Snake Face Page 38

  “If he took Sylvie to court, he’d be running himself through the wringer. That’s the way it goes. Lawyers dig up your shit. They wave your dirty laundry in front of the jury. It’s their job to create doubt. Now, you got to admit Sylvie had a pretty fucked-up plan, but it could have worked. Except your dude panicked at a goddamned spider and got himself cut in the back. That doesn’t look too self-inflicted.”

  “She stabbed him?”

  “Not really. She’d planned to, after she was done with me—”

  “You said he got cut—”

  “He backed into her. About an eighth of an inch. Shit. He got worse cuts from the goddamned garden weasel.”

  “But if she hurt him, he’s still got a case. She had that whole plan—”

  “Who’d believe it?”

  “I would. If I told the whole story, how she stalked him and stole from him—”

  “Nobody would swallow it. It’s as hare-brained as the end. She made this up as she went along.”

  “You mean she didn’t plan this?”

  “I’d say opportunity knocked her off the deep end, and it kept on knocking.” Joe Wayne rose, walked to the trash can near the fridge, spat out his gum, and took two fresh sticks from a pack in his front pocket. He unwrapped them and watched his fingers balling up the foil. “First, all she wanted was for him to recognize her. He didn’t. So she got him drunk and drove him to his hotel, dropped hints. He still didn’t get it. She got pissed off and stole his stuff.”

  Joe Wayne popped both sticks of gum into his mouth and ambled back to the chair. He folded into the exact same posture as before. “She thought he’d notice before he left town and she could be his hero and get him to the house and have her reunion, but that didn’t happen. So she followed him, waiting to see when he’d discover the theft. When he still didn’t, she opened the van at a rest stop and looked—he hadn’t even moved the blankets. So she saw that cat and took him. Got to be kind of a game at that point.”

  “That is so mean. And then she just kept on following?”

  “Yeah. Had to have the cat shipped. Had to have Roxana ship the flutes and some clothes to her on the road. Crazy people can do some complex thinking. By the time Syl got about halfway into this thing, she got the album idea. The tribute to the men she loved, after they killed each other, with songs they both wrote—with her. Sending us the same lyrics to work with.”

  “Okay, so she didn’t have a plot from day one. It doesn’t matter. It’s still a plan. She wasn’t so crazy that she couldn’t think straight, and she still tried to stick a knife in both of you.”

  “But she didn’t. I’m not hurt. He fell after I shot him, cut himself up on the grass shears and the weed popper, bunch of stuff stored right next to his instruments. Blood all over ’em. And that’s all that happened. I’m a witness.”

  “I’m a witness, too. You just told me—”

  “Think about Jamie. Not about being mad at Sylvie. Heck, I’m mad at Sylvie. I could wring her scrawny neck until her ears pop.” He cracked his knuckles and creaked his neck around. He seemed to be either just waking up, or to have been awake far too long. “Think about him. He’d go through hell. For what? What would he get out of going to court?”

  Mae fumed. “Justice.”

  “And it’d look like this.”

  Joe Wayne took out his wallet from his back pocket, dramatically extracted a folded check, and whipped it out straight the way he had the bad review that inspired “Love Handles.” With an actor’s timing, he extended his arm to Mae. She took the check. It was made out to James Edward Jangarrai Ellerbee, for a dollar figure that astonished her into silence.

  She read the amount twice. Was this real? She knew Joe Wayne was a multi-millionaire, but she had no concept of what that much money could mean. It was like picturing infinity, or eternity. She’d always lived from paycheck to paycheck, sometimes a family of four getting by on just Hubert’s earnings. Jamie had been even poorer, with his medical bills and lack of work. This sum was incomprehensible, something from an alternate universe.

