Looking for Gentry part 7 conclusion
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Looking For Gentry (part 4) free porn video
Sometimes, you see a sign beside the border: "Virginia Welcomes You, Radar
Detectors Are Illegal." Sometimes, there is a guard who scowls and slaps
his stamp hard on a passport.
Sometimes, there's just a line. And you don't see it till it's a long way
behind you.
I sat on Bobbie's sofa, watched her sleeping through her open bedroom
door, trying not feel my life begin to shatter, trying not to think about
what had just happened, what I'd just done. I'd crossed into a place I'd
never been before. I was sitting in a stranger's place, in women's
clothing, in women's clothes over the lace and silk and nylon women wear
underneath. I'd spent an evening being someone new.
I'd kissed another man.
I didn't want to ask the questions that had to follow. Didn't even want to
know that they existed. I crossed my legs, tugged at the skirt -- I
couldn't keep the damn thing from riding up -- and told myself to think
about the Gentry case, where it was headed, what my next steps were going
to be. The car? I'd get it the morning. Was he dead or simply on the run?
There were places I could call to the check the one, to trace him if he'd
really gone. I had to find the side of him, whatever it was, his wife did
not connect with, could not connect with or else he'd still be sitting in
the corner office at the bank, carving the roast for Sunday dinner, asking
Buddy his bet on the VMI game, what he thought Tech's chances were. Where
was he really from, where had he really been. I had some notes, from
talking to wife. Some papers. I knew my around the courthouse, where to
check for trouble, where to look for what you owe. I rattled through all
this and more, to keep myself from thinking.
Then there was Chet.
Perhaps he was an answer to the question: Who was Richard Gentry, really?
A man who trolled for men in bars? Who found Chet there? Perhaps you never
know; it was something I told myself I'd never understand: Two men?
Gentry's girlfriend left a souvenir behind her in his study. I didn't
think the bar where we'd met Chet was Gentry's kind of place. Or Chet's.
Not after that ...
Unless, a troubling thought returned, he'd seen me, wanted me, for what I
was, instead of what I'd hoped he'd see.
What was that, anyway?
I sat there in my skirt and blouse and knew I needed to know more, a lot
more, about him.
And more about myself. Or maybe not myself, maybe about this person
sitting here upon this sofa. I flicked, again, the stray hairs the floated
down my cheek, I rubbed my temples just below the wig, as if to make a
not-quite-headache go away. My feet were sore, I bent to pull my heels
off. Eased back, looked down, saw my smooth knees still pressed tight
together.
Tired. But not quite ready to go bed. I'd had, she'd had, the little
secretary had had a long but not quite long enough a night. I wondered if
she'd really never danced before, how many nights, how many times, dropped
by the front door, ended with a wave good-bye, how many with a -- no,
let's not think of that, just yet. I glanced down, demure, as if there
were a pair of eyes, a gaze, I did not want to catch, a saw a little strip
of lace peek out beneath my hem. I sighed and tugged, and thought she's
not the slickest girl I'd ever met.
A small town girl, I knew I'd got that right. Small town, like mine. It
coddles you, protects. A safe place, nice place, good folks. Too nice
sometimes to know the way things really work: Take Mrs. Gentry, if you
will. Has she a clue? A small thing's big, in a small town; a note at
school, a book bag carried, a dance without an invitation. A sense there's
something else out there, beyond the town's closed-in horizon.
A small town girl, a small time plan. An office job, respectable, away but
not too far: the city up the highway's fine. Meet someone, settle down. A
snuggle on the couch, arms in which to shelter. Not the biggest dreams,
perhaps. They hadn't worked for me. Nor, I guessed, for the girl Chet
kissed not all that long ago. She didn't seem to be girl for glamor;
subdued, I thought, I couldn't get a sense of passions burning. Didn't
want to, maybe, not yet, trying for now just to get to know her. Perhaps
the fire still was banked, a deep-down glow. It only takes a gentle breath
of air. It hadn't happened yet, I decided. I bet she's just a little
worried.
She didn't look to bad, all things considered. I bet she fretted, though.
She stood to check the mirror. Eyes up and down, a half spin, just to
check her back. I thought the makeup bothered her a bit; a little much for
small town girls, but really not too bad. Nice to have a friend to help.
