CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Encounters

 

The first bout of engine trouble consisted of Clete varying the Pequod’s speed between

thirty and fifty miles an hour several times, then pulling into the rest stop, opening the engine compartment at the rear of the bus, and staring intently at the maze of diesel components housed within, while Crockett walked in circles and did his best to look frustrated. A maroon colored sedan passed by on the highway, but the possibly accompanying black or dark blue vehicle may or may not have been in evidence. Neither of them could be sure.

After an appropriate time Clete successfully got the bus going again. He reported seeing a dark car consistently staying behind them after they returned to the road, and the maroon or cranberry escort popped up again shortly after they passed the exit for St. Elmo, Illinois. By the time they fell victim to their second siege of engine difficulties about sixty miles north of Champaign-Urbana, it was deep dusk and they couldn’t be sure who passed them by while they stopped. The third and final incident came just after they left I-57 on 291. This time they abandoned all hope, and Clete phoned Stitch.

“Dude!”

Clete grinned. “Hey, Stitch. How we doin’?”

“Air Cav is, like, ready to dust off, man. Where’s the ellzee?”

“On 291 just off of I-57.”

“Far out. I already squared it with the big dude here at the truck stop. Cat was in the brown water Navy in ‘Nam, man. He’s sendin’ his kid with the biggest fuckin’ wrecker I ever saw. Be headin’ your way most riki-tik. I’ll be waitin’ for ya when you get here. Got your ass some deluxe transportation to sneak ya over to Ivy’s place. Ha!”

The wrecker, a very large one, showed up less than thirty minutes later, time that Crockett and Clete spent disconnecting Crockett’s truck from the rear of the Pequod as the girls packed and prepared things to leave. The four of them trailed the wrecker to an NTTS truck stop on I-55 a little south of Downers Grove. Following Stitch’s instructions, they parked the truck at the rear of the main garage area and walked inside to where the wrecker had towed the bus. Stitch was waiting at the parts counter. He grinned at Crockett after giving the women a thorough inspection.

“For me?” Stitch said. “Ah, man, ya shouldn’t have. Hell of a nice gesture though. Hello, ladies. Stitch, like, at your, ah…service, ya know?”

Both Carson and Satin laughed. Stitch went on.

“Far out,” he said. “I got a giggle. Now all I need’s a little sympathy, some prickly pear wine, and a double sleepin’ bag. A real big double sleepin’ bag.”

Satin grinned and looked around the busy shop. “Here?” she asked.

Stitch followed her gaze and blinked a few times. “Oh, wow,” he said. “I musta drifted for a minute. This ain’t the high desert, is it?”

“Sorry,” Satin twinkled. “Just a truck stop.”

“Oh well,” Stitch said, pointing to a two-ton, box-bed, yellow rental truck parked just inside the rear doors of the huge garage. “I got the next best thing. Let’s get your shit tossed into the back of that truck, then the four of you tossed into the back of that truck, then we’re off to Ivy’s. The guys here’ll put the bus and ol’ Crockett’s scooter in a secure area, plug the bus in, and keep ‘em for as long as we, like, need ‘em to.”

“We’re gonna ride in that?” Satin asked.

“Yeah! I got a shitload of packin’ blankets in there for ya to, like, sit on. An’ I’ll leave the light on in the box. It’d probably get a little freaky back there in, like, total darkness, ya know?”

“Perfect,” Satin said. “My name’s Satin Kelly and this is Carson Bailey. We’re grateful for all your help.”

Stitch grinned. “Grateful’s almost as good as sympathetic,” he said, and turned away toward the truck.

Carson looked at Crockett.

“He always like that?”

“Oh, no,” Crockett said. “He’s much better now.”

 

The ride to Ivy’s was noisy, bumpy, and somewhat less than comfortable. Nudge, thank God, only yowled a couple of times from his position in the carrier, then settled down for the duration of the trip. Crockett arranged and rearranged his pile of packing blankets several times, trying to find relief for his ribcage, and finally just gave up. He was nearly dozing, leaning partially against Carson, when she spoke up.

“This Ivy,” she said, “must be an amazing woman. Isn’t it going to be a little difficult, the three of us just barging into her home like this? I mean, it has to be inconvenient, trying to make extra space to accommodate three houseguests.”

Crockett stifled his grin. “She’s pretty long suffering,” he said. “But don’t worry. She’s got a couple of comfortable couches and an extra bathroom or two.” He bumped his eyebrows and ran his fingers along Carson’s upper arm. “Plus, I think there’s a hide-a-bed in the basement rec room that’ll sleep two if things get overly crowded.”

Carson eyeballed him. “That’s what you think, is it?”

“Yeah. You and Satin oughta fit pretty nicely.”

Carson smiled and her eyes got big. “Satin and I have become awfully close,” she said. “I’m sure we can make do. We both like to spoon when we sleep. But you’d know that about Satin, wouldn’t you?”

“Damn,” Crockett said.

“Besides, there’s a lot you’re not telling me. I can see it in your eyes.”

