A Fistful of Rain Page 19

  Dyke Tracy was dancing with him, her hair slicked back, working up a sweat. The outfit was new, not the work clothes and not what she’d worn when she’d grilled me in my kitchen the previous night, very casual, this time, just the jeans and the tee and the sneakers. Graham said something to her, and she shot a look my way and grinned.

  I didn’t know if I should panic or laugh. Both seemed reasonable options.

  Marcus wasn’t on the floor, and I cast around for him, trying to find him in the corners or on the stairs, but he wasn’t there, either. I took that to mean Hoffman was here on her own accord, not on the job, but that didn’t raise my comfort level.

  Time to do what I came to do and get the hell out.

  I stopped and listened at Van’s bedroom door, and didn’t hear anything like sex going on, so I figured it was safe to knock.

  “Who?”

  “Mim.”

  There was a pause, and then the door swung open and Van stood there. I’d interrupted her halfway through makeup, and she’d done her eyes, but everything below the nose was still untouched. She didn’t look surprised or thrilled to see me, just turned and went back to her makeup table.

  “Would you close it?” she asked.

  I shut the door and took a moment to appreciate the room. It was large and white and functional. A big bed, good for sleeping or playing, a big television in the corner, and the makeup table. Doors led to the bathroom and the closets. One wall had a beautiful oil painting, a field of trees in what looked like a pretty fierce autumn storm, and when I moved my head, the light on the painting seemed to change, pulling the background into relief.

  Van finished with her lips, capped the stick, and then turned to give me some attention. She was wearing another of her tees, this one gray and with the sleeves cut off. On it was a fifties-style woman’s face, neatly coiffed, eyes beneath sleepy lids, her mouth open, wiping at her chin with the back of her hand. Beneath it all was the slug GOT CREAM?

  It was the kind of shirt she wore simply to get a response, and for that reason alone, I ignored it.

  “You have a detective on your dance floor,” I told her.

  “Only one? I invited two.”

  “Did you?”

  “Two came by today, Portland PD, Graham sent them over. About what happened to your brother and the pictures and all of it. I was doing party prep at the time.”

  “I know them.”

  “Right, of course you do.” Vanessa turned back to the mirror on her table, picked up the hairbrush. “Anyway, I invited them. As guests, not cops.”

  “You live dangerously,” I said.

  She laughed at my reflection. “You’re one to talk.”

  “Not kidding, Van. There are at least fifteen people smoking joints upstairs, and God knows what’s going on in the bathrooms.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen.” She began pulling the brush through her hair, still watching me in the mirror. “Graham told me you’d be by.”

  “Did he tell you why?”

  “He said you needed to get together some cash for a purchase, and you couldn’t get the bank to hand it over in time.”

  “I’m not after a loan, Van. I need to cash a very large check, and the bank can’t cover it in time.”

  She finished fixing her hair, then got up and went to the closet. There was another mirror hanging from the inside of the closet door, a double full-length one, and she checked herself very carefully in it. I didn’t see anything wrong, but Van apparently did, and she spent a couple seconds adjusting the waist of her jeans, making sure they hugged low on her hips.

  “So tell me about this place you’re buying.”

  I’d refined the lie in the intervening hours, and I thought it flowed easily, not too smooth, but honest. “It’s on the other side of the lake, smaller than this place, but it’s really nice. Four bedrooms, two full baths, and there’s a really good space for a music room. And there’s a deck, you know, with a hot tub. The whole thing’s right on the water, really quiet. But you know how they are out here, they’re all worried about the publicity and noise and shit, and if I can get them a big lump sum down, that’ll make me look good.”

  “Graham said it’d help you dry out.”

  “I think it would.”

  She nodded slightly, then checked herself again. She indicated her shirt. “You haven’t commented.”

  “You wouldn’t like what I had to say.”

  “Please, go ahead.”

