King of Hearts Page 4

  “They’re gonna crucify me. They’ll call me—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Terrible names. Forever. You know how a nickname sticks in this Local.” He shuddered.

  “It’s just a nickname. It’s not like it was money. Alimony, for example,” she said, eyeing his open palms as if he could somehow produce a pair of aces out of nothing.

  “It’s not just a nickname,” he said. “And I do not owe alimony. Tammy wants a new car. Okay, I promised her, fuck it, it’s nothing, I’ll send the check tomorrow. Tonight,” he said, correcting himself at her narrowed look. “I’ll get home tonight. I think. If the office doesn’t call.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You work too much.”

  “You can’t work too much,” he said automatically. “Now compare these two things, okay? You look like a fair-minded person. On one hand, here’s a lousy check, and the car she’s got now works fine, okay, yeah, yeah, I promised and the check’s a little bit late. I was working, okay? I got a glove box full of paychecks I haven’t even cashed. I haven’t had a shower yet,” he said, unable to keep injury out of his voice.

  “She came in here a month ago asking for that money,” Nadine said. “I was here.”

  “I sent her that money.” King Dave met her eyes and then hunched his shoulder. “Okay, maybe I forgot. I meant to send it. I swear I’ll send it. But listen, will you?” he pleaded, lowering his voice and laying the full power of his best puppy eyes on her. The puppy eyes were fake but the pleading was real. If she had to have the truth, here it was.

  She seemed to realize he was sincere. She sat up straight and put her hands in her lap. “I’m listening.”

  “On the one hand a check, okay? Only money. On the other hand I’m looking at forty, fifty years of verbal abuse. That’s what it is, nothing less.”

  He still couldn’t speak aloud the dreadful possibilities. The walls had ears.

  “I mean look around at the guys you know. There’s Weasel over there. He’d rather be Weasel than Harold, but he didn’t exactly pick Weasel off his top ten favorites. Anvilhead Arnie Baxter got hit with a hammer in his first year as an apprentice. The guy’s fifty now. Dydee Grant? Ate too much on dinner break and when he went back to work he tried to lift something too heavy and cr—uh, pooped his pants. Nobody remembers his real name. He’ll never live that down. Never.” He put one fingertip on her big orange beads. “You can’t do this to me.”

  She was frowning, but her mouth was twisted up on one side. “Sooner or later,” she said, drawling it out in her southern accent. “They’ll find out. But they’ll forget.”

  “Never. Never happen. Look at Fuckdaluck Eddie Canaday, prop man at the Opera House now, what, twenty-five years?”

  She drew back as if he’d punched her. “Will you stop cussing?”

  King Dave slapped his hands on the table again, palm up. “I’m sorry, Nadine. I’m sorry. But that’s his name. He answers to that. He has to. Nobody will call him anything else.”

  Her jaw stuck out. “I don’t believe you.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I’ve worked here all this time and never seen him. You made him up so you could cuss at me.”

  “No, honest. He don’t go nowhere except Corbett’s and Burger King and his old lady’s house in Berwyn.”

  “But I’ve never even heard his name!”

  He leaned over the table. “Nobody mentions him to you, sweetheart, because of your virgin ears.”

  She got a funny look.

  What a mealymouth, I can’t even say virgin to her.

  He said carefully, “The guys know that if you curse in front of waitresses they tend to serve you cold coffee and stale toast. It don’t pay. You must have noticed how hard I try to clean it up for you,” he said in a wounded tone.

  She laughed at that. “King Dave, I shudder to contemplate what your language must be like when there are no waitresses in earshot. You have cursed at me—”

  “Hey, gimme a break, you’re always busting my—busting my chops. You never stop. You’re doing it now,” he said, looking again at those big orange beads.

  The side of her mouth twisted up again.

  Okay. Now. While she’s softening.

  “Make you a deal. Squarest deal I can offer. I’ll give my Mom that check. Heck, I’ll give you the check. You can look at it, seal it up, and mail it to my Mom. She’ll see that Tammy gets it. Then you promise me,” he said, feeling even as he said it that it wouldn’t be enough, nothing would ever make him feel safe enough. “You promise me you’ll keep quiet about—you know.”

