Psychosomatic Read online

  “I did.”

  A grin curled. “You’re going to start lying to me now. What really happened? Or how about I just watch the tape?”

  Terry’s fingers tightened on the camera. He met his friend’s eyes and held the gaze, dead serious. “You remember that girl you almost drowned?”

  It took him a moment. “Yeah.”

  “Remember when her sister found you at the bar that night, followed us outside and plugged you with the Tazer? Then kicked the shit of you? You said that if anyone asked, I should say you got jumped by bikers in the restroom. Let’s say it was something like that.”

  Lancaster nodded, accelerated and made a sharp turn, headed south. “Good enough.”

  Terry said, “You’ll need to bleach your hair. We’re going to ground for a while.”

  “Why do I have to bleach? Why can’t you dye yours?”

  “I don’t know. My way makes more sense.”

  THREE

  Alan Crabtree played video poker in the bar of the Pirate’s Bay casino at two in the afternoon, always a bit tense in these places because he never knew when the eye in the sky would recognize him and get him tossed. It happened twice already, both at the big places with loose slots, big comfortable chairs. Since the Coast wasn’t big on horse racing, video poker was a decent substitute.

  Pretty soon, he wouldn’t need to. He was spending so many nights with Lydia, they decided to cancel the nursing service that usually helped her with morning routines, daily chores, and helping her to bed, and let Alan move in to handle all that until he found a steady job worthy of his talents. He couldn’t wait, really, except when he was sitting at a poker machine. Weigh poker versus Lydia, though, it wasn’t much of a contest.

  In the meantime, Alan had spent most days here and a few other Coast casinos that still hadn’t tossed him. He’d paid Terry and Lancaster the six hundred he owed for the car, didn’t have other bills besides the rent on his house, and Lydia helped out with cash. One thought he had was maybe seeing if one of the gaming schools needed a teacher for blackjack. They couldn’t keep him from that, right? It wasn’t the same as real dealing. Lydia seemed to think it was a good idea. Actually, she didn’t say much about it at all, Alan now second-guessing her every word.

  An upscale redneck—clean jeans, an ironed Western shirt, a Dale Jr. cap covering what looked like not much hair—took the stool beside him. Alan felt this guy beside him, literally, being pretty wide already, although he was down to two-fifty on that low-carb diet, toning up since he’d been seeing Lydia. No one else around except an oldster at the far end of the bar telling the bartender about some tarot card reading he got over the phone. The bartender nodded and said, “Is that right?” occasionally, not listening.

  The oldster said, “I asked her about you, too. You’re gonna die.”

  “Is that right?”

  All those empty seats, and this cowboy wanted to crowd Alan, maybe turn on the intimidation. It wasn’t necessary. Alan scared easily, even more so since shooting Cap.

  “You the guy who got rid of Ronnie?” The cowboy said. His eyes were magnified behind thick glasses. Looked the same age as Lydia, early thirties, except for the receding hairline.

  “Sorry? I don’t understand.” Alan picked up his Corona, took a sip and fought hard not to shake. The lime did a little dance in the bottle. He hoped the cowboy wouldn’t notice. That and the sweat rings under the arms of his big yellow Polo shirt.

  “You lie badly, Alan.” The guy’s voice was hokey. “You and Cap took the bastard out a couple months ago, and then you made it look like Cap was the only player, shot him cold and left him next to Ronnie in a car.”

  Alan reflex-nodded before he could think. “Sounds crazy.”

  He wondered what this guy knew. Only Lydia and he were in on the real details. Unless she—why would she? She swore it was their secret, wiped clean from their minds as far as the world was concerned. He believed her until this guy showed up.

  Alan took another sip, longer this time, then played five more quarters. He caught a break, instant three of a kind off sixes. Then he doubled up, sighed while doing it, and the computer drew a fucking queen of hearts. Alan’s card was an eight of clubs. Jesus, this wasn’t anything like betting the horses. There was a greyhound track over in Mobile, nowhere near the same thrill.

  The cowboy said, “I’m not going to walk away and pretend it didn’t happen. You want my business, you’d better stop the secret agent bullshit and talk to me.”