  I sighed. “All right, I think it’s sexist, gross, and that it pretty much declares that you’ll give a blow job to any guy who wants one.”

  Van examined herself in the mirror again. “You get all that from the shirt?”

  “You asked.”

  “Shit.” Van pulled the shirt off, tossing it on the closet floor, then disappeared inside, rummaging around. “How much you need?”

  “Two hundred and fifty thousand in cash. But I need it by Friday.”

  “Three days? And how much is this place?”

  “Seller’ll let me have it for a million.” I managed to say it like the number wasn’t significant, like we all were used to dealing with seven figures as a matter of course.

  Van emerged, pulling on a green silk shirt. It clung to her shape, and she fixed the middle two buttons, leaving the others open. Her belly, flat and toned, and her cleavage, not flat but also toned, were deftly exposed. The hoop in her navel glinted.

  “Better?”

  “You look hot.”

  She made a noise of agreement, then checked herself in the mirror a final time. Satisfied, she closed the closet door, then addressed me.

  “What’s really going on?” Van asked. She didn’t sound angry or annoyed, just very matter-of-fact, as if she was used to all of my lies, and this was merely another of the legion.

  “Nothing. Look, Van. I’m just trying to buy this place and this guy already has another buyer. He said if I paid him in cash, he’d sell to me. But he’s only giving me until Friday.”

  “I had that company you used, the one Chapel called, come by. They went through this whole house, did a complete search. I figured it was prudent, especially with what happened at your place. They didn’t find anything.”

  “This isn’t about the pictures.”

  “Mim, I’m not an idiot, okay? Please, please, please stop treating me like one.”

  “I don’t treat you like an idiot—”

  “Then why do you keep lying to me?”

  “I’m not—”

  “Is whoever took those shots blackmailing you? Are there more pictures?”

  “It’s not blackmail.”

  “Paying isn’t going to stop it. You pay, whoever he is, he’s just going to come back for more. You can’t do this.” Van came closer, lowering her voice. “You can’t do this, Mim.”

  “That’s not what this is. That’s just not what this is, Van.”

  “Who hit you?” Van asked. “Your father? Did Tommy hit you?”

  “No. No, it’s—”

  “You’ve got a bruise on your throat, you know that? Right under your chin, it’s hard to see, but when you move your head and the shadow’s gone, it’s visible, and it’s a bruise.” Her face suddenly went blank, and her highlighted eyes widened. “Oh God, Mim, did someone choke you?”

  She reached a hand for my chin, and I evaded it by stepping back and looking away.

  “Please, Van,” I said. “I need the money, and I need it in cash, and if I could get it myself I wouldn’t be here, I wouldn’t ask. My bank can’t get it to me until Monday. I’m good for it, you know I can write you a check or make a wire transfer or whatever you want, but I’ve got to have the money, and I’ve got to have it by Friday.”

  The way she was looking at me, it made me think of Joan.

  “Mim.” Van said my name softly. “I just want to help you—”

  “The way you sent me home?” It burst out as a shout, and I felt like shit the second after I heard myself say it, but
I followed it up anyway. “You mean the way you helped me like that? You want to help me, Van, just give me the cash!”

  It hurt her, and it showed in the anger that flared in her eyes, and I had to look away from her again.

  “All right, Mim. You write me the check and I’ll call my banker tomorrow, have him get the cash together. You can pick it up from Graham when it’s ready.”

  I had my checkbook in one of my cargo pockets, and a ballpoint, and I went to the makeup table and wrote it out. After I signed my name I looked up at the reflection, and Van wasn’t even watching me anymore, but was sitting on the edge of the bed and looking at the door. I tore the check free and put the book and the pen back in my pocket, then brought it over to her.

  She looked at it in my extended hand, and I felt sick because I thought she was going to tell me she had changed her mind, but she took it. She folded the paper perfectly in half.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “It’s funny,” Van said quietly. “I never figured out of the three of us, that you’d be the cliché.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means you’re the one angling to live fast, die young, and leave the good-looking corpse.” She got up and tucked the check into her jeans pocket. “You’re going to self-destruct or something. It’s becoming pretty obvious that I can’t stop it, either, any more than I can stop you drinking.”

