A Kiss Gone Bad wm-1 Read online

  ‘You’ve met Velvet?’

  ‘Her name is Velvet?’

  ‘Velvet Mojo.’

  ‘Stripper or actress?’

  ‘An adult-film director.’

  Gooch set down his cereal bowl. ‘No, we haven’t met. Cute but rough. Like a mare that’s been rode hard and put up wet, like my dad used to say.’

  ‘Who would know about them here?’

  Gooch shrugged. ‘They kept to themselves. Not much for fishing and not much for boating. I saw them docking once. They needed about five people to help them dock properly.’ He considered. ‘Probably they talked with Ernesto.’ Gooch went to his radio and spoke briefly. He left the radio on to hear the chatter of the working fishermen and guides across St Leo Bay and beyond. Whit could hear three or four male voices, joking, chattering, one complaining about a dearth of redfish, someone asking that a poker game be rescheduled for tomorrow, someone else hailing Captain Bill. ‘Ernesto’s the marina handyman. He sees the cops coming, he hides, so I bet no authority figure has taken a statement. He’ll be down in a second. So spill details.’

  Whit told Gooch, who he would trust with the launch keys for America’s nuclear arsenal, what he knew thus far about Pete Hubble.

  Gooch laughed. ‘Lucinda Hubble walks around town like she’s got a coal lump up her ass and none of us are good enough to sniff the diamond. Her boy’s off making fuck films. I love it.’

  ‘You’ve got to quit being overly sympathetic to people, Gooch.’

  ‘I wonder if this Velvet was planning to ply her trade here.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me you want to audition.’

  Gooch tapped his unshaven chin. ‘It’s an interesting moral dilemma. Most men pretend to have fantasies straight out of a porn movie, but how many would actually walk the walk and show their worth in front of rolling cameras?’

  ‘Not me. I’m too shy.’

  Gooch watched Ernesto Gomez hurry down the T-head. ‘I, on the other hand, have a decided lack of inhibitions. I would be a natural, strutting among the starlets. But I wouldn’t do a porn film either.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Anytime you see a blue movie, remember this: those women were once somebody’s baby girls. Do you think a single one of them thought in kindergarten: Gosh, when I grow up, please, God, please let me be smart and talented enough to be a porn star? No way. They’re Barbie dolls who got bent along the way.’

  Whit sipped his coffee. ‘Pete Hubble was a kid once, too.’

  ‘So he had some deep-seated shortcoming, and he was proving he was a so-called real man. Or maybe he wanted to piss off Mommy. Or maybe he wanted to just lose himself and forget some nasty shit. This concludes our Psych 101 lecture.’ Gooch shrugged. ‘I feel as sorry for him as I do for the women.’

  ‘Even though he got to sleep with more women than you or I ever will? Combined?’

  ‘So he screwed hundreds of women. You think he got to sleep with them? No, Whit. No real kissing, holding, enjoying each woman for her unique sparkle in her eyes, the taste of her skin, the shape of her lips when you bring her pleasure. No. It was assembly-line sex. No, thanks.’

  Gooch stood and invited Ernesto Gomez in rapid-fire Spanish to come aboard. Ernesto was in his fifties, with a moon-wide face centered by a nervous smile. His left eye wandered slightly, and he kept that side of his face turned a bare angle away. In Spanish, Gooch offered him coffee and asked if they could converse in English as Whit’s Spanish was execrable. Ernesto nodded and kept his tight grin locked in place.

  ‘Judge Mosley grew up with the man who died,’ Gooch added.

  Ernesto frowned in sympathy. ‘Very sad, yes.’

  ‘Did you notice many visitors to his boat?’ Whit asked.

  Ernesto glanced at Gooch, who murmured in Spanish and nodded reassuringly.

  ‘Pete had a few visits. A rich-looking lady. A teenage boy. The dirtbag.’

  The rich-looking lady was probably either Lucinda or Faith. The boy was no doubt Pete’s son Sam. ‘The dirt-bag?’ Whit asked.

  Ernesto’s face wrinkled in distaste. ‘Si. Bossy, no respect, young, too good for everyone else. Has Porsche but keep it dirty, don’t take care of it.’

  ‘You know this guy’s name?’ Gooch asked.

  Ernesto shook his head. ‘Sorry, Gooch. He come here once, twice a week, over the past month or so. Take the boat out for all the day, come back at night. Fishing I suppose. One time they argue, I’m fixing rot two boats down, I hear them. Laughing, yelling. Much drinking.’

  ‘What did they argue about?’

  Ernesto murmured to Gooch in a low torrent of Spanish. Gooch patted him on the knee. Ernesto glanced back at Whit.