  Alan turned his face to the guy. “What do you mean by business?”

  The cowboy grinned. “You want to take a booth over there, a little more private?”

  Alan looked back. The dark booths were empty, all curved benches around round tables that faced the stage over the bar, near a small space cleared for dancing. A big screen TV off to the side ran a March Madness game, LSU and Ohio State. Alan’s cup held just under sixty bucks in quarters, breaking fairly even after an hour of play, and he had all afternoon to keep at it before going to Lydia’s.

  He thought, So why not listen for a few minutes?

  The cowboy slipped off the stool and made his way to a table while Alan signaled for the bartender, got another Corona, then turned and asked the other guy if he wanted something.

  “A Bud Light.”

  The bartender shook his head. “You have to pay for it if you’re not gambling.”

  “He lost big downstairs,” Alan said.

  The bartender stared and waited until Alan dug a handful of quarters from his bucket and counted out four dollars. The bartender swept them away, then handed over both bottles. Alan was a regular here, saw this bartender every few days, and was surprised to get this treatment. Something about the cowboy, must’ve been.

  At the booth, Alan set the Bud Light on the table, then scooched into the seat, staring the cowboy down. The air smelled like hope, a special scent they piped in, so Alan heard. The noise was a constant one-note doorbell that gamblers were used to, letting it subconsciously blend into their minds so that they dream about the noise and are drawn back later.

  The cowboy took off his cap—bald up top and thinning all over, like Alan guessed—wiped his forehead, then snugged it back on. “Right to it. Call me Cowboy, no need for my real name in this.”

  “I’ll call you Redneck.”

  “Cow. Boy,” he said, slow and hard.

  Alan shook his head. “ ‘Cowboy’ will cost you extra. ‘Redneck’ gets you a discount.”

  “Think you’re funny?”

  “No. You know my real name. How about that? Price goes up again.”

  It was fun goofing with the guy and watching him get his feelings injured. The cowboy tried hard to keep things bottled. Played nice. Alan figured he was about to ask for something important and dead serious.

  “I’ve got a partner in my operation. What that operation is, you don’t need to know.”

  Drugs, Alan thought immediately. Meth, heroin, crack, X. Which one?

  The cowboy said, “Now the partner’s got some new friends. Some guys out of Pensacola want him to help move some heavier weight. That’s fine, if he wants to cut and run, sure, but he needs seed money to get into the game. And where do you think he’s finding it?”

  “His ass?” Alan wished the cowboy wouldn’t ask questions. What was the point?

  The guy wagged a finger. “Funny shit, yeah, you are funny. He’s taking the money from our operation. Skimming it, thinking I won’t notice. I followed up, talked to some clients, some of our assistants. He’s raised the price without telling me, keeps the surplus.”

  He leaned back and crossed his arms, raised his eyebrows like he expected Alan to say That rat bastard thief! when Alan really thought Good for him.

  “And?” Alan said.

  “You don’t have be rude.”

  Alan lifted his bottle, took a long, long sip, held up a Wait a minute palm. Then he slammed the bottle to the table, sounded a loud rolling belch, cleared his throat a
nd said, “And?”

  Redneck tossed his head back and murmured Fuck this shit before saying, “I want you to get rid of him. How much for that?”

  Alan went cold, suddenly realizing what this was about. Until then, he was thinking just another odd job. Did Lydia pimp him out as an assassin? Jesus, he couldn’t do that. He felt more afraid than usual, played steady. Instead of the hoods doling out little scraps, fall guy things if he were to have gotten caught, offing Cap put him a few steps up the ladder now. It was all built on lies—he killed Cap, sure, but Cap killed Ronnie and if the plan had gone right, no one should have died anyway.

  “How much?” Redneck said again, his expression hyped, tight, waiting for the phone to ring, tell him his daddy was dead. One of those.

  Alan said, “You’re not really losing anything are you? Your cut stays the same.”

  “We shook hands on fifty-fifty, and I’m a man of my word.”

