"No," Tommy said. "I want them alive."
Simon looked at Tommy as if he had farted in neon. "I'm trying to negotiate here."
"Thirty," said the old man. "As is."
"Twenty-seven," Simon said.
"Twenty-eight or go home," said the old man.
Simon turned to Tommy. "Pay him."
Tommy ticked off the bills and handed them to the old man, who counted them and put them in his rubber apron. "You cowboy friend no know turtle."
"Thanks," Tommy said. He and Simon picked up the crates with the turtles and loaded them into the bed of Simon's truck.
As they climbed into the cab, Simon said, "You got to know how to deal with those little fuckers. Ever since we nuked them, they got a bad attitude."
"We nuked the Japanese, Simon, not the Chinese."
"Whatever. You should'a made him clean them for you."
"No, I want to give them to Jody alive."
"You're a charmer, Flood. A lot of guys would've just paid the ransom with candy and flowers."
"Ransom?"
"She's got your nooky held hostage, ain't she?"
"No, I just wanted to get her a present — to be nice."
Simon sighed heavily and rubbed the bridge of his nose as if fighting a headache. "Son, we need to talk."
Simon had distinctive ideas about the way women should be handled, and as they drove to SOMA he waxed eloquent on the subject while Tommy listened, thinking, If they knew about him, Simon would be elected the Cosmo Nightmare Man for the next decade.
"You see," Simon said, "when I was a kid in Texas, we used to walk through the watermelon fields kickin' each of them old melons as we went until one was so ripe and ready that it busted right open. Then we'd reach in and eat the heart right out of it and move on to the next one. That's how you got to treat women, Flood."
"Like kicking watermelons?"
"Right. Now you take that new cashier. She wants you, boy. But you're thinkin', I got me a piece at home so I don't need her. Right?"
"Right," Tommy said.
"Wrong. You got one at home that you're buying presents for and saying sweet things and tiptoeing around the house so as not to upset her and generally acting like a spineless nooky slave. But if you put it to that new cashier, then you got one up on your old lady. You can do what you want, when you want, and if she gets pissy and don't put out, you go back to your cashier. Your old lady has to try harder. There's competition. It's supply and demand. God bless America, it's nooky capitalism."
"I'm lost. I thought it was like watermelon farming."
"Whatever. Point is, you're whipped, Flood. You can't have no self-respect if you're whipped. And you can't have no fun." Simon turned on Tommy's street and pulled the truck over to the curb. "Something going on here."
There were four police cars parked in the street in front of the loft and a coroner's van was pulling away.
"Wait here," Tommy said. He got out of the car and walked toward the cops. A sharp-featured Hispanic cop in a suit met Tommy in the middle of the street. His badge wallet hung open from his belt; he was holding a plastic bag. Inside it Tommy saw a dog-eared copy of On the Road. He recognized the coffee stains on the cover.
"This street is closed, sir," the cop said. "Crime investigation."
"But I just live right there," Tommy said, pointing to the loft.
"Really," the cop said, raising an eyebrow. "Where are you coming from?"
"The fuck's going on here, pancho?" Simon said, coming up behind Tommy. "I got a truckful of dyin' turtles and I ain't got all damn day."
"Oh Christ," Tommy said, hanging his head.
Chapter 22
A Nod to the Queen of the Damned
It only took five minutes to convince the police that Tommy had been at work all night and had seen nothing. Simon had done most of the talking. Tommy was so shocked to see his book in the cop's hand that he couldn't find the answers to even the simplest questions. He was, however, able to convince the cop that his shocked state came from a body having been found outside his apartment. Sometimes it paid to play on the "I just fell off the turnip truck from Indiana" image.
They hauled the turtles up the steps and set the crates on the floor in the kitchen area.
"Where's the little woman?" Simon asked, eyeing the huge chest freezer.
"Probably still sleeping," Tommy said. "Grab yourself a beer out of the fridge. I'll check on her."
Tommy palmed open the bedroom door, then slipped through and closed it behind him. He thought, I've got to keep Simon out of here. He's going to want Jody to get up and…
The bed was empty.
Tommy ran to the bathroom and looked in the tub, thinking that Jody might have been caught there at sunrise, but except for a rust ring, the tub was empty. He looked under the bed, found nothing but an old sock, then tore open the closet door and pushed the hanging clothes aside. Panic rose in his throat and came out in a scream of "No!"
"You okay in there?" Simon said from the kitchen.
"She's not here!"
Simon opened the door. "You got a nice crib here, Flood. You inherit some money or something?" Simon said. Then he spotted the panic on Tommy's face. "What's the matter?"
"She's not here."
"So, she probably went out early to get a doughnut or something."
"She can't go out during the day," Tommy said before he realized what he was saying. "I mean, she never goes out early."
"Don't sweat it. I thought you were going to teach me to read. Let's drink some beers and read some fucking books, okay?"
"No, I have to go look for her. She could be out in the sun…"
"Chill, Flood. She's fine. The worst that could happen is she's out with another guy. You might be a free man." Simon picked up a book from the stack by the bed. "Let's read this one. What's this one?"
Tommy wasn't listening. He was seeing Jody's burned body lying in a gutter somewhere. How could she let it happen? Didn't she check the almanac? He had to look for her. But where? You can't search a city the size of San Francisco.
Simon threw the book back on the stack and headed out of the bedroom, "Okay then, Slick, I'm out of here. Thanks for the beer."
"Okay," Tommy said. Then the idea of spending the day alone, waiting, threw him into another wave of panic. "No, Simon! Wait. We'll read."
"That one on the top of the stack," Simon said. "What's that one?"
Tommy picked it up. "The Vampire Lestat, by Anne Rice. I hear it's good."
"Then grab a beer and let's get literate."
Rivera, bleary-eyed and looking as if he had slept in his suit, sat at his desk looking over his notes. No matter how he shuffled them, they didn't make sense, didn't show a pattern. The only link between the victims was the way they had died: no motive. They wouldn't get the autopsy report for another twelve hours, but there was no doubt that the same person had done the killings.
Nick Cavuto came through the squad room door carrying a box of doughnuts and a copy of the San Francisco Examiner. "They fucking named him. The Examiner is calling him the Whiplash Killer. Once they name the killer, our problems double. You got anything?"
Rivera waved to the notes spread over his desk and shrugged. "I'm out of it, Nick. I can't even read my own writing. You take a look."
Cavuto took a maple stick from the box and sat down across from Rivera. He grabbed a handful of papers and began leafing through them, then stopped and flipped back. He looked up. "You talked to this Flood kid this morning, right?"
Rivera was looking at the doughnuts. His stomach lurched at the thought of eating one. "Yeah, he lives across the street from where we found the body. He works at the Marina Safeway — was working at the time of the murder."