  ‘Money,’ the old man said. ‘Money to be paid to Pete.’

  ‘This man owed Pete money?’

  Ernesto considered and scratched his lip. ‘I think that how it was.’

  ‘Yet you said they were partying together.’

  ‘Not yesterday, not after arguing.’

  ‘Can you tell me what they said?’ Whit asked.

  Ernesto grimaced. ‘They talk too fast for my English. But dirtbag all red in the face. I hear them yelling, I come over to the boat, want to be sure all is okay. I see through the windows. Dirtbag took swing at Pete, but Pete, he strong and big. Dirtbag just heavy, has hands of man who never works. Pete pushed him down. Dirtbag left, very angry.’

  Ernesto, pressed, gave a more detailed description of Dirtbag: heavyset, around five-ten, blondish, late twenties or early thirties, thinning hair, bright clothing, always loud.

  ‘The teenage boy you saw – do you know a young man named Sam Hubble?’

  ‘No. I saw the boy once, yesterday at lunch. I guess skipping school.’

  ‘Any others you can remember?’

  ‘Yeah, short guy last week. Handed me a piece of paper on his way to Pete’s boat, blue and red and white, talked plenty. Smelled like mints, too much mints, you know?’

  ‘That sounds like your esteemed opponent Buddy Beere,’ Gooch said. ‘Isn’t he an unrepentant Altoid sucker?’

  ‘This paper, what did it say?’ Whit asked.

  Ernesto waved hands. ‘Wanting folks to vote. You see all those signs around now.’

  ‘Campaign flyers from Buddy,’ Gooch said. ‘That savvy bastard, courting the illegal immigrant vote.’

  ‘Did you hear anything last night?’ Whit asked.

  ‘No, nothing until the cops came. I was asleep.’

  ‘You ever see any young women coming around to his boat?’ Whit asked.

  Ernesto nodded. ‘Yeah, I forgot, with that preacher. The one on TV with the big muscles. He brought lady with him. But she big and scary, big muscles, like a man with titties.’ Ernesto glanced back toward the marina office. ‘Mike be mad I not working.’

  ‘Don’t worry about Mike,’ Whit said. ‘Have the police talked to you about this?’

  Ernesto appeared stricken. ‘No, please, mister, no policia. I don’t know nothing about nothing.’

  ‘It’s okay. Don’t worry,’ Whit soothed. ‘One other question. The woman named Velvet. You see her around much?’

  Ernesto smiled. ‘Velvet. Yes. She bakes good chocolate cookies. Every few days give some to me.’

  Velvet baking cookies. Whit tried to summon the image and pictured a hausfrau in a leather apron and stiletto heels.

  ‘You ever see her bake an eclair?’ Gooch asked with a leer. Ernesto looked confused, so Whit asked: ‘Did she and Pete get along okay?’

  ‘Sure, yeah.’

  ‘She mess around with any of the guys around the marina?’ Gooch asked.

  ‘No. She nice.’ Ernesto put the bright smile back on. End of commentary.

  ‘Gracias. I appreciate it, Ernesto.’ Whit shook his hand. Ernesto hurried back toward the marina office.

  ‘I’m guessing the rich lady was Lucinda,’ Gooch said. ‘Unless there’s a bored matron around here in need of sexual servicing. Your stepmother, for instance.’
<
br />   ‘Funny, with a hint of vicious.’

  ‘You could outdo Pete Hubble on the annoying-your-relatives scale if you do your Oedipus impersonation, Whitman.’

  ‘Jesus, Gooch, you’re a crank. I’m finding a place to live right after the campaign…’

  ‘Ah, yes. The campaign. Waging a fierce one, aren’t you? I particularly enjoyed your interview on Face the Nation.’

  ‘Are you done?’

  ‘Whit, please campaign today. The thought of Buddy Beere at the bench makes me want to move to a judicially sound country. Like Cuba.’

  Whit’s cell phone buzzed. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Whit? It’s Faith.’ She sounded crisper this morning, less frayed with shock.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘We’re holding up. Lucinda finally slept last night; Sam slept with me. To just get his dad back and then… it’s a hard thing for a kid.’

  ‘I need to talk to y’all. For the inquest.’

  ‘Would this afternoon work for you?’

  ‘Yeah. How about four?’

  ‘Fine.’ Her voice lowered. ‘I wish I could see you… just us. I could use a hug. Or something stronger.’

  He didn’t flirt back, watching a gull alight on the bow of Real Shame. ‘How’s Sam handling this?’

