this gun and I was going to do it,
kill myself, but I wanted her with me. I couldn’t go without her.”
BB was right. Revivals
are
always about sex. The too-blue eyes were crying again, and I felt like a snake. He crossed his arms on the table and lay
his head on them, sobbing. End-of-the-line despair. I hated seeing it because I have some idea of how it feels. Most people
do.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, walking around the table to put a hand on his shoulder. And that’s when I saw it. A pale, thin scar
running along his hairline in back and vanishing behind his ears. It explained the tight jaw, the absence of jowls.
“You probably even helped her pick out a plastic surgeon, didn’t you?” I asked. “Everybody’s doing it, but it’s so hard to
find somebody top-notch.”
I don’t think I’ve used the term “top-notch” in my entire life, but I had a sense Jones would find it appropriate.
“Oh, yes, she went to my surgeon for that,” he said, half smiling blearily as he lifted his head. “Her base of operations
is right here in San Diego, and so is the surgeon. She loved the way I looked and wouldn’t have gone to anyone else. She just
had it done three weeks ago, too. A whole face-lift. Just in time for this tour.”
Just in time for this fill-in-the-blank. Tour, campaign, election.
I remembered Kate Van Der Elst rubbing at her neck as she talked to me earlier. Remembered her little twitch when I asked
if she and Dixie Ross and Mary Harriet Grossinger went to the same dentist. My bet was it wasn’t a dentist.
“I’ve been thinking of having a mole removed from my neck,” I told J. R. Jones. “I’d love it if you’d give me the name of
your surgeon.”
“Rainer,” he answered. “Dr. Jennings Rainer at the Rainer Clinic. They’re top-notch. Everybody at Rainer is top-notch.”
“Wes,” I said to Rathbone in the hall, “I’m not sure, but I think I know where to find the Sword of Heaven.”
8
Those Turkey Neck Blues
R athbone and I agreed to meet at Auntie’s, where Rox’s linedance team would be finishing rehearsal by the time we arrived.
At this point, Rathbone said, the opinions of a forensic psychiatrist became critical. Not that my assessments leading to
this point hadn’t been brilliant, he hastened to add. But if I was right, the police would need special guidelines for continuing
the investigation. Because it didn’t look like any serial killer the police had seen before. It didn’t even look like
anything
the police had seen before. He wanted Roxie’s opinion before taking the next step.
When Brontë and I arrived he was already there, and if he felt the slightest discomfort at being in a gay bar, he didn’t show
it.
“Hey,” he said, leaning comfortably on the rail surrounding Auntie’s dance floor, “they’re pretty good!”
Rox and the team were concluding a tricky routine that combined elements of both the tango and traditional square dancing.
The choreography was Rox’s creation, and I knew she had an eye on first prize at a big rodeo line-dance competition in New
Mexico right after Christmas. Her fringed satin blouse was drenched with sweat and all two hundred of her beaded braids flew
out from her head as she executed the stomps and turns of the dance.
I thought she looked like magic out there under a strobing gold light. An image of everything bright and lively and warm.
Her cowboy boots didn’t miss a step when she saw me and smiled. I, on the other hand, managed to trip while standing perfectly
still and wound up sitting on a stool I’d never intended to sit on. Sometimes just looking at Roxie causes me to lose track
of basic things. Like maintaining sufficient muscle tension in my legs to keep from falling over.
Rathbone grinned.
“I get that way around Annie sometimes,” he said. “It’s ridiculous, but it keeps me from getting all wrapped up any more in
the crap at work. I’m lucky.”
“Um,” I
kill myself, but I wanted her with me. I couldn’t go without her.”
BB was right. Revivals
are
always about sex. The too-blue eyes were crying again, and I felt like a snake. He crossed his arms on the table and lay
his head on them, sobbing. End-of-the-line despair. I hated seeing it because I have some idea of how it feels. Most people
do.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, walking around the table to put a hand on his shoulder. And that’s when I saw it. A pale, thin scar
running along his hairline in back and vanishing behind his ears. It explained the tight jaw, the absence of jowls.
“You probably even helped her pick out a plastic surgeon, didn’t you?” I asked. “Everybody’s doing it, but it’s so hard to
find somebody top-notch.”
I don’t think I’ve used the term “top-notch” in my entire life, but I had a sense Jones would find it appropriate.
“Oh, yes, she went to my surgeon for that,” he said, half smiling blearily as he lifted his head. “Her base of operations
is right here in San Diego, and so is the surgeon. She loved the way I looked and wouldn’t have gone to anyone else. She just
had it done three weeks ago, too. A whole face-lift. Just in time for this tour.”
Just in time for this fill-in-the-blank. Tour, campaign, election.
I remembered Kate Van Der Elst rubbing at her neck as she talked to me earlier. Remembered her little twitch when I asked
if she and Dixie Ross and Mary Harriet Grossinger went to the same dentist. My bet was it wasn’t a dentist.
“I’ve been thinking of having a mole removed from my neck,” I told J. R. Jones. “I’d love it if you’d give me the name of
your surgeon.”
“Rainer,” he answered. “Dr. Jennings Rainer at the Rainer Clinic. They’re top-notch. Everybody at Rainer is top-notch.”
“Wes,” I said to Rathbone in the hall, “I’m not sure, but I think I know where to find the Sword of Heaven.”
8
Those Turkey Neck Blues
R athbone and I agreed to meet at Auntie’s, where Rox’s linedance team would be finishing rehearsal by the time we arrived.
At this point, Rathbone said, the opinions of a forensic psychiatrist became critical. Not that my assessments leading to
this point hadn’t been brilliant, he hastened to add. But if I was right, the police would need special guidelines for continuing
the investigation. Because it didn’t look like any serial killer the police had seen before. It didn’t even look like
anything
the police had seen before. He wanted Roxie’s opinion before taking the next step.
When Brontë and I arrived he was already there, and if he felt the slightest discomfort at being in a gay bar, he didn’t show
it.
“Hey,” he said, leaning comfortably on the rail surrounding Auntie’s dance floor, “they’re pretty good!”
Rox and the team were concluding a tricky routine that combined elements of both the tango and traditional square dancing.
The choreography was Rox’s creation, and I knew she had an eye on first prize at a big rodeo line-dance competition in New
Mexico right after Christmas. Her fringed satin blouse was drenched with sweat and all two hundred of her beaded braids flew
out from her head as she executed the stomps and turns of the dance.
I thought she looked like magic out there under a strobing gold light. An image of everything bright and lively and warm.
Her cowboy boots didn’t miss a step when she saw me and smiled. I, on the other hand, managed to trip while standing perfectly
still and wound up sitting on a stool I’d never intended to sit on. Sometimes just looking at Roxie causes me to lose track
of basic things. Like maintaining sufficient muscle tension in my legs to keep from falling over.
Rathbone grinned.
“I get that way around Annie sometimes,” he said. “It’s ridiculous, but it keeps me from getting all wrapped up any more in
the crap at work. I’m lucky.”
“Um,” I
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