Thad was up before the sun. He knew because the curtains were still open from the night before. The moonlight cast a shadow on Lucinda’s finest features, making her seem nearly angelic while she slept. Thad knew she was no angel. Angels don’t perform the kind of miracles she’d performed last night.
He stumbled into the bathroom and shut the door as quietly as he could so as to not wake her. He shaved again, cursing the genes he’d inherited from his mother’s side that made him such a hairy beast. On the other hand, those may have been the same genes that blessed him with the refractory period of a horny teenaged hamster on Red Bull. It was a trade-off he figured balanced out in the long run. Lucinda would testify that it did.
Dressed in his black Italian gabardine slacks and starched Tommy Hellfinger dress shirt, he exited the dressing area, placing the platinum Tuffiny cufflinks through the holes of the French cuffs in each sleeve. To his surprise, Lucinda was already awake. She’d already put on the nylons she carried in her Cucci bag, hooking them to the black garter belt around her small but muscular waist. She’d made her way to the ice machine and fashioned an ice pack with a bucket of ice and a hand towel. It was strategically placed on her who-ha, providing cooling relief from the pounding Gunter had given her several times the night before. One of his Luckies dangled from her manicured fingertips. Underneath several of those nails were small traces of flesh from his back.
“You’re not going to be safe in Fort Stockton for a while.” Gunter fought the distraction of Lucinda laying on the bed. “You’re going to need to leave town. Just until the smoke clears. Do you have someone who can take care of the Grounds for Divorce? Maybe for a few weeks? Month and a half tops? Until the heat’s off?”
“There’s a guy who’s been coming around. Local kid. His dad is well known in town; his mother is of Guatemalan / Honduran descent. Delgado. I could maybe ask him.” Lucinda was mulling over the other choices as she figured how long it would take her to get those damn cufflinks off the French cuffs and that shirt stripped off.
“Do you trust him?” Gunter asked.
“As much as I trust anyone, Thad.” His level of concern was becoming obvious and starting to worry her.
“Call him. Tell him what he’ll need to do. You can’t go back, so make sure he has all the information he needs.” Gunter was giving instructions like a drill sergeant, which Lucinda wasn’t used to but liked. “There’s a plane waiting for you at the Fort Stockton Municipal Airport & Feedlot. I can’t take you there myself. I have to be back in town before sunup. Who can you call that would drop everything to come and get you and take you to the airport?”
“Sister Thelma. She won’t ask questions. When I call her, she’ll be here in 20 minutes,” Lucinda said as she finally got the second cufflink off.
Gunter unzipped his Italian trousers and stepped out of them like a fighter stepping out of the ring after a prize-winning match. “Tell her 30 minutes.”
The timing was perfect.
As the headlights from Sister Thelma’s black sedan shined through the curtains on Room #7, Gunter was tucking his shirt back in and zipping up. Lucinda wrapped herself with a sheet, peered out the side of the curtains to verify it was Sister Thelma, and unlocked the door. Minutes later the demure nun was inside the room and Gunter was looking out at the parking lot. “That’s an interesting car you drive,” Gunter noted. “I’ve never known a nun who drove a Vulva Amazoid Sedan Coupe. Much less one that looked like it was on fire!”
Lucinda reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the ice pack. “I can relate.”
The two of them filled in Sister Thelma on the barest of details. “The plane is fueled and waiting. Get her there as soon as you can and don’t stop for anything,” Gunter instructed. Scooping up the last of the quarters next to the Magic Fingers, Gunter planted a kiss on Lucinda that made her blush, and made Thelma question her vows. “Take care kid. I’ll be in touch.”
And with that, he was in the cabin of the Pontimercrosoto, pushing in the cigarette lighter with his thumb and the accelerator with his size 12 Floorshine brogue. The convertible coup was throwing gravel 30 feet behind him as he headed for town.
