Deep Down Dead Page 5

  If only. I tried to stay relaxed, knew that this was Sal’s way of comforting me, but her closeness made me feel trapped. I wriggled to loosen her hold.

  She released me. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  I forced another smile. ‘Sure thing, sweetie.’

  I didn’t feel much like going home. It never felt good sticking my key in the lock, not knowing if Tommy would be there, waiting in the darkness. But I couldn’t very well stay at the Bang-Bang, not without getting roped into doing a double shift, anyways. So I stood, hauled on my jeans and a black tee, zipped up my jacket and slipped my bare feet into my boots.

  It wasn’t until I lifted my purse from the dressing table that I saw it. A calling card, stuck into the corner of the chipped frame of the mirror.

  I plucked it free. For a fancy cream card with black embossed lettering it didn’t say much; no name, just a single cell number and fifteen words, handwritten: Call me if you change your mind. I know the truth. I can help you.

  Holding the card between my thumb and forefinger, I re-read the number over and again. It had to be his, the big guy at the bar. The sickness returned, swirling in my belly.

  I didn’t stop to wonder how he’d known that seat at the dressing table was my spot, or even how he’d come to get backstage to this room when Bobby and Zack, the bar’s security guys, had a tally going for how many eager admirers they could sling out on their asses. All I thought was, what truth? Was it something about Tommy? Something bad? And, if the answer was yes, why did the big guy believe I could help?

  I wanted to call him, really I did, but as I opened my purse, I remembered how I reacted to Sal, how I’d made a big deal of my being married. I’d taken vows; misguided, not thought-out vows, for sure, but binding nonetheless. I was married to Tommy, Thomas Ford, and whatever the big guy wanted him for, I doubted that it was good.

  I stared at the card in my hand. It didn’t seem right to call this guy, to betray my husband, especially when I knew how it might go. If Tommy found that card I’d get more than a bruise in my hairline for sure. And hell, I didn’t even know the big guy’s name.

  So I tore his calling card clean in half and tossed it into the trash. Truth or no truth, things were what they were. I’d made my vows, chosen my path. No good could come of pipe-dreaming about more.

  6

  The torn-up card was still lying in the trash the following evening. By rights I shouldn’t have seen it, because I shouldn’t have been working at all. But I’d swapped nights with Callie on account of one of her military friends being unexpectedly in town. I guess some might say it was fate, or some business about the planets being lined up or whatnot. Personally that kind of hokum doesn’t hold any with me. The truth is the cleaner fell sick, so the trash didn’t get taken out.

  I was still staring at the card when Sal arrived. She banged open the door and I jumped, half from the noise and half from guilt, knocking my purse over on to the dressing table. My make-up pots and brushes scattered, some of them plunged to the floor. Cussing under my breath, I lunged for them. Missed.

  Sal rushed over, knelt beside me and helped collect up the brushes. Handing them to me she asked, ‘You okay?’

  I nodded, forcing a smile. ‘Sure, honey. Just a little tired.’

  ‘Me too,’ Sal grinned.

  Plonking the brushes and a handful of pots back on to the dressing table, I turned to get a better look at Sal. Something about her seemed real different. Her skin was flushed and she was grinning wide, like a Cheshire cat on crystal.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  She snorted, and pulled back the collar of her pink gingham shirt to reveal a hickey.

  I shook my head. ‘Jesus! Girl what have you been doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she giggled.

  ‘Looks like all kinds of nothing to me.’

  She fluttered her lashes, acting all coy. ‘It was just a little fun.’

  A little fun? Why, that’s how it starts out. But later there’s always blame and guilt and fighting – at least in my experience. Still, Sal had a plan. She’d dance to pay her way through school, or at least for as long as it took to find a husband with a bit of money. Then she’d live happy ever after.

  No matter how many times I told her things just don’t work out that way, she wouldn’t listen. I knew marriage couldn’t get rid of the fear she’d carried ever since her momma’s boyfriend did what he did to her. But she was fixed real stubborn on her plan. And who the hell was I to be giving out advice, anyway? I’d lost my cherry on my fifteenth birthday in the back of Thomas Ford’s pickup, and then gone and married him. Neither choice did me any favours.

