Kevin was painfully aware of the closeness of the pendulous bosoms that had provided him with so many hours of bliss. They'd been declared off-limits for the time being, but his palms tingled as he recalled the overflowing handfuls of softness, downy hair, and nipples as big and pink and sweet as rosebuds.
"That's okay," he managed to say, sticking his hands in his pockets before he lost control and lunged at her. "I know you're tired all the time. The doctor sez the babies'll be sleeping through the night afore too long. That means you and me can go back to doing the things a married couple is supposed to do. Remember how we used to sneak into the storage room at the Kwik-Stoppe Shoppe?"
"And end up with more babies? We can't afford the two we have right now, and before you know it, we'll have to be buying shoes and bicycles and band instruments and party clothes and-" She sank onto a chair, her chins quivering and her face crumpled with misery. "We can't hardly afford vitamins and medicine, Kevin. What'll we do down the road when Rose Marie needs braces on her teeth?"
"Why, I'll be the manager at the supermarket by then," Kevin said heroically. "Jim Bob came near leaving me in charge while he's in Hot Springs, but then that dadburned Idalupino had to go and tell him that I took a nap in the lounge when I was supposed to be mopping the floor. From the way he carried on, you'd have thought I knocked over the display of canned pineapple again."
"Jim Bob ain't never gonna pay you more than minimum wage," she said, shaking her head. "All we can do is sell this house my granny gave us and move into a cramped trailer at the Pot O' Gold. Kevvie Junior and Rose Marie will grow up with a ditch for a yard. They'll start cussin' and lyin' and stealin' candy bars at the supermarket, and then drop out of school and take to selling drugs behind the pool hall. They'll be arrested and sent to prison, and when they get out, they'll have earrings all over their bodies. It's gonna kill your ma, Kevin. Then your pa'll have to move into the trailer with us, even though we won't have but one bedroom, and spend his days in a dirty undershirt, peeking through widows' bathroom windows and stealing their brassieres off the clothesline."
Kevin struck a manly, home-from-the-hunt pose. "We're not that bad off, my dimpled dumpling. According to the budget we made up, we can make ends meet as long as we don't waste money on extras like going to the picture show in Farberville or eating supper at the Dairee Dee-Lishus. It may get a little tight from time to time, but there's plenty of money in our bank account to pay all the bills."
If he'd been watching his wife instead of puzzling over what his pa was gonna do with stolen brassieres, he might have noticed the flush on her cheeks. He finally gave up (his pa having never shown much interest in underwear, including his own) and added, "So don't you fret about money. When we got married, I promised to see after you, and I'm gonna do it. What's for supper?"
"Beans and cornbread, just like every Friday night. Why doncha play with the babies till it's ready?"
He went back into the living room and began to prattle in a goofy, high-pitched voice. Dahlia poured the cornbread batter into a pan, stuck it in the oven, and sat down to rest for a few minutes. There wasn't any reason to ruin his good mood, she decided. There'd be plenty of time later to tell him that she needed the car the following afternoon. With any luck, she'd end up with cash to cover the payment to the hospital, and even leave enough for groceries till his next paycheck.
With any luck at all.
LaBelle was back at her desk when I came into the sheriff's department, but she was banging on a typewriter with enough fervor to bend the keys. Although she must have felt a gust of cold air as I opened the door, she kept her face down.
"I need to see Harve," I said.
"Well, he doesn't need to see you. Call next week and make an appointment like everybody else. This is not a convenience store where you can drop in and microwave a burrito whenever you please."
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Harve asked me to come by this afternoon and brief him on a case. Is he in his office?"
"Where do you think he is- Paris?" she said, at last giving me a hostile stare. "Of course he's in his office, but he told me that he doesn't want to be disturbed. I know for a fact that he locked the door as soon as I left. If a fire starts and he passes out from the smoke, he's gonna be in real trouble because there's no way anybody can get in to rescue him. My cousin Magenta always locked the bathroom door when she took a bath. When she slipped getting out of the tub, her husband called the ambulance and the paramedics had to break down the door. There she was, naked as the day she was born, with these two strange men ogling her every wart, scar, and stretch mark. To this day she claims she doesn't remember any of it, but that ain't what her husband says."
She resumed her assault on the typewriter. I went down the hall to Harve's office and knocked on the door.
"I tol' you to leave me alone, LaBelle!" he boomed. "I don't want to hear any more complaints about the dirty coffee cups in the break room. And stop calling it a 'war room,' fer chrissake?"
I identified myself and assured him I was alone in the hall. He unlocked the door, dragged me inside, and relocked it.
"LaBelle's getting on my nerves," he said, running his fingers through what hair he had as he sat down behind his desk. "She's so crazy these days that she thinks I put a bath tub in here. Now you tell me-why in blazes would I have gone and done a fool thing like that?"
"Shall I assume the task force is still in operation?" I asked.
"Does a bear shit in the woods? Yeah, there are about a dozen of 'em on loan from various agencies in the county. They report to the prosecutor, so half the time I don't even know what they're doing-besides eating doughnuts and pizza." He took a cigar butt out of his pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. "One of the fellows that was on the critical list died last night. The other one is on a respirator in the intensive care unit. A DEA agent's staying by his bedside, but I don't think we're going to be hearing a confession anytime soon."
"Why's this such a big deal, Harve? It's not exactly a secret that illegal drugs are cheap and plentiful in Stump County. Marijuana's more common than cocaine, but everything's available in the bars on Thurber Street."
"It seems we're smack in the middle of a new route from Mexico to Chicago. The DEA's been onto it for several months, but they've been waiting for a good-sized shipment so they can get publicity. They sure would like to know what happened at the Dew Drop Inn. The owner and bartender are in custody, but they seem to have been struck deaf and dumb. We're trying to find out who else might have been hanging around after the club closed." He took the cigar out of his mouth, studied it for a moment, and jammed it back in. He used a couple of matches to get it lit to his satisfaction, then leaned back and entwined his fingers on his belly. "Ain't your headache, though. You get anywhere in Scurgeton?"
"The only problem out there is a preacher with an overcharged imagination and too much free time," I said, trying not to squint as acrid smoke drifted across the desk. "There's nothing going on in Maggody, so I can keep driving over there to gaze wonderingly at whatever doohickey Reverend Hitebred finds under a chair. I may get bored with it sooner or later, however."
"Just keep him happy," Harve said with a chuckle that disintegrated into a spasm of coughing. When he regained control, he brushed ashes off his chest and said, "Or out of my hair, anyway."
"Sure," I said, waited a few seconds in case he had any more questions (or was going into respiratory failure), and then unlocked the door and went out to the hallway. Before I'd reached the reception area, I heard the lock click behind me, and from somewhere in the back of the building, brays of laughter and a phrase that sounded suspiciously like, "straight flush." LaBelle ignored me as I went by her desk.