Max Collins - Scratch Fever

Nolan went up and knocked on the door, Toni at his side. He had a Bible in his right hand, supplied by the Gideons to the motel room and by the motel room to him. In his left hand, held at the moment under his jacket, was the 9 mm.

He kept knocking till the buzzing stopped.

She opened the door about halfway, looking down at Nolan (it was three steps up to the door of the trailer) with sultry, suspicious, and heavily made-up eyes. Her hair was piled high and tousled, in a calculated way, and she had on a black T-shirt with white lettering that said “STIFF RECORDS” curved over the smaller “WORLD TOUR,” curved in turn over a globe, underneath which it said: “WE CAME, WE SAW, WE LEFT.”

“What do you want?” she said. Her voice was flat, disinterested, her expression a bored smirk.

“We’re with the Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Nolan said, showing her the gun in his left hand, which was hidden from view from any passersby by the Bible in his right hand.

She tried to shut the door, but Toni hopped up the steps and pushed against it with a shoulder and held it where it was, smiling at Darlene, who immediately recognized her and, after a moment, retreated into the trailer. Toni went in first and Nolan came after, shutting the door and locking it behind him.

Nolan kept his gun in hand, but tossed the Bible over on the counter in the kitchenette, which was off to the right, where a pile of unwashed dishes and beer cans and such indicated that a slob lived here. The living room was barely furnished at all: just a couch against the facing wall, a component stereo spread out on the floor over at the left, with a few big, brightly colored pillows scattered around as if the place had been ransacked. There were LP’s scattered, too, and rock group posters taped to the walls. Nolan didn’t recognize any of the groups; they were just so many sullen faces staring out at him. The only poster he recognized was a country performer, Willie Nelson.

In the middle of the floor, standing on newspapers, was a gray poodle; at the poodle’s feet were clumps of its hair, and a clipper on a long black cord lay on the papers nearby, as well. That explained the buzzing: Darlene had been giving her poodle a haircut.

And the poodle was going nuts, barking, yapping.

Nolan walked over to it, pointed a finger at it, and it sat and shut up and looked up at him and whimpered.

“Some watchdog,” Darlene said, sitting on the couch, trying to be sullen, like the faces on the posters around her. But her fear was showing. There was a pack of cigarettes on the couch next to her, and she lit up.

“You’re the bitch that sings with the Nodes,” Darlene said between puffs, “that much I know. Who’s the guy with the gun and the Bible? And what’s it all about, Alfie?”

Toni went over and grabbed a bunch of the front of Darlene’s T-shirt and pushed her back against the wall. Darlene, startled, dropped her cigarette and her sullen pose; the fear in her wide, mascara-thick eyes was as apparent as the whimpering dog’s.

“You’re the bitch,” Toni said. “The bitch who set Jon up.”

Toni let go of her, and Darlene slid back down onto the couch, where she fumbled for her cigarette — and her pose — and said, “Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Tell me about last night,” Toni said. “Tell me about Jon and the van.”

Darlene found a nasty little smile somewhere. “Will the Jehovah’s Witness get embarrassed if I said I gave the kid a blow job, and sent him on his way?”

“You’re lying.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Toni swung a small, sharp fist at Darlene and sent her sprawling across the couch. Darlene, on her side, felt her mouth.

“I’m bleeding,” she said.

“Maybe it’s just that time of the month,” Toni said. She had a much more convincingly nasty smile than Darlene had mustered. Toni, taking the lead, amused and pleased Nolan.

“You fuckin’ assholes,” Darlene said, sitting up, trying to act mad but coming off scared. “I don’t know what the fuck this is about, but you better get your asses outa here. My boyfriend’s gonna be back any minute.”

Toni and Nolan exchanged glances. Nolan shook his head no.

Toni said, “You’re bluffing.”

“Eat it.”

“You set Jon up. We want to know what really happened last night. We want to know who’s got him and where he is now. And you’re going to tell us.”

Darlene blew a smoke ring; she seemed to be getting her act together finally.

Toni motioned to Nolan, and they went over to the kitchenette area, Nolan keeping the gun pointed Darlene’s way. The poodle was sitting in the midst of the papers, staring up at Nolan.

“I think I can make her talk,” Toni whispered.

“You’re doing fine.”

“You don’t mind if I handle this?”

“No. I’m enjoying myself. I’m not into knocking women around, but I don’t mind watching one knock another one around.”

“How about tying her up few me?”

“Fine.”

Nolan got a kitchen chair and dragged it into the living room area; the poodle scooted away, running down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom to hide.

Toni pointed at the chair. “Sit in it,” she told Darlene.

Darlene just sat on the couch and smoked her cigarette.

Toni grabbed her by one arm and slammed her down in the chair.

Nolan picked up the cigarette Darlene had just dropped and put it out in an ashtray on the floor near the couch. Then he took the small bundle of clothesline out of his jacket pocket and tied Darlene into the chair, and she swore at him. He ignored her; he sat down on the couch. The poodle skulked back in. It jumped up on the couch and lay next to Nolan and looked up at him pathetically; he scratched it around the collar a few times, and it rested its head on his leg.

“What’s your dog’s name?” he asked Darlene.

“Quiche Lorraine,” she said.

“What kind of name is that?”

Toni explained. “It’s from a song.” She jabbed a finger at Darlene’s STIFF T-shirt. “Really, Darlene, you should make up your mind. You can’t be into both the B-52’s and Willie Nelson. It just doesn’t make sense.”

Darlene didn’t respond; she looked nervous. Being tied up didn’t agree with her.

“I suppose you like to be flexible,” Toni said. “It’s nice to be able to come on to guys in both camps. Shitkickers and rock’n’rollers, too. But I really think you should make up your mind, one way or another. I’m going to help you.”

Toni reached down for the poodle clippers. She hit the switch, and the buzz filled the room.

“What are you doing?” Darlene shouted.

“I’m gonna give you a poodle cut,” Toni said.

“No!”

“Sure. It’ll be real punk. A skinhead, like in England.”

“You fuckin’ bitch!”

Toni grabbed a handful of the shaggy hair on top of Darlene’s head and held her that way as she got behind her and started to shave at the base of her neck.

“Stop it! Stop it! I’ll tell you what you want to know! Just stop it!”

Toni switched the clippers off but left the flat, wide nose of them against the base of Darlene’s neck.

“What happened last night?” she asked.

“You... you know who Ron is?”

“That dyke you hang around with.”

“Yeah. She paid me a hundred bucks to get that Jon to come out to the van.”

“And?”

“She hit him over the head and put him in the back of her car.”

“A hundred bucks. You helped kidnap somebody for a hundred goddamn bucks?”

Darlene managed to shrug, despite Toni’s grip on her hair. “It wasn’t kidnapping. She said somebody had it in for the kid and was paying her to rough him up or something. That’s all I know.”