Your Cheatin Heart

Chapter Seventeen

I knew Jerry Lee Sizemore wouldn't disappoint me. His machine had been on when I'd called, but Jerry rarely answered the phone. "I don't like gettin' that personal with folks," he'd say. I knew otherwise. Jerry didn't answer the phone for two reasons: Half the time he was drunk, the rest of the time he was entertaining guests, usually women.

My lawyer explained it to me when she'd given me his name and number to call.

"Jerry Lee Sizemore doesn't have to work another day in his life. Back before he went to 'Nam, Jerry Lee was a geek, a financial genius, but a geek none the less. He invested in computers. Put that together with his partial disability payments, and Jerry could live out his days in modest comfort. Trouble is, Jerry runs to excess." She sighed, but there was a slight, knowing smile creeping across her face. It was the smile of a woman who's been there and liked what she found.

"Poor Jerry." She sighed again. "He's a genius. He'll take a look at the Curley-Que, and if it's right, no one'll know better than him. If he would only lay off the Wild Turkey and give up the hot tub…" She shook herself back to the present and handed me his card. "Have a good time," she said. "He's partial to redheads."

I'd called him that day. I was desperate to make the Curley-Que work. I was newly divorced and scared to death about my future. This just had to work.

His machine had come on after one ring.

"Tell me who you are," it barked. "Tell me what you want. And don't try and bullshit me with ideas. Just tell me the facts."

I was so thrown off by his message, I hung up. Then I rehearsed my message and called back. Jerry Lee Sizemore didn't surface for two whole days. Days that I spent anxiously waiting by the phone.

He called at two in the morning. I was sound asleep, but he sounded as if it were the peak of the day. He didn't apologize, just took down what information I had and hung up. Three days later, he turned up at my cottage.

I heard him long before I saw him. He rode his Harley without baffles, didn't care that it was against the law, and apparently didn't obey the helmet laws, either. I was outside planting pansies when he pulled up. He looked like any other biker with the exception of his fringed suede coat and his coon-skin cap. I knew he wasn't anyone I knew or was likely to know, so I ignored him. When he strode up my little walkway and planted himself in front of me, I finally looked up. Jerry Lee Sizemore was one frighening individual.

"You Maggie?" he asked.

"Maybe."

"Well, you either are or you aren't," he said. "Wouldn't you be the one to know?"

I didn't say anything. I was staring at the bottoms of his tattered jeans and his black scuffed boots, hoping he'd go away.

"Here," he said, thrusting a manila envelope into my hands. "The salon's a keeper if you want it. You want me to explain it to you?"

That's when I realized who he was and practically fell all over myself inviting him inside.

"You got anything to drink?" he asked once we were in my tiny dining room. He was tall, but then every man over five-feet-nine is tall when you're barely five-feet-two.

"Coke, tea, water?" I offered.

He gave me an impatient look. "Hell. I mean liquor."

"I've got the bottle of tequila from my honeymoon," I said, "but it's old and there's a worm in it."

Jimmy Lee Sizemore's eyes lit up. "That'll do nicely," he said. "Bring out two glasses."

"I don't drink that stuff," I said.

"You want to hear about this place or not?" he asked.

"What's one got to do with the other?"

Jerry pulled out a dining-room chair, swung it around backward, and straddled it. He smelled faintly of chlorine and suede, and the ends of his long silvery hair were damp. Jerry Lee was not one hundred percent sober. And from the wrinkles around his fingertips, he had just pulled himself out of the hot tub to make his delivery.

"I don't drink alone," he said. "Counselor at the VA told me one time, if you drink alone you're an alcoholic. So get two glasses."

I stood there looking at him for about a second, then realized that he held the key to my new business, and got two glasses. At first I sipped the tequila while he swigged. Then, as the day leaned into late afternoon and I realized I was about to own something big for the first time in my life, I too swigged.

Jerry Lee Sizemore grew on me. Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was his pale gray eyes and that hurt dog look he got every now and then. Maybe it was the way he explained the details of my very first business venture, never belittling me, talking to me as if I actually knew what I was doing. Whatever it was, he had his effect, and soon I found myself sighing, just like my lawyer.

He never made a pass at me. Instead, he invited me out to his place the following afternoon, to sit in his hot tub, which now seemed to be the most ideal vision of ecstasy. I walked him to the door, or rather, he let me lean against him while he walked, absolutely straight, to the door. I stood and watched him carefully put on his coon-skin cap, attaching an elastic strip under his chin to keep the relic in place while he rode. I could hardly wait for that next afternoon.

Fortunately, by morning, I had sobered up. I made polite apologies to his machine and escaped back into the pool of women that got away from Jerry Lee Sizemore.

