A Dead Issue (23 page)

Moe slid out of the weeds by the garage and came toward us. He zeroed in on Liza and leaped into her lap. She helped him get comfortable and used her fingertips to pet between his ears. Moe lifted his head against her palm.

After a moment, Liza looked at me. “He has the upper hand.” Her tone was decisive—matter of fact. She looked down at Moe and ran her hand along his fur in long strokes. Dusty and I exchanged a quick glance.

“What do you mean?”

“You're intimidated by him.”

Liza did not look up, but stared off as if I was a disappointment to her.

“How do you know?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Body language or something. I just know.”

I said nothing and she smiled absently at Moe who was soaking up her attention.

“That was a payoff, wasn't it? Extortion.”

It was my turn to look away. I glared into the distance during another uncomfortable silence.

“I'm sorry,” she said at length, but she did not sound sorry. “None of my business.” She stood and Moe slid out of her hands to the deck. “I'm going to freshen up—maybe take a nap,” and she was gone.

I turned in time to see her go into the Farmhouse. She had never been in the place, but went inside with the ease of someone who had spent a lifetime living there. I waited a moment and then sat down. Dusty stared blankly at me.

“What did you tell her?” I asked. It was more accusation than question.

Dusty blinked and squirmed out of his slumping posture. “Nothing,” he said. “I didn't tell her nothing.” He paused for a second. “Who is she?”

I hesitated before answering. It was a very good question. Who was this girl who moved into my life so easily and with such an impact on my emotions. “Jonah's granddaughter,” I finally said.

“Holy shitbird!” Dusty said and blew out his cheeks. He reached for his earlobe and tugged at the loop of skin, “Holy fuckin' shitbird. Where'd she come from?”

“Her car broke down on the highway.” I aimed a thumb over my shoulder toward the lane. “Right out there. She was looking for Jonah's place.”

“Man,” he said, shaking his head. “That's weird.” He pushed his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “What did you tell her?” It was a question, not an accusation.

“I certainly didn't tell her we were there that night. I told her I worked for Jonah—that he was a friend, and that the police wanted me to go through the house looking for anything that was missing.”

“And Cash?”

“I only told her I owed him money—she pieced together the extortion on her own.”

Dusty raised his eyebrows.

“I know,” I said. “She's amazing, the shit she figures out.”

Dusty sat up and hitched his chair closer to me. “Listen—before she comes back—Stomp. He's

”

“I know,” I cut in. “He's on the loose.”

“I can't go back to my place,” he announced. “He's nuts, he's . . . he's like a fuckin' wild animal or something.”

I wanted to tell him about our night at Jonah's and the blue casts but he rambled on.

“You should have seen him! He was like a bear when the freaking tranquilizer dart wears off. He pulled himself up with his good arm and looked down at himself all tied up in pulleys and stuff. And then he went nuts—like his leg was in a trap. He grabbed the cables and shook and jerked at them. The whole bed bounced. Then he sort of
pulled himself down to where he could grab his own foot and wrestled with it—his broken leg! He tore the hook right
out of his cast. Christ, that must have hurt! Using his broken arm, too!” He paused long enough to shake his head. “And all the time, I'm shitting my pants because I know he's coming after me. There I am with the call button, aiming it at him and clicking my ass off like he's a fuckin' TV I could turn off. Then he cooled down once he was free. He sat on the edge of the bed flexing his hand—the one in the cast—testing it, studying how his fingers worked. Then he looked up at me and I knew I was dead. He just stared at me and his hand stopped working. Then, very slowly, he stood up and grabbed the curtain and dragged it around my bed—his freakin' wild eye on me the whole time. I couldn't move.”

Dusty swallowed and shook his head, still in shock. Then he continued.

“He makes sure the curtain is closed, and then he leans against the window sill and stares at me like he's trying to figure out the best way to kill me—the way he'd enjoy the most. Then a nurse comes in. At least I thought it was a nurse. Then I heard, ‘He's gone,' and it wasn't a nurse. It was a guy with a voice like something from the fuckin' World Wrestling Federation. Another voice said, ‘Fuck!'

