Looking for Gentry part 7 conclusion
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Looking For Gentry (part 2) free porn video
The Gentry case, oddly, remained alive.
Usually, big city police don't chase too hard to find the owners of
abandoned cars: impound lot fees can mount up to a nice piece of change.
The Norfolk cops didn't care about Gentry's Audi.
Mrs. Gentry didn't seem to much, herself. She still didn't really want to
talk to me, and she had no intention whatsoever to have a word with the
local Sheriff. How anyone was supposed to help was more than I could say.
But in a way, I thought I understood; I'd bet a hundred bucks that if
anyone in her small town had asked, she would have said her husband was
away on business.
She just seemed to be that sort. And if no one else seemed too surprised
that that trip was already in its third week, well, I thought I knew what
that meant, as well. Gentry had taken trips like that before. Though no
one wondered why the only banker in a little Southside town needed to hit
the road to drum up business, it wasn't my job to teach them Banking 101.
A little town, the center of its world, of course the banker has to go
away on business, that's what business people do. But the state bank
examiner had been around a bit himself, and he kept squirreling away. And
he, all things considered, wanted badly to have a chat with Gentry. The
board of the little family-owned bank -- Gentry had married in, though no
one was blunt enough to say that -- felt they needed one as well.
So I found myself sitting again in the large, sunlit living room of that
big brick house on the old Lynchburg road. She perched on the edge of a
flowery sofa, tucking herself into place with care, fussing a little with
the hem of a pleated skirt. I found myself watching those little gestures
closely, with something like a note-taker's care. I knew I saw things,
little things, I hadn't noticed before. A gesture I might try, perhaps.
The plucking, thumb and forefinger, a hand to the cheek, that's how you
do, what does it mean? Good to see the little things, to think about the
little gestures, since she didn't have much to say, really. She had
already told me when he left, that the police found the car. What she had
to tell me now was something she didn't want to: The family wanted to
engage me to keep on looking.
They also wanted me to stay away from the bank examiner. To keep me from
pressing, she told me something vague about an accounting problem. Six
figures worth. Just one of those computer glitches, most likely. Happens
all the time, you'd think even a bureaucrat would figure that one out. The
police, too, the family'd just as soon keep out of it.
He'd run, of course. Where, was one question. Willingly, another. Were
there any likely places? Had something happened to make him want to go
away? She said she had no ideas at all. Was he alive? Dead? Might he come
back? She seemed unmoved, uninvolved. I wondered if she cared at all or if
she cared so much she couldn't let it show. She wouldn't look me in the
eyes.
And, head still aching from the past night's adventure, I wondered, too,
if somehow, something showed on me -- a trace of color where there should
be none, a mark, somehow, from wearing what I should not have worn, a
gesture too closely copied from someone else, as I was thinking in what
circumstance one might copy one of hers.
She touched her cheek, I found myself, again, rubbing my lower lip and
found, again, that there was nothing on it. That morning, rising early,
trying not to waken my companion, long hair spilling in a dark halo around
her face, worrying about how I'd ever manage to find my car, I hadn't
realized my real problem, not at first. My clothes, the wrapping that made
me, me -- they were somewhere else. And I wasn't sure quite how to get
there. I tugged the jeans I'd worn the night before back on, hoping I
could find a baggy shirt to try to look more less like a sissy-boy who'd
had a little too much fun the night before. I padded round a bit, without
much luck. The suede jacket, I guessed, might not look too, too bad. If I
got moving now, with dawn just breaking, I might just make to my car with
no one seeing. I pulled a curtain aside, to take a look outside.
It was a quiet street, from the look of the apartments across the way, not
too far from Granby St., towards downtown. Neat three-story brick, lawns
clipped close. Farther from the beach than where I'd started, but I
thought it might be walking distance, at a stretch. I wished I hadn't let
my supposed cousin talk me into leaving my water-soaked shoes that
evening. The ones she lent me fit tight and though the heel was low, they
pinched my toes and hurt to walk in. Better if I could get a lift, but the
black-haired girl was still asleep, and I wanted to be moving. Turning
towards the door, I let the curtain drop. Then froze.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a man step out onto the balcony directly
across the street, newspaper and coffee in hand, all set to settle down.
Oh God, I thought. Oh God. There was no way he would not see me once I
left her place, and no way I'd not look exactly what I was, a man with
girlish clothes he had no right to wear. I padded round the apartment one
more time, one more, one more, but still no luck; there had been no
boyfriends here to leave a shirt, a pair of pants. If I wasn't to be stuck
halfway between, I'd have to try again what I had tried the night before.