She took a lipstick, a little brighter red what she'd had, wiped off her
lips, daubed on the fresher color. Maybe. Maybe not. Fun to play a bit, to
try new things.
A yawn, another. Small town girls don't climb into other people's beds.
Sometimes, not even when they're invited. Bobbie was sound asleep. I found
blankets in the closet hallway, threw a sheet onto the sofa.
I slept in really late. Awoke in Bobbie's bed. She was already gone;
somehow she'd wrestled off my clothes, tucked me in. I wore one of her
nightgowns. I don't know how she got it on. I obviously couldn't have
fought her all that hard. I didn't seem to be fighting much at all these
days.
I'd just had time to drink a cup of coffee, not bothering to change, when
she returned.
"So, sleepy head, you're up at last," she said, pulled down down her
sweatshirt hood. "I brought some bagels. And I fetched the car."
"The car?" I asked, confused.
"Gentry's car. Down at the impound lot. It's not too far." She stepped
behind my chair, leaned, slid her hands along the silky gown.
"Mmmm." I couldn't stop myself.
"No time to change yet?" she smiled.
"I just got up."
"You look quite sweet," she said, for once, not trying to sound sarcastic.
"Good time last night?"
I shrugged.
"You were zonked, I'll say that," she said. "I didn't think I'd ever get
you into bed." She flashed her little halfway-smile, halfway-smirk,
enjoying her little double-entendre. "Find out much about him?"
"Not much." I didn't want to tell her more, I didn't want to have the talk
I thought she wanted, didn't want to let her see she'd pulled the strings
I thought she had been pulling. I didn't want to think about that night at
all. It wasn't quite a daylight thing.
"So how did you get the car?" I asked, instead.
She smiled again, hauled out the letter Mrs. Gentry gave me, waved it.
"They don't check very hard," she said. "I wore a hoodie, sweats. I
borrowed your ID a sec. No lipstick, though. Your reputation's safe down
at the impound lot."
"What about the charge?"
"I paid. Got a receipt. When you bill her, put it in, and pay me back,"
she said. "No hurry. I can wait. I've got plenty of money."
I nodded, stretched my arms, and stood.
"You going to drive the car back now?" she asked.
"I guess," I said.
"Staying?"
"There's not much point," I said. "He went missing here, not there. She
doesn't want me talking to the neighbors, or at the bank. I'll drop it,
head on back."
"And how will you do that?" she asked.
I tried to think if there'd been a Greyhound sign somewhere in Gentry's
town, wondered if I could bum a ride to South Hill or to Petersburg.
"Look," she said, "I'll drive down with you, follow you."
"Come on," I said. "It's three hours there, three hours back. I can't ask
you to do that."
"It's Saturday," she said. "We'll have a nice drive in the country. Any
chance you'll let me drive the Audi?"
We got there by early afternoon, dropped the car. A late start. Bobbie
insisted she wanted to change, I couldn't find my jeans, and fussed when
she told me to take easy, grab a pair of hers. I finally did. Mrs. Gentry
was out when we arrived, Bobbie didn't want to wait. I slipped the keys in
through the mail slot, left a note. I didn't have too much to say, just
that I was still checking leads. Nothing about the bar. Or Chet.
"I found this," she said, once we had left the little town behind, pulling
herself up from her slouch.
I glanced down quickly, she flashed a piece of paper.
"It was on the floor of Gentry's car," she said. "Must have slipped down.
I felt when I tried to slide the seat up."
"OK," I said. "So what about it?"
"It's on a memo blank, from the bank. I guess it is his bank," she said.
"It's just a line. It says, I think it says: ?I can't go on'."
I slammed the brakes on, swerved to the side of the two-lane road, and
grabbed it from her. It looked like Gentry's handwriting, and said exactly
what she said it did.
"I told you," she said, while I stared at the note. "I told you all along
what happened. He drove to the beach. Took off his shoes. Walked away.
Left the car, nice car. When they do that, there's only one direction that
they take. Write your note, stare at the waves. And walk into the sea."
It looked that way to me, at first. A note is just a note, of course; the
cops will tell you many people kill themselves and never bother writing
one. And sometimes, men in trouble write one, drive down to the beach, and
end up on a long swim to the Cayman Islands, or someplace like them, a
nice warm place where there is no extradition. But men who try that write
a certain kind of note; well, we all know, or we think we do, what people
write before they put the noose on, jump. A note like that, it runs a
little long, just like the swim. A little literary. A reference to the
scandal looming. This one was short enough to just be real. Short enough
to dash off in a moment.
