club spectacles. In a job
like hers, in a place like the Busy Bee, the last thing Jo needs is a
table full of rowdies making passes at her. And, believe me, with her
hair down, her skirt shortened, and those glasses in the case where
they belong, Jo is something to become rowdy about. I'd gotten pretty
rowdy myself about three years before, and there was still something
volatile between us. We'd been lucky. We'd shared some good times and
we'd parted. And there'd been no big scene at the end. No blow-up to
color what had come before, to make the pleasure seem illusory. We'd
just drifted apart, each to another partner and another bed. Both of
us had sense enough not to tempt fate by giving it a second try; both
of us, I think, knew that if it didn't work this time, there would be
that blow-up; and neither of us wanted to forfeit that legacy of past
perfect. So we generally smiled at each other, blushed, and chatted
nonsense, while memory whispered in another language beneath our
patter.
"This is Hugo Cratz," I said to Jo. "A
client."
"Really?" she said, raising a friendly
eyebrow. She was perfect, Jo. So good at her job she was
breathtaking. The eyebrow had been just right. Not coy, not
condescending. Just warm and deferential like a tip of a hat. "What
can I get you?" she said sweetly to Hugo.
It worked. He hemmed and hawed and smiled and blushed
and finally said, "Beer?" like he was asking his pretty
fourthgrade teacher if she were already married.
"I thought so," Jo said approvingly. "Two
Buds, then, Harry?"
I nodded and smiled at her. Some Jo.
We ordered the shrimp salads with the Bee's tangy,
horseradishy dressing, and when Jo walked off to the bar, Hugo said
to me: "Nice girl. You two friends?"
"You don't miss much, do you, Hugo?"
"Nope," he chuckled. "Like seeing how
there was no reason we couldn't talk back at my place, I figure you
brought me here to tell me something you wasn't prepared to say on my
home turf'."
I shook my head. "Drink your beer, will you,
Hugo?"
"O.K., Harry," Hugo Cratz said.
We drank and ate and between Hugo's Marine stories
and my M.P. stories, we generally had a pretty good time. After
supper, the Bee started to empty and Jo pulled up a chair and shared
a beer with us at our table. I'd like to think that Hugo Cratz had an
especially good time that evening. I'd like to think that between Jo
and the beer and me he stopped thinking about his Cindy Ann--at least
for awhile--and about the death that haunted his cramped apartment.
He looked good, for what that's worth. Animated, ruddy. And he
talked--talked for hours in a cheerful, spirited voice--about the
past.
Around eleven o'clock, while Jo tended the tables and
the pianist tickled out a jaunty rendition of "St. Louis Blues,"
Hugo leaned across the table and said, "I guess it's time."
I knew what he meant.
"One thing, though," he said. "I want
you to know, whatever it is you got to say, I've had a real fine
evening. And I thank you for it.
"I've had a fine evening too, Hugo."
His thin mouth trembled a bit and he sighed.
"If you want her back Hugo ..." I didn't
know quite how to say it, or maybe I just couldn't bring myself to
hurt him that way. "If you want to maximize the possibilities
... you're going to have to do what I say."
"What're you building up to, Harry?"
"Let's say the Jellicoes have hidden Cindy Ann
away somewhere. Maybe they've got her making movies. Maybe they're
hiring her out. I don't know exactly what the set-up is yet. That's
the first thing I've got to find out."
"How you going to do that?" Hugo said.
"I found out today that the Jellicoes may have
her working in Newport. I've got some friends on that side of the
river," I told him. "One man, in particular, who knows just
about every shady character in Kentucky. If the Jellicoes are running
any kind of independent porno game or if they've got a stable of
girls for sale, this friend will know about it."
"All right," Hugo said. "I take it he
ain't a friend in
like hers, in a place like the Busy Bee, the last thing Jo needs is a
table full of rowdies making passes at her. And, believe me, with her
hair down, her skirt shortened, and those glasses in the case where
they belong, Jo is something to become rowdy about. I'd gotten pretty
rowdy myself about three years before, and there was still something
volatile between us. We'd been lucky. We'd shared some good times and
we'd parted. And there'd been no big scene at the end. No blow-up to
color what had come before, to make the pleasure seem illusory. We'd
just drifted apart, each to another partner and another bed. Both of
us had sense enough not to tempt fate by giving it a second try; both
of us, I think, knew that if it didn't work this time, there would be
that blow-up; and neither of us wanted to forfeit that legacy of past
perfect. So we generally smiled at each other, blushed, and chatted
nonsense, while memory whispered in another language beneath our
patter.
"This is Hugo Cratz," I said to Jo. "A
client."
"Really?" she said, raising a friendly
eyebrow. She was perfect, Jo. So good at her job she was
breathtaking. The eyebrow had been just right. Not coy, not
condescending. Just warm and deferential like a tip of a hat. "What
can I get you?" she said sweetly to Hugo.
It worked. He hemmed and hawed and smiled and blushed
and finally said, "Beer?" like he was asking his pretty
fourthgrade teacher if she were already married.
"I thought so," Jo said approvingly. "Two
Buds, then, Harry?"
I nodded and smiled at her. Some Jo.
We ordered the shrimp salads with the Bee's tangy,
horseradishy dressing, and when Jo walked off to the bar, Hugo said
to me: "Nice girl. You two friends?"
"You don't miss much, do you, Hugo?"
"Nope," he chuckled. "Like seeing how
there was no reason we couldn't talk back at my place, I figure you
brought me here to tell me something you wasn't prepared to say on my
home turf'."
I shook my head. "Drink your beer, will you,
Hugo?"
"O.K., Harry," Hugo Cratz said.
We drank and ate and between Hugo's Marine stories
and my M.P. stories, we generally had a pretty good time. After
supper, the Bee started to empty and Jo pulled up a chair and shared
a beer with us at our table. I'd like to think that Hugo Cratz had an
especially good time that evening. I'd like to think that between Jo
and the beer and me he stopped thinking about his Cindy Ann--at least
for awhile--and about the death that haunted his cramped apartment.
He looked good, for what that's worth. Animated, ruddy. And he
talked--talked for hours in a cheerful, spirited voice--about the
past.
Around eleven o'clock, while Jo tended the tables and
the pianist tickled out a jaunty rendition of "St. Louis Blues,"
Hugo leaned across the table and said, "I guess it's time."
I knew what he meant.
"One thing, though," he said. "I want
you to know, whatever it is you got to say, I've had a real fine
evening. And I thank you for it.
"I've had a fine evening too, Hugo."
His thin mouth trembled a bit and he sighed.
"If you want her back Hugo ..." I didn't
know quite how to say it, or maybe I just couldn't bring myself to
hurt him that way. "If you want to maximize the possibilities
... you're going to have to do what I say."
"What're you building up to, Harry?"
"Let's say the Jellicoes have hidden Cindy Ann
away somewhere. Maybe they've got her making movies. Maybe they're
hiring her out. I don't know exactly what the set-up is yet. That's
the first thing I've got to find out."
"How you going to do that?" Hugo said.
"I found out today that the Jellicoes may have
her working in Newport. I've got some friends on that side of the
river," I told him. "One man, in particular, who knows just
about every shady character in Kentucky. If the Jellicoes are running
any kind of independent porno game or if they've got a stable of
girls for sale, this friend will know about it."
"All right," Hugo said. "I take it he
ain't a friend in
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