The longer that I waited, the more eyes I'd have to try to fool.
And yet, the idea of trying, one more time -- just one more, just to see
if I could really ...
No one ever really has to do the thing that cleaves you open, leaves you
shaking, changed, trembling on your bed, or someone else's. You may need
to tell yourself you have no choice.
You have a choice. I had a choice.
With a shake or two, the wig looked fine to me. It was a struggle, but I
got the bra back on, stuffed it, not too full, though somehow I seemed
bigger than I remembered. I hoped the lipstick would be enough, but it was
harder than I thought to get it right. By the third time, the black-haired
girl was up, and trying not to snicker at my efforts.
"Cute," she said, with just the slightest edge. Revenge for fooling her
last night, I figured. I struggled on with the unfamiliar work.
"Let me help," she said at last. "You're hopeless. I'll drive you back to
Bobbie's."
I must have looked confused.
"Your cousin," she said. "That's what we call her here." She wiped the
mess off of my lips.
"You don't want that one, anyway. Let's try something less, um, tarty for
the day."
She traced my lips with a pinker color, dithered for what felt forever
getting dressed herself, fussed with her keys when we finally stepped
outside; her neighbor was still there, his paper finished. I saw him spot
me, run his eyes up and down and up again; I quickly turned my head to
keep my gaze from meeting his, and flushed. The black-haired girl just
bared a wicked grin.
Somehow, I got to my car, got to the highway, found a rest stop with no
one else around, got a change of clothes from the bag I'd thrown in the
trunk. And tried to turn back into me.
Watching Mrs Gentry now, I tried to tell myself not to worry, that I had
made the switch back carefully enough. If she sensed something, she didn't
seem to care.
I could see she struggled over what to tell me. No girlfriend, not for R.
Richard Gentry. No money worries. No enemies. No awkward moments at the
club. No nothing.
I tried to keep her talking; she hated every minute that I stayed. Slowly
though, I picked up bits and pieces. Married six, seven years. No kids.
Met up in Richmond; she was doing this-and-that at the Virginia Museum,
the symphony backers; he was taking painting classes at night, I guess to
make up for falling into a nice soft nest at one of the downtown trust
companies. He was, she couldn't keep from hinting, somewhat sadly, an
artist way down deep inside. They dated, they were lonely, they found
themselves together more and more. It's sweet, he's sweet, she's sweet,
their colleagues say -- so when's the day? A white gown, veil and roses in
the churchyard, a townhouse in The Fan, a photo of the garden in a glossy
magazine. It makes marriage. They tell themselves they're happy, if not
maybe as impassioned as teenage girls dream they will be. Everything is
fine. Then Daddy had the incident, the doctor, Uncle Jim, said he'd have
slow down this time. Buddy had just won the contract for the new state
highway bypass, with all his other work, there was no way he could spend
time down at the bank. The three of them, and Mummy, basically were the
board and they decided: Time to come back, Richard must run the bank. They
were a trio of tough, bull-headed guys from VMI, Richard was not. He
thought they were dull and dumb, they thought he was weak, and pushed.
There was a question of a loan that Buddy's classmate needed, Richard had
said no. Sunday dinners after church -- well, you can guess. But the bank
boomed, Richard stayed. She was caught in the middle. I felt bad for her
and bad for him and glad as hell I'd run from my own small Southside
Virginia town.
I asked again if Gentry had friends or business down in Norfolk. She
shrugged again and said that she just didn't know. I tried again to ask
about the money, I said I needed to know if the police, the FBI would soon
be sniffing. She said I didn't need to worry. I did.
"OK," I said, tired of trying. "Let's check your room."
The bedroom, too, was sunny. A flowery bed cover, flowery curtains, pale
pink walls. Neat and still, though she'd left the closet doors ajar. I
peered inside.
"What are you doing?" she asked, more animated than she'd been all
afternoon. I fingered slowly past dresses, blouses, skirts. I don't think
that you could say I lingered there.
"He took all his stuff?" I asked.
"No, no," she replied. "He keeps it in his study. There." She pointed
across the hallway.
Gentry favored dark suits, a real banker. Navy. Navy. Pinstripe for
variety. White shirt, white shirt, white shirt: I stopped counting. A
couple of pairs of khakis for the weekend.
The desk was clear of papers, his laptop folded and pushed to the side.
She frowned as I opened drawers and rummaged.
