The current argument, in what seemed to be an ongoing series between Dallie and that horrid companion of his, distracted her from her reverie.
"I don't see why you're so hell-bent on making Baton Rouge tonight," Skeet complained. "We've got all day tomorrow to get to Lake Charles in time for your round Monday morning. What difference does an extra hour make?"
"The difference is I don't want to spend any more time driving on Sunday than I have to."
"I'll drive. It's only an extra hour, and there's that real nice motel where we stayed last year. Don't you have a dog or something to check on there?"
"Since when did you give a damn about any of my dogs?"
"A cute little mutt with a black spot over one eye, wasn't it? Had some kind of a bad leg."
"That was in Vicksburg."
"You sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Listen, Skeet, if you want to spend tonight in New Orleans so you can go over to the Blue Choctaw and see that red-haired waitress, why don't you just come out and say it instead of beating around the bush like this, going on about dogs and bad legs like some kind of goddamn hypocrite."
"I didn't say anything about a red-haired waitress or wanting to go to the Blue Choctaw."
"Yeah. Well, I'm not going with you. That place is an invitation to a fight, especially on Saturday night. The women all look like mud wrestlers and the men are worse. I damn near busted a rib the last time I went there, and I've had enough aggravation for one day."
"I told you to leave her with the guy at the filling station, but you wouldn't listen to me. You never listen to me. Just like last Thursday. I told you that shot from the rough was a hundred thirty-five yards; I'd paced it off, and I told you, but you ignored me and picked up that eight-iron just like I hadn't said a word."
"Just be quiet about it, will you? I told you right then I was wrong, and I told you the next day that I was wrong, and I been telling you twice a day ever since, so shut up!"
"That's a rookie's trick, Dallie, not trusting your caddy for the yardage. Sometimes I think you're deliberately trying to lose tournaments."
"Francie?" Dallie said over his shoulder. "You got any more of those fascinating stories about mascara you want to tell me right now?"
"Sorry," she said sweetly. "I'm all out. Besides, I'm not supposed to chat. Remember?"
"Too late anyway, I guess," Dallie sighed, pulling up to the airport's main terminal. With the ignition still running, he got out of the car and came around to open her door. "Well, Francie, I can't say it hasn't been interesting." After she stepped out, he reached into the back seat, removed her cases, and set them next to her on the sidewalk. "Good luck with your fiance and the prince and all those other high rollers you run around with."
"Thank you," she said stiffly.
He took a couple of quick chews on his bubble gum and grinned. "Good luck with those vampires, too."
She met his amused gaze with icy dignity. "Good-bye, Mr. Beaudine."
"Good-bye, Miss Francie Pants."
He'd gotten the last word on her. She stood on the pavement in front of the terminal and faced the undeniable fact that the gorgeous hillbilly had scored the final point in a game she'd invented. An illiterate-probably illegitimate- backwoods bumpkin had outwitted, outtalked, and out-scored the incomparable Francesca Serritella Day.
What was left of her spirit staged a full-scale rebellion, and she gazed up at him with eyes that spoke volumes in the history of banned literature. "It's too bad we didn't meet under different circumstances." Her pouty mouth curled into a wicked smile. "I'm absolutely certain we'd have tons in common."
And then she stood on tiptoe, curled into his chest, and lifted her arms until they encircled his neck,
never for a moment letting her gaze drop from his. She tilted up her perfect face and offered up her soft mouth like a jeweled chalice. Gently drawing his head down with the palms of her hands, she placed her lips over his and then slowly parted them so that Dallie Beaudine could take a long, unforgettable drink.
He didn't even hesitate. He jumped right in just as if he'd been there before, bringing with him all the expertise he'd gained over the years to meet and mingle with all of hers. Their kiss was perfect-hot and sexy-two pros doing what they did best, a tingler right down to the toes. They were both too experienced to bump teeth or mash noses or do any of those other awkward things less practiced men and women are apt to do. The Mistress of Seduction had met the Master, and to Francesca the experience was as close to perfect as anything she'd ever felt, complete with goose bumps and a lovely weakness in her knees, a spectacularly perfect kiss made even more perfect by the knowledge that she didn't have to give a moment's thought to the awkward aftermath of having implicitly promised something she had no intention of delivering.
The pressure of the kiss eased, and she slid the tip of her tongue along his bottom lip. Then she slowly pulled away. "Good-bye, Dallie," she said softly, her cat's eyes slanting up at him with a mischievous glitter. "Look me up the next time you're in Cap Ferret."
Just before she turned away, she had the pleasure of seeing a slightly bemused expression take over his gorgeous face.
"I should be used to it by now," Skeet was saying as Dallie climbed back behind the wheel. "I should be used to it, but I'm not. They just fall all over you. Rich ones, poor ones, ugly ones, fancy ones. Don't make no difference. It's like they're all a bunch of homing pigeons circling in to roost. You got lipstick
on you."
Dallie wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and then looked down at the pale smear. "Definitely imported," he muttered.
From just inside the door of the terminal, Francesca watched the Buick pull away and suppressed an absurd pang of regret. As soon as the car was out of sight, she picked up her cases and walked back outside until she came to a taxi stand with a single yellow cab. The driver got out and loaded her cases into the trunk while she settled in the back. As he got behind the wheel, he turned to her. "Where to, ma'am?"
"I know it's late," she said, "but do you think you could find a resale shop that's still open?"
"Resale shop?"
"Yes. Someplace that buys designer labels… and a really extraordinary suitcase."
Chapter 9
New Orleans-the city of "Stella, Stella, Stella for star," of lacy ironwork and Old Man River, Confederate jasmine and sweet olive, hot nights, hot jazz, hot women-lay at the bottom of the Mississippi like a tarnished piece of jewelry. In a city noted for its individuality, the Blue Choctaw managed to remain common. Gray and dingy, with a pair of neon beer signs that flickered painfully in
a window dulled by exhaust fumes, the Blue Choctaw could have been located near the seediest part of any American city-near the docks, the mills, the river, skirting the ghetto. It bumped up to the bad side, the never-after-dark, littered sidewalks, broken street lamps, no-good-girls-allowed part of town.
The Blue Choctaw had a particular aversion to good girls. Even the women the men had left at home weren't all that good, and the men sure as hell didn't want to find better ones sitting on the red vinyl bar stools next to them. They wanted to find girls like Bonni and Cleo, semi-hookers who wore strong perfume and red lipstick, who talked tough and thought tough and helped a man forget that Jimmy Asshole Carter was sure enough going to get himself elected President and give all the good jobs to the niggers.
Bonni twirled the yellow plastic sword in her mai-tai and peered through the noisy crowd at her friend
and rival Cleo Reznyak, who was shoving her tits up against Tony Grasso as he pushed a quarter in the jukebox and punched in C-24. There was a mean mood in the smoky air of the Blue Choctaw that night, meaner than usual, although Bonni didn't try to put her finger on its source. Maybe it was the sticky heat that wouldn't let go; maybe it was the fact that Bonni had turned thirty the week before and the last of her illusions had just about disappeared. She knew she wasn't smart, wasn't pretty enough to get by on her looks, and she didn't have the energy to improve herself. She was living in a broken-down trailer park, answering the telephone at Gloria's Hair Beautiful, and it wasn't going to get any better.