  “If he took her to court,” Joe Wayne said, “and he could prove Sylvie stalked him and robbed him and did all this crazy stuff—which he probably can’t unless he gets a lawyer who can dig for some witnesses, and that’d take months and money—he might get some pain and suffering damages. Might even be able to prove she cut him up a little if he had a witness other than me. But as for me shooting him if I thought he was a burglar? You can do that in Texas. Called the Castle Doctrine. Ain’t against the law. I may get slapped with a little something for it—reckless discharge, under the influence. We’ll see. He’d have to prove Sylvie made it happen to do anything to her. Face it. The most he could expect is medical bills paid, compensation for loss of income from not using his right hand, maybe loss of consortium,” Joe Wayne chuckled, “with himself. He is right-handed. Anyway, maybe a court would award him some shrink’s care for a while for the trauma of getting shot—maybe. But even if he got everything possible, it wouldn’t be this much.”

  “So you want to buy him off to spare Sylvie.”

  “I’m not buying him off. Hell, I’d pay all that for shooting him, Sylvie or no. But yeah, I’m sparing her—and Jamie. You think he can afford a goddamned lawyer? You think he can handle all that legal crap, months on end? I love this dude. He’s my brother. But I’ve gotta say this—he’s got craters like the moon. Some big meteors hit him somewhere. And ...” Joe Wayne sat a little straighter and squirmed. His mask dropped, as did his voice. “Jamie might have saved my life. I like to think Syl wouldn’t have really killed me. Just nicked my left testicle or something. But I don’t know. He stopped her when she went for me, but I was so drunk I still shot—and I hit him instead. Bullet would have gone in her lung if his arm hadn’t been there. God knows what she and I coulda done to each other.” His pale blue eyes held Mae’s for a moment, dropped to look at his boots, and then met her gaze again. “Come on. This beats court. It’s justice. It’s more than justice. I dare you to complain.”

  Mae held the check in both hands. It seemed wrong, and yet Jamie could get years of therapy. He could get all the rehabilitation he needed for his arm and hand, and not cut short his treatment the way he had after his broken hip. He could get a new car, bad credit and all. He needed this. With Joe Wayne claiming he loved Jamie like a brother, Mae wanted to believe the gesture was meant in kindness and gratitude. She didn’t want Sylvie to get off clean, though. That was the part that was wrong.

  “What happens to Sylvie? She needs some consequences.”

  “She’s getting ’em. Signed herself in today.”

  “I don’t think that’s enough for attempted murder. She could sign herself right back out.”

  “Trust me, she won’t. Broke her own heart doing what she did. Anyway, she ain’t got a damned thing to want to come out for.” He jammed a hand into a front pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small box. “Here’s another consequence.” He tossed it to Mae like a tiny softball. “Want it?”

  Though she’d never had one—she’d had an old emerald from Hubert’s grandmother for her second marriage and nothing at all for her first—Mae knew what this was without opening the box. A diamond. “Y’all are splitting up?”

  “Damn straight. I married that woman twice and divorced her twice, asked her for the third time and she turned me down. Then the crazy little bitch changed her mind after she tried to kill me. Needless to say, I also changed mine.”

  Mae stared at the little box. Such a strange game of a relationship.

  Joe Wayne said, “Go on. Open it. Take a look.”

  She expected garish, having seen Joe Wayne’s décor and the way Sylvie dressed. The ring exceeded her expectations. The diamond was huge and pear-shaped, surrounded by smaller diamonds and sapphires in a platinum band. On Sylvie’s child-sized hand it would look even more overblown. A sudden memory of Jamie’s promise of his diamond of heart broke in. Had he been asking Mae to marry him? She cl
osed the box. “Guess you can take it back to the jeweler.”

  “You don’t like it?”

  She realized he was trying to give it to her. “What do I want with a diamond ring?”

  “It’s worth money, that’s what. God, woman, you are honest to a fault.” Joe Wayne held his hands out. Mae pitched the ring back. “You pass. I trust you with Jamie’s settlement. You’re not gonna up and marry him for it.”

  “Of course not. So how can you trust me with it? It’s not my money.”

  “Don’t let him waste it. I may earn a few million a year but this still ain’t chicken feed to me. You got it? Make him use it smart.”

  “Wait a second. You mean he’s on board with this?”

  “Yeah. I had to make sure you would be, too.” Joe Wayne leaned over and took the check back. “That you wouldn’t argue or second-guess him.”

  “I think you’ve got the wrong picture here. I’m not his girlfriend.”

  “What? Driving here before you even knew how to find him? If that ain’t girlfriend, I don’t know what is.”

