L is for Lawless (Kinsey Millhone 12)

I looked over at him. "You came up with the story line for Terms of Endearment?"

"Not the story line per se, but the basic concept. My chick didn't get married and have all them kids. You want my opinion, that was over the top."

"Wasn't Terms of Endearment a Larry McMurtry book?"

He shook his head, sighing. "My point exactly. Where do you think he got it?"

"What about the astronaut? The Jack Nicholson part?"

"I didn't fool with that and personally, I didn't think it worked all that well. Later I found out this actress had the same agent used to be partners with Shirley MacLaine's agent way back when. That's the way Hollywood works. Real incestuous. The whole deal kind of soured me, to tell you the truth. I never saw a dime, and when I asked her about it, she gives me this look like she doesn't even know what I'm talking about. I kicked the shit out of her town car and set fire to the thing."

"Really."

He slid a look in my direction. "You probably have a lot of interesting experiences in your line of work."

"I don't. It's mostly paperwork."

"Same here. People think I must know all these rock stars. Closest I ever came was once I drove Sonny Bono to his hotel. Privacy window was rolled up the whole time, which kind of pissed me off. Like I'm going to call the National Enquirer if he sticks his hand up some chick's skirt."

I torqued around in my seat. The privacy window was rolled down and I peered the length of the limousine's interior through the darkly tinted rear window. There was a moving stream of cars behind us, all barreling down the highway at breakneck speeds. We turned off the main highway into the commercial/industrial park. In the distance, I saw the Desert Castle appear, red neon glowing hotly against the night sky. I watched while the red drained out of the letters and filled up again. The ratio of the lighted rooms to dark created an irregular checkerboard effect, with the proliferation of black squares suggesting fifteen percent occupancy. Only a smattering of cars now followed in our wake. As this was Sunday evening, it was hard to believe that any were heading for the offices across the way. We passed the miniature oasis with its phony stone tower, the structure probably only slightly taller than I. Nathaniel swung the limo into the circular hotel entrance-way, pulling to a smooth stop beneath the portico.

I felt anxiety stir, wondering if he expected payment for his services. "I don't have enough to tip you. I'm really sorry about that."

"That's cool." He handed me his business card. "You have any ideas for a female-type Sam Spade film, we could maybe collaborate. Chicks kickin' shit and stuff like that."

"I'll give it some thought. I really appreciate your help."

I got out and closed the door behind me, aware that the limo was already pulling away. There was no sign of the sheriff's deputy, but Dallas County is a big place, and it hadn't been that long since I'd called. I moved toward the revolving doors, half trotting in my haste. The lobby was crowded with the departing track team, kids in shorts, jeans, and matching satin jackets with their school mascot stitched across the back. All of them wore running shoes that made their feet look enormous and reduced their preadolescent legs to sticks. Gym bags and oversize canvas duffels had been lined up in random clusters while the kids themselves milled around, engaged in various forms of horseplay. Some of the girls sat on the floor, using the baggage for backrests. One kid had had his T-shirt peeled off against his will, and he was in the process of wrestling with two teammates to get it back. The laughter had a nervous edge to it. Really, the boys reminded me of puppies playing tug-of-war with an old sock. The supervising adults seemed to take all this energy for granted, probably hoping the kids would be exhausted by the time they got on the bus.

I moved past them to the elevators and pushed the "up" button. The elevator doors down the line opened and I got on, glancing back across the lobby to see if there was any sign of Gilbert. A silver Trailways bus was just pulling up in front, motor growling while the door opened with the sound of flatulence. I pushed twelve and the elevator doors slid shut.

Once on Laura's floor, I trotted down the hall and knocked on 1236. I was murmuring to myself, snapping my fingers rapidly. Come on, come on, come on.

Laura answered the door, slightly taken aback when she saw me. "What are you doing here? I thought you left."

"Where's Ray? I gotta talk to him."

"He's asleep. He's right here. What's wrong?"

"I saw Gilbert at the airport. He's on his way over with a gun. Get Ray, grab your things, and let's get out of here."