Ken Douglas - Dead Ringer

Horace shed his shirt and submitted himself to her care. She re-bandaged and dressed the wounds.

“You are an awful lucky man. You’re going to have a scar on your forehead if you don’t get stitches, but the wound in your side will heal nicely without them.

“Really?”

“Really,” she said.

“I’ve always been lucky.” Horace didn’t know what else to say. He’d never been good with women. Besides, they usually didn’t like him. This one apparently did.

She gave him a smile. “You wanna mess around?” She was wearing a baby-blue T-shirt, same as the eyes, carpet and car. She pulled it over her head. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

“It’s never happened for me like this.” He felt like the PI he’d said he was. No, like James Bond, he felt like James Bond. A secret agent man who couldn’t take his eyes off her tits. Not big, but not small either. He forced his eyes up to her face. She wasn’t as young as he’d thought and she looked a little road weary, thin and a bit hard, like maybe she did speed. But hell, he was no angel himself.

“Let’s go into the bedroom,” she said as she kicked off loosely tied, black high top tennis shoes. “I mean, if you want.” She pushed down her jeans. She wasn’t wearing panties either.

On the bed she pulled off his shoes and socks. Then his pants. She left the light on and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He lay on his back as she mounted him and watched her pupils dilate as she moaned her pleasure. But his own pleasure was dulled by thoughts of what he was going to do to the Kenyon-Nesbitt woman tomorrow night.

He wished he really was a private investigator, wished he’d never met Striker. But then he thought of the payoff Striker promised as she rocked him to completion.

He moaned himself.

Tomorrow was the last time. He had to do it because he needed the money. Then he’d take Sadie with him somewhere far away, maybe the Caribbean like Striker said. Maybe they’d get a boat, sail the seas. He’d never done that, but how hard could it be?

“What’cha thinking, sweetie?” She was maybe forty-five or so, but every line on her face lit up with her smile.

“You wanna learn how to sail?” he said. Then he fell asleep.

“Mom!” Jasmine shook Maggie’s shoulder. “There’s a man sleeping on the sofa.”

Maggie opened her eyes. Bright sun streamed in the bedroom window. She squinted at the clock. Eight-fifteen.

“Who is it?” Sonya asked.

“Yeah, who is it?” Jasmine echoed.

“His name’s Gordon. He’s a friend of mine and he’s pretty tired, so please don’t wake him.”

“We’re gonna be late for school,” Jasmine said. She’d spent the night with Sonya. Maggie was supposed to pick her up when she got back from the police station, but she didn’t get home till after midnight, so she decided to let it wait till morning. She hoped Gay didn’t mind.

“Where’s your mother?” Maggie said to Sonya.

“She had to go into the beauty shop. They have to get the books ready for the tax man, ’coz he’s gonna do an audit. My mom hates taxes,” Sonya said.

“Everybody hates taxes, right, Mom?” Jasmine said.

“Yeah, they do. Look, why don’t you guys go out to the kitchen and get yourselves something to eat while I get up.”

“We already ate,” Jasmine said. “Besides, Sonya has to leave right away or she’s gonna miss the school bus, so come on, get up or I’ll be late.”

“How come I have to drive you when there’s a bus?”

“Is this another one of those things you don’t remember?” Jasmine said.

“Yeah, it is.”

“You don’t like me riding the bus.”

“And why’s that?”

“You were in a bus accident when you were a little girl. A bunch of kids were killed. That’s why.”

“Ah,” Maggie said. “You must have thought I was pretty paranoid.”

“What’s that mean?” Jasmine said.

“It means you’re always afraid of stuff that’s not gonna happen,” Sonya said. “My mom used to be like that all the time, but she’s getting better.”

“So, now it’s okay? You know, if I take the bus with Sonya?” Jasmine said.

“I think so.”

“Cool.”

“You’re gonna love it,” Sonya said to Jasmine as they scampered out of the room.

Horace rolled out of bed, padded into the bathroom nude, raised the toilet seat and pissed. Finished, he lowered the seat. Ma was always real sticky about that. Light eased in the bathroom window and made the pink shower curtains glow. Pink bathroom rug too. It was something Horace wasn’t used to, a feminine place.

He stuck his head out the door. Sadie was still asleep. He wondered would it be okay to use the shower. He raised an arm, sniffed. Yeah, it’d be okay. He pulled the curtain aside, adjusted the water to warm, got in, used her soap under his arms, between his legs.

“I got some new shampoo.” Sadie stepped into the shower. “Close your eyes.” He did and she poured a healthy amount onto his hair, then massaged his scalp, making lather.

“Feels good,” he said. No one had ever done that for him. He’d showered with women after sex in the past, but always before it had been in a motel and it had been get in the shower, get clean and get out-out of the shower, out of the motel room. Sadie couldn’t leave, this was her home and she wasn’t showing any signs of wanting him to go.

Finished with his hair, she poured some shampoo onto her hand and started up between his legs. This was a definite first and he was hard in a heartbeat. Then she was on her knees and took him in her mouth. He moaned with the pleasure of it. He ran his hands through her hair, fought against release, but after a few minutes he was unable to control it and he let go.

“Ummm,” she gurgled.

Then she was on her feet and into his arms, kissing him. He tasted himself on her lips and it tasted good. He was hard again. She laughed as he pushed into her.

Afterwards, over breakfast of coffee and toast, he asked her if he could borrow her car for the day. “I have to follow someone and they might recognize my van.”

“Not the cop who shot you?”

“That’s the one,” Horace said.

“You’re going to be careful,” she said.

“After last night, you bet.”

They traded keys and Horace took her beat up Toyota to Huntington Beach. He wanted to get the business with the Kenyon-Nesbitt woman over with. He needed the money Striker promised for Ma’s medical bills, that was true, but now he had something else to live for, some kind of life to look forward to.

Maggie pulled off the bedspread, rolled out of bed. She took off the pajamas she’d found in Margo’s bureau and headed toward the bathroom, ignoring her image in the full length mirror on the closet door as she passed. She didn’t need confirmation to know she looked as worn out as she felt. There might be bags under her eyes, but she didn’t have to see them.

After she’d showered and changed into a pair of the Levi’s and a sweatshirt she’d heisted from Nick’s apartment, she went to the living room, where she found Gordon sitting on the sofa, reading the Los Angeles Times. He lowered the paper as she came into the room.

“It’s a new day,” he said. “I’ve made coffee.”

“You look like you’re about to give me the third degree.” She saw a steaming cup on the coffee table. She picked it up, smelled the aroma. It was just what she needed.

“I am. You told me most of it last night, but now I want to hear it again. I want you to take it slow, leave nothing out, no matter how insignificant you think it is.”

She sat in one of the rattan chairs, sipped at the coffee, then started to talk. She told him everything, from when she ran into Nighthyde in the Safeway, to when she faced down the gangbangers last night in the warehouse complex.