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She laughed appreciatively and then dropped her voice so that only he could hear. “I'll bet you've invented trouble in a lot of places besides golf courses.”
“I do my best.” He gave her a slow grin.
“Look me up next time you're in L.A., why don't you?” She scribbled something on the pad he handed back to her, ripped it off, and gave it to him right along with another smile.
As she moved away, he shoved the paper in the pocket of his jeans where it rustled against another piece of paper that the girl at the Avis counter had slipped to him when he'd left Los Angeles.
Skeet growled at him from the window seat. “Bet you she don't even have a nephew, or if she does he's never heard of you.”
Dallie opened a paperback copy of Vonnegut's Breakfast of Champions and began to read. He hated talking to Skeet on airplanes about as much as he hated anything. Skeet didn't like traveling unless he was doing it on four Goodyear radiais and an interstate highway. The few times they'd had to abandon Dallie's newest Riviera to fly cross-country for a tournament—like this trek from Atlanta out to L.A. and back—Skeet's normal temper, prickly at best, turned completely sour.
Now he glowered at Dallie. “When are we getting in to Mobile? I hate these damned planes, and don't you start in on me again ‘bout the laws of physics. You know and I know that there's nothing but air between us and the ground, and air can't hardly be expected to hold up something this big.”
Dallie closed his eyes and said mildly, “Shut up, Skeet.”
“Don't you go to sleep on me. Dammit, Dallie, I mean it! You know how much I hate to fly. Least you could do is stay awake and keep me company.”
“I'm tired. Didn't get enough sleep last night.”
“No wonder. Carousing till two in the morning and then bringing that mangy dog back with you.”
Dallie opened his eyes and gave Skeet a sideways glance. “I don't think Astrid would like being called a mangy dog.”
“Not her! The dog, you fool! Dammit, Dallie, I could hear that mutt whining right through the wall of the motel.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Dallie answered, turning to meet Skeet's scowl. “Leave it starving by the freeway?”
“How much did you give ‘em at the motel desk before we left this morning?”
Dallie muttered something Skeet couldn't quite hear.
“Whadju say?” Skeet repeated belligerently.
“A hundred, I said! A hundred now and another hundred next year when I come back and find the dog in good shape.”
“Damn fool,” Skeet muttered. “You and your strays. You got mangy dogs boarded away with motel managers in thirty states. I don't even know how you half keep track. Dogs. Runaway kids...”
“Kid. There was only one, and I put him on a Trailways bus the same day.”
“You and your damn strays.”
Dallie's gaze slowly swept Skeet from head to toe. “Yeah,” he said. “Me and my goddamn strays.”
That shut Skeet up for a while, which was exactly what Dallie had intended. He opened his book for the second time, and three pieces of blue stationery folded in half slipped out into his lap. He unfolded them, taking in the border of romping Snoopys across the top and the row of X's at the end, and then he began to read.
Dear Dallie,
I'm lying at the side of Rocky Halley's swimming pool with just about an inch and a half of purple bikini between myself and notoriety. Do you remember Sue Louise Jefferson, the little girl who worked at the Dairy Queen and betrayed her parents by going north to Purdue instead of to East Texas Baptist because she wanted to be the Boilermakers’ Golden Girl, but then she got knocked up after the Ohio State game by a Buckeye linebacker instead? (Purdue lost, 21-13.) Anyway, I've been thinking about one day a few years back when Sue Louise was still in Wynette and she was feeling like Wynette High and her boyfriend were getting to be too much for her. Sue Louise looked over at me (I'd ordered a vanilla chocolate twist with sprinkles) and said, “I been thinking that life's like a Dairy Queen, Holly Grace. Either it tastes so good it gives you the shivers or it's melting all over your hand.”
Life's melting, Dallie.
After coming in at fifty percent over quota for those bloodsuckers at Sports Equipment International, I was pulled into the office last week by the new V.P. who told me they're promoting someone else to southwest regional sales manager. Since that Someone Else happens to be male and barely made quota last year, I hit the roof and told the V.P. he was looking right down the bosom of an Equal Opportunity lawsuit. He said, “Now, now, honey. You women are too sensitive about this sort of thing. I want you to trust me.” At which point I told him I wouldn't trust him not to get a hard-on in an old ladies’ retirement home. Several more heated exchanges followed, which is why I'm currently lying beside old Number 22's swimming pool instead of living in airports.
News on the brighter side—I Farrah Fawcetted my hair until it looks just short of spectacular, and the Firebird's running great. (It was the carburetor, just like you said.)
Don't buy any bridges, Dallie, and keep making those birdies.
Love,