I'd checked the car, and somehow missed it. It made a lot of sense, it fit
the case I thought I had. But I had missed it, though I'd looked for
exactly that kind of dashed-off, last-minute though. And you're not really
dead until there is a body.
***
I brooded all the way back to Norfolk. She stared out the window, as we
whipped by the peanut fields, the woodlots full of loblolly pine. We
didn't talk much, by the time we hit the highway down by Ivor, the traffic
was too heavy for me to spare a glance her way. I was beat by the time
we'd cleared the tunnel into the city, too tired to pay much attention to
anything at all.
And so it was she who saw the car, Chet's car, just as I was about to turn
onto her street.
"Don't turn," she snapped. "Get going."
I swerved back to the Avenue, ignore a blare of horn.
"It's what's-his-name," she said. "The guy, from last night. Your
boyfriend from the bar."
I let the guy behind us pass, and shake a fist. Mouth: "Woman drivers."
"He's sitting there, outside my place," she said.
"Give me a break," I said. "Get serious."
"Maroon Chevvy, D.C. plates," she said. "That sound familiar? Big guy,
blonde hair. Who else is it going to be?"
A light turned red. I stopped and turned to her.
"You're serious?" I barely breathed.
"Look, honey. I know who's living on my street. I know whose cars are
supposed to be there. He's sitting there outside my place."
"And so."
"Sweetie, he's there because he knows that's where to find you," she said.
"Do I have to spell it out? I don't know what he said to you, or you to
him. Maybe you led him on, maybe you just don't know the rules. Maybe he's
a guy who likes to stalk his girls. Maybe he'll go away before too long.
Maybe you had a date. I don't know what. That's why you need to tell me.
I'll tell you this, though. You walk up my steps, looking like this
now..."
She stroked my hair. The light was green.
"Keep going straight," she said. "He sees you now, he'll know. Maybe you
don't care, and maybe he won't. But lots of guys don't like feeling
they've been led on. No one does, not really."
I nodded, thinking of the black-haired girl. But not, funnily enough,
thinking about myself. Or Bobbie.
I felt her eyes on me.
"I need to know what happened," she said. She paused again, took a rasping
breath.
"I won't be jealous."
I'd turned us onto Bay View and then to the Interstate. I kept my eyes
fixed on the road.
"We walked. We had a drink."
"That wasn't all," she said. "You came back really late."
"We had a drink. We talked."
"And he didn't tell you anything about Gentry? Hard to believe, with all
that talking."
"No."
"And so you just talked, and talked." She snorted, a bitter-sounding half-
a-laugh. "Come on baby, no games now. You talked and talked and nothing
else? A little cuddle in the car, a tender glance," her voice now had more
than a little edge. "A kiss?"
I felt her stare again. It took me a while, but eventually I nodded, just
a little.
"Nothing else?" she said. "A little action in the back seat, maybe? No
let-me-have-your-number and I'll call?"
"No," I snapped. "What do you think I am?"
"It's what he thinks. That's the issue now. You think he knows? You think
he is a guy who goes for other guys?"
I flushed. I didn't think he was. I didn't think I'd like a guy like that.
Not that way. I'd never thought I'd be a guy like that. But I'd been out
for hours in her dress, had felt the eyes of more than one man look me
over, knew the fear of that, the thrill of that. I'd felt the heat of him
against my skin. I'd tasted what he wanted when his tongue pushed into me.
"I think he is a man who likes a woman," I said, at last. My voice was
soft, I heard a tiny quaver I had never heard before.
The traffic slowed ahead.
"OK," she said, after a long, tense silence. "I think I've got a plan."
She steered me to a strip mall, somewhere on the Norfolk city line, a mess
of six lane road, car dealers' lots, stores for lamps, linens and lingerie
-- the kind of places that just come and go, that can't afford much of a
rent. Head to the city more, there's the payday loan place, the pawnshop,
the Used-Cars-E.Z.-credit lots. Head out the other way, on towards the
Beach? A dive store, laser tag, the places where the moms in mini-vans
take the middle-schoolers.
"Wait here," she said. We'd parked in back. She took her purse, told me to
wait. I stared out to a little slough of pine-fringed reeds. It seemed to
take forever. I tried not to think of anything at all. It didn't work.
