B oots Marnin drove by Jeannette Hawkins’s house twice before he figured out which one it was. The first time he missed it because he’d failed to spot the faded plastic numbers against the peeling paint on the porch support. The second time he spotted both the numbers and a recycling bin overfilled with beer bottles.
He decided to postpone his visit until it was last call.
Marnin drove back through Richmond, past dope dealers, taquerias, full garbage cans, empty storefronts, and a couple of cops kneeling on the back of a homeless man in front of a shattered flower shop window. He crossed under the freeway, then slipped two blocks down a divided commercial street to Gold Rush Western Wear. The owner’s exaggerated Texas accent was way too loud and he was way too friendly, but Boots got out of there in twenty minutes with a fresh pair of Wranglers and a George Strait button-down white shirt. He checked himself in the motel mirror just before he headed out that night. He even gave himself a little wink and a nod. He looked like he was just about to walk on stage at Nashville’s Gaylord Arena.
T he next morning Jeannette couldn’t remember much of what happened.
The handsome man at the door. A gentleman. Cowboy hat held against his chest with both hands. Golly-gee-whiz shy. His father was an old buddy of Son of a Bitch from the navy.
That’s what he’d said, anyway.
Come on in. Sure he’d have a beer.
First she got jealous when he stared too long at her daughter running out the front door, no bra, boobs bouncing under her father’s faded AC/DC T-shirt. But then she got turned on when he looked back at her, a you’re-my-type-honey smile on his face.
Man, what he would’ve thought twenty-five years ago when I had tits like that.
He was already gone by the time sunlight falling on her eyes woke her up. She rolled over, sort of expecting to see him, but there was just a slight depression in the pillow.
Must’ve been a light sleeper.
She was hoping for a nice note, nothing flowery, but something anyway, even just a phone number, but she didn’t see anything.
She slid out of bed and steadied herself using the night table before shuffling to the bathroom. She examined herself in the mirror.
I look like shit. No afterglow on this broad.
She inspected the dark splotches under her eyes.
What did that cowboy want with me?
Something about Son of a Bitch. Hadn’t seen him for years.
Yeah, he called. Couple of years ago.
Anybody come by trying to find him?
Some PI a while back. I got his card somewhere.
Jeannette took a pee, slipped on yesterday’s shift, then walked into the kitchen. She decided on coffee instead of beer. She didn’t need the hair of the dog, she needed something to jog her memory.
She dumped a little too much Folgers Instant into a cup, added water, then set it in the microwave. Took her a couple of tries to set the time. Twenty seconds. Twenty minutes. Twenty-two seconds. But finally she got the numbers punched in right: two minutes. She watched the cup through the fractured glass, wondering if she was irradiating herself, thinking for the millionth time maybe she ought to get one of them gizmos to find out if the thing was leaking microwaves and giving her cancer.
Maybe later. She didn’t fear death much when she was hungover. In fact, it kinda seemed like a good idea.
She didn’t wait for the beep. One-fifty was long enough. She pulled it out. Shit. Tasted like coffee grounds. She’d forgotten to sweeten it. She ripped open a couple of McDonald’s sugar packets, then dropped in the contents and jiggled a spoon in the cup.
Another sip.
That’s better.
She stood there, staring out the kitchen window at the rusted swing set in the backyard.
That’s funny. Cowboy didn’t even know Son of a Bitch got a dishonorable discharge. It’s the kind of thing people talk about.
She turned back toward the living room. She smiled again. This time a bitter one.
Maybe his daddy liked fondling them little Okinawan girls just like Son of a Bitch.
Her eyes swept toward the telephone hanging on the wall. It seemed different. Not the phone. The wall around it. A blank spot.
Something’s missing.