Page 37 of Slow Burn

Robby stared at her. Didn’t answer.

“Okay, obviously, this is not the right time. Excuse the fuck out of me. Hey, what about that soup, anyway?”

“Do you know how to use a can opener?” Robby asked.

“Of course, I—”

“Read the directions.” Robby pretended to be fascinated by the prices of garage door openers in her circular. “This is not the Hilton. I am not room service.”

Velvet opened her mouth, closed it, and went meekly to figure out the microwave.

She made chicken noodle soup and drank it straight out of the microwave bowl. As she was rinsing up, she heard Robby say from behind her, “Ireland was beautiful and I loved it. My Da was blown up on a train by the IRA. Collateral damage. Come on and I’ll show you your bedroom.”

Velvet decided she liked the bedroom, in a masochistic sort of way. The comforter on the bed was neon blue, the dresser the same mint green as the armchair in the living room. A full-length mirrored closet spanned one wall.

“My room is the next one over. Call me if you need anything.” Robby opened the closet and took out an armload of bright green sheets. “I suppose you Can look through my closet if you like, see if there’s something you could stand to wear.”

“Uh …” Velvet accepted the sheets and hugged them close, felt bruises twinge in protest. She took a deep breath of fabric softener. “Okay.”

After an awkward moment, Robby nodded back and left, shutting the door behind her.

Velvet sank down on the bed, felt the mattress with professional expertise. Not bad. Not bad at all. She held onto the sheets and stared at her reflection in the closet door for a long time. She matched the room, blue green bruises. She hadn’t expected this, didn’t want it, hadn’t expected to understand Robby even a little, or like her.

It made her want to break something.

The phone on the bedstand was round and squatty and lit up with blue neon. When she picked up the receiver, the light went out. A quick fumble in her wallet and she came up with the scribbled number.

Five rings. She got his answering machine.

“Hey, Lenny, listen, this is Velvet. You know, Velvet? Anyway, I got some good shit for you.” She curled up on the neon blue bed, pulled her head down and watched the closed door warily. “I found somebody else who’s seen somebody burn up. It ain’t no coincidence. Got to be the wiseguys.”

She considered for a second, gnawing on a broken nail, and said, “They’re running scared. One of them beat the shit out of me to shut me up. I’ll sell you names and facts for five hundred.”

She hung up and watched the blue neon flare again.

Technically, she supposed, she was guilty of stabbing Robby in the back. Technically.

Five hundred bucks. She could get out of town on that, get someplace new. Robby would understand.

She stretched out on the bed and, after a minute, turned on her side and pulled her knees up to her chest to nurse an ache in her gut.

Incident Four

CAMPBELL, LOUISIANA

Dwayne Elliot paced back and forth in the waiting area, fussing at the sleeves of the white robe he wore. They were too short, exposing thick hairy wrists. He was supposed to feel holy, he supposed. He just felt cold.

“Oh, you look fine, Brother Dwayne,” said Missy Collier. She looked up from her mimeographed church program and gave him a smile. Missy, now, she was a pretty woman. A little old for his taste and married to old Vern Collier besides, but three children hadn’t hurt her figure none, and he figured he wouldn’t kick her out of bed if she fell in. It occurred to him (a little late to do any good) that a Sunday morning baptismal service wasn’t the time to be thinking about that kind of thing, especially with her being married and all. Still, he had to wonder about what she was wearing under her white robe. Underwear, for sure. Front-hook bra? High-cut panties?

Through the closed waiting room door, Pastor Zeke’s voice thundered like a jet engine, rising to a shout now to exhort the sinners to repent, glory glory glory. Dwayne imagined he’d be throwing up his arms and shaking his hands like tambourines. There’d be sweat stains under the arms of the suit by now. Pastor Zeke worked hard for his flock.

Dwayne paced over to look at a faded copy of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. Lazarus looked more like a man with a moonshine hangover than a three-day corpse. Dwayne knew what a three-day corpse looked like, because his Uncle Fisher Stevens had found one floating in the crick back of the house when he was fifteen. Three-days dead in Louisiana water, chewed by turtles and crawfish.

Awful hot in the church today. Dwayne mopped at the back of his neck with a wadded-up handkerchief; through the closed door he heard the organ break into a wheezing chorus of “Washed In The Blood.” The only other baptismal candidate, little Alton Neames, bounced in his chair like he had to go pee.

The waiting room door swung open, and Pastor Zeke Clayburn stuck his head in and grinned with white square store-bought teeth, mostly at Missy Collier, who grinned right back.

“God bless, folks, we’re ready. You ready, Alton? You ready to stand up for Jesus?”

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