  His words stopped her short for a moment. He couldn’t know her mind better than she did. They’d just met. “Never mind what I am to him. I care about him, and I’m looking out for him, whatever he decides about this money.”

  “He already agreed to it. Before he got all the drugs in him for surgery. Cops had to look into me shooting him, of course, but they’re not even thinking about Sylvie. We all told the same story how I shot him. No knife. No stalking. Just one drunk, righteous homeowner with a gun. Press release number one—minus the joke. You didn’t really get to vote.”

  “You sure play games.”

  “Bad habit. One of many I could quit.” He stood. “Let’s go. I’m dropping you off a block away from the hospital, unless of course you’d like to have your picture taken. You’d look good on a tabloid with me.” He gave Mae a wink. “Drive poor Sylvie out of what’s left of her mind.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshole?”

  “Trying to quit that, too. Sheeyit, give me a break. At least I haven’t had a goddamned cigarette.”

  The MG made Mae think of the car club and Stamos and Diana. She stopped, her hand on the door, ambushed by remembering. The drive from El Paso with Stamos telling that story felt as if it had been part of someone else’s life. Joe Wayne folded himself into the driver’s seat, and Mae brought her mind back to Jamie. She had to be prepared for the shape he’d be in.

  “How bad was the shooting?”

  “A little blood sprayed on the soft top. Diego says it won’t come out. Have to see if I can get a replacement from another sixty-three. Won’t be mint any more, though.”

  Mae got in and sat beside him, seething. “I wasn’t talking about your car. I was asking about Jamie. How bad he’s hurt. What’s he gonna be like when I see him?”

  “Pretty bad. He’s got ... some damage I didn’t explain to you yet. I guess I didn’t handle him too well.” Joe Wayne stopped talking while changing lanes. “Lunatic tried to stab himself with the grass shears.”

  “What?” The shock hit her as if he’d slammed on the brakes. “When? I thought you said he fell on them. Why didn’t you tell me this?”

  “Calm down. One question at a time. We were waiting on the cops and the ambulance. I was saying money was no object. Or obstacle. I don’t know what I said, but I was building up to this nice offer. I may be an asshole, but I don’t threaten a man who saves my life. He mistook it—” Joe Wayne raised a finger off the wheel at Mae’s intake of breath for an argument. “Let me finish. I was setting up a fine introduction to my good intentions, but he misunderstood. Since I was drunk out of my mind, I might not have expressed myself with my customary precision.”

  “You let him stab himself?

  “Hell, no. But it’s not the sort of thing I expect a man to do, and my reaction time was so bad he got close to it. I grabbed his ankle. Made him fall on the arm I shot and he had those shears in his left hand, sliced up his right shoulder pretty deep. At least I made him miss his guts. We’re telling the docs it’s part of his other fall. If they knew he tried to hurt himself, he’s scared he’ll get locked up next door to Sylvie.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “Yeah. Said she’d stalk him in group therapy.”

  That sounded like Jamie. “When did he agree to the money and that story?”

  “Right there. Had to get to it. I was running out of time.”

  “Could he agree to it? He’d just tried to kill himself. How could he be—what’s the term—”

  “Mentally competent.”

  “Yes. I don’t want to support something he did—”

  “Under duress?”

  “Stop showing off. I just want to know—was Jamie really willing?”

  “I’ll tell you what he said. ‘Bloody fucking hell. Where’s your fucking gun? Shoot me. Just shoot me.’ And then he passed out.” Joe Wayne put on his turn signal and guided the MG to the curb. “I took it as agreement.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Mae sat on the left side of the bed and took Jamie’s hand. He stirred from a drugged sleep and sank back into it. His right arm was bandaged and wrapped from the elbow to the fingers, and in a sling to protect his shoulder. A fine line of stitches ran down his left cheekbone, the top of the wound so close to his eye that the shadow of his lashes fell on it.

  Nothing Joe Wayne said had made Jamie’s injuries as real to her as seeing him in a hospital bed, his face marred, his flute-playing fingers disabled. Jamie didn’t deserve this. He would have emotional scars, not just physical. The settlement would pay for therapy, but that didn’t soften Mae’s resentment toward Sylvie.