"He keep a gun?" I asked. She shook her head. I found some file folders,
nothing from the bank, but, banker to the core, I guess, he had neatly
filed things: house, warranties, taxes, statements. The top of a
stockbroker's statement -- I couldn't spot the date -- caught my eye: the
Gentrys were rich, and looked like they'd been getting richer lately, too.
The broker was in Norfolk. There was a file for bills. None for receipts,
though. He seemed he'd be the type. But, way in the back, I spotted one,
slipped in into my pocket.
"Other clothing?" I asked. She pointed to the chest of drawers beside the
sofa. Underwear, T-shirts in the top. He was boxers, not briefs. Polo
shirts, sweaters below. Bottom drawer, empty -- looked empty, anyway.
Funny, the others were packed quite tight, I had to move clothes out to
feel along their bottoms. Nothing unexpected. In the back corner of the
empty drawer, though, I felt a scrap of slippery cloth. I grabbed it, and
quickly crammed it in my jacket pocket when I saw her glance out to the
hallway. Not so fast, though, that I didn't see the pink and lace.
"This fold out?" I asked her, tapping the couch. I pulled, before she had
a chance to answer and quickly felt around: Nothing. Except now I knew
they slept apart. But it seemed as if he, at least, did not always sleep
alone.
"Enough?" she asked. "Enough? I think that's what there is to see."
I nodded.
"What now?" she asked.
It's not so hard to disappear, I didn't tell her in response. Not so long
as you've got money. Cash, that is. Use a credit card, I'll find you -- or
at least, the guy who stole your wallet. Cash can get you a place to stay,
no ID needed. Every city's got a neighborhood like that. Ocean View, for
instance. Cash gets you food to eat. A bus ticket out. Find someone a
little bent, it gets you a rental car or a plane ticket, too. Cash, maybe
a friend, gets you a different name. Driver's license. Passport.
I didn't tell her that. Instead:
"May I see a credit card bill?" I asked, as lightly as I could.
It had just come in. I skimmed, she frowned. They weren't the biggest
spenders, local stuff. Gas in Lynchburg, the other direction, a week
before he'd left. Movie in Emporia, down the road. Roanoke Rapids -- the
mall, of course. Clothes, it looked like. Suffolk? Just a name: "The Coach
House." A restaurant, I guessed. Though who would think of Suffolk for a
fancy meal out.
"So, what happens now?" she asked.
"Back to Norfolk," I said. "I'll look around a little more. If you'll
write a note for the police, I'll pick up the car for you. Impound's
probably a couple of hundred by now. You want it back here?"
She nodded. I suspected it'd be parked, prominently, in the driveway for a
while. No one in town was talking yet. But soon.
"I'll call tomorrow, keep you posted," I said. "This shouldn't take too
long; he'll probably be back before I find much anyway."
She smiled, looked pained. That was, I knew, her hope.
But I knew, and I'm sure she did, too, that it wasn't likely.
****
By the time I made it back to Norfolk, it was getting dark. I'd made no
special plans, and had no special place to stay, and so I found myself,
again, in Ocean View.
She nodded when she opened her door, her pale hair backlit, shining, her
face in shadow.
"I thought that you'd be back," she said. A half smile. "Any luck?"
"Your friend was nice, Bobbie," I said. "She even told me what you're
called."
"You told her your name, too?"
"I told a name."
"Come in," she said. "I've been expecting you."
For lack of knowing how to start, we had a drink. I didn't know quite what
to say, and nor did she. The lights were low, the place was quiet. We
stared out the picture window, towards the stars, as if we could see the
dune and ocean in the dark.
"You find him?" she asked at last.
"No."
"You won't," she said. "You know what happened. Or some. You'll never know
the rest. You tell her?"
"Her?"
"The wife, of course. Who else would want to know?"
"I told her what I found."
"And still?"
"And still, she wants to look. And still, I'm looking."
"And still, you're back here. And still I tell you: You know the answer.
You're just being cruel, not to tell her."
"So you say," I said.
"And still," she continued, oblivious, "and still I tell you, what you
want here is something else."
She stood, and pulled the curtains closed.
"You look for other people because you won't look at yourself," she said.
"That's why you bother me. You look, and look the way you do because you
like to trace another's steps, because that lets you walk in someone
else's shoes. And in the end, what do you find? A bouncing check, a bogus
claim, a breaking marriage? What's so great, finding that stuff out? What
did you find today?"
