“I left my purse at the Delano.”
“We’ll mail it to you,” Twilly said.
“With my car keys and my house keys.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. My birth-control pills.”
And I had to ask, Twilly thought. He nearly dozed off on the drive back to Miami Beach. Up in the hotel room he decided on a scalding shower, to rouse himself for more driving. From the bathroom he called to Desie: “Phone your husband and tell him you’re on the way.”
When Twilly came out, he found her in the white bed with the white covers pulled up to her throat. She said, “I’m afraid I got sand in your sheets. What time is it?”
“One-fifteen.”
“I think I want to stay.”
“I think I want you to stay.”
“You’re in no shape to drive.”
“That’s the only reason?”
“That’s what I’m telling myself, yes.”
“All right, stay. Because I’m in no shape to drive.”
“Thank you,” Desie said. “But no sex.”
“Furthest thing from my mind.”
Then McGuinn jumped on the bed and began licking her chin. Twilly said, “I could demand equal time.”
“He’s just a dog,” said Desie. “You’re a crazed felon.”
“Move over.”
That’s how they spent the night, the three of them under a blanket at the Delano; Desie sandwiched in the middle. She awoke at dawn to husky dog breath, McGuinn’s bullish head on the pillow beside her. Desie tried to turn over but she couldn’t—Twilly’s face was buried in the crook of her neck, his lips pressed softly against her skin. She didn’t know it but he was dreaming.
For the first time ever.
Mr. Gash had spent the day listening to 911 tapes. He couldn’t get enough of them. Off late-night television he had mail-ordered The World’s Most Bloodcurdling Emergency Calls, Volumes 1-3. The recordings had been tape-recorded by police departments all over the country, and somebody had gotten the slick idea to compile them into a Best of 911 series and sell them on cassettes and CDs. Only the F word was edited out, to protect children who might be listening.
caller: 911? 911?
dispatcher: This is the police department. Do you have an emergency?
caller: Yeah, my one brother, he’s stabbing the shit out of my other brother.
dispatcher: A stabbing, did you say?
caller: Yeah, you better send somebody out here fast. There’s [bleeping] blood all over the drapes. He’s gone crazy, you got to send somebody fast, fore he goes and kills us all.
dispatcher: Could you describe the weapon, ma’am?
caller: It’s a knife, for Christ’s sake. A huge [bleeping] butcher knife. It’s got a wood handle and at the other end it’s real pointy. Get the picture?
dispatcher: OK, OK, settle down. Where’s your brother at now?
caller: On the floor. Where the hell do you think he’s at? He’s on the floor bleeding to death. He looks like a piece of ‘[bleeping] Swiss cheese, except with catsup.
dispatcher: No, the brother with the butcher knife. Where’s he at?
caller: In the kitchen. Probably getting another goddamn beer. Are you guys coming? ‘Cause if you’re not, just let me know so I can go ahead and slit my throat. To save my drunken crazy-ass brother the trouble.
dispatcher: Easy now, we’ve got units on the way. Can you stay on the phone? Are you in a safe place?
caller: Safe? Oh Christ, yeah. I’m locked in the [bleeping] bathroom of a double-wide house trailer, it’s like Fort [bleeping] Knox in here. I’m snug as a bug in a goddamned rug—what’s the matter with you people! Hell no, I’m not safe. A cat fart could knock down this whole damn place…
dispatcher: Ma’am., try to stay calm.
caller: Oh Jesus, that’s him! I hear him outside!! Clete, you back off from here! You leave me be, else I’m tellin’ Mama what you did to Lippy, I swear to God! Don’t you… now don’t you dare open this door! Clete… goddammit, I got the cops on the phone—no! I told you no—
dispatcher: Ma’am, is that him? Is that your brother you’re talking to?
caller: No, it’s Garth [bleeping] Brooks. What’s the matter with you morons—hey, Clete, stop that shit right now! No, no… put that thing down, you hear? Put it away!!!!