this time she'd have read his letter, and maybe if he got a post office
box and wrote again, care of Louise, she'd reply.
232
ANERICAN TAR The first thing they had to do was find somewhere to
live.
Joey was right-the hotel, cheap as it was, had been too expensive.
They should have moved weeks ago.
An icy wind blasted them as they turned the corner. Joey stopped to
gather a stack of old newspapers sticking out of a garbage
candisturbing a mangy cat. It ran off down the street screeching. Two
drunken old tramps staggered by. A couple of junkies huddled in a
doorway, busy shooting up.
Cyndra clung to Nick's arm, shivering. "I'm frightened," she
whispered.
"Don't worry," he said, trying to reassure her. "We'll be all
right."
She clung tighter. "Promise?"
"Hey, listen, kiddo. As long as you hang out with me I never let you
down. Okay?"
"Yes, Nick."
He may have sounded full of confidence, but it was a cold hard world
out there and sometimes he was frightened too.
It all seemed to happen at once-one moment Lauren was fighting off
Primo, and then everything became a horrifying deadly blur. First the
howling wind, followed by a thunderous roar as the tornado bore down on
them, catching the trailer in its path, scooping it into the air and
carrying it along for several hundred yards as if it were made of
paper.
Lauren could hardly remember anything, as she'd been hurled from the
door to the ground outside and knocked unconscious. When she came to,
the tornado was off in the distance, sweeping a path of destruction,
ripping up everything as it headed for the center of town.
Lying on the ground, she groaned, lifted her hand and felt blood on her
cheek. She tried to sit up, overcome with an overwhelming sense of
despair as she attempted to remember exactly what had happened.
Primo . . . grabbing her tearing at her clothes . . . the knife.
Oh, God, the knife! Had she killed him?
Panic-stricken, she staggered to her feet and forced herself to think
clearly. All she could remember was the power of the tornado
descending, and being propelled from the door as if by some magic hand
as the trailer was lifted up and swept away.
Somehow she'd been saved. Why?
She looked around the trailer site-it was more or less obliterated,
everything gone. Even the trees had been plucked from their roots.
Living in the Midwest, she'd heard about tornadoes all her life but had
never experienced one. Now the reality was upon her and she saw for
herself the devastation it could cause.
In the distance she could still see the gray funnel twisting on its
way, its awesome destructive power demolishing everything it
encountered.
There was no more rain, just an eerie stillness, a deathly silence.
She tried to force herself to move, but her legs felt weak and could
hardly hold her weight. Somewhere a dog barked mournfully.
I've got to get home. They'll be so worried about me.
She began to walk. Back toward town. Back to the house she hoped was
still standing.
The tornado swept down Main Street like a lethal weapon, cutting its
deadly path with incredible strength. Everything in its way was sucked
up into its white-gray funnel. Trees, people, animals, cars-it was not
selective.
Picking up strength as it traveled on its way it hit Main Street at its
peak, propelled by winds of up to two hundred and fifty miles an
hour.
The plate-glass windows of the drugstore caved in, sending great shards
of glass smashing to the ground.
Louise held tightly onto Dave, fervently praying.
He dragged her out into the street as the ceiling collapsed and falling
debris crashed around them. Protecting her as best he could, he threw
her to the ground and lay on top of her-both of them trembling with
fear. A sheet of glass sliced through his leg, cutting it off below
the knee.
Louise let out a long anguished scream as the blood from Dave's injury
pumped all over her.
The tornado continued on its way, demolishing the Blakely Brothers
hardware store, above which Phil Roberts and Eloise clung together in
his office. They hardly knew what hit them. The very last words
Phil Roberts heard was Eloise screaming, "I never meant to do
it, God. Forgive me for my sins. Please forgive me!"
And then there was nothing.
Jane Roberts' car with her inside was swept up into the wind funnel and
carried along for almost a mile. She died of shock.
The car, containing her body, was recovered twenty-four hours later.
Miraculously, it was still perfectly intact.
Bosewell High School suffered a direct hit. As the students raced into
the gym, the tornado sucked the roof off the building, pelting everyone
with flying glass and jagged chunks of concrete. Crashing debris hit a
gas main, causing a major fire.
