Corcoran laid back, head nestled down within the folds of two old feather pillows, Barbara's cheek against his chest, her left thigh across both of his, her breathing slow and deep with an occasional catch as a happy shudder ran through her belly and her body. He took a deep drag off the cigarette, held it in his mouth a second and then inhaled - slowly and deeply - the smoke going down deep into his lungs - instantly slowing his still-racing heart, normalizing his blood pressure and, oddly, increasing his body's oxygenation. He held it for a second. Then he blew it out. Forcefully. And then another drag.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.” She shuddered again. Wrapped herself more tightly to him.
His free hand roamed her back. His fingertips brushed her buttock - her breath caught in her throat. His palm ran gently up from there, Her lower back, the middle part, between her shoulder blades and then, those fingertips again, playing lightly with the nape of her neck. Another catch. Another shudder.
He rolled to his right, simultaneously sitting up on the side of the bed and crushing his cigarette in the ashtray on the bed-stand. Her hand reached out and pressed against his back, trailing down as he stood up till finally the utmost tip of her most outstretched finger lost it's touch against the back of his thigh.
He turned, bent down and kissed her on the head. “You rest. I'll fix us up some scrambled eggs and cheese. And bacon. And toast with lots of butter. Okay?”
“Mmmmmm. I love you Corky. Did you know that? And times like this I love you even more.”
“You curl up like a kitten kid, I'll call you when it's ready.”
Corcoran pulled on a pair of sweat pants, went into the kitchen and started making cooking sounds.
He took two slices of bologna to the sliding glass door, slid it open, stepped outside. “Sam?”
The old dog thumped his tail. Stretched. Sat up. Stretched again and yawned. Got to his feet and wavered side to side. Then over to the door. He stuck his old nose up towards the sandwich meat, sniffed a couple of times, then gently took it in his mouth, careful to offer no offense to the hand that gave the food.
Corcoran was amazed at the soft gentle touch of the old dogs lips, the restraint with which he took the food. He stepped back into the kitchen, leaving the sliding door open.
Sam ate his bologna, took his time, made a big deal of each and every bite. He sniffed the area, making sure no smallest piece was hiding, waiting for a chance to get away. He stepped through the open door, stopped, looked at Corcoran to see if he would either be upset or maybe offer more of that delightful manna. Over to the bedroom door. He stuck his head around towards the bed and, seeing Barbara, wagged his naked tail.
“Hey Sam.”
The old dog turned around three times, laid down smack in the middle of the doorway - he could see them both, keep track of what new fascinating human trick that they might do.
“Baby, what did the vet say?”
“Well, first of all he's got all kinds of worms - but they gave him a shot for that. And he's got heart-worms - we have to give him some stuff every day and then he goes back for an exam and we'll change to a monthly pill. That naked tail is just malnutrition and fleas. They washed him and got about a zillion fleas off him. I'll bet Jim's car is ruined. And guess what? He's not blind. He just can't see real well right now but, once he gets fed up and healthy, he ought to get where he can see okay. The vet said maybe just a few days.
“Oh yeah, there's something else. Something odd.
“When they were bathing him they found a tattoo. It's on the inside surface of his left hind leg. He'll show you if you ask.”
Corcoran was cooking bacon, breaking eggs into a bowl. He couldn't stop right then. He beat the eggs, added cheese and salt and pepper, beat some more. Bacon out onto a pair of paper towels. He poured most of the bacon grease into a coffee can, poured the egg mixture into the pan. “It's just about ready. Come and get it.” Bread into the toaster, stir the eggs, butter out of the refrigerator, stir the eggs. The toast popped up, Corcoran buttered it. Eggs out onto the plates, part of the bacon on each plate, a couple of pieces of toast. Food to the table. Coffee. A jug of cold orange juice. Two glasses.
Barbara came out of the bedroom, glanced at the table, got two forks and two paper towels. Set down at the table and handed Corcoran a fork and a paper towel.
