Ed Gorman - Voodoo Moon

"Pretty much."

"That would be some coincidence."

"More coffee?"

"No, thanks. I need to get back and see how things are going."

"If there's anything I can do."

"I know. You'll be glad to help. Here's your jacket back, Robert." She stopped by a few tables before she left. In small towns, police chiefs are celebrities subject to election. They learn to work a room the way politicians do.

I finished my coffee slowly, staring out the window at the cars streaming past in the night. A kind of lonesomeness came over me then. It didn't tie to anyone or anywhere-no special person or place I missed-and it was certainly a familiar feeling so it didn't startle or scare me. It was a late-night train-whistle loneliness; a sad-barking-dog-at-midnight loneliness; a hobo loneliness that I had first found in the books of Jack London way back in grade school. I used to think this marked me as special, but the older I get I know it's something we all feel sometimes, that sense of melancholy and dislocation we can't explain but can only endure, that inexplicable ache that lets you know you really do have a soul after all, despite what the skeptics say, because the pain is spiritual and not merely mental. The closest approximations are the paintings of Edward Hopper, those lonesome faceless souls in those lonesome midnight cafes in those mysterious Midwestern midnight towns of his.

I walked back to the motel.

Iwas given another room-this time on the second floor. I didn't see Tandy or Laura or Noah Chandler. I went up and tried to watch some TV. The Cedar Rapids stations used Kibbe's death as the lead. Murder, as it should be, is still a big thing out here.

Letterman came on. There was a young actress I fell in love with before the first break. She reminded me of my wife was why. A quiet elegance, and yet a certain quiet smart-ass quality, too. Playful, in a kitten-soft sort of way.

I turned the lights off, stripped out of my clothes, and crawled into bed. The semis moved through the night like dinosaurs. I wondered where they were going. I'd always wanted to drive one of those big rigs. Places with names like Cheyenne and Red Rock and Yuma had sounded exciting as hell when I was in high school. I'd had a stepfather I didn't like much, and a girlfriend who couldn't or wouldn't love me, and an imagination that told me a town called Yuma was exactly what a kid like me was looking for.

I slept. Not a good sleep. A restless, tossing one. Not nightmares. But those lonesome dreams where a girl is rejecting you, or somebody you considered a friend has suddenly turned on you. An extension of that inexplicable lonesomeness, I suppose. The smart answer was probably that when my father died my twelfth year, I felt betrayed and abandoned and never quite recovered from that feeling. He'd been my best friend. But I'm too smart to believe in smart answers. The dreams of desertion were probably inspired by events far more complicated than my father dying. Anyway, I get tired of the modern tendency to blame everything on parents.

The knock woke me quickly. I sat up and reached for the gun I kept on the nightstand. Bureau training is hard to break. I grabbed my pants and tugged them on, managing to stub my toe against the bureau as I did so. I had to swear real, real quietly.

I tiptoed to the curtain and peeked out.

Tandy stood there hugging a bottle of wine. She looked cute and sweet and sexy and scared. The night was mauve and alive with the mercury vapor lights of the parking lot and the blowing dust and cosmic seeds the prairie winds were whipping across the open spaces. I couldn't smell the impending rain in here, but I could feel it.

I went and opened the door.

"You forget about me, Robert?"

"No. Huh-uh." Yawn.

"God, you did, didn't you? You were asleep, weren't you? I told you I'd sleep in your bed tonight and you forgot me?"

I'd forgotten how personally Tandy took everything. I plucked the bottle of wine from her hand. "I really appreciate you delivering the wine, though, young lady."

"Very funny. God."

"I'm sorry. I was tired. I fell asleep."

"It's barely eleven." And pushed past me, inside.

She pulled out the chair and sat down. "Your room doesn't smell as bad as ours."

"I'm sure the management will be glad to hear that."

"It's a good thing you're cute because otherwise I'd be pissed right now. I really would."

"I fell asleep. I'm sorry."

"You have so many women throwing themselves at you that you forget when somebody tries to be tender and affectionate toward you?"

"How about some wine?"

"You could at least say you were sorry."

"I did. Twice."

"Well, then, you could at least say it again."

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry. How's that?"

"I even took a shower and put on special panties."

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry."

Which is how it went for the first fifteen minutes, the banter and her hurt feelings.

By the time I went into the bathroom and came back with two plastic glasses, she'd calmed down. I poured us vino and we drank, sitting up in bed, MTV on real low on the tube.

"Noah was pretty drunk tonight."

"Good for him."

"He got into it with Laura again."

"About getting married?"

"Yeah. In a weird way, I feel sorry for him. He's a jerk but he loves her. He really does."

"I kind of got that impression."

"I wish you loved me that much."

"Well, I wish you loved me that much, too."

"Really?"

"Well, sort of."

"You dipshit."

"Thank you."

"Here I was all ready for some romantic talk. You know, loveydovey. It's still hard for me to sleep around. Without some sort of lovey-dovey, anyway. But you've probably slept around a lot more than I have and you're used to it."

"I haven't slept around that much."

"You faithful to your wife?"

"Absolutely."

"But you've been sleeping around since she died?"

"Not much. I've had two long relationships."

"That's all."

"God," I said, "you working on a new Kinsey report? And while we're at it, how many have you slept with?"

"I keep strict count."

"How many?"

"Should I count the one who was so drunk he fell asleep inside me?"

"That must've been a nice experience."

"And he was as big as a bear. It took me half an hour to get him off me."

"Don't count him. So how many?"

"Eight."

"Well, that's not bad."

"That's home runs only-"

"Ah. So just getting to first, second, or third-"

"That stuff's just sort of high school, don't you think? I mean, I don't think I should have to count that."

"Yeah, I guess you're right."

She laughed. And put her head on my shoulder. "Some kinds of wines make me really horny."

"Is this one of them?"

"I'll have to see."

That's how it went from roughly eleven-fifteen to eleven forty-five. I'd forgotten how easily she got drunk. Two modest glasses and she was well on her way.

"You want to see my underwear?"

"I thought you'd never ask," I said.

"I'm serious."

"Sure, I want to see your underwear. You want to see mine?"

"But that doesn't mean we'll, you know, do anything."

"Understood."

But it would be, I figured, a pretty good start.

So she stood up and dropped trou and showed me her underwear. They were microbikinis and almost totally transparent. The shape of everything could be seen. They had happy faces all over them. Except these happy faces were red and had tiny devil horns sticking out of them.

"Like 'em?"

"They're great."

"It was kind of embarrassing buying them. The clerk looked kind of superior when I handed them to her."