The Jealous Kind (Holland Family Saga 2)

“I think you’re scared, Mr. Krauser.”

“Scared?” His forehead was strung with tiny knots. He pulled up his jersey and pointed. “That’s where an SS lieutenant cut me open. I took his knife away from him and sliced off his nose. Then I put a bullet through his brain. That’s his helmet on my desk, his knife on the blotter. I wouldn’t wipe my ass with you, Broussard.”

It was classic Krauser: the self-laudatory rhetoric, followed by the attack on the sensibilities. This time I was ready for him. I stepped closer to him, holding my breath so I wouldn’t have to breathe his fog of testosterone and BO and halitosis. Involuntarily he stepped backward, as though unsure of his footing.

“You’re cruel because you wake up scared every day of your life, Mr. Krauser. I know this because I used to be like you. Now I’m not. So I owe you a debt. You’re the model for what none of us ever want to become.”

I unbolted the door and went outside into the heat. I thought he might follow me into the yard and take a swing at me. But he didn’t. I even waited by my car to see if he would come out. The sun went behind a cloud, and I got into my heap and drove away, no plan in mind.

Headed toward home, I saw a black-and-red Oldsmobile Rocket 88 convertible with a starched-white top. The driver was slowing as though looking for a house number. The Rocket 88 was state-of-the-art, hoodoo cool, too cool in my opinion for losers like Mr. Krauser and his friends. I slowed my car until I was abreast of the driver. She came to a complete stop and took off her sunglasses and shook out her hair, then removed a strand from her mouth. “What’s the haps?” she said.

“You’re the lady who was at Grady Harrelson’s house,” I said. “You’re Miss Cisco.”

“Who told you my name?”

“A Houston police detective.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Must have been a slow day at the precinct.”

“Are you looking for Mr. Krauser?”

“Maybe. Want to take a ride? I’ll let you drive. How about a cherry milkshake? I can drink them all day long.”

“I’m pretty tied up right now.”

“Bussing tables?”

“I work at a filling station.”

“You have a girlfriend? I bet you do, a handsome kid like you. Clean-cut and wholesome. A little reckless, maybe. Girls like that. I always did.”

“Why are you talking to me like this?”

“Because you remind me of someone I used to know. Hop in. Don’t be scared.” She was wearing a white blouse that exposed her shoulders, the kind Jane Russell wore in her films. There was a mole by her mouth, a purple shine to her hair.

“If you like nice guys, why do you hang around with douchebags like Grady Harrelson?”

“Boy, you have a potty mouth, don’t you? Get in. Live dangerously. I dare you.”

I felt foolish and stupid in front of her but didn’t know why. “I knew Benny Siegel.”

“You shot craps with him at the Flamingo?”

“My uncle is Cody Holland. He was a runaway and a vagabond when he was twelve years old. He became a bouncer at the Cotton Club and a bodyguard for Owney Madden and put himself through NYCC on a boxing scholarship. He’s business partners with a guy who was in Murder, Incorporated.”

She laughed. “You’re cute. I just wish you weren’t a fly in the ointment.”

“I’m a what?”

“You’re getting yourself into stormy weather, kiddo. You should stay in your part of town.”

“What kind of crap is that?”

“I knew a boy who looked and talked just like you. I’m not making fun of you. You could be his twin. Tell your sweetheart she’s a lucky girl. I wasn’t fooling about that cherry shake.”

“You pick up high school guys?”

“What’s a girl to do? Will you not look so serious? By the way, you’re right about Grady Harrelson and his friends. They’re shitheads. That’s my point. Why let them fuck up your life?”