The plan was to hoof it on over to Renner’s. That’s what we do for each other, him and me. One of us gets in a jam, the other shows up. It’s like we signed some kind of contract. But this time? I made it to my truck and no farther. With one hand gripping the door, I tossed my cookies all over the gravel, spattering the Ford’s front tire in the process. Nailed the toes of my cowboy boots, too, which pissed me off. I’d cleaned the damn things good and proper just the day before.
When I was done, I felt better, but also dizzy, so I turned around and staggered back inside. My office looks a lot like one of my rental cabins, with a big wide porch out front, but in behind, it’s also my house, or enough of one that I call the place home. In the back I’ve got a rumpled-up bedroom, and Renner or no Renner, that’s where I was headed. Time for a long lay-down, that’s what was on my mind. Jill had gone out for cleaning supplies, but she was due back in a few hours to pick up some slack at the front desk and maybe give my shoulders a good rub. ’Course, the way I felt, the whole idea of a massage made me want to throw up all over again. Hell, about all I wanted out of Jill right then was quiet and a mug of chicken soup. In the meantime, I intended to hit the sack and sleep like a goddamned log.
I succeeded, too. In fact, I slept the entire night, and I wouldn’t have woken up as early as I did except that Jill was shaking my shoulder and saying somethin’ about how I had to talk to the reverend, right away, right now, he was on the phone and here’s the phone—she damn near glued it to my hand—and would I please wake the hell up?
Normally, an eyeful of Jill first thing in the morning was all I needed to come wide awake in an instant—I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Jill Young is one hell of a country girl looker, a big strapping strawberry blonde with a smile as wide as Lake Michigan—but that morning, all I wanted was to close my eyes, roll over, and stick a pillow on top of my head. Worse luck for her, she was trying to shake me out of one of my dreams, the kind I’d been having since Renner dragged me to the Neil House. There I was, back in the fourth-floor hallway of the Ohio state capitol building—the peach-colored walls, the black-and-white-diamond floor pattern—and there was State Trooper DeKoven, lying on the floor, soaking wet, drowned and dead, just the way he really had been when I’d dragged him into the hall. In my dream, I kept hitting him, slapping his head, trying to force him to open his eyes and wake the hell up. He couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t. Because if he was, it was because of me.
And then, just as Jill finally got my attention, and for the first time since the dreams started, DeKoven opened his eyes.
I screamed.
Jill leaped out of my way as I shot out of bed, still hollering.
It took me a minute to get hold of myself, to firm up the walls and the floor, to leave the statehouse behind and forget about DeKoven, that big, blue-eyed corn-fed whiter-than-white boy, and remember that my nowadays duty wasn’t to him, or his memory, but to one real short, bald-haired minister: Renner. I took the phone, sank back on the mattress, and said, “Yeah?”
Renner had so many things to say, he could hardly figure on where to begin, but he solved that by takin’ on three or four topics simultaneously. Every couple sentences zigged or zagged into a whole new direction, but after listening for what must have been five solid minutes—and me with my eyes squeezed tight shut the whole time, and my head pounding—I finally got a word in edgewise.
“Whoa,” I said. “Slow down and tell me that one part again.”
“Which part?”
“The part where you hung a haunted skeleton in your living room.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you! I hung Bonesy straight last night, and now she’s crooked.”
“Bonesy, huh?”
“Dale, are you hung over?”
Now the reverend, when he wants to, he can get a definite tone to his voice, the kind of tone that can just about drive sane folks over the edge. This has always struck me as major league irony, since he’s a kind of shepherd with a whole flock of congregants, and the last thing he should be wanting to do is herd them all over a cliff, but maybe he treats them better. Maybe.
“I’m sick,” I growled. “Why in hell do you think I didn’t call you back?”
“What’s wrong? Have you seen a doctor?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong. Probably just a virus. I’ll be fine after I get some coffee.”
He didn’t like that idea, I could tell. Hell, I wasn’t sure I liked it.
“Coffee,” he said, “is not a substitute for medicine.”
“I don’t need medicine,” I said, and I stood up to prove it. I had to squeeze my eyes shut to keep from passing out, I was that dizzy, but I somehow I kept hold of the phone. “Look, lemme get my morning on track and I’ll come right over, okay?”
By nine, I was feeling much better, and by ten, when I pulled up to Renner’s little blue clapboard house, I was feeling damn near human again. Coffee plus sausage and eggs, it’s a winner every time—that plus my next dose of Seitapar. As for Renner, he met me in his bathrobe, a steaming mug of some vile-smelling herbal crap cupped in his hands.
“You don’t look so good,” he said, blowing at his tea to cool it. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. How’s the leg?”
Renner stuck his left foot out, which didn’t tell me much since he was wearing long pajamas. “Hardly hurts at all now,” he said, and he gave his leg an experimental wiggle. “Not that it’s exactly a pretty sight.”
