Holy Moly Page 5

  What Marlin wanted to say was: Are you sure you're enjoying this new gig? Is it bringing you the satisfaction you thought it would? And—particularly right now—is it worth the stress, the extra hours, the aggravation? He wanted to tell her that if she changed her mind, if she decided she wasn't the woman for the job, nobody would hold it against her.

  Instead, he said, "The weather's nice. Why don't we eat on the deck?"

  7

  THE YOUNG LADY'S name was Candie, and she had no idea what she was getting into when she agreed to the blind date.

  "He's a trust-fund baby!" her friend, a secretary for a tax attorney had said. "His parents died in a plane wreck. Isn't he lucky?" "He's rich?" Candie asked. "Very."

  "Like comfortable rich or Bill Gates rich?"

  "Somewhere in the middle."

  "Wow. What does he do for a living?"

  "He's got a fossil collection or something. But mostly he just lives off the money his parents left him. We do his taxes, and believe me, he doesn't need to work."

  Candie hadn't had much luck with blind dates, but this one was sounding pretty good. "What's he look like?" "Really cute. But he's a little . . . short." "How short?" "I dunno, maybe five-six."

  Candie could live with that. She was only five-two. "How old is he?"

  "Late twenties." "Ever been married?"

  "Nope. Undamaged goods. Hell, I'd be all over him if he wasn't a client. Looks like he'd be good in bed."

  "Rich and good in bed?"

  A devious smile. "You'll have to tell me."

  So Candie had agreed, and Darwin Parker picked her up on Saturday night in his convertible Jaguar, which, Candie duly noted, had leather seats, surround sound, and a GPS navigation system. Right from the start, he seemed like a great guy. Funny. Smart. Sophisticated, but not snobby. Good conversationalist. And he was cute! Wavy brown hair and strong cheekbones. Blue eyes. A perfect nose.

  They went to one of the most exclusive restaurants in Houston, where Candie ordered lobster and drank several generous glasses of Dom Perignon, even though champagne usually gave her the burps. After the entrée, Darwin encouraged her to order the Baked Alaska. She said it had too many calories, but he said, "Judging by the way you wear that dress, it's not like you have anything to worry about."

  I think I'm in love, she thought.

  Later, back in his car, Darwin said, "What now?"

  "Whatever," Candie said. "I'm easy" She giggled. She hadn't meant it that way Well, not really. Her head was a little fuzzy Burp. Oh, my!

  Darwin said, "I don't ask many people this, but would you like to see my museum?"

  Candie was astounded. "You own a museum?" She hadn't been to a museum since a field trip in elementary school.

  "Well, not a public one. It's at my house. A private collection. How about a personal tour?" There was something playful in his smile.

  She assumed it was a corny come-on to get her into bed, and she thought, What the hell. "Sure. Let's go see your museum."

  Beneath the high from the alcohol, she was nervous. It had been a long time. Zipping along on Memorial Drive, Candie tried to relax by picturing Darwin naked. He'd mentioned that he worked out regularly Maybe she was in for a treat.

  As it turned out, he really did own a museum. Sitting right next to his mansion in the River Oaks section of town. The entire "compound"—his word for it—was on two acres, surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence. As they cruised through the entrance gate, past manicured lawns and an ornate fountain, she was thinking, This guy isn't just rich, he's absolutely loaded.

  He parked in front of the museum, a sweeping limestone-and-glass structure. He seemed excited, like a kid about to show off his new bicycle on Christmas morning. They strolled to the front door, where he had to enter a lengthy code on an alarm keypad. He ushered her inside, switched on some lights, and . . .

  And.. .

  "Oh my God," she said.

  She'd been expecting Monet or Van Gogh or even that soup-can guy Regular artwork. Not. . . this. It was creepy. "Impressive, isn't she?" Darwin said in a hushed voice. "What is that?"

  Towering above them, in the high-ceilinged foyer, was the skeleton of a dinosaur. An actual dinosaur.

  "Allosaurus," Darwin said. "The biggest carnivore in North America during the Jurassic period. I call her Alice. Not very creative, I know, but it seemed appropriate."

