“It was terrific, Nina. I’m very proud.”
He could tell she was pleased. “Any more suggestions?” she said.
“Well, the line about the nipple.”
“Yes. An eyelash fluttering against my nipple.”
“The imagery is nice,” Winder said, “but it makes it sound like you’ve got just one. Nipple, I mean.”
“Hmm,” said Nina. “That’s” a good point.”
“Otherwise it’s great.”
“Thanks, Joe,” she said. “Thanks for everything.”
THIRTY-ONE
Joe Winder held Carrie in his arms and wondered why the women he loved were always a step or two ahead of him.
“So what are you planning?” he asked.
She stirred but didn’t answer. Her cheek felt silky and warm against his chest. When would he ever learn to shut up and enjoy the moment?
“Carrie, I know you’re not asleep.”
Her eyes opened. Even in the darkness he could feel the liquid stare. “You’re the only man I’ve ever been with,” she said, “who insists on talking afterward.”
“You inspire me, that’s all.”
“Aren’t you exhausted?” She raised her head. “Was I hallucinating, or did we just fuck our brains out?”
Winder said, “I’m nervous as hell. I’ve been rehearsing it all in my head.”
She told him to stop worrying and go to sleep. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
“Jail is a distinct possibility. Death is another.”
Carrie turned on her belly and slid between his legs. Then she propped her elbows on his rib cage, and rested her chin on her hands.
“What are you smiling at?” Winder said.
“It’s all going to work out. I’ve got faith in you.”
“But you’re planning something, just the same.”
“Joe, it might be my only chance.”
“At what?”
“Singing. I mean really singing. Am I hurting you?”
“Oh, no, you’re light as a feather.”
“You asshole,” she giggled, and began to tickle him ferociously. Winder locked his legs around her thighs and flipped her over in the sheets.
They were kissing when he felt compelled to pull back and say, “I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess.”
“What mess? And, besides, you’re doing the honest thing. Even if it’s slightly mad.”
“You’re speaking of the major felonies?”
“Of course,” Carrie said. “But your motives are absolutely pure and unassailable. I’ll be cheering for you, Joe.”
“Clinical insanity isn’t out of the question,” he said. “Just thinking about Kingsbury and that damn golf course, I get noises inside my skull.”
“What kind of noises?”
“Hydraulic-type noises. Like the crusher on a garbage truck.”
Carrie looked concerned, and he couldn’t blame her. “It goes back to my old man,” he said.
“Don’t think about it so much, Joe.”
“I’d feel better if the governor were here. Just knowing I wasn’t the only lunatic—”
“I had a dream about him,” she said quietly. “I dreamed he broke into prison and killed that guy—what’s his name?”
“Mark Chapman,” said Winder. “Mark David Chapman.”
She heard sadness in the reply, sadness because she didn’t remember the details. “Joe, I was only fourteen when it happened.”
“You’re right.”
“Besides, I’ve always been lousy with names. Oswald, Sirhan, Hinkley—it’s easy to lose track of these idiots.”
“Sure is,” Winder agreed.
Carrie tenderly laced her hands on the back of his neck. “Everything’s going to be fine. And no, you’re not crazy. A little zealous is all.”
“It’s not a bad plan,” he said.
“Joe, it’s a terrific plan.”
“And if all goes well, you’ll still have your job.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m not much of a Seminole go-go dancer.”
Now it was his turn to smile. “I take it there may be some last-minute changes in the musical program.”
“Quite possibly,” Carrie said.
He kissed her softly on the forehead. “I’ll be cheering for you, too.”
“I know you will, Joe.”
As far as Bud Schwartz was concerned, he’d rather be in jail than in a hospital. Practically everyone he ever knew who died—his mother, his brother, his uncles, his first probation officer—had died in hospital beds. In fact, Bud Schwartz couldn’t think of a single person who’d come out of a hospital in better shape than when they’d gone in.
“What about babies?” Danny Pogue said.
“Babies don’t count.”
“What about your boy? Mike, Jr., wasn’t he borned in a hospital?”