“Room will not be a problem. Trust me.”

Carson kissed his cheek. “Can you ever really trust someone who says trust me?” she said.

 

Because they were riding inside a boxbed truck, the girls didn’t get the full effect of viewing Ivy’s manse from afar. Stitch did exercise his flair for the dramatic, however, backing the vehicle up so the rear door faced the fifty-foot covered flagstone walkway that terminated in Ivy’s massive oaken front door, its aged patina reflecting flickering light from the two six-foot wrought iron sconces that bracketed the entryway beneath the arch of weathered stone.

Clete helped Satin down out of the truck. “Jesus,” she said.

Carson was next. “Wow,” she whispered.

Clete grinned at Crockett as he clambered out of the truck. “Never fails,” he said.

“You should see the big house,” Crockett said, as he straightened up. “Makes this place look like an Alabama single-wide.”

Carson and Satin stood and gaped, nearly mesmerized by the three and a half story opulence that loomed before and over them. Stitch broke the spell, dragging luggage to the rear of the truck. “You guys get this stuff down. I’ll go get a cart, man.” He loped off to the door and disappeared inside.

“It’s after midnight,” Clete said. “No staff this late and everbody has gone to bed. I told Stitch to ask them not to wait up. I didn’t know what time we’d be gettin’ in. It’s just us.”

Stitch arrived with the wheeled luggage cart as Crockett closed the truck’s rear doors. “Thought we’d put you guys all on the second floor,” he said. “Crockett, we’ll put you in the men’s club as usual. We’ll stick Carson next door in the whorehouse, ah, like, sorry, ya know? The Peach Room. An’ Satin’ll go across the hall in the Maroon Harpoon. Should keep everybody close together and pretty comfortable.”

They crossed the immense entryway, Clete pushing the cart as Stitch led them to the elevator. He, Crockett, and Clete all resisted smiles as they watched the two women gawk at their new surroundings. On the second floor, Stitch led the group to the Peach Room, dubbed by Ruby the first night she stayed there as the whorehouse. Carson looked at the fourteen-foot ceilings, the pale peach walls, the massive bed atop a three-foot high dais, and the opulent marble tub and canopy.

“Good grief,” she said, as Clete carried her bags inside. “Crockett, I trust you completely.”

Stitch then opened the door to what he’d called the Maroon Harpoon. The room’s complicated tin ceiling nearly disappeared in the haze overhead. The walls were covered in maroon velvet down to gray wainscoting about six feet tall on three walls. The forth wall was paneled in gray, punctuated by an immense marble fireplace, flanked by French doors on each side that soared to twelve feet and opened onto a granite balcony. The carpet was maroon and deep enough that balance was necessary. Gray couches and maroon armchairs were strewn about in well planned disarray, and the bed, canopied in shimmering gray satin and covered in a maroon silk spread, was separated from the rest of the room by a section of the floor done in the same marble as the fireplace.

“Holy shit,” Satin said, watching Stitch carry her luggage into the room.

“Your closets are, like, off the bathrooms,” he said. “You and ol’ Crockett both got steam rooms, Satin. You got a shitload of towels and stuff. Big terry robes are on the house. Each room’s got a small fridge that’s stocked and ready to go. If anybody wants a sandwich or somethin’, you can go to the kitchen if you want. I’m goin’ to bed. See you dudes tomorrow, man.”

“Me, too,” Clete said, and followed Stitch down the hall.

Crockett looked at the ladies. “Anybody hungry?” he asked.

“I need, like a cookie or something,” Satin said.

Carson nodded. “I could use a bite of something sweet or salty.”

Crockett led them to the kitchen and rummaged around, finally finding some cheese Danish left from that morning, doubtless baked by Goody himself. He was chuckling as he dished two up for the girls, and got milk out of the fridge.

“What’s so funny?” Satin asked.

“These pastries were, most probably, baked this morning by a resident of this house, Sir Thoroughgood Henley-Walhs.”

“Sir who?”

“Goody,” Crockett said. “That’s what he’ll want you to call him. Goody doesn’t stand much on ceremony. He’s a Knight, a winner of the Victoria Cross, and probably many other things he’ll never mention.”

“How do you know him?” Carson inquired.

“Clete knew him from years and years ago. He contacted Goody when he and I needed some help and very specific instruction.”

“Instruction in what?” Satin asked.

“How to shoot people from far away,” Crockett said.

“Probably shouldn’t ask unless I really want to know, huh?”

Crockett showed the girls the way to the atrium, left them both in the kitchen, and headed upstairs to let Nudge out of the carrier. The Men’s Club hadn’t changed a bit. Still the heavy overhead beams, the dusky green wallpaper above the dark wood wainscoting, the deep Persian rugs, the ponderous paintings graced by gilded frames, the same feeling of cumbersome permanence. He smiled at the sensation, nearly glad to be back, and turned in for the night. Two hours later, unable to sleep, wishing he’d had one of Goody’s Danishes, Crockett strapped on his leg, threw on some sweats, ponytailed his hair, and headed downstairs.