  Candie didn't know what to say Alice had a humongous head, long serrated teeth, and ominous claws. In short, she was butt ugly "She's... she's..."

  Darwin laughed. "Yeah, I know. But there's more. A lot more. Follow me."

  For twenty minutes, he gave her a detailed lesson in paleontology

  "That's a Herrerasaurus, from the Triassic period. Another carnivore ...

  "This is a hadrosaur from the Cretaceous period. A snack for the T. rex . . .

  "Here's a pair of maiasaurs, sort of a big lizard, and each fossilized egg in that nest is worth more than my car."

  He explained that he bought and sold specimens through his Web site, but, as she could tell, he kept the best stuff for himself

  Candie oohed and aahed, but she was, to be honest, bored silly She didn't know anything about ancient history, nor did she care to. It was nothing but a bunch of bones. Besides, she'd mentally prepared herself for sex, and now she was having a tough time focusing on anything else. She wanted to do it before she lost her buzz. Time to take charge.

  He was rambling on about some strange creature when she placed a finger across his lips, shushing him. Then she reached down and began to unbuckle his belt. "You like meat eaters, Darwin?"

  Wow! She never would have said that sober. "I, uh . . ." said Darwin.

  "Why don't you take my dress off?" she asked.

  He smiled. "Okay." He began to fumble with the zipper running down her spine. Meanwhile, she finished unbuttoning his pants, and soon discovered that he was only at half-mast. The champagne is slowing him down, she thought.

  He finally managed the zipper, and her dress dropped to the floor. She was wearing a lacy black bra with a matching thong.

  But still he wasn't quite ready.

  "Give me a minute," he whispered into her ear. She did give him a minute. Longer than a minute. Despite her gentle kisses and deft caresses, the situation didn't improve. Then he said, "I have an idea ..." "Yeah?"

  "You might think this is kinky ..."

  Candie was always open to new experiences, as long as they weren't dangerous or demeaning. "Let's hear it." "Promise not to laugh?" "I promise."

  "Okay, then. Why don't we pretend . . . we're tyrannosaurs." "Do what?"

  "Here, like this." He eased her to the carpeted floor and got behind her. "They roar when they're mating. Try it."

  Candie had to stifle a giggle. Was this guy for real? She'd be embarrassed if she weren't so tipsy "You want me to roar?"

  "If you don't mind. It would really help me out."

  "Grrr," said Candie.

  "Louder," Darwin urged. He was breathing heavily over her shoulder.

  "Aaarrrr!" And she definitely felt. . . movement. "Yes," said Darwin. "Oh . . . yes. That's my girl."

  Alex Pringle wished he'd had a chance to search Hollis Farley's trailer on Thursday afternoon, immediately after the backhoe operator died, but that hadn't been possible. Besides, he'd needed time to think, to quell the panic and evaluate the damage.

  Now he was in Farley's living room with a small flashlight-knowing the cops had already been there, hoping he might find something they'd missed, or make sense of something that appeared meaningless—when his cell phone rang. He checked his caller ID but didn't recognize the number. Someone local.

  He answered and heard, "Mr. Pringle, this is Sheriff Bobby Garza in Blanco County"

  "Yes, Sheriff Garza, what can I do for you?" He used his friendliest voice.

  "You're a tough man to get hold of."

  "I'm sorry, I've been traveling. I turn my phone off when I'm driving."

  "You'
re not in Dallas?"

  No, I'm on the other side of the door you sealed with a big orange sticker. 'Actually I'm in Austin right now, on my way out to Blanco County All of us at Boothe Ministries feel that we should have a representative on location. Someone to help your community through this difficult time. Such a tragedy."

  "I'm afraid I'm about to make it even worse."

  "I don't mean to sound flip, Sheriff, but how can it get any worse?"

  "Well, it turns out it wasn't an accident. Hollis Farley was murdered."

  Pringle froze for a few seconds, turning things over in his head. In his mind's eye, he could see the arrow flying straight and true, zipping through Hollis Farley's body like through a burlap sack filled with pudding. But the backhoe just kept rolling forward . . .

  "Mr. Pringle?"