  “King Dave, you don’t have time to bank your paychecks,” she said, but he knew he had her.

  “I’ll make time. We’ll do it tonight after I get off work.”

  “The bank isn’t open.”

  “I’ll make up a deposit and stick it in the machine. I’ll write the check for Tammy at the same time, then and there. We can drive it over to my Mom’s together.”

  “Well....”

  “Please? If you’re really square—if you’re only trying to get Tammy her money—and not on some sadistic trip to torture me?” He pushed his eyebrows up in his most pathetic pleading look. “Hey, I’m tortured. Look at me!” He twiddled his fingers where they lay palm-up on the table.

  She whooshed out a sigh. “All right. I get off at eight.”

  “Atta girl.” He made her shake hands and, while he had her hand in his, so warm and soft, he bent and kissed her on the knuckles. “You’re a sport.”

  Nadine almost snatched her hand back. But she was relishing the novelty of King Dave Flaherty’s attention when he was being sweet instead of cussing. So she let her hand lie in his, resting casually on the table. His eyes were so blue and earnest. She smiled nervously.

  He really meant it about this nickname.

  She supposed if you grew up being called King Dave, the idea of anything else is a comedown. And she knew, oh, she knew, how hard and painful the fall from grace could be.

  The silence stretched out between them.

  “How come you work here, anyway?” he said, pinching her fingers and then suddenly letting go her hand. “Don’t all these rude, rough stagehands get on your nerves?”

  She smiled wider. “Oh, no. I enjoy them. It’s so exciting being around the theater business.”

  And, though she wouldn’t say it, the stagehands looked good to her in their jeans.

  She blushed, thinking about his body so close by. He hadn’t showered since the spray paint. Don’t think about lard.

  “Y’all know so much. I hear all the good stories,” she said.

  “All the clean stories anyway,” he said, smiling back at her until her undies felt warm. “You collect autographs?”

  “From the stagehands?” she said blankly.

  He raised his eyebrows. “From the stars. The actors and rock stars who come in here.”

  “Oh....” She was about to say, No, they’re all stuck up or too tired to be polite and anyway they don’t look as good in person as they do on stage. The stagehands made those fancy-pants stars look like dog meat.

  Better not say so to King Dave Flaherty. He already had that warm look in his eye. “—Oh, sure. When I have the chance. I’m a big fan of all the stars,” she lied.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll take you to the Opera House. Give you a tour. Introduce you to the cast before the show. I want to make it up to you for yelling at you,” he said, giving her the big eyes again.

  She smiled. “After we go to the bank and your mother’s.”

  “Sure. Any time you want.” He grinned. “I’ll even introduce you to Fu—to Eddie the prop man.”

  “That’s okay,” she said hastily. “But I’d love to see the Opera House backstage. I hear so much about it at work, I’d love to see exactly what it looks like.”

  Chapter Seven

  He picked her up after work, driving a mint black ’77 convertible Camaro with chrome wheels, tinted windows, and a little
dealie hanging from the rearview mirror that she recognized with shock as an IUD. He followed her look. “I’m surprised you know what that is, your highness.”

  “The only reason I know,” she said with dignity, “is because Carla Detteridge was sent home for bringing one to school.”

  “I’m surprised they have ’em in Goreville.”

  “We don’t. She got it in Fredericksburg.” She wondered where he got this one, but she wasn’t about to ask.

  “It was Tammy’s,” he said. “I won custody of it in the divorce. What?” he said defensively. “Wasn’t like she used it.”

  He pulled up to the drive-through bank machine. When he leaned across her lap, she jumped. She wasn’t so red-hot about moral suasion tonight, with the streetlights gleaming faintly through the Camaro’s tinted windows and King Dave somehow larger and more male behind the wheel. He popped open the glove box.

  “Hold this stuff for me, will you?” He started pulling papers out of the glove box and dumping them in her lap.

  “Paycheck, paycheck, oh, so they did pay me, have to call the office and tell them, paycheck. Registration and insurance—” He slapped them on the dash and ducked back down, sweating on her knees. He smelled salty. Her uniform was flimsy protection from his body heat. “Can you add in your head?” he said.