  “Would it make you happy to know I haven’t had a drink since my brother’s funeral?”

  “You think that’s a fucking achievement? Sober for twenty-four hours? Call me in a month, tell me the same thing.”

  “I will.”

  “I don’t think you will. I don’t think you’ll be able to.”

  She went to the door, ready to leave and join her guests. I followed her out, into the hallway. The party noise rushed at us, loud voices and the thunder of music. We walked back to the main room together, but just before we hit it, Van put her hand on my arm and stopped me.

  “Whoever it is, whatever they have on you, they’re never going to stop,” she said. “They’ll bleed you until you’re dead, and then they’ll pick over your corpse. Think about that.”

  Then she waded into the room, taking hugs and laughter, pulling admirers into her wake exactly like what they were—groupies following a rock star.

  CHAPTER 27

  I was out the door and halfway to my car when Hoffman caught up with me, saying, “Hey, wait a minute.”

  “No,” I threw over my shoulder, and kept going. I heard her sneakers slapping in puddles as she accelerated, long strides, coming alongside. She reached the Jeep ahead of me, put herself between me and the driver’s door. It was cold enough that her breath made clouds with each exhale.

  “Please get out of my way,” I said.

  “Look, you’re not a suspect, it’s okay to talk to me.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you. Hell, I don’t want to see you. You weren’t even supposed to be here tonight.”

  “I was invited.”

  “Well, that was Van’s mistake, and I shouldn’t have to suffer for it.”

  Hoffman gave a half-laugh. “You really have no idea how to deal with me, do you? Your gaydar went off and you went straight to the bunker.”

  “If that’s what you want to believe.”

  “I think we both know it’s the truth. I think we both know you’ve been waiting for a nice butch to come along and take care of you for a while now.”

  “I think we both know you’re full of shit,” I said, or at least started to say, but everything after “think” was lost in her mouth, because she started kissing me.

  She was fierce about it, and a flicker ran through me, urging me to resist, but there was another one, stronger and hotter, and that was the one I went with, feeling the cool of her sweat and the heat of her skin and the warmth of her body against the chill of the air. I pressed myself into her, and she put her hands on my hips and pulled me with her as she stepped back, and we moved, me pushing up on tiptoe to keep my lips to hers, as she got me around to the back of the Jeep and out of the light.

  Her fingers came up, touched my neck, light on my collarbone, and I tried to touch her back, but she wouldn’t have any, batting my hand away and pinning me to the back of the car with a thigh between my own. The pressure transferred to muscles, my knees shaking, and she put her mouth on my neck, and it felt wonderful and strange, that softness against the bruise there. I let my head rest against the Jeep, feeling the cold metal and glass on my back, and I pulled air loud, pulled it again louder when her hands went under my shirt.

  There were stars visible through the trees, and the music was still whispering in the background, and I heard her breathing, quick and sure, and my own, more ragged, louder. She growled from her throat, her hands shifted, my breathing caught, resumed, faster. Her mouth brushed my ear.

  “Jesus God, I want you,” she murmured.

  And it was so nice to be wanted, and she rocked against me, and I thought I would dissolve, and there was no panic and no fear, and for a euphoric moment, there wasn’t even me.

  Then she was pulling away, catching her breath as I tried to catch my own. She gave me another kiss, the ferocity gone.

  “You’ve got my number,” Hoffman said. “Give me a call.”

  CHAPTER 28

  It was just eleven when I got home, and I locked up and set the alarm, thinking that whatever had just happened, I was happy for it. That lasted until I saw the “all portals secure” message on the LCD.

  Like the alarm had done me a damn bit of good thus far. Like I was going to be able to sleep in my bed tonight feeling anything close to secure.