  ‘So tell me,’ I said.

  She perched on the edge of my dressing table. ‘Well, it’s this guy, Daryl. He’s a real gentleman. Took me to dinner at the Olive Garden, three courses, all proper.’

  I nodded. ‘And then he tucked in all gentlemanly to your neck?’

  She blushed a little deeper. ‘Well, I invited him in for coffee, but he declined. He wanted to be respectful an’ all. So we had ourselves a goodnight kiss.’

  From the state of her neck I’d say a bunch of vampires gave her a goodnight kiss. This Daryl must have been real enthusiastic. ‘Sweet. So you’re seeing him again?’

  Sal’s grin widened. ‘Yep. Tomorrow night. Dinner and a movie, he said.’

  Most guys only got one date with Sal. They’d be keen enough, she was a pretty girl after all, but if she didn’t figure they were marriage material, after one date she’d call it quits. Most of them never even made it to first base. ‘That’s great, honey. I’m real happy for you.’

  She giggled in that cutesy-girl way that seems false on most, but on Sal was genuine, and sashayed over to her dressing table, humming a tune. I couldn’t guess the song, Sal was tone deaf and sounded like a strangled coyote if she ever tried to sing. Still, she sounded real happy.

  I sat back on my chair and fought the urge to pick the card out of the trash. Instead I got to rearranging my pots. I’d always gotten a real sense of satisfaction from the order of my dressing space, but on that night it couldn’t distract me. All I could think about were the two halves of the big guy’s calling card sitting in the trash, and the fifteen words written on the back: Call me if you change your mind. I know the truth. I can help you.

  I’d no clue what truth he was meaning, but he’d said he needed my help. Maybe I should call him.

  I heard a double knock on the door and Bobby’s deep voice said, ‘Five minutes for Miss Sally and fifteen for Whiskey.’

  Sal was fully made up in her baby-doll get-up: kohl eyes and pink shimmer lipstick, her dark-brown hair in bunches tied with pink ribbons, her bangs hanging low over her eyes. She glanced across at me as she fastened her white satin corset. ‘Cutting it close, Lori.’

  I stared at her a moment, my mind still thinking on the card and the message.

  She waved at me. ‘Hey, Earth to Lori, did you hear? Hank said fifteen minutes till your curtain. You can’t go out there looking like that.’

  That was for sure. Old Hank would never allow me to step on stage in my cut-off jeans, faded Bon Jovi tee, and zero make-up. ‘Shit. Guess I’d better move.’

  ‘Finally you listen to me about something,’ Sal laughed, and blew me a kiss as she strode to the door.

  ‘Own it,’ I said. ‘Tits and ass.’

  ‘Like you taught me.’

  I smiled and she gave me a little wave as she headed out the door to show her assets to a room of drunken men looking for a flesh fantasy. I’d been playing that part near on three years. I’d learnt every move, every role. Maybe this guy, and the help he needed, would lead to something different.

  I leant down and reached into the trash can. With my forefinger I traced the outline of the card, first one half and then the other.

  What truth could he tell me, and why did he think we could help each other? My gut told me it was worth knowing, or at least I let myself think that was the reason I decided
to call. In hindsight I reckon I had myself fooled. It was plain lust that made me want to see the big guy; lust for the truth and, perhaps, for him. Whatever the real reason, I snatched the two pieces of his calling card from the trash, and thrust them into my purse.

  I should’ve known better.

  Every day Tommy stayed away I felt stronger. Still, I knew it would be foolish to call the number on the card from home. Even if Tommy wasn’t there, he was always real suspicious of any numbers that he didn’t recognise on the bill, and when he got suspicious things never ended well. So that night, after our shift, when Sal asked if I wanted to get pie over at the all-night diner that’d opened up across the street, I said yes.

  She squealed in delight, hooked her arm through mine, and led me out of the dressing room to the back door. ‘You’re gonna love it, Lori,’ she said in that breathless voice of hers. ‘They have all kinds of amazing flavours. There’s cherry, of course, and candy apple and blueberry, and lemon curd, like they have in England, y’know?’