The sun was just coming up on the horizon as Gunter pulled into Morningwood Estates. The nouveau riche homes all looked the same, edifices of stone and glass, each a monument to unbridled consumerism run amok. He was able to quickly find hers because of what was parked in the driveway. The two-toned Fairway Green and Currency Verde paint scheme on the brand new Scepter Conestogasm made clear he was at the right house.
Customers who purchased the Scepter Conestogasm were those who wanted to set themselves apart from even their wealthiest neighbors, the Conestogasm being the most expensive model in the entire Scepter lineup. Riding on a cloud of ambient lighting color-keyed to match the paint scheme, the top-of-the-line wagon packed every feature ever devised for an American automobile.
The noise-activated glass patrician that sealed off the passengers in the rear compartment assured hours of highway silence for driver and companion in the front seat. On the outside, the sweeping chrome Astro-Vista spears at the rear of the car gave it a look that separated the wagon from every other offering on the American road. The Jet-Way tailgate could be lowered to form a baby changing table, the soiled diapers sucked into the side Turbo-Tubes and ejected out the large round exhaust pods at the rear end of the bumpers and onto the windshields of the less fortunate once highway speed was reached.
Inside, the Rhino-Hymen interior with the upgraded Luxury Cabin Package assured that nothing could damage the seats, not even the most untrained and mismanaged of curtain climbers. The front passenger seat could be fully reclined to serve as a tanning bed, once the Solar-Matic Sky Roof was activated to the ‘open’ position. Simply put, the Scepter Conestogasm was the car wealthy people bought who wanted to project family values, but hated children. Hers was the only one in Fort Stockton.
Gunter was in the right place, to be sure. He just had to follow her and wait. Timing was everything.
8 responses to “FORT STOCKTON AFTER DARK, Chapter 3”
Sam Spade has always been my favorite noir, the talents (thus far) of Thad may have me rethinking that. Anxious to learn if his crime solving and self preservation skills are up to snuff. Oh to know what the Captain knows . . .
I really need to reduce our collection, but now –
I WANT my own Scepter Conestogasm,
And, much as I’m tempted to go back to once again absorb “The Betsy”,
the vision of flowing raven locks, an aura of innocence betraying physical perfection, and a dive into the shimmering pool is forever implanted …,
oh wait, that is when I met my Bayou Lady some fifty-six years ago –
with a positively huge German Shepherd and a new Toyota Crown Station Wagon, OHC-6, 3-on-the-tree, and Overdrive – Hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s, breakfast at Brennan’s, drinks at Court of Two Sisters, shows at the Playboy Club, sitting in with Jumbo at his Al Hirt’s Club, and then a weekend fishing and waterskiing along with her dad in the Gulf of Mexico. The flight back to work at mid-town Manhattan lent pause to what would become the future.
Rhino-hymen, I almost couldn’t type it whilst laughing, Rhino Hymen….!
The Cap is/has decided to go full Harold Robbins/Ray Chandler on us…
Used to sneak my moms Robbins novels at about 12-13 years old been ruined ever since. “The Betsy , blushing , just recalling the book!!
was introduced to Chandler shortly after college, didn’t even know there was a class on detective noir, damn would have gotten an A
“From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from 30 feet away.” Classic, just Classic imagine a wokster reading that today ahahahahaha
keep practicing Cap. LOL
Methinks that by the conclusion of this series, the DEA will have no choice but to designate CMC as a scheduled controlled substance like LSD, THC, PCP or XTC.
Is that due to the addictive quality of the morning CMC stories, or are you implying I was high when I wrote them? There’s a case for either argument.
Hm. The thing that disturbs me about that comment is that it allows for the possibility that some of your stories are written when you are not toasted.
All I know is that prior to reading this installment, I was not at all familiar with the Scepter Conestogasm, but after seeing the impressive rendering of it in that driveway out at Morningwood (!) Estates, I absolutely want one, and often.
Careful what you wish for.
Where can I get one? BaT?