When she came back, she brought bags from two different stores.
"Bend down a sec'," she ordered, after glancing nervously around. She had
a wig waiting there in her lap, quickly tugged it down. I sat up, let her
tweak it into place again.
"The color's just a little lighter, just say you had it colored, if he
asks. The style's pretty much the same, I don't think he'll even notice,"
she said. She pulled some makeup from her purse, patted it on my face. The
cold beige lotion stung a bit. She brushed some pinker powder on my
cheeks, stroked a coral-colored lipstick on my lips.
"OK," she said, when she put the little tubes back in her purse. "That's
good enough for now."
I felt, again, as if I couldn't catch my breath, a buzzing in my chest.
She had come back to be with me. Not fancy, not like the night before. But
she was back, now.
"So what's the plan?" I muttered, afraid to hear the answer, feeling, yet
again, completely in her hands.
"We could head back, and you could take your chances," she said. "Try to
wait him out. Be better, if you looked a little more like you really ..."
Her voice trailed off.
"That isn't the way I really look at all," I said.
Her wicked little half grin:
"I'm sorry, dear. If you looked like you did last night, I meant. If he's
still there, I mean."
I wondered if he would be. Wondered what might happen then.
"I think," she said, "I think perhaps we should go shopping."
Like many girls on a mission to the mall with just a couple things to get,
we ended up with a lot more than we had intended. It's really quite
distracting, trying to pick out just the right thing, and she had quite
definite ideas for me. I think we must've hit a half a dozen stores, and
when we stopped inside a store with only lingerie, I knew we'd long since
reached the point of shopping because we had to buy some things: She was
having fun, shopping with a friend, trying on things for herself and
playing fashion critic -- I really didn't need the extra bra or two she
insisted on, I had no plans for Chet to see anything like that on me. But
still, swept along with the silliness, I followed her lead. She favored
lacy ones for me, decided I could be a little larger than before. A slip,
a little camisole: Oh that one is so cute; no why not both? A girdle, too,
to hold me flat.
She liked me with a skirt above the knees, rejected every longer one I
picked. She wanted tight, straight ones, that I thought made it too hard
to sit or walk -- or run, perhaps, should I ever need to. I picked a pink
skirt, loose folds that moved with me, tickling the backs of my knees as I
modeled it to her giggles. She allowed that it looked nice on me. When I
picked a plainish shirt, she put it back. White was too boring, she fussed
a lot over what colors she thought I ought to wear. White needed something
just a little extra, a bow was way too frumpy. She liked the filmy blouse
with flowing sleeves, finally accepted something a little less flimsy,
eyelets for decoration, tantilizing. We both agreed the blouse with tiny
flowers was a must have. We argued about a sleeveless top, it made me feel
too naked, too exposed, but she found one that didn't go too low or leave
a gap when I leaned over. A pair of heels: No, they aren't too high; the
open toe is better. A pair of flats, too, if you want -- but wear the
heels for me, she giggled in my ear.
She whispered something to a clerk, I thought I heard her say I had a hot
date. The clerk agreed to let us use a changing room to fix me up.
"Close your eyes, a surprise," she said. She handed me a dress she'd
picked out, one I hadn't noticed, and helped me slither in. The space was
tight for two, our bodies brushed, we paused from time to time to kiss. I
let her zip me up. The dress hugged my middle tight, flared out from the
hips, swung easily when I turned. A splash of springtime flowers. The
sleeves barely covered my shoulders with a little puff of cloth. She made
me twirl, a time or two, and walk, once we were back in the store. She
frowned, and then took off her bracelets, slipped them on my wrists.
I looked into the mirror, and knew it was just right. The way the cloth
gripped, the way it floated round me: I felt the touch of it, could not
ignore the touch of it, the way that I was used to, with my jeans or dull
gray suit, skulking through my days. Aware of me, aware of others seeing
me, maybe desiring me, feeling the trembling anticipation of it, I felt
the way you sometimes do, plunging into a breaker on the beach, the
stunning cold shock of it making your heart race, a shock to make you
gasp, but for the bitter water you'd inhale, and then the flush of warmth
surging through your middle, to your legs and arms. Then you stand on the
uncertain, sandy bottom, and shout out in joy.
to be continued
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