  “If he dies, you get it all.” Alan felt he was about to get another pitiful justification, so he jumped in with the same price Lydia paid Cap to beat up her ex-husband Ronnie, but not kill him. “Three thousand.”

  Redneck nodded slowly. It was like he wandered into an expensive store, picked up something small and saw it was worth a month’s pay. Don’t mention it, look shocked, talk about how fucking much else you could buy instead. Pass for rich by looking bored.

  “Cash?”

  As if there was a choice? Alan smiled, deciding it must be a joke and he’d play along until he talked to Lydia, get her to call off this dog. “Redneck, let me explain a few things to you about not getting caught.”

  *

  That evening with Lydia, they made love in the leather recliner in the front room. Alan sat bareass naked, on the verge of sliding off as he held Lydia around the waist on his lap. The prosthetics were off and he had control but moved her like she asked, lifting her up and down on his cock.

  “Faster, faster, waitwaitwait, now, start slow.”

  She told him it felt like she was tied up, helpless in a strange way. It was magic to have a guy be her movement.

  He slid down in the seat as he felt himself begin to cum, exploding inside Lydia while he choked out grunts and half her name. She rocked her head side to side and took loud breaths. And then it was over. Alan circled his arms around her as she kissed his shoulder. After a while he carried her to the shower, cleaned her body and washed her hair before reconnecting the limbs, wrapping Lydia in a silk robe, and setting her back in her wheelchair. Before he got dressed, he sprayed Lysol on the recliner and wiped it off with a towel.

  “I met this weird guy today at the casino, Sweetie. Like, he knew all about the thing with Ronnie and Cap. He tried to hire me like a hit man.”

  “Was it Norm Fagen?”

  Alan shrugged. “He didn’t give me a real name.”

  She blew into her straw and rolled closer. “You guys and your paranoia. He had glasses? Goofy half-long hair, half-bald?”

  “That’s him. You know him? You told him all the details? I thought we said those were secrets.”

  “Shit on that. You’re a better man than this guy, and I talked you up so nice. He was shaking when he left, wanted me to make the call so he wouldn’t have to face you head on. I told him you’re a real intimidator.”

  “Why’d you do that? Jesus, I’m not a killer.”

  “You could be. You handled the Cap and Ronnie thing so well, I think it’s a move up in the world for you. Do you want to be small time forever, taking grunt jobs from assholes? Think about the respect.”

  “Think about the death penalty.” She’s out of her mind.

  “It’s not like I’m saying be a hit man, Alan. Here’s the deal. Norm doesn’t know about you and me, this part of it. I told him you work for me mostly, still need your fee. Once the partner is out of the way, Norm needs someone else on board to help with the operation. Someone smarter than this boob. Like, well, me.”

  “You’re talking about dope, aren’t you? This is a redneck meth guy, and you’re going to hook up with that?”

  “Jesus, honey, not like I haven’t before. How do you think Ronnie made his money? How do you think I’ve been able to afford all this plus the gizmos?” Lydia moaned like she was touching herself. “We moved a lot of snow back then, man. I’ll never be able to spend all this money. Never had anyone on to us, either.”

  Alan couldn’t look at her. His last few weeks with Lydia were amazing for him. She challenged him to look inside and ask if he was satisfied with the man he saw there. Like therapy, almost. She pushed him to be a stronger man, physically and mentally, and worked to break down his comfortable loafer mentality. Here he was thinking she was pushing him towards a good honest living when instead she wanted him to have bigger balls so he could kill people. At that moment, on his knees, naked with Lysol and a towel, he wondered if she tore down the old façade simply to build a new one for him.

  She finally said, “Would I do that to you? I’ve got the money, the connections, friends. Kill one scumbag, that’s the target. Skimming dope money to fund bigger dope deals? Come on. We can turn it into a real business, not a free for all.”

  Alan nodded.

  Lydia puffed, rolled the chair closer, her rubber toes touching Alan’s love handle.

  “I mean, are you really going to play quarter poker as a career?” she said.

  Alan shook his head. “How well do you know this Norm guy, anyway?”