  I took a long shower, realized that I wasn’t ready to sleep just yet, and pulled on some clothes. There was a last, lonely beer in the fridge, and I opened it, lit a smoke, and went down to the music room.

  He waited until I’d set the bottle down and was reaching for the Les Paul, and I heard the sliding of nylon on nylon, and then he grabbed me from behind, easily, like he did this sort of thing all the time. I started to scream, first in surprise, though terror was next on the list, but there was leather suddenly covering my mouth and nose, fingers strong and hard pressing with the one hand while he wrapped his other arm around my middle, pulling me back, pinning me to him.

  I struggled, just blind panic, my feet lashing out in the air. My right toe hit the stand for the Les Paul, and it toppled and took one of the Strats and the Godin LG with it, sending them all into my Marshal half-stack with a crash. His grip stayed tight on my face, and he was pinching my nose, and I was suffocating. I got my hands up on his arms, trying to break the grip that was killing me, and I realized I’d never had the strength to do that kind of thing, and I never would.

  There was sound in my ears, feedback, high-pitched and ascending, but with a fuzz beneath it, like white noise. I tried biting the hand over my face, but my teeth touched nothing but leather. It felt like I was drunk, and I could feel my hold on his fingers and hand slipping.

  A voice broke through all the noise in my head, hanging in my left ear, terrifying because of its lack of feeling.

  “Thing about a soundproof room,” the Parka Man said. “You can scream all you want.”

  Then he pitched me forward, letting go of my face, and I felt the concrete beneath the padding on the floor, and I slammed into the guitar stands. The headstock of the fallen Strat caught me in the right side, in the ribs, and it hurt and made me cry out with what little air I had remaining. I tried righting myself, gasping, and he came at me again, pulling me up by my shirt. Threads popped in his grip.

  “Go ahead, scream.” The voice came from beneath the hood, behind the mask, and I saw his lips for a second in the cutout, thin and curling. From the corner of my eye, I caught the movement of his free hand, and it disappeared, and then my belly was crushed.

  I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t see, the world swimming. He must have dropped me then, but I don’t rememb
er it. I was still choking for air, but now I couldn’t inhale, it was as if my diaphragm had frozen, locked in a sustain. Nothing coming in, nothing coming out, and I was going to die without making a sound.

  Parka Man dropped a knee beside my head, grabbed my hair again in one gloved hand. He lifted my face, twisting, making sure I could see him, making sure that I couldn’t see anything.

  “Cops,” he said. “Talking to you, you talking to them.”

  New shame cascaded through me, the knowledge that he’d been watching me at Van’s, had seen Hoffman and me. I tried shaking my head, to tell him that he was wrong, that I hadn’t told anyone anything, that the thing between Hoffman and me was just a stupid kiss, nothing more. His grip was so tight that when I tried the movement, I felt my hair tearing.

  “You better not,” he told me. “Nothing about me, about you, about Tommy. They ask whatever they want, you don’t answer. Lie to your heart’s content, they expect that, but you don’t ever mention me. I’ll know.”

  The shake hadn’t worked, so I tried a nod, still pushing for a breath. Everything below my ribs felt like it had just stopped working, like it wasn’t even attached any longer.

  “I’ll know,” he repeated.

  He shoved my face down again, into the floor, letting go of my hair. I saw the edge of a boot, and then my diaphragm unlocked with a spasm, and I gasped in a breath. He made the same noise he had in Mikel’s condo, the one that sounded like he was happy, but he wasn’t moving, and I could feel him looking at me.

  “Roll over.”

  I couldn’t even manage a plea.

  “Roll. Over.”

  I closed my eyes and pushed my palms against the carpet, rolling onto my back. I brought my arms around, I suppose it was a strange, instinctive kind of modesty, trying to protect my chest, and I thought he would at least let me keep that, but I felt his gloves on my arms, and he pulled them away.

  “Open your eyes,” he told me.