Meg managed to grab hold of Stock as he hung on to the climbing rails,
the only part of the gym that remained. She held on for dear life,
trying to ignore his hysterical sobs and keep a clear head.
Mack had vanished-sucked away in the awesome cone of dust.
"Help me!" Stock sobbed hysterically. "Somebody help me!"
"I'm here," Meg cried soothingly. "Don't worry, I'll look after you.
I'm here."
Aretha Mae watched the factory vanish before her very eyes. She stood
in the middle of the destruction completely unharmed and continued to
pray.
By the time the tornado left Bosewell fourteen people were dead, over a
hundred and fifty injured. More than sixty buildings were damaged or
destroyed, and the town declared a disaster area.
In the big story nobody bothered to mention Bosewell-for the killer
tornado cut a path of death and destruction throughout the Midwest,
making the small town of Bosewell only a minor victim.
By the time the story hit the major news services, Bosewell was hardly
mentioned.
Nick lay back in bed, his eyes following the naked redhead prowling
around his tiny one-room apartment. Her name was DeVille and she was a
natural redhead.
He liked watching her in his home, it sure beat observing her gyrate on
stage while dozens of horny old men got off ogling her considerable
charms. She was, at twenty-six, an older woman, but only by four
years, which fazed neither of them.
DeVille had a sweep of long hair, pale aquamarine eyes, pouty lips,
voluptuous breasts and a sunny disposition. She'd been living with him
for almost six months.
"Can I fetch you anything, sweet thing?" she asked, prancing around
his apartment, all curves.
"Yeah." He leaned back in bed, putting one arm behind his head.
"Get over here."
DeVille did not argue, she never argued. Sometimes he wished she
would. He'd heard of easy, but she was ridiculous.
She approached the bed and stood beside him. He reached up and touched
one perfect size 36 tit-no silicone-DeV
ille was all natural.
The only phony thing about her was her name.
Rolling her extended nipple between his fingers he made a suggestion
she was not about to turn down.
DeVille was pleased. Her last lover had been twenty years older than
her and a grouch. Nick was a real treat.
"My, oh my!" she exclaimed, pulling the sheet off him and widening her
eyes. "What big . . . thighs you have."
"All the better to grab your ass!" He pulled her on top of him and
they both laughed as she straddled him with her long white legs.
DeVille liked being on top. He didn't mind, he knew it was her one
power play.
They started to make frantic love-DeVille was a screamer-their
neighbors did nothing but complain.
When they were finished he rolled out of bed and strolled into the
cramped bathroom.
"How about I make pancakes?" DeVille called out.
"I ain't hungry," he said quickly. The one thing she couldn't do was
cook.
He noticed a spider crawling along the side of the tub. Picking it up
by one of its legs he carefully placed it on the windowsill and watched
it dart to safety across the fire escape.
"I'll make coffee then," she sang out.
At least she could do that. He stepped into the rusty tub and turned
on the shower-as usual getting nothing but a trickle of lukewarm
water.
He had a hangover. The night before had been a long one, plenty of
action, and he hadn't gotten home until three in the morning.
Who'd have thought Q.J."s would become the place? And who'd have
thought he'd become the manager?
Yeah, some success story. From dishwasher to manager. And all it had
taken was five years. Wow!
"What shall we do today?" DeVille asked, popping her head around the
bathroom door.
"I'm easy.
"Maybe we could catch a movie-there's a new Paul Newman."
Yeah-Paul Newman. That meant he'd definitely get laid again.
"Sure," he said easily.
By the time he emerged from the bathroom, DeVille was dressed.
On Sundays she liked to play at being ordinary. She'd put on jeans and
a sweater and braided her long red hair. Looking at her today nobody
would guess she performed one of the horniest acts in town.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you. This letter came for you yesterday," she
said, handing him an envelope.
He studied the writing on the front-it was from Cyndra. "How many
times I gotta tell you? When I get mail I want it right away," he
said, irritated.
"I told you-I forgot."
The envelope looked in bad shape. "What did y'do, steam it open?"
"As if I would!"
"As if you wouldn't."
DeVille had a jealous streak he didn't appreciate.
"Is it from your sister?" she said, peering over his shoulder.
"You did open it," he accused.
"No, I did not. Her name's on the back."
It was a stupid thought, but one of these days he still hoped he might
receive a letter from Lauren. Yeah-a real stupid thought.