  He wondered what he should say Finally he settled on "I'm here. I'm .. . I'm having trouble believing what you just told me."

  "I can understand that. I just wanted you to be aware of the situation."

  "I appreciate that."

  "You'll pass the word to Pastor Boothe?" "I certainly will. He'll be heartbroken to hear it. This is devastating news."

  "We'll need to keep the construction site closed down for at least a few more days. Maybe a week."

  "Yes, of course. But how—can you tell me anything about it? Do you know who did it?" "We're working on it."

  "I'm sure you are. I'll be praying for God to guide you and your deputies. 'Blessed are they who maintain justice, who constantly do what is right.' "

  "Uh, thank you, sir."

  Pringle closed his phone and sat quietly for several moments, struggling to maintain his composure.

  Butch, wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, came out from Farley's bedroom. The floorboards groaned under his weight. The flimsy back door of the ramshackle trailer had been no match for Butch's big right foot. "Trouble?" he asked.

  Pringle thought about it for a few seconds. "Nothing I didn't expect."

  When Red O'Brien woke up from his second nap of the day, Billy Don was snoring on the couch and Dennis Quaid was on the TV wearing a goofy hat. Sort of a Willie Wonka-looking thing. And check out those sideburns. All the way down to his jawbone. Some silly shit. Whatever movie this was, Red had never seen it. Something set in the olden days, judging from the way everybody looked. Either that, or they were all on their way to a costume party

  He reached for his beer on the end table. Warm as cow piss. Man, how long had he been sleeping? It was dark outside, so he knew it had been a good while. But it wasn't like he had a schedule to keep.

  He pushed himself out of the recliner and went into the kitchen for a fresh Keystone. Popped the top and drank about half of it in one swig. Good and cold. Made his teeth hurt a little.

  He went back into the living room and stood there a minute, thinking about dinner. Run into town and grab a burger? Or eat that fat squirrel he'd shot out of the pecan tree in his backyard yesterday afternoon? Maybe chicken-fry it, with some mashed potatoes on the side. That sounded pretty good.

  Now here came Billy Bob Thornton, looking every bit as stupid as Dennis Quaid. Talking funny too. Asking some Mexican soldier if that man over there was Santa Ana. The Mexican guy nodded, and now Billy Bob was saying, "I thought he'd be taller." Santa Ana. Okay, so this was that movie about the Alamo. Red had been meaning to watch that one. It was his duty as a Texan, because the Alamo was one of the most important. . .

  Wait a second . . .

  Holy shit! The Alamo!

  It came back to him all at once, out of the blue, like when you're trying to recall the name of that slutty cheerleader back in high school, and it won't come to you, and suddenly, a few days later, it pops into your head. It was just like that.

  The haze had lifted, and now Red remembered what Hollis Farley's secret was.

  8

  MARLIN WOKE TO a heated voice in another room. Nicole on the phone. He lay there listening, but he couldn't make out her words. He pulled on a pair of shorts and went into the living room, where Nicole was sitting on the couch, holding a piece of paper, the phone cradled to her ear. Geist, curled at Nicole's feet, shifted her eyes toward Marlin but stayed where she was.

  "It's two hundred chairs," Nicole was saying. "Two zero zero. Not two thousand." She looked at Marlin and rolled her eyes in frustration. "I understand that, but every time you send me a copy of the contract, there's a mistake in it. This is the third time. Last time it was the tables."

  Marlin smelled fresh coffee. He went into the kitchen and found a pot on the burner. He poured a mug, added milk and sugar, and took a seat on a stool at the bar.

  "I'm not trying to be a bitch about this, Randy, I'm really not. I just don't want to show up and find two thousand chairs waiting for us. We're not that popular."

  Marlin figured Randy was regretting that he'd answered.

  "Okay, that's fine. Yes, to the same address. I'll look for it. Thanks, Randy" She hung up and said, 'Aaaaa!"

  Marlin grinned at her. She was wearing a sheer blue robe, loosely tied at the waist. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her face was free of makeup. She was so beautiful as to look out of place in Marlin's simple living room, like osso buco on a paper plate. "I won't even ask," he said.