  “I’m a waitress.” She turned over the papers in her hands. Most were indeed paychecks. Shubert Theatre, Lyric Opera, Lyric Opera, Navy Pier, Skyline Theatre, Lyric Opera. “How do you eat?” she said, mystified.

  He kept tossing more into her lap. “The rock shows pay cash sometimes. Keeps me in beer and clean underwear.”

  “My Lord. There’s more than fifteen thousand dollars in checks here.”

  “Told you I had it. What—oh, yeah,” he said. He jammed his latest find back into the glove box but not before she saw it: an entire box of condoms, size maximum, smashed, scuffed, leaking foil packets. He rolled in her lap to look up at her with a guilty look.

  She let her lashes fall over her eyes. “I know what you are, King Dave.”

  His face darkened. Nadine flushed, too. A real lady wouldn’t admit she knew what such things are.

  He went back to fishing in the glove box. “Did you find a deposit envelope in there?”

  Blushing fiercely, she sifted through the mess of papers. “Yes, there’s one here. Now would you please get off my lap?”

  He straightened. “Sheesh. How about you hand me checks, I sign ’em and read you the amount, and you write ’em on the deposit slip.”

  She did as he said. All was quiet in the Camaro except for the scritch of his pen as he endorsed each check on the dash, and his muttered, “Opera House, six fifty-one and ninety cents. Auditorium, eight eleven and one cent.” She entered the amounts on the deposit envelope and stuck the checks inside as he handed them over. The total came to over sixteen thousand dollars.

  What kind of life was this? Work, eat, and sometimes sleep. And carry on with waitresses. How did he find time to philander?

  He dove across her lap into the glove box again. “Checkbook. How much does Tammy want?”

  “I don’t know. She’s your ex-wife.”

  He looked impatient. “Don’t mess me around.”

  Nadine crossed her heart with two fingers. “King Dave, I do not know your wife. I’ve never met her. I saw her once in the restaurant and we never spoke. I swear!”

  He examined her face. He owed her an apology for misjudging her, but of course all he did was grunt. “Huh. Well, a new Porsche is about sixty thou. Down payment fifteen percent. Add another grand for sure to keep her off my godda—off my back.”

  “That’s ten thousand dollars!” Nadine was scandalized. “She could get a whole used car for that!”

  “She wants a Porsche. It’s worth it to get those pictures.” She drew in her breath. “Don’t say it,” he said. “Don’t bother.”

  “I was only going to say, I believe you now, when you say you haven’t got around to going to the bank. Does Tammy know?”

  “Of course she knows,” he said as he ran his pen down the column of figures. “She’s busting my nuts.” He tossed the checkbook across her into the glove box.

  “But you promised her this money how long ago?”

  “Look.” He slammed the glove box. “I’m paying, all right? Are you getting what you want here?” He sealed the envelope and leaned out the window to press buttons on the ATM. “What were you back in Goreville, defender of public morals?”

  Nadine flushed. “Kind of.”

  “Preacher’s kid. Go around telling people not to swear.”

  “Sometimes,” she said defensively. “My mother wasn’t there to do it.”

  His face split on a grin. “Your mother? Who was she, Pope?”

  “She was the minister’s wife, and I don’t think it’s very nice of you to sneer at her,” Nadine said.

  He softened. “Oh, that’s right, she died. Sorry about that.” He stuffed the ATM receipt in his jeans pocket and pulled the Camaro into traffic. “Must be a hard life, being preacher’s kid, telling people not to swear all day.”

  “I guess so.” She looked out the window. “I didn’t much care for it myself.” The whole story was too painful to go into, especially with a scofflaw like King Dave.

  “Good for you.”

  She sneaked a glance at him. “Good for me because I didn’t like telling people what to do?” she said.

  “No, you’re still doing that. I meant good you ran away.”

  Overwhelming homesickness rose up and stuck in her throat. When the lump swallowed down and stayed down, she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry if I sound preachy. I’m trying to stop.”

  “Good idea,” he said. “Bet it goes over with the stud-lip crowd like a turd in the punchbowl.”

