had he been alive; he was staring at us with a ragged hole just above one expressionless eye. Several yards away, the bouncer lay face down, dead as the Confederacy. Dixie just stood there with clawed hands trembling at her side, staring at me with hot hatred that might have got to me if I didn’t have the gun.
The salesman was on his knees in the grass. He looked up at me, wondering if he had just been saved or was in the middle of something very bad about to get him killed.
“Have you ever seen me before?” I asked him.
“No.”
“Could you recognize me again?”
“No!”
“Good. Why don’t you take your five hundred dollars and go? Go. Don’t look back.”
“Thank you,” he said, getting up unsteadily. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.. . .”
And he scrambled to his feet and careened off toward the parking lot. It’s hard getting your footing after somebody has hit you in the head with a hammer three times.
Dixie was wasting no time mourning her husband. All her energy was focused on hating me. Her hands were fists now.
“ Killian sent you,” she said.
“Well, it wasn’t Kilroy.”
A car engine started. Wheels spat gravel. The little salesman was on his way somewhere else.
Without taking my eyes off her, I picked up the hammer.
That gave her a start. She may not have known the term, but she was clearly thinking poetic justice might be about to come her way.
“What are you going to do?” she spat. But there was fear in her bloodshot eyes. “ Kill me with it?”
“What am I, a psychopath?”
And shot her in the head.
SEVEN
By eleven-thirty the next morning, I was back in Biloxi at the Tropical.
The three very sharp lightweight black suits and six silk ties had been delivered, the latter on the dresser, the former neatly hanging in the closet in a garment bag. After a shit and a shower, I was a new man, particularly once I’d tried on one of the suits. No shirts had been provided, but a light-blue one I’d brought with me worked well with a tie alternating two darker shades of blue.
The shoulder-holstered nine millimeter under my left arm did not bulge at all. I hadn’t worn it for the fitting at Godchaux’s, where apparently the tailor knew ahead to allow for it. Impressive a couple of ways.
In addition to the new threads, a message was waiting for me, indicated by the bedside phone’s flashing light. The hotel switchboard operator read it to me: “Welcome home. Report in at one o’clock. JK.”
At the connecting door between my room and Luann’s, I knocked. She spoke through it: “Yes?”
“Need you for a second.”
She opened the door and stood framed there. She’d been showering, too, and had a towel tied around her waist, leaving her bare-breasted like a native girl in a National Geographic .
“Well, look at you,” she said, her hands on her hips, her perfect bare B cups staring at me as intently as the baby blues.
“Same back at you,” I said. “You want lunch? I don’t have to go to work till one.”
“Sure. I should put somethin’ on.”
“Why not?”
We took the same booth at The Dockside, where business was a little better than the last time we’d been here, thanks to businessmen having multiple-martini lunches. Luann was wearing her back-up coed clothes from Gayfer’s—a white shirt-style top with a floral explosion of colors, yellow short-shorts, plus the open-toed cork-heeled shoes again.
She ordered a pulled-pork sandwich and iced tea, and I had a fish sandwich basket. I was drinking Coke but she’d got a Tab, a nod toward the stripper’s regimen I’d talked her into otherwise ignoring.
“I haven’t seen you drink,” I said, hunching over to make sure I didn’t get tartar sauce on my fancy suit.
She sipped the Tab. She had barbecue sauce on her pretty face. “Sure you have.”
“I mean, anything alcoholic. Or is that part of your diet?”
The sunlight from the window did nice things to her hair. “I never touch anythin’
The salesman was on his knees in the grass. He looked up at me, wondering if he had just been saved or was in the middle of something very bad about to get him killed.
“Have you ever seen me before?” I asked him.
“No.”
“Could you recognize me again?”
“No!”
“Good. Why don’t you take your five hundred dollars and go? Go. Don’t look back.”
“Thank you,” he said, getting up unsteadily. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.. . .”
And he scrambled to his feet and careened off toward the parking lot. It’s hard getting your footing after somebody has hit you in the head with a hammer three times.
Dixie was wasting no time mourning her husband. All her energy was focused on hating me. Her hands were fists now.
“ Killian sent you,” she said.
“Well, it wasn’t Kilroy.”
A car engine started. Wheels spat gravel. The little salesman was on his way somewhere else.
Without taking my eyes off her, I picked up the hammer.
That gave her a start. She may not have known the term, but she was clearly thinking poetic justice might be about to come her way.
“What are you going to do?” she spat. But there was fear in her bloodshot eyes. “ Kill me with it?”
“What am I, a psychopath?”
And shot her in the head.
SEVEN
By eleven-thirty the next morning, I was back in Biloxi at the Tropical.
The three very sharp lightweight black suits and six silk ties had been delivered, the latter on the dresser, the former neatly hanging in the closet in a garment bag. After a shit and a shower, I was a new man, particularly once I’d tried on one of the suits. No shirts had been provided, but a light-blue one I’d brought with me worked well with a tie alternating two darker shades of blue.
The shoulder-holstered nine millimeter under my left arm did not bulge at all. I hadn’t worn it for the fitting at Godchaux’s, where apparently the tailor knew ahead to allow for it. Impressive a couple of ways.
In addition to the new threads, a message was waiting for me, indicated by the bedside phone’s flashing light. The hotel switchboard operator read it to me: “Welcome home. Report in at one o’clock. JK.”
At the connecting door between my room and Luann’s, I knocked. She spoke through it: “Yes?”
“Need you for a second.”
She opened the door and stood framed there. She’d been showering, too, and had a towel tied around her waist, leaving her bare-breasted like a native girl in a National Geographic .
“Well, look at you,” she said, her hands on her hips, her perfect bare B cups staring at me as intently as the baby blues.
“Same back at you,” I said. “You want lunch? I don’t have to go to work till one.”
“Sure. I should put somethin’ on.”
“Why not?”
We took the same booth at The Dockside, where business was a little better than the last time we’d been here, thanks to businessmen having multiple-martini lunches. Luann was wearing her back-up coed clothes from Gayfer’s—a white shirt-style top with a floral explosion of colors, yellow short-shorts, plus the open-toed cork-heeled shoes again.
She ordered a pulled-pork sandwich and iced tea, and I had a fish sandwich basket. I was drinking Coke but she’d got a Tab, a nod toward the stripper’s regimen I’d talked her into otherwise ignoring.
“I haven’t seen you drink,” I said, hunching over to make sure I didn’t get tartar sauce on my fancy suit.
She sipped the Tab. She had barbecue sauce on her pretty face. “Sure you have.”
“I mean, anything alcoholic. Or is that part of your diet?”
The sunlight from the window did nice things to her hair. “I never touch anythin’
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