“And yet my father has fucked more showgirls than Sinatra.”
That would be a lot of showgirls.
She was saying, “My father is completely immoral, no make that amoral, where sex is concerned, but he’s got that same goddamn double-standard as the rest of the men of his generation. Madonnas and whores, that’s women to him.”
“Not to make too fine a point of it, but I doubt he thinks of you as a woman at all.”
“What?”
“You’re a girl. His little girl. And this professor is betraying a teacher’s trust and abusing daddy’s precious dainty child.”
She laughed and something harsh was in it, surprisingly so. “If you only knew what you were saying…”
Well, I didn’t. I was just filling the emptiness in the car, and trying to convince her I was on her side.
We drove silently again, maybe for five minutes. Then I noticed her sitting up, her brow furrowing.
“My God,” she said. Her brain was starting to work. “There are dead men back there at that rest stop.”
“That’s right.”
Wide eyes fixed on me. “What are you going to do about it? What am I going to do about it?”
“Well, we can’t go to the police.”
“Why not-wasn’t I kidnapped?”
“You were, but the way I handled it was not…strictly kosher.”
“You…what did you do?”
“I’m not going to give you the details.”
“You mean you…pretty much murdered them.”
“Pretty much.”
She sighed. Leaned against the door again. “I don’t know if I believe you…”
“Oh, I murdered them.”
“Not that.” She shrugged. “I buy that easy enough. What I doubt is you’re just some PI from Des Moines, not one of my father’s soldiers.”
“Do I look like one of your father’s soldiers?”
“No. You…you look like a soldier, though.”
“Did I mention Vietnam?”
“You mentioned it. Are you taking me to my apartment?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. How shaken up are you?”
“How shaken up would you be?”
“Fairly shaken up. You said you weren’t hurt, but they grabbed you, treated you rough, taped you up and threw you in that trunk-you must have aches and pains.”
“You could say I have aches and pains.”
I watched the road. We were coming up on the Quad Cities. “I think we should get a room somewhere and let you rest up and kind of heal up.”
“Why? What’s wrong with my apartment?”
“Your apartment, across from the Sambo’s where two black thugs kidnapped you, couple hours ago? That the apartment you mean?”
She said nothing, but she was holding onto her coat lapels again, and despite her dark complexion looked very pale, though some of that was moonlight and dashboard glow.
I said, “I would like to talk to your father. Tell him what happened.”
She turned sharply toward me. “I don’t want to have anything to do with my father!”
“I can understand that. But those two dead guys from the South Side, they do have something to do with your father. He’s in the middle of some kind of war with them and their black brothers. I want to ask him what to do with you, strictly for your protection.”
“I don’t want his protection.”
“Would you rather I hadn’t been here tonight? Do I have to paint you a picture of what kind of fun and games would’ve been starting about now?”
She said nothing, but then shook her head. “You’re…you’re probably right. In a case like this, my father is the person to talk to.”
“You want to talk to him yourself?”
“No. He and I don’t talk.”
“Would it be all right if I protected your interests?”
She nodded, once, still clutching her lapels.
We crossed the Mississippi and before long I took the Highway 61 exit and drove down through Davenport all the way to the riverfront, crossing under the government bridge and pulling into the Concort Inn parking lot.
I was able to park near the entrance. “Look,” I said, turning to Annette and resting a hand on the seat behind her. “Just so you know. We’ll go in, I’ll register us as husband and wife, Jack and Annette some-shit, and ask for twin beds. You have some fairly liberal notions about sex, but in case you’re wondering, I have no intentions of asking for a reward or anything.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“Good. This is about not getting killed. You not getting killed, me not getting killed. Those are the goals.”
“I can get behind those goals.”
“Fine. Let’s go in. If we get a twitchy desk clerk, I’ll say the airline lost our luggage.”
But the desk clerk didn’t give a shit whether we had luggage or not. He was a little put off by me paying in cash since the hotel really did prefer credit cards, but that was all.
The room was not as nice as the suite the Broker had arranged for my last visit, but it was anonymously modern and clean and had a view on the river. Also, the twin beds I’d requested. I set my nine millimeter on the nightstand between us, to emphasize the seriousness of the situation, and also because I might need the fucking thing.
Then I realized I was still in that stupid jacket I’d bought at the truck stop, and took it off and threw it on a chair. I also got out of the black Isotoner gloves.
She sat on the edge of her twin bed facing mine almost primly, hands folded in her lap. She looked beautiful in that fashion model way of hers, dark hair stopping at the white leather shoulders on its way down her back, eyes as big and brown as ever, mouth as fully lush if sans lipstick; but with an edge of controlled hysteria about her.
“Jack…Do you mind if I take a shower?”
“No. Let me in there for a couple minutes, first, would you? I neglected to use the bathroom at that rest stop, having other business to attend to.”
That actually made her smile.
So I went into the bathroom and I took a fairly major shit and emptied my bladder while I was at it; afterward, I turned on the ceiling fan, gentleman that I am, and splashed water in my face until I felt slightly alive. I mention all this not to share the fascinating details of my toilet activities but to demonstrate that I was giving Annette every opportunity to bail. She was alone out there, with my gun on the nightstand, with fan noise going behind the closed bathroom door, and I was doing my best to display trust. And to give her an opportunity to do the same.
When I emerged lighter and renewed, she was hanging up her coat in the closet. She smiled at me. She seemed calm enough.
She said, “I guess I haven’t thanked you.”
“It’s okay. I’ll hit your father up for some kind of bonus.”
She came over and touched my face. “You aren’t as tough as you pretend. I have a feeling, underneath it all, you’re a pussycat.”
I smiled. “I guess you’ve got my number.”
On the other hand, those dead assholes in the rest-stop john might’ve had a different opinion, if they’d still been in any shape to have opinions.
A terrycloth robe was hanging in the closet, with a CONCORT INN logo stitched on its breast pocket, and she took the robe with her into the bathroom and shut herself in.
I went over to the phone and had the desk put me through to the Broker’s emergency number. Three rings this time.
“I’m at the Concort Inn,” I said.
“What the hell are you doing there?”
“I’m in a room with our client’s daughter. She’s taking a shower. You wouldn’t want to come over here and have a talk with me about what I’ve been up to lately?”
A long pause. “I believe I would. What room are you in?”