  It was her fault Joe Wayne shot Jamie. Her fault Jamie’s tour had collapsed. It would take a long time for his career to recover, as well as his mind and body, and all Sylvie would get for doing this to him was some time in a mental hospital. She needed it, but was that enough?

  Jamie must have thought so, if he’d been competent to come to his agreement with Joe Wayne. It would be in character for him to want her to heal rather than suffer, but at least Sylvie should be paying, not Joe Wayne. He had meant no harm to Jamie, and she had. She should be the one to write that check. She probably couldn’t afford it as easily as her sometime husband. Especially if he had broken off with her for good. That would be better justice.

  I’m thinking like Sylvie. Revenge. But Mae’s desire for it came from her urge to take care of Jamie.

  She stroked his hair and he made a sound, opened his eyes and stared at her like a deer in the headlights.

  “What’s the matter, sugar? Did I scare you? I’m sorry.”

  For too long a time, he simply looked. What was going on? Mae tried to read his eyes. A wild sadness in the black depths, a hint of tension in the lower lids. As if her presence distressed him.

  “Jamie? What is it?”

  He scrunched his eyes shut. “Jeezus. Bloody fucking hell.”

  “Should I go? Do you need to be alone?” With a tense, vibrating groan in the back of his throat, he shook his head, groped for her hand and squeezed it as if to break it. Apparently, that meant no. “You can tell me. What’s the matter?”

  He let go of her. Tears crept down his cheeks. “Bloody fucking worthless bloody failure. Jesus. I couldn’t even earn enough to pay for fucking bankruptcy.” His left hand crawled through his hair, then punched the bed. “Only bloody thing I accomplished on the whole fucking tour was to get shot and stabbed and robbed and bullied. That’s it.” He turned his head away, his good arm pounding and pounding. “Fucking victim again, and again, and again. Bloody fuck-up. Being paid for that.”

  “Sugar, if the money makes you unhappy, you don’t have to take it. You can still go to court. You haven’t signed anything that says you can’t.” She almost said it was a gentleman’s agreement, but that word applied to Joe Wayne and Jamie sounded funny. Still, that was the essence of their legal bond. Each other’
s word, and the check that he hadn’t cashed yet. “If you don’t like it, you can change your mind, but I don’t think he’s buying you off.”

  Jamie broke his frenzy and looked at her. “What?”

  “You saved his life. And Sylvie’s. They could have killed each other if not for you.”

  Jamie’s arms pressed against his belly, unable to go into his usual reflex of massaging his forearms in anxious withdrawal. His left fingers wriggled but didn’t grasp his fractured right arm, while his right fingers barely stirred.

  Such beautiful hands and arms. Strong yet graceful. Mae pictured them seizing a knife-wielding Sylvie in the dark. Physically, it would have been easy for a man his size to stop such a tiny woman. Emotionally, though, it couldn’t have been. Sylvie had intimidated him for weeks, playing on his neuroses and fears, and his kindness, to make him do what she wanted. She hadn’t counted on his having that courage. “You were brave, sugar.”

  “Nah.” Jamie stared past her. “I went along with his story. Let him pay me.”

  Mae touched his face below the wound. “He’s not paying you for that, sugar. It’s a settlement for your injuries. But if it bothers you, you can change your mind.”

  “I’ll take it. You know I will.” Jamie shifted in his bed, frowning and grunting as some injury was aggravated. “And then you should marry me.”

  Of course she wasn’t ready to marry him, but the proposal was so bitter and unromantic, she was more troubled by the manner of the offer than by the need to turn it down. Why had he said it that way? Did he even mean it? The Jamie she knew wouldn’t grumble a marriage proposal without touching her. Eccentric though he was, when it came to love he was a corny, conventional romantic. He’d wait until he was well, and get down on one knee, offering his diamond of heart, his life, and his eternal love, and he’d build up to it with dinner, dancing, and flowers. Why suddenly marry now?

  The reason hit her like a punch in the heart. “I can’t—I’m still married to Hubert until April. And anyway,” her voice broke, “I don’t want to be your heir.”