Lauren was his past, long gone. He'd written her many times and never
gotten a reply. After a while he'd given up. It was obvious she
didn't care about him.
But that didn't mean he couldn't think about her once in a while, did
it? He imagined her still in Bosewell, married with kids, happy, never
giving him a second thought-she probably didn't even remember his
name.
He opened Cyndra's letter. She'd left Chicago with Joey over four
years ago. The two of them had taken off when the winter got too cold
and neither of them could keep a job. They'd tried to persuade him to
go with them, but by that time he was settled at Q.J."s doing
everything from taking over the bar to running errands for Q.J.
Cyndra had stayed in New York with Joey for a couple of years, until
eventually she'd met some sharpshooter called Reece Webster, who'd
lured her out to California with a few phony promises. She was still
with him. From what Nick could gather the guy was married, but on the
brink of leaving his wife. He'd been on the brink for the last two
years.
He scanned her letter.
Dear Nick: Well, things are good in Los Angeles, you'd really love it
It's hot all the time and there's these great palm trees everywhere
-but I guess I've told you that enough times-right?
Why don't you come visit me? I've got plenty of room if you don't mind
sleeping on a sofa bed. Reece is never here on weekends so we could
have fun and you know how much I miss you.
As far as my career. . well, I'm taking singing lessons-haha! Aren't
you glad? I'm also meeting lots of people Reece says can help me.
I haven't heard from Joey in a while. I think he's driving a cab.
You know !oey, always waiting for the big break. Aren't we allha-ha!
I'm serious, Nick-please think about coming out here even if it's only
for a long weekend.
I love you and I miss you lots.
As always, Your sister, Cyndra She wasn't the world's greatest letter
writer, but at least she bothered to write.
"You ever been to California?" he asked DeVille, folding the letter
and putting it in his pocket.
"Once," she replied. "When I was eighteen. There was this rich guy
with his own private plane. He flew me and three other girls to a
party in Vegas. We put on a show they didn't forget in a hurry!"
"What kind of show?"
"Stripping, parading the goods, what else?"
"Did you ever do any hooking?"
Her mouth tightened. "Why are you asking me that?"
"I'm throwing it into the conversation."
"Throw it out again, Nick," she said, glaring at him. "I take my
clothes off, and that's all I do."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that."
"Nor do I." She marched into the bathroom, slamming the door behind
her.
She'd sulk for five minutes and then come out. DeVille never stayed
angry for long.
Q.J. had this theory about women. He considered them all hookers under
the skin. Sometimes he'd give Nick the benefit of his wisdom.
"You gotta look at it like this-when they marry a guy, what the hell ya
think they're doin'? They're havin' sex for money, right? So the
husband screws her one night an' buys her a dress the next day. The
poor schmuck pays for everything. Why don't he leave a hundred
buckerooneys on the bedside table an' call it quits?"
Q.J. was a true cynic. Maybe that was the way to be. Nick had no
intention of ever getting married. Every time DeVille so much as
hinted he'd laughed, not taking her seriously.
Once again his thoughts drifted back to Lauren. He couldn't help
thinking about her-she hovered at the back of his mind, a distant
memory he couldn't forget. He'd hoped over the years that Joey or
Cyndra would go back to Bosewell for a visit-but neither of them seemed
inclined. As far as he knew, Joey had never contacted his mother, and
Cyndra had no urge to get in touch with Aretha Mae, although she
occasionally mentioned Harlan. They both felt g
uilty about leaving the
kid. "When I make it I'll go get him," Cyndra said.
Yeah. Sure.
Once in a while he thought of calling Louise at the drugstore-just to
find out what was going on in town. But something always stopped
him.
The truth was he really didn't want to know.
Over the years he'd worked hard, helping to make Q.J."s the successful
place it was today. Five years ago it was a hangout for petty con
artists and their one-night stands, offering nothing but bad food and a
couple of tired strippers. When disco got really big he'd started
badgering Q.J. about dumping the strippers and bringing in a disc
jockey.
"Are you outta your fuckin' skull?" Q.J. had said. "My customers get
off on the girls. Anyhow, we ain't got no space for dancin'."
"Make it," he'd urged. "You gotta get into this disco thing before