“Stomp gave me a look and dropped down beside the bed. They pulled back the curtain and holy fuckin' shitbird! You should have seen these guys. You think Stomp is scary—Christ! When they saw me, they put the gun away—real quick. And then they left.”

“They had a gun?”

“With a silencer.”

Dusty paused and shook his head again with a far off look in his eyes. When he came back to our world, he stared at me for a moment.

“Mark—what the fuck is going on?”

I shook my head. “I don't know,” I said softly, sharing the terror that surrounded us. “It has to do with Stemcell. Stomp's after us. They're after Stomp.”

“And Stomp hid under the bed.” Dusty cracked a worried smile. “Can you imagine that—him crawling under a bed?”

Dusty dropped the smile. “And, you know what? He was scared.” He blew out a breath and then looked at me.
“Think about that. That big bastard was scared.”

“I am, too.”

CHAPTER 41

I found Liza in the master bedroom of the Farmhouse. She was on the bed, naked, propped against a hill of pillows, knees drawn up, reading a book. Her eyes followed me from just above the pages, her crucifix covering her navel and pointing straight down at her neatly trimmed bush. As I approached the foot of the bed, she placed the book gently at her side, eyes still locked on mine. Her knees spread a little wider and she looked down at herself. It was an open invitation and I took advantage of it.

When I rolled away, the gold chain of the crucifix stuck to my chest and peeled away link by link.

“Does that ever come off?” I asked. I tried to seem casually curious. There was something contradictory about her wearing a crucifix during an adulterous moment, and I didn't want it to come between us in the most literal of senses.

“Never—well, sometimes,” she corrected herself. “Airport metal detectors and showers.”

“Bridal or hot, steamy ones?”

Confusion marked her face for an instant and then she broke into a devilish grin. “Hot, steamy ones,” and we slid out of bed and padded our way to the master bath. The shower was a tiled room with two showerheads and a bench seat, a design apparently borrowed from the local gym. When the water reached the right temperature, clouds of steam billowed and rolled through the doorway. Liza and I stepped into the spray and emptied the soap dispenser, lathering, massaging, exploring—working our way to the bench seat where we exhausted ourselves. The crucifix hung from a clothing hook and Liza grabbed it on our way to find some towels before tumbling back into bed.

I hooked a finger under the chain, intentionally brushing a nipple in the progress. “So why do you wear this so religiously?”

Liza started to answer and then paused to look at me
blankly. Finally, she broke into a smile. “That's good—wearing a crucifix religiously. Christ!”

We both broke into a laugh.

“Seriously,” I continued. “It's not about religion, is it?”

“It's about who I am,” she said emphatically, and then added, “and about who I am not.”

“Well, that clears that up.” I let the chain go, advertising my dissatisfaction.

“It's a screwed up story,” she said. “I'll tell you, but first you have to promise me one thing . . .”

“I can't do it again,” I interrupted. “I'm spent.”

Liza chuckled. “Me, too. What I need is for you not to ask me to take it off—not until I'm ready.”

“Agreed.”

Liza pulled the sheet up over us and snuggled against me. “It started with a freakin' bagel.”

I shifted around until I could look into her eyes.

“Gypsies have this thing about purity. You don't mix pure with impure. Above the waist is pure—below the waist, impure—Mahrime. Romani women never wash underwear with bras. They must be separated like Gadje do darks and lights.” She tilted her head to look at me. “You're Gadje—a non-Romani and that makes you impure. I'm a half-breed, a mix. That makes me impure. We were made for each other.” She smiled and looked at me. “Following this?”

“Every step.”

“Good—back to the bagel. We were in a little greasy spoon for breakfast—me and Tony, somewhere in Delaware. The waitress placed the plate in front of me, and her shadow fell on my bagel. For some freaking reason, shadows are filthy. That defiled it. I should have thrown it away. Tony saw it. He sat up, horrified, as if the waitress had sneezed on my plate. I was so fucking hungry I didn't care. I ate it. You should have seen the look on that sleaze ball motherfucker's face. It was like he discovered that I had some God-awful communicable disease. I knew in that moment we were finished—and I liked it. The bagel was good, but the look on Tony's face was delicious. I couldn't get enough. That night I tossed my skirt at him.”

