“Wouldn’t you know it? She likes the way he uses his hands, too. She wants him to do the hanky panky with her before they have to come back.” The bull seemed to sigh, and its rubber head rocked from side to side on Norman’s wrist in a strangely cosmopolitan gesture of resignation.
“But that’s what all the women like, isn’t it? The hanky panky. The dirty boogie. All night long.”
“Who?” Norman shouted at the mask. Veins stood out at his temples, pulsing.
“Who’s kissing her? Who’s feeling her up? And where are they? You tell me that!” But the mask was silent. If, that was, it had ever spoken at all. What are you going to do, Normie? That voice he knew. Dad’s voice. A pain in the ass, but not scary. That other voice had been scary. Even if it had come out of his own throat, it had been scary.
“Find her,” he whispered.
“I’m going to find her, and then I’m going to teach her how to do the hanky panky. My version of it.” Yes, but how? How are you going to find her? The first thought that came to him was their clubhouse on Durham Avenue. There’d be a record of where Rose was living there, he was sure of it. But it was a bad idea, just the same. The place was a modified fortress. You’d need a keycard of some sort-one that probably looked quite a lot like his stolen bank card-to get in, and maybe a set of numbers to keep the alarm system from going off, as well. And what about the people there? Well, he could shoot the place up, if it came to that; kill some of them and scare the rest off. His service revolver was back at the hotel in the room safe-one of the advantages of traveling by bus-but guns were usually an asshole’s solution. Suppose the address was in a computer? It probably was, everyone used those pups these days. He’d very likely still be fucking around, trying to get one of the women to give him the password and file name, when the police showed up and killed his ass. Then something came to him-another voice. This one drifted up from his memory like a shape glimpsed in cigarette smoke:… sorry to miss the concert, but if I want that car, I can’t pass up the… Whose voice was that, and what couldn’t its owner afford to pass up? After a moment, the answer to the first question came to him. It was Blondie’s voice. Blondie with the big eyes and cute little ass. Blondie, whose real name was Pam something. Pam worked at the Whitestone, Pam might well know his rambling Rose, and Pam couldn’t afford to pass something up. What might that something be? When you really thought about it, when you put on that old deerstalker hat and put that brilliant detective’s mind to work, the answer wasn’t all that difficult, was it? When you wanted that car, the only thing you couldn’t afford to pass up was a few extra hours at work. And since the concert she was passing up was this evening, the chances were good that she was at the hotel right now. Even if she wasn’t, she would be soon. And if she knew, she would tell. The punk-rock bitch hadn’t, but that was only because he hadn’t had time enough to discuss the matter with her. This time, though, he’d have all the time he needed. He would make sure of it.
Lieutenant Hale’s partner, John Gustafson, drove Rosie and Gert Kinshaw to the District 3 police station in Lakeshore. Bill rode behind them on his Harley. Rosie kept turning in her seat to make sure he was still there. Gert noticed but did not comment. Hale introduced Gustafson as “my better half,” but Hale was what Norman called the alpha-dog; Rosie knew that from the moment she saw the two men together. It was in the way Gustafson looked at him, even in the way he watched Hale get into the shotgun seat of the unmarked Caprice. Rosie had seen these things for herself a thousand times before, in her own home. They passed a bank clock-the same one Norman had passed not so long before-and Rosie bent her head to read the time. 4:09 p.m. The day had stretched out like warm taffy. She looked back over her shoulder, terrified that Bill might be gone, sure in some secret part of her mind and heart that he would be. He wasn’t, though. He shot her a grin, lifted one hand, and waved at her briefly. She raised her own hand in return. “seems like a nice guy,” Gert said.
“Yes,” Rosie agreed, but she didn’t want to talk about Bill, not with the two cops in the front seat undoubtedly listening to every word they said.
“You should have stayed at the hospital. Let them take a look at you, make sure he didn’t hurt you with that taser thing.” “shit, it was good for me,” Gert said, grinning. She was wearing a huge blue-and-white-striped hospital bathrobe over her split jumper.
“First time I’ve felt absolutely and completely awake since I lost my virginity at Baptist Youth Camp, back in 1974.” Rosie tried for a matching grin and could manage only a wan smile.
“I guess that’s it for Swing into Summer, huh?” she said. Gert looked puzzled.
“What do you mean?” Rosie looked down at her hands and was not quite surprised to see they were rolled into fists.
“Norman’s what I mean. The skunk at the picnic. One big fucking skunk.” She heard that word, that fucking, come out of her mouth and could hardly believe she’d said it, especially in the back of a police car with a couple of detectives in the front seat. She was even more surprised when her fisted left hand shot out sideways and struck the door panel, just above the window crank. Gustafson jumped a little behind the wheel. Hale looked back, face expressionless, then faced forward again. He might have murmured something to his partner. Rosie didn’t know for sure, didn’t care. Gert took her hand, which was throbbing, and tried to soothe the fist away, working on it like a masseuse working on a cramped muscle.
“It’s all right, Rosie.” She spoke quietly, her voice rumbling like a big truck in neutral.
“No, it’s not!” Rosie cried.
“No, it’s not, don’t you say it is!” Tears were pricking her eyes now, but she didn’t care about that, either. For the first time in her adult life she was weeping with rage rather than with shame or fear.
“Why won’t he go away? Why won’t he leave me alone? He hurts Cynthia, he spoils the picnic… fucking Norman!” She tried to strike the door again, but Gert held her fist prisoner.
“Fucking skunk Norman!” Gert was nodding.
“Yeah. Fuckin” skunk Norman.”
“He’s like a… a birthmark! The more you rub and try to get rid of it, the darker it gets! Fucking Norman! Fucking, stinking, crazy Norman! I hate him! J hate him!” She fell silent, panting for breath. Her face was throbbing, her cheeks wet with tears… and yet she didn’t feel exactly bad. Bill! Where’s Bill? She turned, certain he would be gone this time, but he was there. He waved. She waved back, then faced forward again, feeling a little calmer.
“You be mad, Rosie. You’ve got a goddam right to be mad. But-”
“Oh, I’m mad, all right.”
“-but he didn’t spoil the day, you know.” Rosie blinked.
“What? But how could they just go on? After…”
“How could you just go on, after all the times he beat you?” Rosie only shook her head, not comprehending. “some of it’s endurance,” Gert said. “some, I guess, is plain old stubbornness. But what it is mostly, Rosie, is showing the world your game-face. Showing that we can’t be intimidated. You think this is the first time something like this has happened? Huh-uh. Norman’s the worst, but he’s not the first. And what you do when a skunk shows up at the picnic and sprays around is you wait for the breeze to blow the worst of it away and then you go on. That’s what they’re doing at Ettinger’s Pier now, and not just because we signed a play-or-pay contract with the Indigo Girls, either. We go on because we have to convince ourselves that we can’t be beaten out of our lives… our right to our lives. Oh, some of them will have left-Lana Kline and her patients are history, I imagine-but the rest will rally round. Consuelo and Robin were heading back to Ettinger’s as soon as we left the hospital.”