  ‘My son is a tightly controlled mass of nerves. He’s upset but he doesn’t want to show that he is. His father did matter to him, even a lousy SOB like Pete.’ Her tone turned bitter. ‘A father always would.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’

  He meant to help Sam, but Faith took the inches and made them miles. ‘Please just… hurry us through all this legal rigmarole. Don’t drag it out with a public inquest hearing. Help me protect Lucinda and Sam from what is sure to be unpleasantness, Whit. You’ll do that for me, won’t you?’ Her tone, usually cool, even in wriggles of heat, took on a slightly cajoling tone.

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  The quiet stretched. But she finally said, ‘I appreciate it. I’ll see you at the house later.’

  Whit clicked off his phone. Gooch studied a tidal chart and yawned.

  ‘I must have a gift certificate for unwanted advice. Do this, do that. Rule it’s suicide. Don’t hold a formal inquest.’

  Gooch raised a crooked brown eyebrow. ‘Rule how you please. Judge, and screw ’em if they can’t take a joke.’

  13

  Velvet came awake suddenly, in the bright haze from the motel windows. She rubbed her eyes and thought: So now starts the rest of your life, babe. What are you going to do?

  Sleep remained impossible after that priss-assed cop dropped her off at the motel. She lay awake, listening to the hum of the air conditioner as it chilled the room, and the gentle bump of her heart as she hugged a goose-feather pillow close to her body.

  Pete dead. And only yesterday he’d said to her: I’m not gonna do another flick with you until all this with my brother is settled, understand? You can help me or you can fly your ass back to California, but I’m not leaving now.

  She’d pouted, furious. Well, if you loved me you 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 watched Whit in public and women smiled at him, whereas women suddenly recalled other appointments and hurried on their way when the Blade tried long conversations. Hating Whit was easy. The Blade imagined Whit dead, hollowed out, and himself stepping into Whit’s skin, pulling the pallid skulllness face over his own like a mask, fitting his fingers into Whit’s fingers like gory gloves.

  Why not kill Mosley as well as take Velvet? He considered. Dismemberment held a certain appeal, as did evisceration, although they certainly cut short the fun. He considered decapitation overrated; heads seemed mocking without bodies attached. The Blade had learned that truth the hard way.

  He’d never wanted to kill a man particularly before, but it promised an interesting difference – like fries after a solid week of potato chips. He daydreamed about Whit dying from a slow, careful series of cuts, and a slow whisper filtered into his ears. He stared at the ceiling and its whirring fan. The fan, spinning, resembled a dark eye. Mama’s eyes. He stared, barely breathing, only hearing Mama’s voice telling him what he must do.

  He awoke and knew he had slipped to that inky world that Mama had shaped. She used to say, with her sure smile, right before she w
armed the wrench on the stove or clicked the clothespin shut on his little flick of a penis: We’re together forever, honeybunch, and don’t you ever forget it.

  Thank God, he would think, that he had managed to become the hero of his own story. Mama had not won. He had. He would still.

  His phone rang; he picked up and chatted through morning niceties, then listened.

  ‘This young woman who found Pete’s body,’ the familiar voice murmured into his ear. ‘Do me a favor. Give her some money. Get her out of town.’

  ‘Sure,’ said the Blade. ‘I can do that for you.’

  ‘Santa Fe is lovely this time of year, and I bet there’s a nice, affordable youth hostel. Or perhaps Florida, if she’s still set on a beach.’ He listened to detailed instructions and hung up the phone.

  His thumb began to itch for the keen sharpness of his knife. If Heather Farrell needed to leave town… well, many were the avenues. A hefty bribe paled compared to other options. He’d gotten away with this every time. (Well, except that one time, so very long ago.) Why not again? He was already in the mood.

  He considered how best to approach the problem and how to avoid any messy ramifications. A lure, simple, would do. Nothing could interfere, after all, with his plan for Velvet. He ducked under the sagging bed he slept on and reached for his bowie knife. It was lovely, stout, and sharp enough to cut hopes and dreams. He rummaged in a box with MAMA’S STUFF written on the side in thick Magic Marker and found a worn sharpening stone. The Blade dragged the knife back and forth across the stone, a rhythmic caress that whispered: Heath-er, Heath-er, Heath-er.

  The Blade flicked on his stereo. The Beach Boys sang in perfect harmony about their 409, and the knife moved to the beat.

  14

  Claudia wrote a terse report on the investigation’s status and left it on Delford’s empty desk. She grabbed a cup of thin coffee from the kitchen. When she got back to her desk, the dispatcher was buzzing her. She had a visitor in the lobby, Faith Hubble.