A lonely woman in a sunlit room, twitching nervously at her hem, a tiny
town where gossip floats behind a half-cupped hand, two tidy rooms, a pair
of panties. A Coach House on the road to Norfolk, a motel whose clerk was
all too used to someone asking: Remember him? Gentry was there, but left
early in the morning, three weeks before. Slipped the keys in the mail
slot; with just 10 mostly-empty rooms, 10 miles from the highway, the
Coach House was not the kind of place that sprung for a night clerk. The
room smelled of stale smoke and stale socks.
The Coach House paid for maids, but not too much, and got about what it
had paid for. No bloodstains, no marks on the wall. A pile of clothing on
the closet floor. Gray suit, a shirt; again, no blood, no stains. I
couldn't tell if they were Gentry's, but I thought they were the right
size. Expensive, too, the way he liked his clothes; by my lights, too
expensive to leave crumpled on the floor. I was pretty sure they'd be the
clerk's soon. That's what I found, I told her. And this: I handed her the
credit card receipt from Gentry's desk.
She laughed.
"Know it?" I asked.
"Oh yeah," she said. "A bar, over in Virginia Beach. Aren't you going?"
I shrugged.
"But then, you came here, not there," she said. "Here. And so I've got to
ask, again, what are you looking for tonight? Whose steps are you tracing
now? Whose shoes are you wanting to walk in tonight? His?"
She stepped past me, towards her bedroom. With the tip of a toe, she
flicked one of her high heels that she had left there in the doorway,
arching it my way.
"These?" she asked.
"Go slow," I said, my throat tight.
"There's time enough for hunting him," she said. "You're looking for
someone else tonight, aren't you? Someone hard to track. A rustling in the
reeds, a scent of something, a glimpse of dark within the shadows. Shh."
She was walking back to me.
"You need the sharpest eye now, don't you? The keenest ear. You want to
feel the smallest change. Shed your skin, and feel."
I felt her undo a button. Then another.
"Yes," I said. "I want to feel the change."
She cupped her hand to my ear and told me how. And if I would not tell her
yes, I did not tell her no.
I shed my skin. Her razor helped, and so did the steaming bath she drew.
There's something about the glide of metal, the sharp edge in another's
hand, the tiny crunching of hairs being mowed, of being still and calm and
knowing that the other's even momentary lapse of care will leave you
bleeding. I was her focus now, the sole thing on her mind, she bit her
lip, shutting out all the world, to concentrate on me, on the razor that
she gently dragged across my skin. She didn't hurt me. And when we stepped
out, together, from the still-steaming bathroom, for just an instant,
standing there, heat still rising from my no-hairless body, I felt the
smallest drafts, the motes of dust brushing my shoulders; I closed my eyes
and felt a fall of something more, a trembling of hair. Eyes still closed,
I raised my hands and ran my fingers through the waves, as she gentled
brushed the tangles from the wig.
I felt her bring a bra across my chest, the little tug as she closed it
behind me and clasped the hooks. I felt tight elastic grab my hips and
belly. I felt her kneel.
"Pick up your feet," she said, and rolled the nylon over my ankle and up
my calves, it slid along my smooth, new-shaven thigh. I shivered as the
slick gauze tightened to my skin.
"You need to look now," she said. "Take this." A half-slip. I stepped in:
One foot, two foot. A picture from a magazine for horny boys, band of lace
halfway down a thigh, my thigh.
"You're looking, now," she whispered. "Are you coming any closer to
finding what you're looking for?"
I couldn't talk, I couldn't nod. I felt a buzzzing in my chest, as if my
heart was racing far ahead of me, I couldn't catch my breath. I felt a
shiver, a thrill, knew I was closer now, knew I had traced a path I was
afraid to start on, knew I was ready to let go.
"Ready to walk in someone else's shoes," she whispered, bending to my feet
again. One foot, two. I stepped into her heels.
Maybe two inches, a little more, but still I teetered. She stood to steady
me, then ran her index finger down my front; I felt her trace between
breasts and over belly, and felt how, I guess it was the shoes, they now
pushed out boldly to the world. I felt her palm slide over a bottom, mine,
round and out-thrust, too. I took a step, and felt myself waggle under her
hand.
"Pick up your arms," she said. "Pick up your arms, and dive."
I closed my eyes and felt a swirl of cloth. The dress slipped down, she
zipped, it hugged. She touched it into place. I felt the hem play around
my knees, and spun, to feel it all the more.
"Sit now," she said. "Give me a sec'."
I tucked myself into a chair, fussed some with the hem. It was a light
dress, made for summer. Flowers on white, a flowing skirt; old fashioned,
small town, kind of sweet. I crossed my legs, recrossed them. Admired
them.