  She blurted out a laugh. “Well, yes. The other girls don’t like it. So I stopped. I’d sort of forgotten I was a preacher’s daughter for a while there.”

  “Until you saw me getting a hummer in the alley,” he said casually, as if he was remarking on the weather. Her breath paused in her chest. Now what do I say? “C’mon, your highness, don’t freeze up on me. Cut my head off. Tell me I’m a dirty sinner,” he said roughly.

  “But—but you don’t like when I do that.”

  He sighed. “I’m trying to get your pecker up. Work with me here, willya?”

  It was no use, she had to laugh. “You can be so coarse.”

  “Atta girl.” There was a smile in his voice.

  “How far is it to your mother’s house?”

  He turned into a quiet street and slowed to a stop in front of a stucco bungalow. “We’re here.” He checked his watch. “The kid may be asleep, but Mom will be up. She never misses the news.” Glancing over at her, he said, “You all put together?”

  “Yep.”

  “Got that check?”

  She brandished it.

  “Let’s do it.”

  King Dave’s mother looked like a painting of the Madonna hanging in the Goreville Sunday school. She stood inside the screen door of her red brick Sauganash bungalow with the teevy on behind her. Geraniums hung in a pot beside her head, and a yellow porch light orbited by moths haloed her. In the ten seconds before she spotted Nadine behind King Dave, she looked surprised, hopeful, then worried and suspicious, and then resigned.

  Nadine thought, I’m never going to let a man do that to me.

  “Why are you here so late? Davy Junior is in bed,” Mrs. Flaherty said fretfully. She opened the screen door. Spotting Nadine, she looked surprised again. “Who’s your friend?” Instead of inviting them in, she stepped out on the porch.

  “Mom, this is Nadine, uh....”

  “Fisher,” Nadine supplied.

  “From Goreville. She’s working at Liz Otter’s these days. Nadine, this is my Mom, Linda Flaherty.”

  “Hello,” Linda Flaherty said. “And thanks for bringing my son here. Even if it is the middle of the night,” she said, looking disap
pointedly at King Dave.

  “Uh, well,” Nadine said.

  “She twisted my arm, Mom. Here.” He turned to Nadine with a flourish. Nadine dutifully held up the check.

  Linda Flaherty took the check and looked it over. “Am I supposed to give this to Tammy?”

  King Dave scowled. “That’s what she said in her note. She wanted I should give you the money.”

  Linda Flaherty stared at it. “I haven’t heard from her since she dropped him off.” At a sound from inside she turned. “He’s not sleeping well. Maybe you should go.”

  “Nonna?” came a child’s voice from deep inside the house.

  “Make sure she gets it, willya, Mom?” King Dave sounded anxious. His voice rose a notch. “She’s making my life hell.”

  “Nonna?” the child said, now closer to the door.

  “Yes, yes,” Linda Flaherty said, pushing King Dave’s arm. “But go now. If you want to visit, do it in the daytime. He’s a little boy,” she said in a pleading tone to Nadine. “He needs his sleep. He misses his Mom.”

  “Daddy?”

  Linda Flaherty spun around. Nadine felt King Dave stiffen. A small, pale face appeared at the screen door. “Daddy?”

  Clucking, Linda bustled in and scooped up a small boy. Nadine saw big dark eyes over a solemn mouth, questioning, staring at King Dave. She turned.

  King Dave’s hand went up, then stopped. His mother was already carrying the boy into the house, out of sight, out of earshot. The last word Nadine heard the boy say was, “Daddy?”

  When she looked at King Dave, she saw his heart in his eyes.

  He said, “Let’s get out of here,” and ran down the steps.

  When King Dave got back to his own bungalow shortly after midnight he found a stiff brown 9x11 flat envelope in his mail. No return address. The postmark was Chicago.

  He was dead beat, sore, and angry, and there was a nasty hollow place in the middle of his chest. He could still see the kid looking at him over Mom’s shoulder. Daddy?

  The brown envelope stared at him.

  “Oh, fuck it,” he said and disemboweled the envelope. Inside, as he expected, was an 8x10 color glossy flash photo of his dick, framed by his unbuttoned jeans, everything glowing orange like some kind of fucking modern art or something.