I knew it wouldn’t be that, probably not ever. Gettin’ out of the Neil House had been a trick, no two ways about it, and the biggest casualty, other than the Neil House itself, had been catching Renner’s leg on fire. Which of course makes it sound like I did that, which I didn’t; the fact is, he pretty much did it to himself. Either way, he’d spent more time with doctors these past few months than I had in my entire life. At least some of the skin was on the mend, and it could’ve been worse. I mean, hell, we could have all died.
Come to think on it, there’d been a fair number of casualties on that trip. Aside from Renner and the Neil, there’d been a real nice little Spanish haunt by the name of Gonzalo. With not a burn on him, he had the worst skin condition I’d ever seen, and I’m talkin’ anyone, living or dead. Weirder still, that downtown boat he’d been livin’ on, a replica of Columbus’s Santa Maria, was about to be put in permanent dry dock and was maybe slated for demolition, so even if Gonzalo had somehow survived—which I was sure he hadn’t—he wouldn’t have had no place left to haunt.
Yeah, there’d been a lot of casualties in Columbus last spring, and I frankly didn’t want to spend any more time thinking about it.
“So,” I said, wishing the reverend would stop showing off his leg, “you’re not the next Fred Astaire. Now how ’bout you show me this bone critter you’ve got?”
He led me inside, and I somehow resisted the urge to make fun of his little brass mail slot, which he adores and I think of as a mistake. I mean, let’s face it, in terms of basic weatherproofing, having a mail slot is kind of like driving an Edsel.
In the living room, I knew what to look for even before I saw Bonesy, ’cos my shoulders cinched toward the roof and my neck muscles, if they’d been able to talk, would’ve let out a screech. I stared at Bonesy, and Bonesy, all crooked just like the reverend said, stared back.
I said, “Christ on a pony. What’d you want to hang that for?”
Renner looked all apologetic. “It was a gift. From someone important.”
“Not from someone who likes you a whole helluva lot. You want my advice? Throw it away. That thing’s a menace.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t because it’s telling you not to, or because you feel like you’ve got some kinda obligation to this so-called friend?”
“The latter.”
I shoved my hands deep in my pockets and gave Bonesy another once-over. “Okay, then, what exactly am I doin’ here?”
The reverend, he got a kind of perplexed look, which is to say, he looked even more like himself than usual. “I thought you might have advice.”
“I just gave it to you.”
“No, no. I mean on how to handle her.”
“So she’s a girl, huh?”
“For all I know, she’s a high-born noble fallen on hard times.”
All this sounded about ninety degrees south of sober, and I told him so. “Look, if your skeleton friend requires ‘handling’, then seriously, let’s hire a boat and dump it in the bay.”
“Okay, never mind. I’m sorry I called. Besides, you should be in bed or something. You look terrible.”
On that score, he had a point. I sure didn’t feel my best, and whatever jumpstart I’d gotten from breakfast was fast wearing off. I ran a hand over my chin and felt stubble, a sure sign I hadn’t gotten a hold of my morning. One thing I always do is shave.
“Dale?”
“Yeah, sorry. You’re probably right. Definitely not at my best.”
Renner, without ever quite making contact, managed to usher me to the door. That kind of thing, he’s real good at, all that body language stuff. Give credit where credit is due, right?
“Do me a favor,” I said to him, when I was halfway out, “get rid of that picture.”
“Brass rubbing.”
“Whatever. Burn it. It gives me the willies.”
He smiled. “I’ll see what I can do. Now go home. Get some rest.”
I did intend to, truly I did, but somehow I wound up driving toward Dr. Green’s office. I had a sort of vague, half-assed idea about a follow-up appointment, the immediate kind, but about a block from her building, I spotted the doctor herself stepping out of a jet black Corvette and heading toward the putty brick and bright red awnings of Mode’s Bum Steer, a downtown steakhouse that I dearly love. Before I could even tell myself not to, I did a quick U-turn and spun my truck into the same lot, parked, and followed her inside.
“Sit anywhere you like,” came a woman’s voice from somewhere to my left, and I figured I’d take the gal at face value. I got a bead on Doc Green, who’d taken a chair off by herself in a corner, and strode on over.
“Howdy,” I said, and I tipped my Stetson. “Mind if I join you?”
I thought she’d at least smile once she recognized me, but instead she looked me over real careful, like I was a used car and she hadn’t made up her mind to pull the trigger. “It’s not strictly kosher,” she said at last, “but if you like, sure. Pull up a chair.”
I slid into the seat opposite. “I was just driving by. Happened to see you come in.”
She nodded, and then got all conspiratorial. “I have a weakness for steak,” she said. “I’m here twice a week at least.”