I felt oddly remote, oddly content. Shifting slightly in the chair, it was
as if I could stand apart and watch myself, or someone rather like me,
though with one important difference. And yet it still was me sitting in
that chair, wrapped in that soft cotton, feeling that unexpected give and
bind of a kind of clothing I had never worn before, caress a body I
thought I knew well, so well that I had not thought of what it felt, not
for years. To feel it now was something I did not want to end.
I looked up, saw her smiling. She'd brought her tubes and little pots and
sticks of color: A new skin, now that I'd shed my old one. She daubed, and
smoothed; patted and brushed. Dark above my eyes, but also a glimmer.
Rose, a pale beige. The shock of red on lips -- I caught a glimpse, no
more, when she briefly held the mirror for me. I wanted to look more.
"Turn," she said. "Walk for me." I tried to twirl, caught myself, and
stumbled to the living room and back.
"Smaller steps," she said. "Tippy-toe."
I tried again.
"Better," she said. "Once more. Swing just a little."
Back and forth again, less shaky. Concentrating.
"I think you'll get by," she muttered. "Come and sit now, here."
She patted a spot beside her, on the bed. I saw two women in the mirror,
side by side. Friends, perhaps. One fussed with the other's collar, hair,
the way that women do sometimes, to get final touches right. Two women,
side by side, closer than men sit with friends; one leans to whisper in an
ear.
"Close your eyes," she murmured. "Close your eyes and think of this: It's
spring, now. Warming. Things are growing. You see the buds now,
everywhere, the spray of pale green on the trees, pink and purple where
the redbud blooms, a plum tree, cherry. Spears of green have shot up from
the earth, the buds of flowers opening. Opening. You feel this now?
Spring. Flowers blooming, buds are opening. Opening to the warmth. You're
opening, you're open, you feel a breeze play on your legs, the hem
brushing a thigh, a strand of hair floating across your face."
I felt her finger trace the inside of my thigh.
"Open," she whispered. "Open now. And ready. Open, ready to accept. Ready
to enclose. You're open, you can accept. Open, and feel things you didn't
feel before, feel a new order of things enclosing you. As open, now, you
could accept, bring in, hold tight and then enclose whatever you desire.
You see?"
Then she kissed me, hard. I felt her angry tongue against my teeth, I felt
her hand along my inner thigh, a finger slide just where my leg meets, run
along the seam that held me together. I felt myself relax, my mouth ease
open, her tongue probe deeper. A moan.
She broke away. Her hand stroking my cheek, she gazed at me, then turned
me towards the mirror.
Two women there. One in jeans, a neat white blouse. Pale hair, the sun,
perhaps. That kind of carefree, casual look you see, down by the beach.
The other in a pretty dress, flowers, flounce.
A Sunday summer afternoon. A blush of make-up, maybe more, bold red lips -
it was more face than the summer dress demanded, I thought, a face for
night.
She must have thought so, too.
"Turn," she said, "Stand."
I felt her unzip me, pull down the dress.
"We'll dive again," she said. This time, the cloth brushed closer,
tighter. A dark and silky shirt, black skirt. Sleeker, not so sweet. The
hem came halfway down my thighs, the skirt fit tightly, a narrow cut so
that it caught me if I took too big a step. When I did anyway, it bunched,
rode up, and when I turned to check myself in the mirror, I saw a flash of
lace below in the small slit at the back.
She whistled, low. Stepped back, holding me by my outstretched arms.
"A fox," she said. "You ready?"
"Ready?"
"You're looking, aren't you?" she said. "You're looking for someone.
You've seen the trail, it's time to follow it now."
I just stared at her.
"We're going out," she said. "Here." She dangled the credit card receipt
I'd found at Gentry's.
"You want to trace him, let's check here."
"Tomorrow," I said. "We'll go tomorrow."
"There's no one there tomorrow. It's a place that's only for the night.
You'll be fine, I'll be right with you. The path goes this way; if you
want to track down who you're seeking, this is the way to go. Don't be
afraid now." She laughed. "Believe me, you'll like it better this way."
She laughed again.
"Don't you know this place?" she said. "You'd rather look the way you do
now, trust me. You won't get hit on, you're with me. Change back, well,
that's a different story. You don't know this place, really?"
I shook my head. Teetered in her heels.
"Rough trade," she said. "A little guy like you? More than hit on. They'd
eat you up. Trust me. They don't like girls there. But now? No need to
worry. They'll leave us strictly alone."
to be continued
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