Wade said, "Of what?"
"A gremlin," Karen said.
Wade said, "Where's it at?"
"I'd show it to you, but I'd have to take off my pants. It's right here." She pointed to a spot where her leg met her hip.
"It's okay with me," Wade said.
Karen said, "Huh?"
"You want to take your pants off." Wade grinned big this time, showed his teeth that were nicotine-stained and crooked. "I was just kidding."
He was a real comedian. He had five years to think up zingers like that at the state prison in Jackson. Karen glanced down at Heil Hitler in wavy blue ink on his forearm. "Fan didn't tell me you were with the movement."
"What movement's that?
"White supremacists."
"Oh, the tats," Wade said. "They're mostly for show. Keep the porch monkeys from trying to fuck with me in stir. You got to join a gang or you don't have a prayer."
Karen told him about the safe and the money and Wade said it sounded pretty good. He was a fairly mellow guy, not at all what she thought he'd be like, judging by the way he looked. Karen said they'd talk again soon, put a plan into motion, but she already had the plan.
Wade said he was GTG. Karen said, "What?" "Good to go."
Things were falling into place. She had commitments Bobby and Lloyd, and now Wade.
There was just one more thing she had to do.
Chapter Seven
T. J. Dolliver got there early and ordered a Ketel One martini up, extra dry, Dean Martin style, with a lot of olives, five ounces of icy vodka to settle his nerves. He was sitting at the bar at Joe Kool's, watching the door for O'Clair. Get the crazy Irishman off his back and never borrow money again. He had to go to his father-in-law for a loan and explain how he'd gotten himself in trouble and then agree to counseling, talk to a psychologist about his gambling problem. He also had to pay his father-in-law, the cheap bastard, back the loan plus 10 percent, the going rate for sons-in-law who fuck up.
T.J. finished the martini and ordered another one. He felt good, a nice relaxing buzz settling over him. He'd somehow managed to get through it all without his wife, Renee, finding out. Count your blessings, he said to himself.
He looked over at the door now and saw O'Clair come in and his body tensed. O'Clair came right at him, eyes glued to him the whole way. Looking at him and then past him at the half dozen drinkers stretched out along the length of the bar. T.J. took another sip of vodka.
"A prompt man is a lonely man," O'Clair said.
"Huh?" T.J. wasn't expecting that.
The bartender came toward them and asked O'Clair if he wanted something and he shook his head. Now O'Clair stared at T.J., his face was blank.
"Got the money, my friend?" O'Clair said, using T.J.'s line, putting it in his face.
T.J. felt a rush of nerves like he was back in his house stretched out on the La-Z-Boy with O'Clair and the other guy. "Right here," he said, patting the front of his sport coat.
"Give it to me outside."
T.J. picked up his martini and finished it and felt the cold liquid burn his throat.
They walked out and T.J. followed him across the parking lot to the back of the building. He was thinking about what O'Clair said when he walked in: a prompt man is a lonely man. It was true. The shylock was a philosopher. T.J. reached into his sport coat pocket and took out the envelope and handed it to him. "That's all of it, seventeen five."
O'Clair took the envelope and hit him in the stomach and T.J. felt his insides explode. He dropped to his knees, holding his gut, bent over and threw up the two martinis and six olives. T.J. sucked air and heard him walking away now, relieved, the heavy sound of his shoes on the asphalt parking lot.
The girl on stage whose name was Misty took off the pleated schoolgirl skirt at the start of the second song, and was spinning around the silver pole in a G-string with a crazy expression of liberation on her face. O'Clair watched from the bar. If he saw Bobby he'd wait till Bobby walked out and follow him. He'd locked the money he collected from T.J. in the glove box of the
Seville. He'd drop it by Samir's later, make his 15 percent, plus the twenty-five hundred T.J. overpaid.
Misty was crawling around the perimeter of the horseshoe runway in her G-string, collecting bills from drunks and fools. The G-string looked like some kind of carnival outfit with all the bills sticking out of it. O'Clair drank Early Times and water and scanned the crowd. He asked the bartender if he knew a guy named Bobby Gal.
The bartender said, "The country western singer?"
"No," O'Clair said, "the car salesman."
The bartender shook his head.
The house disc jockey said, "Give it up for Misty Rain."
O'Clair got up after Misty finished her set and moved down the bar past three guys in golf shirts, drinking Lite beer. They were trying to impress a young stripper who was wearing a G-string and high heels.
"Gaskets are my life," one of the men, a balding salesman in a pink golf shirt said, "and it's a damn good one."
The stripper didn't seem too impressed, like she entertained gasket salesmen all the time. O'Clair moved toward the bouncer. He was a big guy, with a beer gut, six three, must have gone two sixty. O'Clair stood next to him and felt small. Guy wore a leather vest over a Stevie Ray Vaughan tee shirt, ball cap on backwards, plastic tightener let out all the way. O'Clair watched him give people a hard time, ruling over his little area of authority. O'Clair said, "Seen Bobby Gal around?"
The bouncer said, "Who?"
"Bobby Gal, car salesman comes in here," O'Clair said.
"Preppy smartass, son of a bitch?"
That sounded about right.
"Never heard of him," the bouncer said.
O'Clair knew where he'd hit him first, step in, nail him in the solar plexus, see how funny he was then. "You know, with that wonderful sense of humor you've got, you should be on stage telling jokes not standing here giving paying customers a lot of shit." The wop bouncer stared at O'Clair for a couple of seconds, but didn't say anything, his brain working overtime.
"That's what I want to do," he said. "How'd you know? I've got a routine and everything," excited, trying to be friendly but still had the tough guy edge.
O'Clair tried to imagine this clown doing stand-up, coming across like a raunchier version of Andrew Dice Clay. If you didn't laugh, he'd jump down off the stage and kick your ass. O'Clair said, "What's your stage name?"
The bouncer said, "Justin the Bouncer. What do you think?"
Justin the Bouncer, was he kidding? O'Clair said, "I'll be looking for you on Letterman."
He said, "Want to hear my opening joke?"
"Another time," O'Clair said. "I got to find the car salesman."
"He lives with Colette. She's off today."
"Got an address?"
O'Clair woke her up, he was sure of it, one in the afternoon. He knocked for five minutes before the door finally opened and he saw Colette standing there in shorts and a tank top, a cigarette hanging down from the corner of her mouth, eyes puffy, voice gravelly as she talked about Bobby, stopping to inhale a Newport 100, blowing smoke through the screen door, coughing. She sounded sick, the coughs coming up from the depths of her lungs. She came out on the second story porch and sat on the railing, scratching her head where blond hair turned dark running along the part. She lived in the upper flat of a building behind an adult bookstore and a massage parlor. He could see cars zipping by in the distance on Eight Mile Road.
"Bobby was a regular at the club," Colette said. That's where she got to know him. "And when he wasn't at the club he was downtown, playing blackjack."
Colette said Bobby was the only guy she'd dated in ten years who wasn't a drummer and should've known better. It was a bad omen. O'Clair asked her why she was attracted to drummers?