The idea of a steak had my stomach in a twist, and not the good kind, either, but I played it cool. “Me and steak,” I said, “are like two peas in a pod.”
“Rare, that’s what I like,” said Sienna, and her tongue darted out to lick her lips.
What could I say besides, “Me, too,” and “Damn, you look like a cobra,” but I only said the first part. I don’t hold with thinking of women as snakes.
The waitress arrived with water, and we placed identical orders of twelve-ounce New York strip steaks with the grilled onions extra. (I almost ordered the sixteen-ouncer, but I’m not rich, and besides, this was lunch.) Once the girl was gone, Sienna leaned in, her chin on her hands and her elbows on the table, a man’s meal if there ever was. “So,” she said, “how are you feeling?”
I gave her a grin guaranteed to show that I had the world on a string, and always would. “Never better. I could wrestle a bear.”
Now that I wasn’t in Dr. Green’s actual offices, it was easy as pie to be myself—which of course, with a lady present, meant telling her all about me: my gridiron exploits and my previous incarnation as a Los Angeles private detective. Sure, I skipped the whole Tower Records debacle and pretty much anything to do with Renner, but I covered damn near everything else, and Sienna Green sat there and lapped it right up. Was I making an impression? You bet. Hell, I hardly even noticed when the meal came, and I barely tasted it as it went down, that’s how much I was enjoying myself.
When we were done, I tried to get the check, but Doc Green wouldn’t let me. She said, “This isn’t 1955. I’m a big girl, with my very own credit card.”
I checked my watch. “I’m betting you have to be back in the office.”
She gave me a sideways look, head cocked, her long fingers pressed to the tabletop. “That depends on whether I have someplace more important to be.”
I did a quick double-check of her hands, which she was so intentionally displaying. No question: no ring.
I said, and I let the words take their sweet time, “I can think of at least one possibility. If the lady is game.”
We took my truck, ’cos I don’t really fit that easy into low-slung Corvette-type vehicles. Sienna had one of those downtown condos, the refurbished kind for professional types: doctors, lawyers, business folk with salaries out the wazoo. It was nice for what it was, with a great fourth-floor view of the bay, but one thing it wasn’t was furnished. In fact, that place was damn near empty, with nothin’ on the foam-colored walls and hardly a chair to be seen. No books, no left-behind laundry, no magazines. No TV.
There was a bed, though, a proper king with soft white sheets and a chocolate-brown walnut frame. It might have been the best-looking bed I’d ever seen, and dear Lord above, with Sienna Green draped across the top, it looked even better.
Now it’s a fact that I’ve been with my share of women. Guys with my size and looks are just lucky that way, but I don’t know that I ever had a woman with energy quite like Sienna Green. She had more of what Renner would call appetites than any ten ordinary women put together, and what she unleashed on me that afternoon felt like some kind of bedroom tidal wave. Sure, it’s a cliché, but she simply could not get enough, and while I hate to say I was the one to cry uncle first, that’s the way the cookie crumbled. It was our third go-round, this time with her on top, and I hit the wall and hit it hard. Felt good, of course, but after that, there was nothin’ left to give.
Still straddling my hips, Sienna reached down and drew her finger along my sternum, top to bottom, as if bisecting my torso. “Not bad,” she said, more to herself than to me. “Not bad at all.”
Catching my breath, I said, “What do you mean, ‘Not bad’? That was great!”
“A beginning,” she said, still to herself. Then she caught my eye and held it. “You have so much more to give.”
“Not today I don’t.”
“Maybe not, but you will. You will.”
I drove her back to her car. She was disappointed with me, I could tell, and once in her Corvette, she zipped away to her office without so much as a goodbye glance. I weren’t worried, though, and that for two reasons: first, she’d already said she looked forward to “trying” me again, and second, I was back to feeling like a second-string punter after a bare-knuckle bar fight. Home was where I needed to be, home with my head on my pillow, and the sooner the better.
Jill was there when I got in, but bless her heart, she wasn’t the least bit suspicious. She took one look at me and insisted I get right back to bed.
“Don’t you worry about a thing, hon,” she said, as she tucked me in. “I’ll keep an eye on the place.”
I shook my head, trying to clear it. “It’s the damndest thing,” I said. “I haven’t been sick since I was a kid. Grade school. Now, two days running…”
“Dale, shut up and lay down. Here, let me help you with your boots. And get your hat off, you’ll crush the brim and then you’ll be mad later. There you go. Now. Can I get you anything?”
I asked her to get me Seitapar and water, which she did. As I popped the pill between my lips, she gave me an encouraging smile and patted my thigh.
“Down the hatch,” she said. “You can do it.”
Barely, but yeah, I did it. And then I lay back and my eyes slid shut and I was out so quick, it was like I was a circuit and someone had tripped the breaker.