  “What’s this about?” Lydia laughed. “You’re jealous? Oh, really, Mr. Crabtree, please. Does he look like my type?”

  Alan thought, If I’m your type…

  “I mean, do you trust him? How long have you known him?”

  Lydia’s smile was pure tease. “Since high school, at least twelve years. And he’s always been ugly. He was a band geek who started a little side business, okay? I used to buy from him, way back then. Smoked a little. The thing is, he’s no one. He’s hardly made any moves in the world since then, which is why I thought we could trust him.”

  “You were a band geek?”

  The smile disappeared. “I was a musician. First chair tenor sax. Norm was a snare drummer.”

  “I didn’t mean anything.”

  “You should have heard me play.”

  Alan put his hand on her fake thigh and rubbed softly. It was something he’d discovered early on, when Lydia would have phantom pains and ask him to itch the prosthetics. It seemed to help. Alan wondered if the reverse was true and tried tickling, affectionate touching. As long as she could see it, Lydia swore she felt the tingling.

  “I can imagine you were good,” Alan said. He looked up at Lydia, who held onto a loose grin while she watched his hand. He made the strokes longer, reaching where the leg attached, not ready to go past it yet.

  “That’s so nice. You’re sweet, Alan.”

  “Really, though. Nothing between you and Norm?”

  “Again with the jealousy? I’m not sure what to say.”

  “Not even once?” Alan moved his other hand to her other leg, synchronized the rubs as his fingers lingered higher each time. Lydia’s breathing grew rougher, half-moans. Alan was getting hard again.

  “Jesus, okay. There was once. You want to know?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “In the drum closet, and I was high, horny, same as Norm, and I blew him a little. God, we were sixteen. Then he pulled my shorts down, took me from behind while I held onto the bass drum. Look, stop the rubbing and get to it.”

  Alan slipped his fingers inside her and the moans took off like fireworks. The doubts he felt eased for the moment. It was all talk at the moment. When it came to action, Alan was sure he could talk her out of the idea. Kill off a drug dealer? She was a better woman than that.

  I hope.

  He flicked a couple switches on the chair to make it manual and pushed it backwards to her bedroom. He took the false limbs off and placed her on the bed.

  Before he turned her onto her stomach, L
ydia said, “Remember to get the snorkel. Just in case I need it.”

  FOUR

  The dye-job on Lancaster only made him more conspicuous. The face didn’t match blond at all, and he hadn’t smiled much since. Terry thought it was a bad sign and hoped panic wasn’t showing through his cool veneer as he tried to paste together a plan. It wasn’t so easy. He’d never been involved with murder before.

  Terry told him, “It’s only until we can get set up out of town.”

  “Do we really need to leave? It’s not like the cops here are all Sam Spade.”

  “Maybe, but they get better when a cop dies.”

  They spent the afternoon in a couple neighborhoods, knocking doors to raise pocket money, still came up zero after three hours. Lancaster was getting restless, mumbling and growling under his breath, Terry hearing words like bank and carjack.

  “Look,” Terry said. “So many people owe money, credit out the ass, so we’ll find something. Cool out a little.”

  “I’ll give you another hour.”

  “What’s got into you?”

  Lancaster flashed coffee-stained teeth. “If you don’t use them muscles, the muscles wither away. We can storm a little bank, pistol whip the guards, load up and get the hell out. Fifty-nine more minutes, then we do it my way.”

  Terry let it go, figuring he’d talk his partner down if they didn’t score in half an hour. At the next house, he opened the curbside mailbox and sorted through the letters, copied the name Gibbs onto his clipboard. They headed up the walk to the front door and rang the bell.

  *

  Mr. Gibbs opened the front door to find two overgrown white frat boys on the step. The ball caps, the two-day fuzz on their chins, but they looked at least thirty. Both blond, wearing Dockers and white shirts with cheap ties. Terry had a tweed sport coat and a clipboard, a page on which he flipped before looking up and smiling.

  “Mr. Gibbs?” he said.

  Gibbs nodded, seemingly wary of salesmen and Gospel pushers.

  So after the nod, Terry said. “I think you’ve been expecting us.”