Liza looked deeply into my eyes. “It's an old custom. If a woman gets pissed at her husband, she flashes him—tosses her skirt in the air so he can see her undies—even better if he sees bush. It's a powerful curse. The man is disgraced for putting his head under a woman's skirt—he's impure. It's like giving him cooties. Everyone shuns him if the word gets out.”

“And the cross?” I asked, drawing her back to the main topic.

“Legend has it that the Romans hired a Gypsy blacksmith to make the nails for the crucifixion. The blacksmith's son tried to steal the nails to save Jesus, but he wasn't quick enough. Later, the little boy saw Jesus dying on the cross and their eyes met. Jesus smiled down at the little thief, and from that day forth, stealing has been the Gypsy's birthright. We can steal from anyone—but not from each other.”

She picked up the cross and stared at it. “I stole this from a Gypsy.” She smiled. “It's my rebellion against this stupid fucking culture I am part of, yet not part of. It goes back to that bagel. Breaking the rules is like some kind of drug. I get high breaking their stupid rules. I wash my undies with my tops, run around naked—anything Mahrime pleases me—oral sex, petting dogs, drinking from a cracked cup, eating a bagel with shadow marks on it, and—did I mention oral sex?”

“I think so.”

“Good. If it pisses Tony off and makes me an outcast—I don't care. I'm free.”

There was a soft, shave-and-a-haircut rap on the door. “You guys awake?” It was Dusty.

I kicked off the sheet and reached for my pants as Liza shouted, “Come on in.”

Dusty entered and I held my pants in front of me. Liza made no move to cover herself, perfectly relaxed with a hand behind her head. Dusty froze when his eyes landed on us—on her, more accurately.

“Sorry,” he stammered, but made no attempt to look away. “I thought you might be catching a few Zs.”

Liza slid out of bed and I used the distraction to slip into my pants. Dusty's eyes followed Liza to the chair where she casually slipped into her dress and pulled the crucifix out through the neck, double looping the chain and letting it drop neatly between her breasts. Dusty looked over at me and flicked his eyebrows once in appreciation. The impish grin that Stomp had pounded to near-extinction was back.

“I'm going to need my car,” he said.

“Cash said he's coming back to pick you up.”

“That's why I need my car—I'm not going to work. The last thing I need is that big bastard crawling through the drive-up window to get me.”

“Stomp?” Liza asked. Dusty and I shared a look.

“Yeah. I have this vision. Stomp comes bulldozing into Mickey D's, grabs me by the neck, and pushes my face into the deep fryer.”

“Devereaux thinks Stomp's gone.” I paused. “They found the Beamer at the bus station.”

Dusty fell silent, pursed his lips, and slowly shook his head. I needed to talk to him privately. I needed to convince him to go to work. I needed him to get his hands on those tapes.

“Got an idea,” I said. “We'll go to Granger's to see if our cars are ready. Then we'll swing by and drop you off at your place. You can pick up some things.”

Dusty brightened.

If Liza drove her own car on the short hop to Dusty's, I could convince him to get those tapes. Dusty slid into the back seat of the Lexus and we headed down the lane. We were silent until we hit Belhaven Road. Then Liza swung around to Dusty.

“You always run from your troubles?”

I looked in the rear view mirror and caught Dusty craning his neck to make eye contact with me. There was a long silence.

“Most of the time,” he finally admitted.

Liza turned back and looked absently out her window. “You got to be careful it doesn't follow you.”

“I don't care if it follows,” Dusty said. “Just so it don't catch up.”

I wasn't sure where this was going, but I felt a need to say, “Sometimes you have to make a stand—face your troubles.”

“I already faced Stomp,” Dusty said. “Never again. He can look for me in Brazil.”

I stared at him in the mirror so long that I drove off the road, my right tires bouncing in the gravel before I got control again.