“Ummm, goob,” she mumbled around a mouth filled with eggs and cheese and bacon and toast.
“Mmphhh”
They finished the eggs, she gathered up the dishes, took them over to the sink and started running water. He got up and went over to the door, knelt down and petted Sam.
“What's all this about a tattoo feller? Can I look at it?” He used his palm to gently roll the dog onto his side, Took the other hand and manipulated the left leg to where he could see the inside of the thigh. And there it was: 4L23-3R5-2L57-R.
Barbara squatted down beside them, took the dog's muzzle between her hands and gently roughed it back and forth. “Good Sam. Yes he's a good boy. Yes he is.” The naked tail beat on the floor.
Corcoran copied the tattoo onto the back of Davis' business card.
~ ~ ~ ~
He pulled to the curb and parked. Got out and headed to the door, eyes focused on the sidewalk.
“He still loves you Mistah Corky. Him and me both. You read John 3:16.”
Corcoran kept his eyes on the sidewalk, a faint blush rising up his neck, he acted as though he hadn't heard, got to the door and quickly stepped inside.
Reams looked up. “Mornin'“
Corcoran went to his desk, sat down.
“You know a guy, Johnny Two Toes?”
“Yeah, I know Johnny.”
“I'm looking for a guy might be somehow connected to him. Might not. But maybe. Marco. Five-six, two-fifty, salt and pepper, pockmarks, Jersey accent?”
“Marco Santiago. They're both in the family but they're not together.
Johnny's a bookie. Marco's got some boys run bolita around Ybor City. The game's not as popular as it was before the State started with the Lotto but it's been around for so long, especially with the Cubans. The grandpa plays the numbers, the grandma plays the numbers, the dad, the mom - and it goes on and on. So it drops off a little each year? So maybe new folks come in from Cuba. It's one of the first two things they look for: bolita and jai alai. And the Italians have gotten into it too. What I'm saying, he makes a good living Marco does. Got a good thing going.”
“He grow up here?”
“No. Came to town a while back. Five, six years? Might be from Cincinnati? What's it all about?”
“Better you don't know for now.”
“Okay.”
“And best of all nobody knows I even asked.”
“Asked what?”
“Yeah.”
Corcoran got up from the desk, headed to the door.
“That Vernon Waters guy?”
“Yeah?”
“He died.”
That got Reams' attention.
“Am I in this?”
“Nah. You're cool.”
“You?”
“I don't see a problem yet. You run into a Sarasota cop, Jim Davis, he's with me. I think we'll work it out okay.”
“Davis?”
“Yeah.”
“More stuff that I don't need to know?”
“Maybe later. Not right now.”
“Okay.”
Corcoran stepped outside.
“Sorry Preacher.”
“Don't fret yourself boy. You just read that John 3:16. Or have your lady read it to you.”
Corcoran got into the car, pulled out and drove away.
~ ~ ~ ~
“Corcoran.”
“Reams. Got something you most likely need to know.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I went to the Mercedes Café last night. Guy comes by my table, acts like we're old buddies, just happened to run into each other. Wants to visit. Weather, politics, and then, real casual-like, he's all interested in you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn't give him anything. You work for me. What would I know about your personal life?”
“He go away?”
“Yeah. Didn't get what he was after but either decided I didn't have it or wouldn't turn it loose.”
“Good.”
“Catch is, he's one of Marco’s boys.”
“Hmmm.”
“Yeah. Makes me wonder - am I getting into something here?”
“Bobby, you shouldn't be. Me maybe, but not you. And this is the first I've had any reason to wonder about me. He's not after me because I'm nosing around - I haven't talked to nobody but you. He's after me for something else. And I don't know what. Listen, if you want I'll lay it out for you but I ain't got nothing yet and, if I did, I really think you're better off not knowing. It's up to you.”
“No. I think you're probably right. The less I know, the better.”
“I get something makes me feel different I'll call you.”
“Let's leave it like that.”
No comments:
Post a Comment