Pete stopped. His fucking foot started twitching to compensate.
Barb said, “Does our thing scare you?”
Pete jammed his knees down steady. “It’s something else.”
“Sometimes I think you’ll kill me when all this is over.”
“We don’t kill women.”
“You killed a woman once. Lenny told me.”
Pete flinched. “And you cozied up to Joey so he’d buy hits on those guys who raped your sister.”
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t move. She didn’t show a fucking ounce of fear.
“I should have known you’d be the one to care.”
“What are you saying?”
“That I wanted to see if Jack cared enough to do the checking that you did.”
Pete shrugged. “Jack’s a busy man.”
“So are you.”
“Does it bug you that Johnny Coates is still alive?”
“Only when I think of Margaret. Only when I think that she’ll never let a man touch her.”
Pete felt the floor dip.
Barb said, “Tell me what you want.”
Pete said, “I want you.”
o o o
They took a room at the Hollywood-Roosevelt. The Grauman’s Chinese marquee blipped their window.
Pete tripped out of his pants. Barb pulled off her Twist gown. Loose rhinestones hit the floor–Pete gouged his feet on them.
Barb kicked his holster under the bed. Pete pulled the covers down. The stale perfume stuck to the sheets made him sneeze.
She raised her arms and unhooked her necklace. He saw the white-powdered stubble where she shaved.
He pinned her wrists to the wall. She saw what he wanted and let him taste her there.
The taste stung. She flexed her arms so he could have it all.
He felt her nipples. He smelled the sweat dripping off her shoulders.
She pushed her breasts up to him. The big veins and big freckles looked like nothing he’d ever seen. He kissed them and bit them and pushed her into the wall with his mouth.
Her breath went crazy. Her pulse tapped his lips. He slid his hands down her legs and put a finger inside her.
She pushed him off. She stumbled to the bed and lay down crossways. He spread her legs and knelt on the floor between them.
He touched her stomach and her arms and her feet. He felt a pulse every place he touched. She had big veins all over, pulsing out of red hair and freckles.
He jammed his hips into the mattress. The movement got him so hard it hurt.
He tasted her hair. He felt the folds underneath it. He made her pulse go crazy with little bites and nuzzles.
She buckled and thrashed off his mouth. She made crazy funny sounds.
He came without her even touching him. He shook and sobbed and kept tasting her.
She spasmed. She bit through the sheets. She lulled and spasmed, lulled and spasmed, lulled and spasmed. Her back arched and slammed the mattress into the box springs.
He didn’t want it to end. He didn’t want to lose the taste of her.
82
(Meridian, 5/12/62)
The air conditioner short-circuited and died. Kemper woke up sweaty and congested.
He swallowed four Dexedrine. He started building lies immediately.
I didn’t tell you about the links, because:
I didn’t know myself. I didn’t want Jack to get hurt. I only found out recently, and I thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie.
The Mob and the CIA?–it boggled my mind when I learned.
The lies felt weak. Bobby would investigate and trace his own links back to ‘59.
Bobby called last night. He said, “Meet me in Miami tomorrow. I want you to show me around JM/Wave.”
Pete called from L.A. a few minutes later. He heard a woman humming a Twist tune in the background.
Pete said he just talked to Santo. Santo told him to hunt down the dope heisters.
“He said find them, Kemper. He said don’t kill them under any circumstances. He didn’t seem too concerned that I might find out the deal was Castro-fmanced.”
Kemper told him to rig another forensic charade. Pete said, I’ll fly to New Orleans and get started. Call me at the Olivier House Hotel or Guy Banister’s office.
Kemper mixed a speedball and snorted it. The coke piggybacked the Dexedrine straight to his head.