Nestor lugged his duffel bag into the room and Boggs followed with the paper bag that was his suitcase. He was relieved to see there were two large beds. He hadn't wanted to spend his first night of freedom in bed with another man. Without commenting on the room, Nestor dropped his luggage onto the bed nearest the door and said, "Food."
Boggs said, "Hold up. I want to wash." He disappeared into the bathroom, amused and feeling almost heartsick with joy at how clean it was. At all the sweet smells. At the soap and wrapped glasses and a John behind a door that closed and locked. He ran the water cold, then hot, then cold again, then hot and washed his face and hands as the steam rose up and filled the room.
"I'm hungry," Nestor bellowed over the sound of the running water.
"Minute," Boggs shouted back and dried himself with luxurious towels that seemed thick as down comforters.
The bar-restaurant near the hotel was a local hangout, done up in prefab Tudor – dark beams, plastic windows mimicking stained glass, beige stucco walls. The place was half filled – mostly around the bar – with contractors and plumbers and truck drivers and their girlfriends. The men were in jeans and plaid shirts. A lot of beards. The women were in slacks, high heels and simple blouses. Almost everyone smoked. The Honeymooners was showing on a cockeyed TV above one end of the bar.
Nestor and Boggs sat down at a rickety table. Boggs stared at his place mat, which was printed with puzzles and word games. He could figure out the visual ones – "What's Wrong With This Picture?" – but he had trouble unscrambling letters to make words. He turned the place mat over and looked at the women at the bar.
The waitress came by and told them the kitchen was closing in ten minutes. They ordered four Black Jacks, neat, Bud chasers, and steaks and fries.
"That girl," Nestor said. "Too bad you didn't fuck her."
"Who?"
"The one sprung you."
"Naw, I told you, we was mostly friends."
Nestor asked, "So?"
"Well, I only got out a few hours before you showed up."
"It was me, the first thing I woulda done was get me some poontang."
Boggs felt he was on the spot. He said, "Well, she had the baby there."
The drinks arrived and they poured the shots down without saying anything because neither of them could think of a toast. Boggs wheezed and Nestor laughed. The big guy did his second shot right after.
"Don't get any of that Inside, do you?" Nestor asked him.
"There was stuff you could get, depending on what you were willing to do or how much money you had. It was shit, though. Me, I didn't get any care packages, so I had to settle. Sometimes I'd get me some watered vodka or a joint or two. Mostly I, didn't get nothing."
"When I was Inside we had it easy. Fucking country club. A lot of dealers from L.A. There was so much shit."
Boggs, dizzy from the liquor, asked, "You did time?"
"Fuck yeah, I was in. Did eighteen months in Obispo. Was fanfuckingtastic. You wanted blow, you got blow. You wanted sess, you got sess. You wanted fucking wine, you could get a good bottle of wine…"
Boggs was feeling the liquor sting his lips. They must've gotten windburned from the drive. "When were you in Obispo?"
"Four, five years ago about."
"I didn't know you'd done time."
Nestor looked at him, surprised. "Hey, there's probably a thing or two we don't know about each other. Like I don't know how long your dick is."
Boggs said, "Long enough to keep a grin onher face for an hour or two." His eyes slipped to the bar, where a round-faced young woman, with two-tone hair – blonde returning to black – sat with her elbow on the bar and her hand up, a cigarette aimed at the ceiling like a sixth finger. In front of her was a no-nonsense martini. The way she stared vacantly at the TV he figured the drink was the descendant of a long line of the same.
Nestor said, "You can have her. She don't have tits."
"Sure she does. She's setting hunched over."
The food arrived and took both men's attention. Boggs was eating slowly, cautiously, but he'd found his appetite was gone. Maybe the steak was too rich. Maybe the burgers had filled him up or the alcohol had burned out his taste buds. He thought about Rune, about the little girl. He ate mechanically. He looked at the woman, who caught his eye and held it for a minute before she looked back at the TV. He thought a bit more then decided to finish eating. Maybe food would sober him up.
Boggs finished while Nestor was still halfway through.
"Man," Boggs said, "that was a meal."
Nestor looked at Boggs's thin stomach. "You eat that way, how come you ain't fat?"
"Dunno. I just never gain any. Notmy doing." Boggs's voice faded as he stared again at the girl at the bar. This time she gave him a bit of a smile.
Nestor caught it. "Oh-oh." He smiled. "Prison-boy gonna get laid."
Boggs finished his beer. "You mind if I take the room for about an hour?"
"Shit, boy, it'll take you five minutes, unless you jerked off every night inside the slammer."
"Well, gimme an hour anyway. Maybe we'll wanta do it twice."
"Okeydokey," Nestor said. "But get her butt out by two. I'm tired and I need some sleep."
Boggs stood up and walked slowly toward the bar, trying to remember how to be cool and slick, trying to remember how to talk to women, trying to remember a lot of things.
27
Boggs and the girl had been gone a half hour when Jack Nestor finished the lousy apple pie and sucked the ice cream off his fork. He took the last swallow of coffee and called for the check.
The bar was pretty empty now and, aside from the waitress, there was nobody who saw him stand and go out to the parking lot. He looked up and saw the light on in his and Boggs's room. He opened the trunk of the car and took out his pistol. He hid the gun under his jacket and climbed the stairs to the second floor then moved slowly along the open walkway to the room. He'd thought about getting another key from the desk but that would have given the clerk another look at him. He'd decided to just knock on the door and when Boggs opened it shoot him in the gut – his I-dunno-I-just-eat-and-don't-get-fat gut. Then do the girl, if she was still there.
He paused. What was the noise? The TV? They were fucking and the TV was on? Maybe she was a screamer and Boggs kept the sound up so other guests wouldn't hear. That was good. Maybe it was a cop show and there'd be gunshots, which would help cover up the sound of the Steyr.
Nestor walked closer to the door. He pulled the slide back on the gun. He saw something flashing.
That putz…
Boggs was so horny he'd left the key in the door, which wasn't even fully closed. All Nestor had to do was push. He made sure the safety was off, slipped his finger into the trigger guard and swung into the room.
Empty.
The bedclothes weren't even turned down.
The bathroom was dark but he walked inside anyway, thinking that maybe they were fucking in the tub. But no, that was empty too. The only motion in the room was the flicker of the TV screen, on which severalHill Street Blues cops were looking solemn. Nestor shut off the set.
Then he noticed that Boggs's bag was gone. Shit.
He picked up the note, which rested on the pillow. Shit.
Jack, Lynda – that's her name – and me went back to her house. Seems she is going to Atlanta tomorrow, that's a coinsidence, huh, so we're going to be driving together for a spell, her and me, I mean. I will meet you at your place in Florida in a couple days. Sorry, but you don't have legs like her.
Son of a bitch.
Motherfucker!
Nestor kicked the bed furiously. The mattress bounced off the springs and came to rest at an angle. He slammed the door shut violently, which brought a sleepy protesting pounding from the next room over. Nestor hoped the guest would come over because he had an incredible desire to beat the living hell out of someone.