would.
He’d set his lips tight and turned away from her.
I guess I don’t love you, then, Velvet.
And now, even though she was sure Pete hadn’t meant it – the words could not be undone, loved away, erased, made into meaningless
wisps.
Velvet thought about Lucinda Hubble and Faith Hubble, and a hot cinder formed in her heart. Hatred was too polite a word for
what she felt. She thought of young Sam Hubble and her throat tightened, for Sam and Pete and what could never be. If God
were merciful, Pete strutted in heaven now, and her own mother might be meeting him at the pearly gates, smiling at him with
all the love she’d once lavished on Velvet, taking him by the hand, introducing him to the other souls flitting from cloud
to cloud.
That image made her cry.
Like you believe in that shit anymore, girl.
Pete was probably frying in hell and scooting over in the bubbling oil to make room for her.
The cry did her good. Velvet dried her tears on the pillowcase. Enough weepiness, it was time for action. She needed a Plan
B. The Hubbles clearly wielded influence here. The local powers-that-be, she suspected, would treat her as Pete’s embarrassing
girlfriend if it was suicide and a possible suspect if it was murder.
And she had zero intention of sitting like a lump and letting her ass be moved around the political chessboard.
She decided Claudia Salazar would be useless, but Whit Mosley wouldn’t. She reviewed the mental picture she’d formed of him:
nicely tall, trim, full blondish hair, tan but not from idling on a beach, face a little too boyish for his years, kindness
in the smile. Smart but not snotty, a beach bum grown up, perhaps only recently. Average teeth, firm legs and butt, terrific
hands – the checklist of how she typically evaluated the rookie male talent for her movies on initial meeting, before the
pants dropped. She liked a man with strong hands. The hands were seen more in the movies than you would think – cupping breasts,
running fingers through hair, holding faces for a kiss. And Whit might be putty to a woman with her talent and charms and
persuasive skills.
At nine in the morning she called her production company’s lawyers in Van Nuys and a few friends, ignoring the time difference
between the Texas coast and California, breaking the sad news about Pete. She left a voice mail for the lawyers to find her
some legal representation in Corpus Christi, a big-city attorney hardened enough to deal with pissing-mad senators and provincial
police.
Then she took a bath, relaxing herself in the soapy hot water, and only when a stray thought crossed her mind did she sit
upright in a panic.
What if whoever killed Pete thought she knew what Pete knew?
She didn’t. He’d kept his research about Corey tight to his chest, just telling her all was going well. He had discussed none
of the screenplay with her.
The killer might not believe that. She dried off, combed her hair, and sat naked as she leafed through the Coastal Bend yellow
pages, researching pawnshops and gun dealers.
The images played across the television, the screen the only light in the cabin, and the Blade sat and watched as Big Pete
Majors took Velvet Mojo from behind, both of them grunting like animals, she tilting her head to keep her wraparound sunglasses
on during the pounding encounter. They moaned so much it sounded like they had intestinal disorders. Pete did not offer a
range of theatrical nuance. He just knelt behind her, ramming with his hips while Velvet pleaded with him to go stronger and
faster, more like a testy coach than a lover. Pete’s face was as blank as the boys the Blade remembered from the mental home.
He watched the tape twice before he finally fell asleep in his recliner.
He awoke in a sour mood because he had dreamed not of Velvet but of Whit Mosley, laughing at him.
You? She’s gonna pick you over me? What reality does that happen in, fat ass?
The Blade had
He’d set his lips tight and turned away from her.
I guess I don’t love you, then, Velvet.
And now, even though she was sure Pete hadn’t meant it – the words could not be undone, loved away, erased, made into meaningless
wisps.
Velvet thought about Lucinda Hubble and Faith Hubble, and a hot cinder formed in her heart. Hatred was too polite a word for
what she felt. She thought of young Sam Hubble and her throat tightened, for Sam and Pete and what could never be. If God
were merciful, Pete strutted in heaven now, and her own mother might be meeting him at the pearly gates, smiling at him with
all the love she’d once lavished on Velvet, taking him by the hand, introducing him to the other souls flitting from cloud
to cloud.
That image made her cry.
Like you believe in that shit anymore, girl.
Pete was probably frying in hell and scooting over in the bubbling oil to make room for her.
The cry did her good. Velvet dried her tears on the pillowcase. Enough weepiness, it was time for action. She needed a Plan
B. The Hubbles clearly wielded influence here. The local powers-that-be, she suspected, would treat her as Pete’s embarrassing
girlfriend if it was suicide and a possible suspect if it was murder.
And she had zero intention of sitting like a lump and letting her ass be moved around the political chessboard.
She decided Claudia Salazar would be useless, but Whit Mosley wouldn’t. She reviewed the mental picture she’d formed of him:
nicely tall, trim, full blondish hair, tan but not from idling on a beach, face a little too boyish for his years, kindness
in the smile. Smart but not snotty, a beach bum grown up, perhaps only recently. Average teeth, firm legs and butt, terrific
hands – the checklist of how she typically evaluated the rookie male talent for her movies on initial meeting, before the
pants dropped. She liked a man with strong hands. The hands were seen more in the movies than you would think – cupping breasts,
running fingers through hair, holding faces for a kiss. And Whit might be putty to a woman with her talent and charms and
persuasive skills.
At nine in the morning she called her production company’s lawyers in Van Nuys and a few friends, ignoring the time difference
between the Texas coast and California, breaking the sad news about Pete. She left a voice mail for the lawyers to find her
some legal representation in Corpus Christi, a big-city attorney hardened enough to deal with pissing-mad senators and provincial
police.
Then she took a bath, relaxing herself in the soapy hot water, and only when a stray thought crossed her mind did she sit
upright in a panic.
What if whoever killed Pete thought she knew what Pete knew?
She didn’t. He’d kept his research about Corey tight to his chest, just telling her all was going well. He had discussed none
of the screenplay with her.
The killer might not believe that. She dried off, combed her hair, and sat naked as she leafed through the Coastal Bend yellow
pages, researching pawnshops and gun dealers.
The images played across the television, the screen the only light in the cabin, and the Blade sat and watched as Big Pete
Majors took Velvet Mojo from behind, both of them grunting like animals, she tilting her head to keep her wraparound sunglasses
on during the pounding encounter. They moaned so much it sounded like they had intestinal disorders. Pete did not offer a
range of theatrical nuance. He just knelt behind her, ramming with his hips while Velvet pleaded with him to go stronger and
faster, more like a testy coach than a lover. Pete’s face was as blank as the boys the Blade remembered from the mental home.
He watched the tape twice before he finally fell asleep in his recliner.
He awoke in a sour mood because he had dreamed not of Velvet but of Whit Mosley, laughing at him.
You? She’s gonna pick you over me? What reality does that happen in, fat ass?
The Blade had
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