The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga #2) - James Lee Burke Page 0,90
know. You’re a gold mine.”
“I thought I’d pass on the information. Do with it what you want.”
“Why would Grady want to steal my car?”
“I don’t know, Vick. Somebody stole his convertible, and maybe he thinks you had something to do with it.”
“No Kewpie doll, earwax.”
“Sorry I bothered you,” I said. “By the way, your car wasn’t hot-wired. Not according to these guys. It had some kind of box around the back of the ignition switch.”
I could hear him breathing against the surface of the receiver. “So how’d they steal it, pinhead?”
“Search me.”
“No, not search you, fuck you. A lot of cars have security boxes, toe cheese.”
“They said they wrote a message on the driveway that would really get to you. I think it was ‘Blow me’ or ‘Blow me, Elmer Fudd.’ Something like that. They said they wrote it in chalk. They thought it was a howl.”
I could almost feel his body heat coming through the receiver. “That cocksucker,” he said.
“I was trying to do the right thing. I’m sorry I upset you, Vick. I like all the things you called me. One day I might want to be a writer. You’ve given me a lot of material.”
The line went dead.
Chapter
23
RODEO PEOPLE REFER to the two-week period before July Fourth and the two-week period following it as Christmastime. That’s when the circuit opens up, and the country remembers a bit of its origins, and the big prize money awaits any cowboy willing to go the longest eight seconds in the world. In Houston the rodeo and the fair and livestock show were grand events. Bottle rockets exploding above the fairgrounds, the Ferris wheel printed against the sky, the smell of caramel corn and hot dogs and cotton candy, the music of the carousel, the popping of the shooting gallery, the spielers in front of the sideshow, a fire-eater blowing clouds of flaming kerosene from his mouth, bull riders eating steak sandwiches under an awning snapping with wind, all the riders wearing butterfly chaps and big-roweled spurs strapped on their boots. For me these images could have fallen from the painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, but I doubted they would ever be recognized as such.
I took Valerie on the Ferris wheel, which was like rising into the stars, even better, because when the gondola halted at the top to let on more passengers, the whole world seemed to drop away from us, the gondola swaying, the people on the ground no more than stick figures, all of our problems trapped down below us, as though we were cupped inside a divine hand. I hung my arm over her shoulder. “You said Miss Napolitano would try to destroy us. It’s the other way around. She sees herself in you. She believes Jaime Atlas was forcing Mr. Harrelson and Grady to give us a bad time because Saber and I hurt Vick.”
“This woman wants to be me?” Valerie asked. “Where did you get this brilliant insight?”
“You’re everything she’s not. You’re admired and loved by others. She’s not. She’s used by the scum of the earth. You know what the big mystery is, the one I think no one can figure out?”
“No, what is it, Mr. Smarty-Pants?”
“Why a girl like you goes steady with the likes of me.”
She tried to look serious, but I saw her eyes crinkle at the corners.
“When people ask me, I tell people you not only have poor vision but you’re a terrible judge of character,” I said.
She laughed this time. And what a laugh she had. It was like the way she chewed gum. It was an expression of joy.
We ate hamburgers and went to the livestock show. Twice I thought I saw a hulking man in a fedora following us. I sat down on a bench by the entrance to the Coliseum while Valerie looked for the ladies’ room. I was staring at the tips of my cowboy boots when I felt the weight of a big man ease down on the bench. I didn’t need to look up to know who he was. I could see the Pall Mall cigarette protruding from his cupped fingers; I could also smell his odor, a portable fog of nicotine and harsh soap and breath mints or antiperspirant that didn’t work.
“Good evening to you, Detective Jenks,” I said.
“You riding this weekend?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, tomorrow. I drew a bull named Original Sin.”