In the kitchen he found one remaining Danish. He heated a stale cup of coffee in the microcave and, Danish and java in hand, wandered into the atrium, enjoying the familiarity of being back at Ivy’s. He finished the pastry and was about to return to his room, when he noticed a seated figure outside the atrium wall. Closer inspection revealed butterscotch hair draped down the back of a white terrycloth robe. Smiling, he eased the door open and stepped outside. The night was humid, but pleasantly cool. A rare summertime gift from Lake Michigan. Carson was seated, looking at the sky about ten feet to the left of the door.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey, yourself,” Crockett said, taking a seat next to her. “It’s awfully late, young lady and tomorrow is a school day. You stargazing?”

“The house I was raised in,” Carson said, “was two story with an attic. Every now and then I’d sneak up into the attic in the middle of the night, open one of the dormer windows up there, and crawl out onto the roof. Steep roofs in Michigan ‘cause of all the snow. I’d lay down to get lots of traction on the shingles and just stare at the sky. I thought that the stars were little lights that God put up there to guide people home.”

Crockett smiled into the dark. “Maybe they are.”

“I’m not so sure now, Crockett. I don’t think I know where home is anymore.”

“That doesn’t seem to stop you from looking,” he said.

“Oh, no,” Carson said, her voice dropping into a whisper. “Can’t stop looking. My star’s got to be up there somewhere. Yours too, you know.”

“I find that a very comforting thought,” Crockett murmured. “Thank you.”

“After all the comfort you’ve brought to me, it’s nice to pass some on to you for a change.”

They sat quietly for a few moments, looking toward the heavens.

“Well,” Carson said, shifting in her seat, “I’m off. All this activity has about worn me out.”

Crockett stood as she did and faced her.

“I want a hug and a kiss,” Carson said.

Crockett obliged her, and it was more consolation than passion.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better all the time,” Crockett said.

“Good. I want to see your room sometime soon, Crockett.”

Crockett smiled. “Nothing special. Walls, a floor, you know, pretty standard stuff.”

Carson kissed him lightly on the lips and stepped back. “I especially want to spend some time looking at your ceiling.”

“Oh, my,” Crockett said.

Carson turned away to go back to the atrium.

 

Crockett sat, looking at the stars for the next three hours, occasionally dozing, but a long way from true sleep. When the sky began to lighten in the east, he gave up, got up, and ambled into the kitchen. He found some pretty good dark roast Columbian in the cabinet, ground the beans, loaded the coffeemaker, and went into the pantry to try and find some donuts, or cookies, or something. Moments later he walked back into the kitchen, a box of cinnamon rolls in hand. Ruby LaCost was standing at the counter, pouring herself a cup of coffee. She looked at him and smiled.

“Hi, Crockett,” she said.

Time nearly stopped. There was Ruby, calmly holding a coffee cup, standing fifteen feet away, smiling at him. She was thinner than he remembered, smaller almost, and her beauty was altered, now more chiseled than before. She had been handsomely beautiful. Now she was beautifully handsome.

She was wearing light blue Levi’s in a relaxed fit, a blue broadcloth man’s shirt at least three sizes too big with the tail out and the cuffs rolled up her forearms, low key tennis shoes of some type, an eye patch that appeared to be the same material as her shirt, nearly no makeup, and her hair was dark blond in a short pageboy cut.

Crockett, almost immobile, stared.

Ruby cocked her head to one side. “Hello?”

Crockett’s trance snapped. “Hi, LaCost,” he said.

They peered at each other for a moment, then both laughed at the combined silence. Ruby began the small talk.

“You’re up early,” she said, pouring him a cup of coffee and setting it on the table between them.

“Couldn’t sleep. How ‘bout you? You always up and around at this hour?”

“Only on Saturdays,” Ruby answered. “I spend Saturdays at the shelter. I like to get there early so I can watch the women at breakfast.” She glanced at the cinnamon rolls Crockett still clutched in his left hand. “You can learn a lot about people by what they have for breakfast.”

Crockett snapped the cupcakes behind his back and looked around the kitchen. “Any quiche on hand?” he asked.

Ruby grinned and glanced at her watch. “I gotta hit the road,” she said. “I get back around three. Maybe we can visit for a while. You gonna be available?”

“Count on me.”

“Always could, Crockett,” Ruby said, and headed for the door.

Crockett watched her go and, nearly dizzy, sank into a chair. As he reached across the table for the coffee she’d poured for him, he noticed his hand was trembling.

Ruby. No eight hundred dollar silk suit. No plunging neckline. No five-inch heels. Nearly no makeup.

Ruby. Baggy jeans, oversized shirt and tennis shoes, leaving the house shortly after dawn to better understand people who weren’t even paying her.

Crockett ripped open a wrapper around a cinnamon roll and took an immense bite. The frosting felt abrasive, nearly burning his throat on the way down. He chased it with coffee and shoved another bite in his mouth, needing that sweet cinnamon rasp again.

Christ, he was tired.