“Where do you live, Holton?”
“Twenny-eight twenny, Forest Drive.”
I got his car keys from him and the description of his car, and went around to the front and drove it back to the room. I went in and brought him out and helped him into the red convertible, and got behind the wheel. He muttered directions.
When I had to stop for a light, he said, “Sorry I had to smack you around, McGee. You know how it is.”
“Sure. I know how it is.”
“Get it out of my system. Hated you. Shouldna layed my girl, my wonnerful freckly nurse-girl. But man to man, shit, if she wanned it, she wanned it, and why should you turn it down, huh? Great kid. Greatest piece of ass in the worl’. You’re a nice guy, McGee. I doan wanna like you, you sumbitch, but I do. Hear that? I do.”
I had to shake him awake to get more directions. When I turned into the asphalt drive, he was asleep again. It was a cement-block house, one story, white with pink trim, a scraggly yard, house lights on, a gray Plymouth station wagon in one half of the carport.
I turned away from the carport and stopped near the front door. The outside light went on and the door opened and a lean, dark-haired woman looked out through the screen door.
I got out and came around the car. “Mrs. Holton?”
She came out and looked at her sleeping husband. She wore dark orange slacks, a yellow blouse, and she had a bright red kerchief tied around her slender, dusky throat. Gypsy colors.
“Unfortunately, yes. Who are you?”
“My name is McGee.”
I had the feeling that it startled her slightly and I could think of no reason why.
“I’ll help you get him in.”
She reached and took hold of his jaw and turned his head slightly. She raised the other hand, held it poised for a moment, and then whip-cracked her lean palm across his face twice, very quickly and with great force. It brought him struggling up out of the mists, gasping and looking around.
“Hey! Hey there, Janice doll! This here is Travis McGee, my ver’ good buddy. He’s going to come in and have a li’l drink. We’re all going to have a drink. Right?”
As he struggled to get out of the car I took him by the arm and levered him out. We supported him, one on either side, and after we got him through the door, she gave directions in a voice strained with effort. She turned on the light of what was obviously a guest room. We sat him on the bed and he sat with his eyes closed, mumbling something we could not understand. When he started to topple over backward, I grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him so that he landed on the pillow. She knelt and unlaced his shoes and pulled them off. I picked his legs up and swung them onto the bed. She loosened his belt. When he gave a long, ragged snore, she looked at me and made a mouth of distaste. I followed her as she walked out. She turned the lights off and closed the guest room door.
I followed her into the living room. She turned, standing more erect, and said, “Thanks for your help. This doesn’t happen often. That is not an excuse or an apology. Just a statement of fact.”
I worked the revolver out of my trouser pocket and gave it to her. “If it happens at all, he shouldn’t run around with this thing.”
“I’ll put it away and tell him he must have lost it. Thank you again.”
“May I use your phone to call a cab?”
She stepped to the front window and looked across the street. “My friend is still up. She’ll come over and listen for the kids while I take you in.”
“I don’t want to trouble you, Mrs. Holton.”
“I’d like some air. And you’ve been to a lot of trouble.”
She went to the phone in the foyer and dialed, then had a brief low-voiced conversation. We went out and got into the car. She asked me to wait for a moment. When the door opened in the house across the street and a woman came out and started across, she told me to start up. She waved and called, “Thanks a lot, Meg.”