That's why I was half surprised when Jerry Lee Sizemore didn't disappoint me by ignoring my call. I don't know how he knew where to find me, but he did, bursting into the Golden Stallion as I finished up the second set of the evening.

"So, you decided to join the living," he said, his voice filling up every molecule of space around us. "'Bout time. You were a prissy little thing a few years back." He eyed me up and down, those gray eyes taking in my purple suede miniskirt and traveling on down to my cowgirl boots. "Hey," he said, suddenly concerned, "you haven't gone and screwed up that hair salon, have you?"

"Jerry Lee, I am not working here because I'm a bad business woman. The salon is fine."

"Well, good then. It's about time you got your hands outta old ladies' hair and into something juicy!"

I ignored that and told him about my inheritance. He liked his facts crisp and sharp, with no I thinks or guesses involved. He didn't write anything down, didn't even appear to be listening all that well. He was winking at waitresses and obviously ogling the cute young things who waltzed seductively by. But I knew he was tracking every detail of what I said. Jerry Lee could do many things at one time.

"Give me a couple of days," he said finally. "This one's liable to be a bit complicated. Mobile home business'll run all kinds of scams on you."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Aw, you know, two sets of books, kickbacks from your set-up guys, your wholesalers. All kinds of crap."

Somehow I couldn't see Jimmy doing that. In the first place, I didn't think he was that ambitious. In the second, he wasn't that smart. He'd have had enough trouble with one set of books, let alone two. And Jimmy may've been many things, but he wasn't a cheat, especially to his own brother.

"I'm just saying it's complicated, that's all," Jerry said.

He looked up at the stage, at the boys in the band, and the roadies running around switching mikes and stringing an extra cable or two.

"You got yourself quite a little gig here, don't you?" He was smiling like he approved.

"I like it," I answered.

"Glad to see you loosening up," he said, turning back to me. "Used to look like a scared bunny rabbit. Now you're looking like a woman."

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing.

"I'll get up with you in a few days. Maybe this time you'll come out to my place."

"I don't think so, Jerry. Hot tubs aren't my thing." I looked him square in the eye and he laughed.

"Nah, didn't think so," he said. "But it was worth a try;"

With that, Jerry Lee Sizemore was gone, striding out of the Golden Stallion, his long silver hair shining under the spots, his suede coat as smelly as ever and his coon-skin cap sticking out of his coat pocket like fresh roadkill.

"Who was that guy?" Jack asked, walking up as soon as Jerry vanished.

"My accountant," I answered, watching the effect.

Jack looked after Jerry and smiled. "Cool," he said. He slapped his harmonica against his thigh. "Cool, cool, cool." He was starting to zone off. I could see it happening, the faraway stare, the vacant smile. Jack was thinking about someone or something else.

"Hey, you're coming back to my place tonight, aren't you?" he said, reining himself back in.

"Why? You need a ride? Does Evelyn still have your car?"

The mythical, elusive Evelyn. Why didn't she ever come watch Jack play? All the other guys in the band had girlfriends who hung around at a table, their eyes always on their men, watching out for competition. Why didn't Evelyn come and join in?

Jack was smiling, that same goofy, out-to-lunch smile he'd had on a moment ago. "No," he said, "she gave it back. I just wanted to make sure you'd be there."

"Oh, wait," I said, suddenly aware that I might be cramping his style, "if you and Evelyn want some time alone, I can stay away."

Jack laughed, as if I'd said something funny. "Don't worry about us. Evelyn doesn't want any more time alone with me than she gets. It'd cramp her style." He slapped his harmonica a few more times and started to wander away. "I'll just meet up with you back at the ranch."

I watched him walk away, remembering the way last night had ended for the two of us. The picture of us standing in front of his window, dancing, then not dancing, as the sun began to brighten the new day. What was I going to do about him? Somehow, that almost-kiss seemed to have happened in another lifetime, a lifetime that no longer fit with the way I felt tonight. Jack wasn't the man I wanted. The man I wanted wanted me, but he wanted me for murder.

My stomach flipped as I remembered the feel of Detective Weathers's fingers against my skin and the taste of his lips. Did he really think I could've killed somebody?

"Maggie!" I looked up and found one of the doormen gesturing impatiently. "I been calling you and calling you! You've got a phone call."

My first thought, as always, was of Sheila. She was the only one in my life who would call me here, and then only if something was wrong. I quickened my pace, half running toward the phone.

"Sheila?"

There was silence on the phone and then music, scratchy and thin, sounding as if it came from a long distance away.

"Thank heaven, for little girls…" Maurice Chevalier's voice, gay and lilting, sang through the receiver.

"Who is this?"

"For little girls grow older every day." Then silence. Then a raspy whisper. "Where's your little girl, Maggie?"