  I nodded. Sal had a thing about accents; her latest crush was the English variety, ever since a group of men in town for a work conference had visited the club and declared her charming. Now everything from England was exciting to her. I smiled. ‘So I hear.’

  As it was we both ordered cherry pie and black coffee. It was served by a middle-aged waitress wearing a plastic name badge that told us her name was Lindy. Even though it was near on four in the morning she looked fresh and neat in her black slacks and white cotton shirt.

  Of the fourteen booths in the diner, only three were occupied. The plastic-coated tables were clean and pre-set, and the music, Elvis and others from that era, helped give the place a retro feel. I couldn’t help but wonder if clients of the Bang-Bang Bar ever stopped by on their way home. The two places might be only yards apart, but in taste they were in whole other worlds.

  Anyways, once the waitress had delivered our order, Sal leant across the table and said, ‘So did that guy visit with you again tonight?’

  ‘Guy?’ I said, acting real dumb and taking a bite of pie to give myself an excuse for not saying more.

  ‘Come on, Lori. That guy, the one you sat with on your break last night, who you were staring at all soulful.’

  I chewed my pie slow. Shook my head.

  She sighed. ‘Shame. You looked real cute together.’

  Cute? I couldn’t help but laugh. The stripper and the … what – PI, cowboy, or something else? Sounded ridiculous. Still, no matter how I’d tried, and truly I had, to put the memory of the big guy and what he’d said away in a box labelled ‘fantasy’, it wouldn’t stick. In my gut I knew I was dumb to attempt it. I was done fighting. ‘He gave me his card.’

  ‘Did you call him?’ she said between mouthfuls.

  I shook my head. ‘Not sure I’m gonna—’

  ‘You must.’ She stared at the yellowish bruise on my temple. ‘Maybe he’s not coming back this time.’

  ‘We’re doing just fine,’ I said, my tone way harsher than I’d intended.

  She looked away, her cheeks colouring pink.

  Damn, I’d upset her. All she’d done was say what I’d been thinking. What maybe I’d been hoping. I glanced down at the table. Sal’s plate was empty; all I’d eaten was one mouthful. I pushed my pie across to her as a peace offering. ‘I didn’t get his name.’

  ‘How could you not?’

  ‘It wasn’t that kind of conversation.’

  Sal nodded to the payphone over in the corner of the diner. ‘So call him and ask.’

  I tried not to look fussed. Made out like I’d not clocked the phone as we arrived and been thinking about calling the big guy every minute since. ‘I guess I could.’

  Sal took a big forkful of my pie, then stared me straight in the eye and said, with her mouth still full, ‘What’s stopping you?’

  I looked away. My gaze fell on the cop over in the far booth, hunched over a newspaper, reading as he shovelled eggs into his mouth. I thought of Tommy, and of that one last almighty fight I’d had with my Pappy. I thought of my empty apartment with the leaky faucet and the smashed pane of glass in my grand-mammy’s cabinet. I thought of the life I’d imagined I’d be living by the time I’d reached twenty-two, and wondered why I’d let myself settle for so much less. Finally, I thought of my little Ethan, lying in his cot for those few short weeks.

  Reaching into my purse, I pulled out the two halves of the card and re-read the message. Figured, what the hell.

  I looked back at Sal. ‘Nothing.’

  She squealed, clapping her hands together like a little kid. ‘Oh, Lori.’

  ‘Jesus, girl,’ I said, sliding out from the booth. ‘You think this is exciting, you should really get out a whole lot more with that Daryl of yours.’

  Nine steps across the tiled black-and-white floor of the diner and I reached the payphone. I read the number on the card, then glanced at Sal. She grinned and made a goofy thumbs-up gesture. I turned away, feeling like a fool.

  Lifting the receiver, I cradled it in the crook of my neck and punched the numbers on the dial pad. The call clicked through the exchange, there was a pause, then the ringtone began: one ring, two, a third, then a fourth.

  It cut off halfway through the fifth repetition. The call answered. I gripped the handset a little tighter. Waited. Heard no breathing, no words. Nothing.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  Silence.

  It seemed real odd. Should I hang up, or wait some more? I didn’t know. Held my breath and began to count.

