“Always,” he said, placing a towel on the bedspread, then sitting down nude next to her. He put his arm around her shoulders. “You’ve got the prettiest-shaped face of any woman I ever knowed. I love your tattoos, too. Not many women look good tattooed, but you do.”
She placed her hand on his thigh. She could smell the clean odor of his hair and feel the heat his skin gave off. “We could just go away. Pack it up and start all over,” she said.
“Where?”
“Washington or Oregon. We could open a café in the Cascades for tourists and loggers. I’m a good cook, Troyce. I know everything there is about food service. The key to a café’s success is having a good cook and making sure your suppliers aren’t cheating you. You’d be good at managing a café. You ever been to the Cascades?”
“I don’t see that happening right now.”
She thought a long time before she spoke again. “Troyce?”
“What is it, you little honey bunny?”
“You’re in over your head.”
“Not to my mind, I ain’t.”
“Messing with rich people like the Wellstones? Think you’re gonna come up here and write the rules with people like that?”
“You ain’t got to tell me about the likes of the Wellstones. I knowed their kind all my life.”
“Your wounds are healing up now. Isn’t that a sign?”
“Of what?”
“Those choices I was talking about. The fate that’s waiting for us if we’ll just reach out and take it.”
“The choice right now is what kind of steak we’re gonna order at that club up yonder.”
He patted her on the back, then slipped on his boxer shorts and began combing his hair in front of the mirror.
“You want me to put on fresh bandages for you?” she asked, her face blank now, all of her arguments used up.
“Don’t worry about them rich people. They ain’t interested in folks like us. We ain’t got nothing they want,” Troyce said.
“We went to their house. We told them we know their business. You told them you beat up one of their employees. They won’t forget it,” she said.
He stopped combing his hair and looked at her reflection in the mirror.
Ten minutes later, when they were about to leave, someone with a heavy fist knocked hard on the door. Candace peeked through the window curtain. A man with sandy blond hair and a scar that ran through one eyebrow waited in front of the door. He wore a porkpie hat and a Hawaiian shirt that was almost bursting at the shoulders. A semi passed on the road, and the man turned and watched it disappear around a bend. The back of his neck was oily and pockmarked. His whole body seemed to be supercharged by energies that it could barely contain.
“Who is it?” Troyce said to Candace.
“A guy who looks like a cop or a bill collector,” she replied.
“Let him in. It’s been a dull day,” Troyce said.
CLETE PURCEL OPENED his badge holder when he entered the room and introduced himself. The room smelled of aftershave and hair tonic. “Albert Hollister gave me the name of your motel,” he said. “He says you’re interested in finding a guy by the name of Jimmy Dale Greenwood. An Indian, I think.”
“More like a breed,” Troyce said. “Know where he’s at?”
“Can’t say I do. You know who Ridley and Leslie Wellstone are?”
Clete saw the young woman’s eyes shift onto Nix’s face.
“I know they’re probably the richest people in the state of Texas,” Nix replied.
Clete studied Nix’s expression. It was relaxed and confident, even good-natured. Clete said, “Somebody tried to light me up, Mr. Nix. Problem is, I got no idea who. But one way or another—”