  "Please don't. And no Bridezilla jokes."

  "Who, me?" He slid off the bar stool and came to sit beside her on the couch. "Everything'll work out fine. Even if it doesn't turn out perfect, it—"

  "But, see, there's no reason why it shouldn't be perfect. If these people would just pull their heads out of their butts."

  "To you, it's the biggest day of your life. To them, it's just another day at the office."

  "Yeah, and that's the problem. They're acting like I'm ordering office supplies or some damn thing."

  Marlin put a hand on the back of her neck and began to massage. She was tense. "Maybe we should chuck it all and elope," she said. "The invitations haven't gone out yet."

  "Is that what you want?"

  "No, I'm kidding. Is that what you want?"

  Oops. Shaky ground. "Of course not. Just remember, if you want me to help, all you have to do is ask. You know I'll do it." And he knew she wouldn't delegate anything, because, ultimately she didn't want to. Like all the brides Marlin had ever seen, Nicole wanted to handle every detail. When it came to the wedding plans, she was downright possessive.

  He used both hands now, kneading her shoulders, and her muscles finally began to relax. "God, that feels nice."

  He started working on her back.

  "Don't you want it to be perfect?" she asked.

  "Honestly? As long as we don't end up on one of those home-video shows, I'll be happy."

  She groaned. "Oh, crap. The videographer. I was supposed to call him yesterday"

  "Shhh. Relax. Let me handle that one thing, okay? I'll call him later today There's one less thing to worry about."

  She nodded, but he could tell that her mind was still buzzing, running through a mental to-do list. He could practically hear the gears turning.

  "What you need," he said, "is a round of Dr. Marlin's patented stress-reduction therapy"

  She laughed. "Does it feel as good as what you're doing right now?"

  "It comes with a money-back guarantee. One hundred percent satisfaction or you don't pay a dime."

  She let him rub for a few more minutes, letting out the occasional appreciative moan. Then she stood, facing him, slipped the robe from her shoulders, and let it fall to the floor.

  Somehow, after two years, nothing had changed. He still felt an electric surge through his body His heart still swelled with a joy he couldn't imagine. How did I get so damn lucky?

  She ran a hand through his hair, then pulled him close, holding his head between her breasts. "I love you, John."

  'Alex Pringle, my man. Rough break on the game last night, cuz."

  Pringle was in his motel room, fresh out of the shower, a towel around his waist, cell phon
e to his ear. The voice with the urban patter belonged to a bookie named Omar. Omar wasn't a one-man operation; he was backed by an outfit in Vegas—a group of men whose names ended in i's and o's.

  "Goddamn bullpen choked," Pringle said. "You see it?" He'd felt so good about the fifty grand he'd won on Friday night, he'd doubled up on Saturday's game. Amateur move. Stupid. It reeked of desperation.

  Omar laughed, but it wasn't good-natured; there was something condescending about it. "How long me and you been doing bidness?"

  "I don't know Four years?"

  "Tha's right. And in that time, I ain't seen nobody—I mean nobody—piss away as much money as you."

  "Well, gee, thanks, Omar. That's really encouraging."

  "Man, I'm only saying. You ain't got the touch. You should move on to somethin' else. But first, we gotta settle up."

  "What, really? Just like that?"

  "Wasn't my call, but there it is. Certain gentleman getting nervous about your account. See, the last few bets, you been playin' on credit, so the rules change a little."

  "Well, shit, give me a chance here, Omar. Let me put fifty on Wednesday's game."

  "No can do, dog. Not till you wipe the slate clean. Like, tomorrow."

  'All of it?"

  "Hell, yeah, all of it. We ain't runnin' no soup kitchen." "What's the, um, how much is the total?" "Ninety-six."

  Ninety-six thousand dollars. There had been a time when Alex Pringle could've written a check for that amount and hardly felt the sting. "Uh, tomorrow's gonna be a problem," he said.

  Omar made a tut-tut sound. "Don't tell me that, Alex Pringle. Do not tell me that. You sayin' you ain't got it?"

  "No, see, it's not that," Pringle lied. "It's just that I'm out of town. I won't be home for several days."