  I’d gotten to six before he spoke. That gravel-deep voice, both new and familiar, said, ‘You know the Little Sugar Diner on the corner of Sixth and Clayton?’

  I’d heard of it. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Be there in thirty.’

  The line went dead. I stared at the phone, my heart thumping against my ribs as I worked out the fastest route. Wrong move. I should have stayed right there, or gone straight home.

  But I didn’t.

  7

  Sal went real giddy with excitement when I told her, and didn’t mind at all me running out and leaving her. So we said our goodbyes and I went to meet the big guy.

  Twenty-seven minutes later, I was sitting on an uncomfortable plastic bench in a four-person booth towards the back of the Little Sugar All-Night Diner, watched by a sour-faced waitress with bad skin and caked-on foundation. I ordered another black coffee, but this time no pie. I was the only customer there.

  At four fifty-six, dead on thirty minutes from when he’d put the phone down, the big guy from the bar showed up. He stepped inside, strolled casual as you like towards me, and slid on to the bench seat opposite.

  The waitress brought coffee. She smiled at the big guy. I waited until she’d poured his and refilled mine before I spoke.

  ‘So you said you needed my help, and that you could help me too?’

  He took a mouthful of coffee, then set the cup back in the saucer and looked straight at me, all intense with those blue eyes of his. ‘Your husband skipped bail.’

  That I had not expected. Tommy had promised no more trouble. The last DUI had wrecked our car, and our cash flow. I’d worked double shifts to pay the fine. He hated that, and the hate had made him act out real bad. After the bruises faded, and he came over all remorseful, he’d promised it’d never happen again. Like a fool, I’d almost believed him.

  I took a gulp of coffee. It scalded my tongue, but it still didn’t rid me of the bitter taste in my mouth. Damn son-of-a-bitch. ‘What’d he do?’

  The big guy said nothing. Watched me for a long moment.

  I looked down. Noticed a patch of spilt sugar lying to the right of his elbow. Wanted to brush it away. Couldn’t.

  The waitress hovered closer, coffee pot in hand. I glared at her. She retreated back to the counter.

  The big guy leant forward. ‘You do know who he works for, right?’

  I shrugged. ‘He doesn’t have a steady job. Never did. We get by on my wages
and his occasional winnings at the tables.’

  ‘Seems your husband hasn’t been at all honest about how he gets his cash.’

  I snorted. ‘Cash? He doesn’t have any. The man is always flat broke.’

  The big guy frowned. Reaching into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, he pulled out a stack of photos. He flicked the spilt sugar off the table, and spread the pictures out in front of me. ‘Do you recognise these people?’

  I stared at the images. They were all a bit blurred. Clearly snapped covertly. The first showed Tommy entering a casino; no surprise there. The next couple had him sat at a poker table with a bunch of other men. I guessed from the volume of cards and chips in play that they were mid-game. The last one was different. Tommy and another guy – a man with a dagger-dripping-blood tattoo on his arm, were dragging a grey-haired man, bloodied and helpless, along an alleyway.

  I shook my head, pushed the photos away. ‘He’s a gambler, not a—’

  ‘Isn’t he?’ The big guy’s stare fixed on the bruise in my hairline.

  He put another photograph on the table. The grey-haired man cowered beside a heap of garbage bags, his arms raised in a feeble attempt to shield himself. The tattooed man had his foot raised, poised to kick the fallen man in the stomach.

  Then the big guy laid down his final picture. My husband was face-on to the camera, his mouth twisted in rage, eyes fixed on his victim. The shot captured the exact moment Tommy’s baseball bat had connected with the old man’s skull, the fine mist of blood arching from his head captured in the blink of the shutter.

  I looked away. The diner seemed to spin around me. I gripped the table, tried not to vomit. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Drayton Millard. He’s a small-time salesman and gambler. Had himself a bit of a habit, which was just fine until he stopped settling his account with your husband’s employer.’

  What the hell was Tommy mixed up in? I swallowed hard, looked at the big guy. ‘What happened?’

  He tapped the last photo. ‘This CCTV picture was taken by a new surveillance camera outside the casino. The local police department had put it there the night before. It got your husband good. He was arrested, bailed, and was due to appear eighteen days ago to answer assault charges.’