawdust on the floor and a piano player who wore a garter on his sleeve and played Joplin at the correct tempo, something that constituted heaven as far as Rick was concerned. Sitting there drinking pints of Ballards while they waited for their food, he felt as if he were renewing an old friendship, not on a first, blind date that had been engineered with absolutely no subtlety whatsoever.

“I've never been here before,” Rick said.

“Do you like it?”

“Love it.” The piano player launched into “The Pineapple Rag.” “This is my favorite kind of music.”

“Really?” Audrey studied him. “You're not just saying that, are you? Duane didn't tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That I'm nuts for this stuff.”

“Rags?”

She nodded. “Rags, jazz, pretty much anything written between
1895
and
1925.”

Dream woman.
“No, he didn't tell me anything except that you were just my type.”

She smiled. “Sometimes my little brother's pretty smart.”

“So,” Rick said, studying her clear green eyes, “I hear you're an optometrist.”

“And you're a journalist. I've been reading ‘Consumer Crusader' for years. Duane said you did a TV show in Vegas.” She waited as the matronly waitress set platters of fish and chips in front of them.

“You folks care for malt vinegar or lemon?”

“Lemon,” Rick and Audrey said in unison.
This is too good to be true,
he thought.
Way too good.
Something had to go wrong soon.

“Lots of lemon, tons,” Audrey called after the server. “So are you going to do a new show?”

“Not unless I need the money.”

“Are you a writer first and consumer advocate second, or the other way around?” She paused, a piece of fish raised to her lips. “I'm sorry. I'm asking too many questions.”

“No, it's fine. I like both, but I guess I lean toward the consumer side. My first year in college, I discovered all those books on subliminal advertising, and it kind of bloomed from there.” He smiled.

They talked through dinner about things he couldn't recall later. The time flew by, the ale loosened them up. “So what has your brother told you about me?” he asked over coffee.

“Not a lot. He told me who you were, which was a kick since I always read your column, and I think I already told you that. He described you as ‘regrettably straight,' that you had two kids and wanted to get your daughter away from Vegas.”

“Did he tell you why?”

“Oh, boy, did he.” She sipped her coffee. “That came out the other night after he had another fight with Lil. He said she's encouraging your daughter—”

“Shelly.”

“Thanks, encouraging Shelly to become a show girl.” She shook her head. “I wish Duane would kick Lil out, once and for all. She treats him like dirt, but the poor guy never could resist a stray.”

Hearing that gave Rick pause.

“Is something wrong?”

“I might be one of his strays.”

She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “No. Lil was a prostitute. Couldn't get a job. He helped her clean up her act.” She smiled. “As far as you're concerned, Duane's a wee bit star-struck.”

Rick squeezed her hand back, and neither let go. “You're not,” he said coyly.

She laughed, a delightfully musical sound. Her hand was on top of his, and she slowly moved her finger over his palm. It drove him nuts. “I guess not,” she agreed.

“Are you sure Dakota didn't say anything about me?” he asked.

“Like what?”

“Well, did he say anything about my eyes, for instance?”

She cocked her head. “Your eyes? No, I don't think so. Why?”

“Oh, I don't know,” he said casually. “I just wondered if he'd said anything else. I used eyes as an example . . . a paean to your profession.”

“He didn't say a word, Rick, but he should have. You've got the most incredible dark blue irises. Are they contacts?”

“Nope. They're characteristic of the Piper clan.”

“Well, they're gorgeous.” She finished off her coffee. “What'dya say we blow this Popsicle stand?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“How about a yogurt stand? There's one just down the street. We can walk.”

A few minutes later, they were strolling along the Via Pecado, downtown Santo Verde's picturesque main street. White firefly lights twinkled in the limbs of the small trees lining the sidewalks, and warm yellow glowed from the storefronts of the restaurants and businesses still open. They bought chocolate cones at the yogurt stand and continued to stroll. Rick had never willingly walked in town after dark before, but wasn't too surprised to find that on these civilized streets, there were no greenjacks to torment him.

“Is your last name O'Keefe? Dakota mentioned that you used to be married.”

“See? He
did
tell you something about me. Yes, it's O'Keefe. I was young and stupid when I got married. It didn't last long, and I threw the name out with the husband.” Sidelong, she looked at him. “Did Duane tell you why we broke up?”

He almost said no, then decided bluntness had worked fine so far. “Yes, he did. Dakota was bragging about his left hook, and I asked him who he hooked. He told me.” He waited, but she said nothing. “He said the man abused you.”

“That's a nice way of putting it. He broke my jaw once. My wrist, too. He was a drunk. Lil's a drunk, too. I wish Duane would learn from my mistakes. He sure lectured me about Ron, so you'd think he'd learn.”

“How long did you stay with him?”

“Too long. Five years. Let's sit.” She indicated a white bench outside Much Ado About Books, a venerable bookstore where Rick had bought all his Batman comics way back when. “I don't know how much longer I would have stayed if Duane hadn't grown up and caught him shoving me around.”

“He abused you the whole time?”

She nodded, gave him a half smile. “Hard to believe I'd stick around?”

“Actually, it is. You seem very sure of yourself.”

“After I left, I lived with Duane for a while. He was pretty screwed up himself; he hadn't discovered his true calling yet. I also went to a shrink, who told me I had to stop feeling like I deserved to be treated like dirt. Ron always told me I deserved what he dished out, and I took it for truth. My therapist said it was because I had one of those deadly cold daddies who was into bare-butt spanking. She also thought he'd abused me, but I don't recall. Those are such in things right now, blaming everything on your parents and being sexually abused. I'd prefer to think I got screwed up all on my own.”